12091	----	[Illustration: Dolly was bound to a tree, a handkerchief over her mouth.] CAMP FIRE GIRLS SERIES, VOLUME III The Camp Fire Girls at Long Lake or Bessie King in Summer Camp by JANE L. STEWART THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY Chicago AKRON, OHIO New York MADE IN U.S.A. 1914 The Saalfield Publishing Co. The Camp Fire Girls at Long Lake CHAPTER I A GROUNDLESS JEALOUSY "I told you we were going to be happy here, didn't I, Zara?" The speaker was Dolly Ransom, a black-haired, mischievous Wood Gatherer of the Camp Fire Girls, a member of the Manasquan Camp Fire, the Guardian of which was Miss Eleanor Mercer, or Wanaka, as she was known in the ceremonial camp fires that were held each month. The girls were staying with her at her father's farm, and only a few days before Zara, who had enemies determined to keep her from her friends of the Camp Fire, had been restored to them, through the shrewd suspicions that a faithless friend had aroused in Bessie King, Zara's best chum. Zara and Dolly were on top of a big wagon, half filled with new-mown hay, the sweet smell of which delighted Dolly, although Zara, who had lived in the country, knew it too well to become wildly enthusiastic over anything that was so commonplace to her. Below them, on the ground, two other Camp Fire Girls in the regular working costume of the Camp Fire--middy blouses and wide blue bloomers--were tossing up the hay, under the amused direction of Walter Stubbs, one of the boys who worked on the farm. "I'm awfully glad to be here with the girls again, Dolly," said Zara. "No, that's not the way! Here, use your rake like this. The way you're doing it the wagon won't hold half as much hay as it should." "Is Bessie acting as if she was your teacher, Margery?" Dolly called down laughingly to Margery Burton, who, because she was always laughing, was called Minnehaha by the Camp Fire Girls. "Zara acts just as if we were in school, and she's as superior and tiresome as she can be." "She's a regular farm girl, that Zara," said Walt, with a grin. "Knows as much about packin' hay as I do--'most. Bessie, thought you'd lived on a farm all yer life. Zara there can beat yer all hollow at this. You're only gettin' half a pickful every time you toss the hay up. Here--let me show you!" "I'd be a pretty good teacher if I tried to show Margery, Dolly," laughed Bessie King. "You hear how Walter is scolding me!" "He's quite right, too," said Dolly, with a little pout. "You know too much, Bessie--I'm glad to find there's something you don't do right. You must she stupid about some things, just like the rest of us, if you lived on a farm and don't know how to pitch hay properly after all these years!" Bessie laughed. Dolly's smile was ample proof that there was nothing ill-natured about her little gibe. "Girls on farms in this country don't work in the fields--the men wouldn't let them," said Bessie. "They'd rather have them stay in a hot kitchen all day, cooking and washing dishes. And when they want a change, the men let them chop wood, and fetch water, and run around to collect the eggs, and milk the cows, and churn butter and fix the garden truck! Oh, it's easy for girls and women on a farm--all they have to do is a few little things like that. The men do all the hard work. You wouldn't let your wife do more than that, would you, Walter?" The boy flushed. "When I get married, I'm aimin' to have a hired gal to do all them chores," he said. "They's some farmers seem to think when they marry they're just gettin' an extra lot of hired help they don't have to pay fer, but we don't figger that way in these parts. No, ma'am." He looked shyly at Dolly as he spoke, and Dolly, who was an accomplished little flirt, saw the look and understood it very well. She tossed her pretty head. "You needn't look at me that way, Walt Stubbs," she said. "I'm never going to marry any farmer--so there! I'm going to marry a rich man, and live in the city, and have my own automobile and all the servants I want, and never do anything at all unless I like. So you needn't waste your breath telling me what a good time your wife is going to have." Walter, already as brown as a berry from the hot sun under which he worked every day, turned redder than he had been before, if that was possible. But, wisely, he made no attempt to answer Dolly. He had already been inveigled into two or three arguments with the sharp witted girl from the city, and he had no mind for any more of the cutting sarcasm with which she had withered him up each time just as he thought he had got the best of her. Still, in spite of her sharp tongue and her fondness for teasing him, Walt liked Dolly better than any of the girls from the city who were staying on the farm, and he was always glad to welcome her when she appeared where he was working, even though she interrupted his work, and made it necessary for him to stick to his job after the others were through in order to make up for lost time. But Dolly had little use for him, in spite of his obvious devotion, which all the other girls had noticed. And this time his silence didn't save him from another sharp thrust. "Goin' to that ice-cream festival over to the Methodist Church at Deer Crossin' to-night?" she asked him, trying to imitate his peculiar country accent. "I'm aimin' to," he said uncomfortably. "You said you was goin' to let me take you. Isn't that so?" "Oh, yes--I suppose so," she said, tossing her head again. "But I never said I'd let you bring me home, did I? Maybe I'll find some one over there I like better to come home with." Walter didn't answer, which proved that, young as he was, and inexperienced in the ways of city girls like Dolly, he was learning fast. But just then a bell sounded from the farm, and the girls dropped their pitchforks quickly. "Dinner time!" cried Margery Burton, happily. "Come on down, you two, and we'll go over to that big tree and eat our dinner in the shade. Walter, if you'll go and fetch us a pail of water from the spring, we'll have dinner ready when you get back. And I bet you'll be surprised when you see what we've got, too--something awfully good. We got Mrs. Farnham to let us put up the best lunch you ever saw!" "Yes you did!" gibed Walter. He wasn't half as much afraid of Margery and the other girls who never teased him, as he was of Dolly Ransom, and he didn't like them as well, either. Perhaps it was just because Dolly made a point of teasing him that he was so fond of her. But he picked up the pail, obediently enough, and went off. When he was out of hearing Bessie shook her finger reproachfully at Dolly. "I thought you were going to be good and not tease Walter any more!" she said, half smiling. "Oh, he's so stupid--it's just fun to tease him, and he's so easy that I just can't help it," said Dolly. "I don't think he's stupid--I think he's a very nice boy," said Bessie. "Don't you, Margery!" "I certainly do, Bessie--much too nice for a little flirt like Dolly to torment him the way she does." "Well, if you two like him so much you can have him, and welcome!" cried Dolly, tossing her head. "I'm sure I don't want him tagging around after me all the time the way he does." "Better be careful, Dolly," advised Margery, who knew her of old. "They say pride goes before a fall, and if you're not nice to him you may have to come home from the festival tonight without a beau--and you know you wouldn't like that." "I'd just as soon not have a beau at all as have some of these boys around here," declared Dolly, pugnaciously. "I like the country, but I don't see why the people have to be so stupid. They're not half as bright as the ones we know in the city." "I don't know about that, Dolly. Bessie's from the country, but I think she's as bright as most of the people in the city. They haven't been able to fool her very much since she left Hedgeville, you know." "Oh, I didn't mean Bessie!" cried Dolly, throwing her arms around Bessie's neck affectionately. "You know I didn't, don't you, dear? And I'm only joking about half the time anyhow, when I say things like that." "Here comes Walter now--we'll see whether he doesn't admit that this is the best dinner he ever ate in the fields!" said Margery. It was, too. There was no doubt at all about that. There were cold chicken, and rolls, and plenty of fresh butter, and new milk, and hard boiled eggs, that the girls had stuffed, and a luscious blueberry pie that Bessie herself had been allowed to bake in the big farm kitchen. They made a great dinner of it, and Walter was loud in his praises. "That certainly beats what we have out here most days!" he said. "We have plenty--but it's just bread and cold meat and water, as a rule, and no dessert. It's better than they get at most farms, though, at that." When the meal was finished the girls quickly made neat parcels of the dishes that were to be taken back, and all the litter that remained under the tree was gathered up into a neat heap and burned. "My, but you're neat!" exclaimed Walter, as he watched them. "It's one of our Camp Fire rules," explained Margery. "We're used to camping out and eating in the open air, you know, and it isn't fair to leave a place so that the next people who camp out there have to do a lot of work to clean up after you before they can begin having a good time themselves. We wouldn't like it if we had to do it after others, so we try always to leave things just as we'd like to find them ourselves. And it wouldn't be good for the Camp Fire Girls if people thought we were careless and untidy." Then they got back to work again, and the long summer afternoon passed happily, with all four of the girls doing their share of the work. The sun was still high when they had finished their work, and Walter gave the word to stop happily, since he wanted time to put on his best clothes for the trip to Deer Crossing, where the ice-cream festival was to be held. Such festivities were rare enough in the country to be made mightily welcome when they came, especially when the date chosen was a Saturday, since on Sunday those who worked in the fields every other day of the week could take things easily and lie abed late. "Well, I'll see all you girls again to-night," he said. "I'll be along after supper, Dolly--don't forget. We're goin' to ride over together in the first wagon." "All right," said Dolly, smiling at him, and winking shamelessly at Bessie. "Don't forget to put on that new blue necktie and to wear those pink socks, Walter." "I sure won't," he said, not having seen her wink, and, as he turned away, Dolly looked at Bessie with a gesture of comic despair. "I think it's very mean to laugh at Walter's clothes, Dolly," said Bessie. "They're not a bit sillier than some of the things the boys in the city wear, are they, Margery?" "I should say not--not half as foolish. I've seen some of your pet boys wearing the sort of clothes one would expect men at the racetrack to wear, and nobody else, Dolly. You want to get over thinking you're so much better than everyone else--if you don't, it's going to make; you unhappy." Once they were at the ice-cream festival, where all the girls and young fellows from miles around seemed to have gathered, Dolly seemed prepared to have a very good time, however. She entered into the spirit of the occasion, and, though she, like Bessie and most of the Camp Fire Girls, would not take part in the kissing games that were popular, she wasn't a bit stiff or superior. "I wonder where that nice boy that thrashed Jake Hoover is?" she asked Bessie, after they had been there for a while. "Oh, that's whom you're looking for!" exclaimed Bessie, with a laugh. "Will Burns, you mean? That's so, Dolly--he said he was coming here, didn't he?" "He certainly did. I'd like to see him again, Bessie. He wasn't as stupid as most of country boys." "He was splendid," said Bessie, warmly. "If it hadn't been for him, I might not be here now, Dolly. Jake would have got me back into the other state--he was strong enough to make me go where he wanted. And if I'd been caught there, they'd have made me stay." "There he is now!" exclaimed Dolly, as a tall, sunburned boy appeared in the doorway. "I was beginning to be afraid he wasn't coming at all." Will Burns, who was a cousin of Walter Stubbs, seemed to be well known to the young people of the neighborhood, though his home was near Jericho, some twenty miles away. He was greeted on all sides as he made his way through the Sunday School room, where the festival was being held, and it was some minutes before the girls from the farm saw that he was nearing them. "Well--well, so you got home all right?" he said, smiling at Bessie. "I thought you wouldn't have any more trouble, once you got on the train. I'm glad to see you again." And then Dolly's vanity got a rude shock. For Will Burns began to devote himself at once, after he had greeted Dolly and been introduced to Zara and some of the other girls, to Bessie. Everyone in the room soon noticed this, and since most of the girls there had tried to make him pay attention to them, at one time or another, his evident fondness for Bessie caused a little sensation. Dolly, so surprised to find a boy she fancied willing to talk to anyone else that she didn't know what to do, stood it as long as she could, and then went in search of Walter Stubbs, whom she had snubbed unmercifully all evening. But Walter had at last plucked up courage enough to resent the way she treated him, and she found that he had bought two plates of ice-cream for Margery Burton and himself, and that they were sitting in a corner, eating their ice-cream, and talking away as merrily as if they had known one another all their lives! Eleanor Mercer, who had come over to have an eye on the girls, saw the little comedy. She was sorry for Dolly, who was sensitive, but she knew that the lesson would be a wholesome one for the little flirt, who had been flattered so much by the boys in the city that she had come to believe that she could make any boy do just what she desired. So she said nothing, even when Dolly, without a single boy to keep her in countenance, was reduced to sitting with one or two other girls who were in the same predicament, since there were more girls there than boys. Walter did not even come to get her to ride home with him. Instead, he found a place with Margery Burton, and Dolly had to climb into her wagon alone. There she found Bessie. "You're a mean old thing, Bessie King!" she said, half crying. CHAPTER II GOOD-BYE TO THE FARM Dolly had spoken in a low tone, her sobs seeming to strangle her speech, and only Bessie, who was amazed by this outburst, heard her. Grieved and astonished, she put her arm about Dolly, but the other girl threw it off, roughly. "Don't you pretend you love me--I know the mean sort of a cat you are now!" she said bitterly. "Why, Dolly! Whatever _is_ the matter with, you? What have I done to make you angry?" "If you were so mad at me the other day getting you into that automobile ride with Mr. Holmes you might have said so--instead of tending that you'd forgiven me, and then turning around and making everyone laugh at me to-night! You're prettier than I--and clever--but I think it's pretty mean to make that Burns boy spend the whole evening with you!" Gradually, and very faintly, Bessie began to have a glimmering of what was wrong with her friend. She found it hard work not to smile, or even to laugh outright, but she resisted the temptation nobly, for she knew only too well that to Dolly, sensitive and nervous, laughter would be just the one thing needed to make it harder than ever to patch up this senseless and silly quarrel, which, so far, was only one sided. To Bessie, who thought little of boys, and to whom jealousy was alien, the idea that Dolly was really jealous of her seemed absurd, since she knew how little cause there was for such a feeling. But, very wisely, she determined to proceed slowly, and not to do anything that could possibly give Dolly any fresh cause of offence. "Dolly," she said, "you mustn't feel that way. Really, dear, I didn't do that at all. I talked to him when he came to sit down by me, but that was all. I couldn't very well tell him to go away, or not answer him when he spoke to me, could I?" "Oh, I know what you're going to say--that it was all his fault. But if you hadn't tried to make him come he wouldn't have done it." "I didn't try to make him come. Did you?" Dolly stared at her a moment. The question seemed to force her to give attention to a new idea, to something she had not thought of before. But when she spoke her voice was still defiant. "Suppose I did!" she said angrily. "I wanted to have a good time--and he was the nicest boy there--" "Maybe he saw that you were waiting for him too plainly, Dolly. Maybe he wanted to pick out someone for himself--and if you'd pretended that you didn't care whether he talked to you or not he would have been more anxious to be with you." Dolly blushed slightly at that, though it was too dark for Bessie to see the color in her cheeks. She knew very well that Bessie was right, but she wondered how Bessie knew it. That feigned indifference had brought her the attentions of more than one boy who had boasted that he was not going to pay any attention to her just because everyone else did. But the gradually dawning suspicion that she might, after all, have only herself to blame for the spoiling of her evening's fun, and that she had acted in rather a silly fashion, didn't soften Dolly particularly. Very few people are able to recover a lost temper just because they find out, at the height of their anger, that they are themselves to blame for what made them angry, and Dolly was not yet one of them. "I suppose you'll tell all the other girls about this," she said. She wasn't crying any more, but her voice was as hard as ever. "I think you're horrid--and I thought I was going to like you so much. I think I'll ask Miss Eleanor to let me share a room with someone else." Bessie didn't answer, though Dolly waited while the wagon drove on for quite a hundred yards. Bessie was thinking hard. She liked Dolly; she was sure that this was only a show of Dolly's temper, which, despite the restrictions that surrounded her in her home, and had a good deal to do with her mischievous ways, had never been properly curbed. But, though Bessie was not angry in her turn, she understood thoroughly that if she and Dolly were to continue the friendship that had begun so promisingly, this trouble between them must be settled, and settled in the proper fashion. If Dolly were allowed to sleep on her anger, it would be infinitely harder to restore their relations to a friendly basis. "I suppose you don't care!" said Dolly, finally, when she decided that Bessie was not going to answer her. And now Bessie decided on a change of tactics. She had tried arguing with Dolly, and it had seemed to do no good at all. It was time to see if a little ridicule would not be more useful. "I didn't say so, Dolly," she answered, very quietly. And she smiled at her friend. "What's the use of my saying anything? I told you the truth about what happened this evening, and you didn't believe me. So there's not much use talking, is there?" "You know I'm right, or you'd have plenty to talk about," said Dolly, unhappily. "Oh, I wish we'd never seen Will Burns!" "I wish we hadn't seen him until to-night, Dolly," said Bessie, gravely. "You know, that trip in the automobile with Mr. Holmes the other day wasn't very nice for me, Dolly. If they had caught me, as Mr. Holmes had planned to do, I'd have been taken back to Hedgeville, and bound over to Farmer Weeks--and he's a miser, who hates me, and would have been as mean to me as he could possibly be. That's how we met Will Burns, you know--because you insisted on going with Mr. Holmes in his car to get an ice-cream soda." "That's just what I said--you pretended to forgive me for that, and you haven't at all--you're still angry, and you humiliated me before all those people just to get even! I didn't think you were like that, Bessie--I thought you were nicer than I. But--" "Dolly, stop talking a little, and just think it over. You say you didn't have a good time, and you mean that you didn't have a boy waiting around to do what you told him all evening. Isn't that so?" "All the other girls had boys around them all the time--" "You went with Walter Stubbs, didn't you? And you told him that maybe you'd come home with him and maybe you wouldn't--and that if anyone you liked better came along you were going to stay with them. You didn't know Will Burns was coming, did you?" "No, but--I thought if he did come--" "That's just it. You didn't think about Walter at all, did you. You wanted to have a good time yourself--and you didn't care what sort of a time he had! You just thought that if Will Burns did come he was sure to want to be with you, and so, as soon as you saw him come in you sent Walter off. Oh, you were silly, Dolly--and it was all your own fault. Don't you think it's rather mean to blame me? We were together when Will Burns was coming toward us, and I wanted to go away and let you stay there--but you said I must stay. Don't you remember that?" Dolly, as a matter of fact, had quite forgotten it. But she remembered well enough, now that Bessie had reminded her of it. And, though she had a hot temper, and was fond of mischief, Dolly was not sly. She admitted it at once. "I do remember it now, Bessie." "Well, don't you see how absurd it is to say that I took Will away from you? We were both there together--I couldn't tell when we saw him coming that he was going to talk to me, could I? And listen, Dolly--he asked me to go home with him in his buggy, and I said I wouldn't." With some girls that would have made the chance of mending things very remote. But Dolly, although her jealousy had been so quickly aroused, was not the sort to get still angrier at this fresh proof that she had been mistaken in thinking that Will Burns had liked her better than Bessie. "Why, Bessie--why did you do that?" Bessie laughed. "We're not going to be here very much longer, are we, Dolly?" she said. "Well--if we're not going to be here, we're not going to see much of Will Burns. You're not the only girl who--was--who thought that he ought to be paying more attention to her than to me. There was a pretty girl from Jericho, and he's known her a long time. Walter told me about them. "And I could see that she wanted him to drive her home, so I asked him why he didn't do it. And he got very much confused, but he went over to her, finally, and she looked just as happy as she could be when he handed her up into his buggy, and they all went off along the road together, Will and she and two or three other fellows who had driven over together from Jericho." Dolly's expression had changed two or three times, very swiftly, as she listened. Now she sighed, and her hand crept out to find Bessie's. "Oh, Bessie," she said, softly, "won't you forgive me, dear? I've made a fool of myself again--I'm always doing that, it seems to me. And every time I promise myself or you or someone not to do it again. But the trouble is there are so many different ways of being foolish. I seem to find new ones all the time, and every one is so different from the others that I never know about it until it's too late." "It's never too late to find out one's been in the wrong, Dolly, if one admits it. There aren't many girls like you, who are ready to say they've been wrong, no matter how well they know it. I haven't anything to forgive you for--so don't let's talk any more about that. Everyone makes mistakes. If I thought anyone had treated me as you thought I had treated you to-night I'd have been angry, too." Poor Dolly sighed disconsolately. "You're the best friend I ever had, Bessie," she said. "I make everyone angry with me, and when I say I'm sorry, they pretend that they've forgiven me, but they haven't, really, at all. That's why I said that about your still being angry with me. I thought you must be. I really am going to try to be more sensible." And so the little misunderstanding, which might easily, had Bessie been less patient and tactful, have grown into a quarrel that would have ended their friendship before it was well begun, was smoothed over, and Dolly and Bessie, tired but happy, went upstairs to their room together, and were asleep so quickly that they didn't even take the time to talk matters over. Eleanor Mercer, standing in the big hall of the farm house as the girls went upstairs, smiled after Dolly and Bessie. "I think you thought I was foolish to put those two in a room together," she said to Mrs. Farnham, the motherly housekeeper, whom Eleanor had known since, as a little girl, she had played about the farm. "I wouldn't say that, Miss Eleanor," said Mrs. Farnham. "I didn't see how they were going to get along together, because they were so different. But it's not for me to say that you're foolish, no matter what you do." "Oh, yes, it is," laughed Eleanor. "You used to have to tell me I was foolish in the old days, when I wanted to eat green apples, and all sorts of other things that would have made me sick, and just because I'm grown up doesn't keep me from wanting to do lots of things that are just as foolish now. But I do think I was right in that" "They do seem to get on well," agreed Mrs. Farnham. "It's just because they are so different," said Eleanor. "Dolly does everything on impulse--she doesn't stop to think. With Bessie it's just the opposite. She's almost too old--she isn't impulsive enough. And I think each of them will work a little on the other, so that they'll both benefit by being together. Bessie likes looking after people, and she may make Dolly think a little more. "There isn't a nicer, sweeter girl in the whole Camp Fire than Dolly, but lots of people don't like her, because they don't understand her. Oh, I'm sure it's going to be splendid for both of them. Dolly was awfully angry at Bessie before they started from the church--but you saw how they were when they got here to-night?" "I did, indeed, Miss Eleanor. And I'd say; Dolly has a high temper, too, just to look at her." "Oh, she has--and Bessie never seems to get; angry. I don't understand that--it's my worst fault, I think. Losing my temper, I mean. Though I'm better than I used to be. Well--good-night." The next day was Sunday, and, of course, there was none of the work about the farm that the girls of the Camp Fire enjoyed so much. They went to church in the morning, and when they returned Bessie was surprised to see Charlie Jamieson, the lawyer, Eleanor Mercer's cousin, sitting on the front piazza. Eleanor took Bessie with her when she went to greet him. "No bad news, Charlie?" she said, anxiously. He was looking after the interests of Bessie and of Zara, whose father, unjustly accused as Charlie and the girls believed, of counterfeiting, was in prison in the city from which the Camp Fire Girls came. Charlie Jamieson had about decided that his imprisonment was the result of a conspiracy in which Farmer Weeks, from Bessie's home town, Hedgeville, was mixed up with a Mr. Holmes, a rich merchant of the city. The reason for the persecution of the two girls and of Zara's father was a mystery, but Jamieson had made up his mind to solve it. "No--not bad news, exactly," he said. "But I've had a talk with Holmes, and I'm worried, Eleanor. You know, that was a pretty bold thing he did the other day, when he trapped Bessie into going with him for an automobile ride and tried to kidnap her. That's a serious offense, and a man in Holmes's position in the city wouldn't be mixed up in it unless there was a very important reason. And from the way he talked to me I'm more convinced than ever that he will just be waiting for a chance to try it again." "What did he say to you, Charlie?" "Oh, nothing very definite. He advised me to drop this case. He reminded me that he had a good deal of influence--and that he could bring me a lot of business, or keep it away. And he said that if I didn't quit meddling with this business I'd have reason to feel sorry." "What did you tell him?" "To get out of my office before I kicked him out! He didn't like that, I can tell you. But I noticed that he got out. But here's the point. Are you still planning that camping trip to Lake?" "Yes--I think it would be splendid there." "Well, why don't you start pretty soon?" Holmes knows this country very well, and he's got so much money that, if he spends it, he can probably find people to do what he wants. Up there it's lonely country, and pretty wild, and you could keep an eye on Bessie and Zara even better than you can here. I don't know why he wants to have them in his power, but it's quite evident that their plans depend on that for success, and our best plan, as long as we're in the dark this way, and don't know the answer to all these puzzling things, is to keep things as they are. I'm convinced that they can't do anything that need worry us much as long as we have Bessie and Zara safe and sound." "We can start to-morrow," said Eleanor. "Bessie--will you tell the girls to get ready? I'll go and make arrangements, Charlie." And so, the next day, after lunch, the Camp Fire Girls, waving their hands to kindly Mrs. Farnham, and making a great fuss over Walter, who drove them to the station, said good-bye for the time, at least, to the farm. And Dolly Ransom, Bessie noticed, took pains to be particularly nice to Walter Stubbs. CHAPTER III LONG LAKE "I love traveling," said Dolly, when they were settled in their places in the train that was to take them up into the hills and on the first stage of the journey to Long Lake. "I like to see new places and new people." "Dolly's never content for very long in one place," said Eleanor Mercer, who overheard her remark, smiling. "If she had her way she'd be flying all over the country all the time. Wouldn't you, Dolly?" "I don't like to know what's going to happen next all the time," said Dolly. "I know just how you feel," Bessie surprised her by saying. "I used to think, sometimes, when I was on Paw Hoover's farm in Hedgeville, that if only I could go to sleep some night without knowing just what was going to happen the next day I'd be happy. It was always the same, too--just the same things to do, and the same places to see--" "I should think Jake Hoover would have kept you guessing what he was going to do next," said Dolly, spitefully. "The great big bully! Oh, how glad I was when Will Burns knocked him down the other day!" "Yes," admitted Bessie. "I didn't know just what Jake was going to tell Maw Hoover about me next--but then, you see, I always knew it was something that would get me into trouble, and that I'd either get beaten or get a scolding and have to do without my supper. So even about that it wasn't very difficult to know what was going to happen." "Heavens--I'd have run away long before you did," said Dolly, with a shudder. "I don't see how you ever stood it as long as you did, Bessie. It must have been awful." "It was, Dolly," said Eleanor, gravely. "I was there, and I made a point of looking into things, so that if anyone ever blamed me for helping Bessie and Zara to get away, I could explain that I hadn't just taken Bessie's word for things. But running away was a pretty hard thing to do. It's easy to talk about--but where was Bessie to go? She isn't like you--or she wasn't. "She didn't have a lot of friends, who would have thought it was just a fine joke for her to have to run off that way. If you did it, you'd have a good time, and when you got tired of it, you'd go back to your Aunt Mabel, and she'd scold you a little, and that would be the end of it. You must have thought of trying to get away, Bessie, didn't you?" "Oh, I did, Miss Eleanor, often and often. When Jake was very bad, or Maw Hoover was meaner than usual. But it's just as you say. I was afraid that wherever I went it would be, worse than it was there. I didn't know where to go or what to do." "Well--that's so," said Dolly. "It has been awfully hard. But then, how did you ever get the nerve to do it at all, Bessie? That's what I don't understand. The way you act now, it seems as if you always wanted to do just as you are told." "I thought you'd heard all about that, Dolly. You see, when we really did run away, we couldn't help it, Zara and I. And I don't believe we really meant to go quite away, the way we did--not at first. You remember when we saw you girls first--when you were in camp in the woods?" "Oh, yes; I remember seeing you, with your head just poking out Of the door of that funny old hut by the lake. I thought it was awfully funny, but I didn't know you then, of course." "I expect you'd have thought it was funny whether you knew us or not, Dolly. Well, you see, Zara had come over to see me the day it all happened, and Jake caught her talking with me, and locked her in the woodshed. Maw Hoover didn't like Zara, because she was a foreigner, and Maw thought she stole eggs and chickens--but never did such a thing in her life. So Jake locked her in the woodshed, and said that he was going to keep her there till Maw Hoover came home. She'd gone to town." "Why did he want to do that?" "Because Maw had said that if she ever caught Zara around, their place again she was going to take a stick to her and beat her until she was black and blue--and I guess she meant it, too. She liked to give people beatings--me, I mean. She never touched Jake, though, and she never believed he did anything wrong." Dolly whistled. "If she knew him the way I do, she would," she said. "And I've only seen him twice--but that's two times too many!" "Well, after he'd locked her in, Jake went off, and I tried to let her out. I couldn't find the key, and I was trying to break the lock on the door with a stone. I'd nearly got it done, when Jake came along and found me doing it. So he stood off and threw bits of burning wood from the fire near me, to frighten me. That was an old trick of his. "But that time the woodshed caught fire, and he was scared. He got the key, and we let Zara out, and then he said he was going to tell Maw Hoover that we'd set the place on fire on purpose. I knew she'd believe him, and we were frightened, and ran off." "Well, I should say so! Who wouldn't? Why, he's worse than I thought he was, even, and I knew he was pretty bad." "We were going to Zara's place first, but that was the day they arrested Zara's father. They said he'd been making bad money, but I don't believe it. But anyhow, we heard them talking in their place--Zara's and her father's--and they said that I'd set the barn on fire, and they were going to have me arrested, and that Zara would have to go and live with old Farmer Weeks, who's the meanest man in that state. And so we kept on running away, because we knew that it couldn't be any worse for us if we went than if we stayed. So that's how we finally came away." "Oh, how exciting! I wish I ever had adventures like that!" "Don't be silly, Dolly," said Eleanor, severely. "Bessie and Zara were very lucky--they might have had a very hard time. And you had all the adventure you need the other day when you made Bessie go off looking for ice-cream sodas with you. You be content to go along the way you ought to and you'll have plenty of fun without the danger of adventures. They sound very nice, after they're all over, but when they're happening they're not very pleasant." "That's so," admitted Dolly, becoming grave. It was late in the afternoon before they reached the station at which they had to change from the main line. There they waited for a time before the little two-car train on the branch line was ready to start Short and light as it was, that train had to be drawn by two puffing, snorting engines, for the rest of the trip was a climb, and a stiff one, since Long Lake was fairly high, up, though the train, after it passed the station nearest to the lake, would climb a good deal higher. Even after they left the train finally, they were still some distance from their destination. "You needn't look at that buckboard as if you were going to ride in it, girls," said Eleanor, laughing, as they surveyed the single vehicle that was waiting near the track. "That's just for the baggage. Now you can see, maybe, why you were told you couldn't bring many things with you. And if that isn't enough, wait until you see the trail!" Soon all the baggage was stowed away on the back of the buckboard and securely tied up, and then the driver whipped up the stocky horses, and drove off, while the girls gave him the Wohelo cheer. "But how are we going to get to Long Lake?" asked Dolly, apprehensively. "We're going to walk!" laughed Eleanor. "Come on now or we won't get there in time for supper--and I'll bet we'll all have a fine appetite for supper to-night!" Then she took the van, and led the way across a field and into the woods that grew thickly near the track. "This isn't the way the buckboard went!" said Dolly. "No--We'll strike the road pretty soon, though," said Eleanor. "We save a little time by taking this trail. In the old days there wasn't any way to get to the lake, or to carry anything there, except by walking. And when they built the corduroy road they couldn't make it as short as the trail, although, wherever they could they followed the old trail. So this is a sort of short cut." "What's a corduroy road?" asked Dolly. "Don't you know that? I thought you knew something about the woods, Dolly. My, what a lot you've got to learn. It's made of logs and they're built in woods and places where it's hard to make a regular road, or would cost too much. All that's needed, you see, is to chop down trees enough to make a clear path, and then to put down the logs, close together. It's rough going, and no wagon with springs can be driven over it, but it's all right for a buckboard." "Ugh!" said Dolly. "I should think it would shake you to pieces." "It does, pretty nearly," said Eleanor, with a smile. "One usually only rides over one once--after that one walks, and is glad of the chance." When, after a three-mile tramp, Eleanor, who was in front, stopped suddenly at a point where the trees thinned out, on top of a ridge, and called out, "Here's the lake, girls!" there was a wild rush to reach her side. And the view, when they got the first glimpse of it, was certainly worth all the trouble it had caused them. Before them stretched a long body of water, sapphire blue in the twilight, with pink shadows where the setting sun was reflected. Perhaps two miles long, the lake was, at its widest point, not more than a quarter of a mile across, whence, of course, came its name. About it the land sloped down on all sides, into a cup-like depression that formed the lake, so that there was, on all four sides, a tree crowned ridge. From a point about half way to the far end of the lake smoke rose in the calm evening air. "Oh, how beautiful!" cried Bessie. "It's the loveliest place I ever saw. And how wonderful the smell is." "That's from the pine trees," said Eleanor. She sighed, as if overcome by the calm beauty of the scene, as, indeed, she was. "It's always beautiful here--but Sometimes I think it's most beautiful in winter, when the lake is covered with ice, and the trees are all weighed down with snow. Then, of course, you can walk or skate all over the lake--it's frozen four and five feet deep, as a rule, by January." Dolly shivered. "But isn't it awfully cold here?" she inquired "Oh, yes; but it's so dry that one doesn't mind the cold half as much as we do at home when it's really ten or fifteen degrees warmer, Dolly. One dresses for it, too, you see, in thick, woolen things, and furs, and there's such glorious sport. You can break holes through the ice and fish, and then there are ice boats, and skating races, and all sorts of things. Oh, it's glorious. I've been up here in winter a lot, and I really do think that's best of all." Then she looked at the rising smoke. "Well, we mustn't stay here and talk any more," she said. "Come along, girls, it's getting near to supper time." "Have we got to cook supper?" asked Dolly, anxiously. "No, not to-night," said Eleanor, with a laugh. "The guides have done it for us, because I knew we'd all be tired and ready for a good rest, without any work to do. But with breakfast tomorrow we'll start in and do all our own work, just as we've done when we've been in camp before." Half an hour's brisk walk took them to the site of the camp. There there was a little sandy beach, and the tents had been pitched on ground was slightly higher. Behind each tent a trench had been dug, so that, in case of rain, the water flowing down from the high ground in the rear would be diverted and carried down into the lake. Before the tents a great fire was burning, and the girls cried out happily at the sight of plates, with knives and forks and tin pannikins set by them, all spread out in a great circle near the fire. At the fire itself two or three men were busy with frying pans and great coffee pots, and the savory smell of frying bacon, that never tastes half as good as when it is eaten in the woods, rose and mingled with the sweet, spicy smell of the balsams and the firs, the pines and the spruces. "Oh, but I'm glad we're here!" cried Dolly, with a huge sigh of content. "And I'm glad to see supper--and smell it!" And what a supper that was! For many the girls, like Bessie, and Zara, and Dolly, it the first woods meal. How good the bacon was, and the raised biscuit, as light and flaky as snowflakes, cooked as only woods guides know how to cook them! And then, afterward, the great plates heaped high with flapjacks, that were to be eaten with butter and maple syrup that came from the trees all about them. Not the adulterated, wishy-washy maple syrup that is sold, as a rule, even in the best grocery stores of the cities, but the real, luscious maple syrup that is taken from the running sap in the first warm days of February, and refined in great kettles, right under the trees that yielded the sap. And then, when it was time to turn in, how they did sleep! The air seemed to have some mysterious qualities of making one want to sleep. And the peace of the great out-of-doors brooded over the camp that night. CHAPTER IV A RECKLESS EXCURSION In the morning, when the girls awoke, there was no sign of the guides who had cooked that tempting and delicious supper the night before. "Well, we're on our own resources now, girls," said the Guardian. "This may be a sort of Eden--I hope we'll find it so. But it's going to be a manless one. There'll be no men here until we get ready to go away, if I can help it--except as visitors." "Well, I guess we can get along without them all right, for a change," said Dolly, blushing a little. "Some of the men I know who are interested in the Boy Scouts think the Camp Fire Girls are a good deal of a joke," said Eleanore, with a light in her eyes that might have made some of the scoffers she referred to anxious to eat their words. "They say we get along all right because we always have some man ready to help us out if we get into any trouble. So I planned this camp just to show them that we can do just as well as any troop of Boy Scouts ever did." "I bet we can, too," said Dolly, eagerly. "Why, with such a lot of us to do the work, it won't be very hard for any one of us." "Not if we all do our share, Dolly," said Eleanor, looking at her rather pointedly. "But if some of us are always managing to disappear just when there's work to be done, someone will have to do double duty--and that's not fair." "I won't--really I won't, Miss Eleanor," said Dolly. "I know I've shirked sometimes, but I'm not going to this time. I'm going to work hard now to be a Fire Maker. I think I've been a Wood Gatherer long enough, don't, you?" "You've served more time than is needed for promotion, Dolly. It's all up to you, as the boys say. As soon as you win the honors you need you can be a Fire Maker. You can have your new rank just as soon as you earn it." "Bessie and I are going to be made Fire Makers together, if we can, Miss Eleanor. We talked that over the other day, at the farm, and I think well be ready at the first camp fire we have after we get home." "Well, you'll please me very much if you do. It's time the other girls were getting up now--we've got to cook breakfast now. I'll call them while you two build a fire--there's plenty of wood for to-day, piled up over there." AS Dolly had said, with each girl doing her share, the work of the camp was light. While some of the girls did the cooking, others prepared the "dining table"--a smooth place on the ground--and others pinned up the bottom flaps of; the tents, after turning out the bedding, so that the floors of the tents might be well aired. And then they all sat down, happily and hungrily, to a breakfast that tasted just as good as had supper the night before. "Can we swim in the lake, Miss Eleanor?" asked Margery Burton. "If you want to," said Eleanor, with a smile. "It's pretty cold water, though; a good deal colder than it was at the sea shore last year. You see, this lake is fed by springs, and in the spring the ice melts, and the water in April and May is just like ice water. But you'll get used to it, if you only stay in a couple of minutes at first, and get accustomed to the chill gradually. But remember the rule: no one is ever to go unless I'm right at hand, and there must always be someone in a boat, ready to help if a girl gets a cramp or any other sort of trouble." "Oh, are there boats?" cried Dolly. "That's fine! Where are they, Miss Eleanor?" "You shall see them after we've cleared away the breakfast things and washed up. But there's a rule about the boats, too: no one is to go out in them except in bathing suits. And remember this, when you're out on the lake. It's very narrow, and it looks very calm and safe, now. "But at this time of the year there are often severe squalls up here, and they come over the hills so quickly that it's easy to get caught unless you're very careful. I think there had better always be two girls in each boat. We don't want any accidents." "Can we go for walks through the woods, Miss Eleanor?" "Oh, yes; that's the most beautiful part of being up here. But it's easy to get lost. When you start on a trail always stick to it. Don't be tempted to go off exploring. I'm going to give you all some lessons in finding your way in the woods. You know, the moss is always on the south side of a tree, and there are other ways of telling direction, by the leaves. I expect you all to be regular woodsmen when we go away from here, and I'm sure you'll learn things about the woods that will give you a good many pleasant times in the future" "Isn't there anyone else at all up here, Miss Eleanor? I should think there'd be a hotel or something like that here." "No, not yet; not right near here. This lake is part of a big preserve that is owned by a lot of men in the city. My father is one of them, and they have tried to keep all this part of the woods just as nature left it. There are a lot of deer here, and in the fall, when hunters come into the woods, they have to keep out of this part of them. A few deer are shot here, because if only a few are taken each year, it's all right. But there will be no hotels in this tract. Hotels mean the end of the real woods life. There are half a dozen lakes in the preserve, and each of the families that owns a share in it has a camp at one of the lakes. I mean a regular camp, with wooden buildings, where one can stay in the winter, even. But this lake was set apart for trips like this, where people can get right back to nature, and sleep in tents." "Then we can go over and see some of the other lakes?" "Yes; I don't know whether we'll find anyone at home in any of the camps or not, but they'll be glad to see us if they are there. A lot of people wait until later in the year to come up here--until the hunting season begins. But we can do some hunting even now, though it's against the law to do any shooting." "Oh, I know what you mean, Miss Eleanor--with a camera?" It was Margery Burton who thought of that. "Yes. And that's really the best sort of hunting, I think. If you've ever seen a deer, and had it look at you with its big, soft eyes, I don't see how you can kill it. It's almost as hard to get a good picture of e deer as it is to kill it--in fact, I think it's harder, because you have to get so much closer to it And it's awfully good fun at night. "You go to one of their runways, and settle down with your camera and a flashlight powder, and then when the deer comes, if you're very quick, you can get a really beautiful picture. The deer may be a little frightened, but he isn't hurt, and you have a picture that you can keep for years and show to people. And an experienced hunter will tell you that any time you can get close enough to a deer to get a good flashlight picture of him you could easily have killed him." "Why is it so very hard to do that?" "Well, for lots of reasons. You have to figure on the wind--because if the wind is blowing away from you and toward the deer he can smell you long before he's in sight, and off he goes, afraid to come any nearer." "But how can you tell where a deer will be?" "They have regular runways--just as we have trails. And at night they come down to the lake to drink. So you can station yourself on one of those runways, and be pretty sure that sooner or later a deer will come along." The morning passed quickly and happily. To the girls who had never before been in that country, there seemed to be an unending number of new discoveries. Timid as the deer might be, there was nothing nervous about the squirrels and chipmunks which abounded in the woods near the lake, and as soon as they saw the girls they came running about, so that there were often half a dozen or more begging noisily for dainties to afford them a change from their diet of nuts, sitting up, and chattering prettily as they got the morsels that were tossed to them. "I never saw them so tame, even at home," said Bessie, surprised. "We had plenty of them there, but I suppose they were wilder because the boys used to shoot them. They don't do that here, I suppose?" "No; the people who hunt around here go in for bigger game. They would think they were wasting their time if they bothered to shoot chipmunks and squirrels." "I've seen them tame before, but that was in the park, at home, and it isn't the same thing at all," said Dolly. "No; though they're very cute, and I'm glad there are so many of them there. But here, of course, they're in their real home, and it's different, and much nicer, I think." Then, after luncheon, Miss Eleanor divided the girls into watches. "I think we'll have more fun if a certain number stay home every afternoon to prepare dinner and cook it," she said. "Then the rest of you can go for walks, or do anything you like, so long as you are back in time for dinner. In that way, some of you will be free every afternoon, and those who have to work won't mind, because they will know that the next day they will be free, and so on." Zara was one of those who drew a piece of paper marked "work" from the big hat in which Miss Eleanor put a slip of paper for every girl, while Bessie and Dolly each drew a slip marked "play." "To-morrow the girls who work to-day will play," said Miss Eleanor, "and those who play to-day will draw again. Four of them will play again to-morrow, and the other four will work, and then, on the third day, those who play tomorrow will work, and on the fourth day to-day's four will work again. That will give everyone two days off and one day to work while we're in camp. And I think that's fair." So did everyone else, and Dolly, always willing to put off work as long as she could, was delighted. "Let's take a long walk this afternoon, Bessie," she said. "The air up here makes me feel more like walking than I ever do when I'm at home. There I usually take a car whenever I can, though I've been trying to walk more lately, so as to get an honor bead." "I'll be glad to take a walk, Dolly," said Bessie, laughing. "I think you ought to be encouraged any time you really want to do something that's good for you." "Oh, if I stay with you long enough I'll be too good to keep on living," said Dolly. "Don't you see the difference between us, Bessie? You're good because you like to do the things you ought to do. And when anyone tells me something's good for me, I always get so that I don't want to do it. We'll start right after lunch, shall we?" "All right," said Bessie. But before it was time to make a start she sought out Miss Eleanor. "I'm not really afraid, Wanaka," she said, using the Indian name, since, here in the woods, it seemed natural to do it. "But I thought I ought to ask you if you think it's all right for me to go off with Dolly? I suppose none of those people who were trying to get hold of me would do anything up here, would they?" "Oh, I don't think so, Bessie. No, I think you're just as safe anywhere in these woods as you would be right here in the camp. There are a few guides around--they have to be kept here to warn people who make camp and don't put out their fires properly. You see, my father and the rest of the people don't mind letting nice people come here into their preserve to camp, but they've got to be careful about fire. "You can imagine what would happen here if the woods caught fire; it would be dreadful. Further on, the woods are only just beginning to grow up again. They were all burned out a year or so ago, and they look horrid. This preserve is so beautiful that we all want to keep it looking just as nice as possible. But the guides would look after you; there's nothing to be afraid of with them. "And I don't believe that you'd be at all likely to meet anyone else. Suppose you take the trail that starts at the far end of the lake, and follow it straight over until you come to Little Bear Lake. That's a very pretty walk. But don't go off the preserve. There's a trail that leads over to Loon Pond, but you'd better not try that until we all go as a party." So, when the midday meal had been eaten, Bessie and Dolly started off, skirting the edge of the lake until they came to the beginning of the trail Miss Mercer had spoken of, which was marked by a birch bark sign on a tree. There they left the lake, and plunged so quickly into thick woods that the water was soon out of sight. "Isn't this lovely? Oh, I could walk miles and miles here and never get tired at all, I believe!" said Dolly. "But I do sort of wish there was a hotel somewhere around. They have dances, and parties, and all sorts of fun at those hotels. And, Bessie, do you know I heard there was one near here, at a place called Loon Pond?" "Is there?" "Yes; I think it would be fun to go there some time." "Well, maybe we can, some time, Dolly. When Miss Eleanor is along. But we'd better not do it today. You know she said we were to stick to the preserve." "Oh, bother; as if we could get into any mischief up here! But I suppose there wouldn't be any use in trying to persuade you; you always do just as you're told." "Oh, I'd like to see the hotel, too, Dolly, but not today. The woods are enough for me now. And we can go there some other time, I'm sure." Dolly said nothing more just then, and for a time they walked along quietly. "We're about half way to Little Bear Lake now," announced Dolly, after a spell of silence. "Why, how do you know?" "Because I saw a map, and this ridge we've just come to is half way between the two lakes." "Oh," said Bessie. "Yes. We've been coming up hill so far now, the rest of the way is down hill, so it will be easier walking." "That's good; it means that when we're going home we'll be going down for the last half of the trip, when we're tired. That's much easier than if it was the other way, I think." "You look tired, Bessie; why don't you sit down and rest!" "Well, that's not a bad idea, Dolly. I'm not used to so much walking lately." "All right, sit down. I'm thirsty. I think I'll just run ahead and see if I can find a spring while you rest." So Dolly ran ahead, and disappeared after a moment. Presently, when Bessie was rested, she started again, and soon overtook Dolly. "We turn here," said Dolly. "See, here's another trail, and the signs show which one we're to take." "That's funny," said Bessie, puzzled. "I thought we went to Little Bear in a perfectly straight line. Miss Eleanor didn't say anything about changing direction." "Well, there's the sign, Bessie. If we keep straight on it says that we'll come to Loon Pond. We turn off to the right here to get to Little Bear." "Well, I guess the sign must be right. But it certainly seems funny. I hope there isn't any mistake." "Mistake! How can there be? Don't be silly, Bessie. There wouldn't be any chance of that. Come on." So they turned off, and, as they followed the new trail, the trees began to grow thinner, presently. The whole character of the woods seemed to change, too. They passed numerous places where picnic parties had evidently eaten their meals, and had left blackened spots, and the remnants of their feasts. "It seems to me some of the people who've been here have been very careless, Dolly," said Bessie, "Look, there's a place where a fire started. It didn't get very far, but it burnt over quite a little bit of ground before it was put out." The trail began to dip sharply, too, and before long they were walking in what was almost open country. Stumps of trees were all about, and evidently wood-cutters had been at work. "This isn't half as pretty as Long Lake," said Bessie. "Oh, Dolly, look! What's that?" Dolly laughed in a peculiar fashion. For they had come in sight of a sheet of water, and, in plain view, not far from them, by the shore of the lake, they saw a place that could not be mistaken. It proclaimed its nature at once--a regular summer hotel, with wide piazzas, full of people. And on the water there were a score of boats and canoes, and one or two launches. "This isn't Little Bear Lake!" said Bessie. "Of course it isn't, silly; it's Loon Pond. I changed the signs while you rested, because I meant to come here, and I knew you wouldn't, if you knew what you were doing!" CHAPTER V THE GYPSY CAMP Bessie grew red with indignation for a moment, but before she spoke she was calm again. "Don't you think that's a pretty mean trick, Dolly?" she said, gently. "It seems to me it's a good deal like lying." "Why, Bessie King! Can't you ever take a joke? I didn't say a single, solitary thing that wasn't so. I said the signs said this was the way to Little Bear Lake, and you never asked me if I'd changed them, did you?" Bessie laughed helplessly. "Oh, Dolly!" she said. "Of course I didn't; why should I? Who would ever think of doing such a thing, except you? You don't expect people to guess what you're going to do next, do you?" "I suppose not," said Dolly, impenitently, her eyes still twinkling. "I do manage to surprise people pretty often. My aunt Mabel says that if I spent half as much time studying as I do thinking up new sorts of mischief I'd be at the top of every class I'm in at school." "She's perfectly right. I thought at first you had a hard time with your aunt, Dolly, but I'm through being sorry for you. She needs all the sympathy anyone has got for having to try to look after you!" "Oh, what's the harm? We're here now, and It isn't so very dreadful, is it? Come on, let's go over to the hotel." "Indeed we shan't do anything of the sort, Dolly Ransom! We'll turn around and go right straight back to Long Lake, that's what we'll do." "I guess not. You don't think I've come this far and that I'm going to turn around without seeing what the place is like, do you?" "Why, Dolly, you know we weren't supposed to come here alone. I don't think much of it; it isn't half as pretty as Long Lake. What's the use of wasting our time here, anyhow?" "Why--why--because there are people here! I just love seeing people, Bessie, they're so interesting, because they're all so different, and you never know what they're going to say or do. And there may be someone we know here, too." "There can't be anyone I know, Dolly." "Oh, bother! Well, there may be someone I know, and that's the same thing, isn't it? Come on, be a sport, Bessie." "That's what you said about going in the car with Mr. Holmes the other day, too." "Oh, but this isn't a bit like that, Bessie." "It might get us into just as much mischief, Dolly. No, I'm not going over there. It's silly, and it's wrong." And this time Bessie stood firm. Despite Dolly's pleading, which turned, presently, to angry threats, she refused absolutely to go any nearer the hotel, and Dolly was afraid to venture there alone, though there was very little she _was_ afraid to _do_. In her inmost heart, of course, Dolly knew that Bessie was right, and that she had had no business to trick her chum into seeming to break her promise to Miss Eleanor. "Oh, well," she said, "I might have known that I couldn't always make you do what you don't want to do, Bessie. You're not mad at me, are you?" Bessie, pleased by this sign of surrender, returned the smile. "I ought to be, but I'm not, Dolly," she answered. "I think that is one of the reasons you keep on doing these things--but no one ever really does get angry with you, as they should. If someone you really cared for got properly angry at you just once for one of your little tricks, I think it would teach you not to do anything of the sort for a long time." "Oh, I don't mean any harm, Bessie, and you know it, and when people really like you they don't get angry unless they think you're really trying to be mean. I say, Bessie, if you won't go over to the hotel, will you walk just a little way over to the other side, and see what that funny looking place is where those big wagons are all spread out?" Bessie followed Dolly's pointing finger, and saw, on the side of Loon Pond opposite the hotel, several wagons, among which smoke was rising. "It looks like a circus," said Dolly. "It isn't, though. I know what they are," said Bessie, promptly. "It's a gypsy encampment. Do you mean you've never seen one, Dolly?" "No; and oh dear, Bessie, I've always wanted to. Surely we could go a little nearer, couldn't we? As long as we're here?" Bessie thought it over for a moment, and, as a matter of fact, really could see no harm in spending ten minutes or so in walking over toward the gypsy camp. She herself had seen a few gypsies near Hedgeville in her time, but in that part of the country those strange wanderers were not popular. "All right," she said. "But if I do that will you promise to start for home as soon as we've had a look at them, and never to play such a trick on me again?" "I certainly will. Bessie, you're a darling. And I'll tell you something else; too; you were so nice about the way I changed those signs that I'm really sorry I did it. And I just thought it would be a good joke. Usually I'm glad when people get angry at my jokes, it shows they were good ones." Bessie smiled wisely to herself. Gradually she was learning that the way to rob Dolly's jokes and teasing tricks of their sting, and the best way, at the same time, to cure Dolly herself of her fondness for them, was never to let the joker know that they had had the effect she planned. Dolly, considerably relieved, as a matter of fact, when she found that Bessie was really not angry at her for the trick she had played with the sign post, chatted volubly as they turned to walk over toward the gypsy camp. "I don't see why they call this a pond and the one we're on a lake," she said. "This is ever so much bigger than Long Lake. Why, it must; be four or five miles long, don't you think, Bessie?" "Yes. I guess they call it a pond because it looks just like a big, overgrown ice pond. See, it's round. I think Long Lake is ever so much prettier, don't you, even though it's smaller?" "I certainly do. This place isn't like the woods at all, it's more like, regular country, that you can find by just taking a trolley car and riding a few miles out from the city." "It used to be just as it is now around Long Lake, I suppose," said Bessie. "But they've cut the trees down, and made room for tennis courts and all sorts of things like that, and then, I suppose, they needed wood to build the hotel, too. It's quite a big place, isn't it, Dolly?" "Yes, and I've heard of it before, too," Dolly. "A friend of mine stayed up here for a month two or three years ago. She says they advertise that it's wild and just like living right in the woods, but it isn't at all. I guess it's for people who like to think they're roughing it when they're really just as comfortable as they would be if they stayed at home. Comfortable the same way, I mean." "Yes, that's better, Dolly. Because I think we're comfortable, though it's very different from the way we would live in the city, or even from the way we lived at the farm. But we're really roughing it, I guess." "Yes, and it's fine, too! Tell me, Bessie, did you ever see any gypsies like these when you lived in the country!" "There were gypsies around Hedgeville two or three times, but the farmers all hated them, and used to try to drive them away, and Maw Hoover told me not to go near them when they were around. She usually gave me so many things to do that I couldn't, anyhow. You know, the farmers say that they'll steal anything, but I think one reason for that is that the farmers drove them into doing it, in the beginning, I mean. They wouldn't let them act like other people, and they didn't like to sell them things. So I think the poor gypsies wanted to get even, and that's how they began to steal." "What do you suppose they're doing up here, Bessie?" "They always go around to the summer places, and in the winter they go south, to where the people from the north go to get warm when it's winter at home. They tell fortunes, and they make all sorts of queer things that people like to buy; lace, and bead things. And I suppose up here they sell all sorts of souvenirs, too; baskets, and things like that." "Don't they have any real homes, Bessie?" "No; except in their wagons. They live in them all the time, and they always manage to be where it's warm in the winter. They don't care where they go, you see. One place is just like another to them. They never have settled in towns. They've been wanderers for ages and ages, and they have their own language. They know all sorts of things about the weather, and they can find their way anywhere." "How do you know so much about them, Bessie, if you never saw anything of them when you were in Hedgeville?" "I read a book about them once. It's called 'Lavengro,' and it's by a man who's been dead a long time now; his name was Borrow." "What a funny name! I never heard of that book, but I'll get it and read it when I get home. It tells about the gypsies, you say?" "Yes. But I guess not about the gypsies as they are now, but more as they used to be. We're getting close, now. See all the babies! Aren't they cute and brown?" Two or three parties, evidently from the hotel, were looking about the camp, but they paid little attention to the two Camp Fire Girls, evidently recognizing that they did not come from the hotel. The gypsies, however, always on the alert when they see a chance to make money by selling their wares or by telling fortunes, flocked about them, particularly the women. Bessie, fair haired and blond, they seemed disposed to neglect, but Bessie noticed that several of the men looked admiringly at Dolly, whose dark hair and eyes, though she was, of course, much fairer than their own women, seemed to appeal to them. "I'd like to have my fortune told!" Dolly whispered. "I think we'd better not do that, Dolly, really; and you remember you said you'd stay just for a minute." "I don't see what harm it would do," Dolly pouted. But she gave in, nevertheless. They passed the door of the strangely decorated tent inside of which the secrets of the future were supposed to be revealed, and, followed by a curious pack of children, walked on to a wagon where a pretty girl, who seemed no older than themselves; but was probably, because the gypsy women grow old so much more quickly than American girls, actually younger, was sitting. She was sewing beads to a jacket, and she looked up with a bright smile as they approached. "You come from the hotel?" she said. "You live there?" "No," said Dolly. "We come from a long way off. Are you going to wear that jacket?" The gypsy girl laughed. "No. I'm making that for my man, him over there by the tree, smoking, see? He's my man; he's goin' marry me when I get it done." Bessie laughed. "Marry you? Why, you're only a girl like me!" she exclaimed. "No, no; me woman," protested the gypsy, eagerly. "See, I'm so tall already!" And she sprang up to show them how tall she was. But Bessie and Dolly only laughed the more, until Bessie saw that something like anger was coming into her black eyes, and checked Dolly's laugh. "I hope you'll be very happy," she said. "Come on, Dolly, we really must be going." Dolly was inclined to resist once more. She hadn't seen half as much as she wanted to of the strange, exotic life of the gypsy caravan, so different from the things she was used to, but Bessie was firm, and they began to make their way back toward the trail. And, as they neared the spot from which they had had their first view of Loon Pond and the gypsy camp, Bessie was startled and frightened by the sudden appearance in their path of the good looking young gypsy for whom the girl they had been talking to was decorating the jacket. His keen eyes devoured Dolly as he stood before her, and he put out his hand, gently enough, to bar their way. "Will you marry me?" he said, in English much better than that of most of his tribe. Dolly laughed, although Bessie looked serious. "Oh, yes, of course," said Dolly. "I always marry the first man who asks me, every day; especially if he's a gypsy and I've never seen him before." "You're too young now; you think you are, I suppose," said the gypsy, showing his white teeth. "You come back with me and wait; by and by we will get married." "Nonsense," said Bessie, decisively. "He means it, Dolly, he's not joking. Come, we must hurry." "Wait, stay," said the gypsy, eagerly. And he put out his hand as if to hold Dolly. But she screamed before he could touch her, and darted past him. And in a moment both girls, running hard, were out of sight. CHAPTER VI A SERIOUS JOKE Bessie, seriously alarmed, led the race through the woods and they had gone for nearly a quarter of a mile before she would even stop to listen. When she felt that if the gypsy were going to overtake them he would have done it, she stopped, and, breathing hard, listened eagerly for some sign that he was still behind them. But only the noises of the forest came to their ears, the rustling of the leaves in the trees, the call of a bird, the sudden sharp chattering of a squirrel or a chipmunk, and, of course, their own breathing. "I guess we got away from him all right," she said. "Oh, Dolly, I was frightened!" "What?" cried Dolly, amazed. "Do you mean to say that you let that silly gypsy frighten you? I thought you were braver than that, Bessie!" "You don't know anything about it, Dolly," said Bessie, a little irritated. "It really wasn't your fault, but those people aren't like our men. He probably meant just what he said, and if he thought you were laughing at him, it would have made him furious. When you said you would marry him, of course I knew you were joking, and so would anyone like us, but I think he took you seriously. He thought you meant it!" "Bessie! How absurd! He couldn't! Why, I won't marry anyone for ever so long, and he surely doesn't think an American girl would ever marry one of his nasty tribe! You're joking, aren't you! He couldn't ever have really thought anything so perfectly absurd?" "I only hope we won't find out that he was serious, Dolly. You couldn't be expected to understand, but people like that are very different from ourselves. They haven't got a lot of civilized ideas to hold them in check, the way we have, and when they want something they come right out and say so, and if they can't get what they want by asking for it, they're apt to take it." "But I didn't think anyone ever acted like that! And he is going to marry that pretty gypsy girl who is putting the beads and buttons on a jacket for him, anyhow. She said so; she said they were engaged." "Men have changed their minds about the women they were going to marry, Dolly, even American men. And that's another thing that bothers me. I think that girl's very much in love with him, and if she thought he was fond of you, she'd be furious. There's no telling what a gypsy girl might do if she was jealous. You see, she'd blame you, instead of him. She'd say you had turned his head." "Oh, Bessie, what a dreadful mess. Oh, dear! I seem to be getting into trouble all the time! I think I'm just going to have a little harmless fun, and then I find that I've started all sorts of trouble that I couldn't foresee at all." "Never mind, Dolly. You didn't mean to do it, and, of course, I may be exaggerating it anyhow. I'll admit I'm frightened, but it's of what I know about the gypsies. They're strange people and they carry a grudge a long time. If they think anyone has hurt them, or offended them, they're never satisfied until they have had their revenge. But, after all, he may not do anything at all. He may have been joking. Perhaps he just wanted to frighten you." "Oh, I really do think that must have been it, Bessie. Don't you remember that he was different from the others! He spoke just as well as we do, as if he'd been to school, and he must know more about our customs." Bessie shook her head. "That doesn't mean that he isn't just as wild and untamed as the others down at bottom, Dolly. I've heard the same thing about Indians; that some of those who make the most trouble are the very ones who've been to Carlisle. It isn't because they're educated, because they would have been wild and wicked anyhow, but the very fact that they are educated seems to make them more dangerous. I hope it isn't the same with this gypsy; but we've got to be careful." "Oh, I'll be careful, Bessie," said Dolly, with a shudder. "I'll do whatever I'm told. You needn't worry about that." "That's good, Dolly. The first thing, of course, is never to get far away from the camp alone. We mustn't come over this way at all, or go anywhere near Loon Pond as long as those gypsies are still there." "Oh, Bessie, do you think we'll have to tell Miss Eleanor about this?" "I'm afraid so, Dolly. But there's no reason why you should mind doing that. She won't blame you, it really wasn't your fault." "Yes, it was, Bessie. Don't you remember the way I changed the signs! If I hadn't done that we wouldn't have gone to Loon Pond, and if we hadn't gone there--" "We wouldn't have seen the gypsies? Yes I know, Dolly. But Miss Eleanor is fair, you know that. And she may scold you for playing trick with the signs, but that's all. She won't blame you for having misunderstood that gypsy." Then they came to the crossing of the trails, and Dolly replaced the signs as they had been before she had played her thoughtless prank. "We must hurry along, Dolly," said Bessie. "It's getting dark, and we don't want to be out here when it's too dark. I think it's safe enough, but--" "Oh, suppose that horrid gypsy followed us through the woods, Bessie? That's what you mean, isn't it! Let's get back to the camp just as fast as ever we can." "Bessie, I'm an awful coward, I'm afraid," Dolly said, as the camp was approached. "Will you tell Miss Eleanor what happened; everything! I'm afraid that if I told her myself I wouldn't put in what I did with the signs." "You wouldn't tell her a story, Dolly?" "No, but I might just not tell her that. You see, I wouldn't have really to tell her a story, and, oh, Bessie, I want her to know all about it. Then if she scolds me, all right. Can't you understand?" "I'll do it if you like, Dolly, but I'm quite sure you'd tell her everything yourself. You're not a bit of a coward, Dolly, because when you've done something wrong you never try to pretend that it was the fault of someone else, or an accident." "Do you think I ought to tell Miss Eleanor myself?" said Dolly, wistfully. "I will if you say so, Bessie, but I'd much rather not." "No, I'll tell her," Bessie decided. "I think you're mistaken about yourself, Dolly, and the reason I'm going to tell her is because I think you'd make her think you were worse than you were, instead of not telling her the whole thing. Do you see?" "You're ever so good, Bessie. Really, I'm going to try to stop worrying you so much after this. It seems to me that you're always having things to bother you on account of me." Miss Eleanor, at first, like Dolly, was inclined to laugh at what Bessie told her of the gypsy and his absurd suggestion that Dolly should stay with his tribe until she was old enough to be married to him. "Why, he must have been joking, Bessie," she said. "You say he talked well; as if he were educated? Then he surely knows that no American girl would take such an idea seriously for a moment." "But American girls do live with the gypsies and marry them, Miss Eleanor. Often, I've heard of that. And if you'd seen him when he got in our way on the trail you'd know why he frightened me. His face was perfectly black, he was so angry. And when Dolly laughed at him he looked as if he would like to beat her." "I can understand that," laughed Miss Eleanor. "I've wanted to beat Dolly myself sometimes when she laughed when she was being scolded for something!" "Oh, but this was different," said Bessie, earnestly. "Really, Miss Eleanor, you'd have been frightened too, if you'd seen him. And I do think Dolly ought to be very careful until they've gone away from Loon Pond." Bessie was so serious that Miss Eleanor was impressed, almost despite herself. "Well, yes, she must be careful, of course. I don't want the girls going over to Loon Pond, anyway. I want them to have this time in the woods, and live in a natural way, and the Loon Pond people at the hotel just spoil the woods for me. But I don't believe there's any reason for being really frightened, Bessie." "Suppose that man tried to carry her off?" "Oh, he wouldn't dare to try anything like that, Bessie. I don't believe the gypsies are half as bad as they are painted, anyhow, but, even if he would be willing to do it, he'd be afraid. The guides would soon run him out of the preserve if they found him here; no one is supposed to be on it, without permission. And a gypsy couldn't get that, I know." "But it's a pretty big place, and there aren't so very many guides. We didn't see one today, and we really took quite a long walk." "But, Bessie, what would he do with her if he did carry her off? Those people travel along the roads, and they travel slowly. He must know that if anything happened to Dolly, or if she disappeared, he'd be suspected right away, and he'd be chased everywhere he went." "I think it would be easy to hide someone in their caravans, though, Miss Eleanor. And those people stick together, so that no one would betray him if he did anything like that. We might be perfectly sure that he had done it, but we wouldn't be able to prove it." "I'll speak to the guides and have them keep a good watch in the direction of Loon Pond, Bessie. There, will that make you feel any better? And those gypsies won't stay over there very long. They never do." "Have they been here before, Miss Eleanor?" "Oh, yes; every year when I've been here." "Well, I'll feel better when they've gone, Miss Eleanor." "So will I. You've made me quite nervous, Bessie. I think you'd better tell Dolly, and be careful yourself, not to tell the other girls anything about this. There's no use in scaring them, and making them feel nervous, too." "No. I thought of that, too. Some of them would be frightened, I'm sure. I think Zara would be. She's been very nervous, anyhow, ever since we got her away from that awful house where Mr. Holmes had hidden her away from us." "I don't blame her a bit; I would be, too. It was really a dreadful experience, Bessie, and particularly because she knew it was, in a way, her own fault." "You mean because she believed what they said about being her friends, and that she would get you and me into trouble unless she went with them that night when they came for her?" "Yes. Poor Zara! I'm afraid she guessed, somehow, that I had been angry with her, at first. She's terribly sensitive, and she seems to be able to guess what's in your mind when you've really scarcely thought the things yourself." "Well, I think it will be a good thing if she doesn't know about this gypsy trouble, Miss Eleanor. So I'll go and find Dolly, and tell her not to say anything." "Do, Bessie. And get Dolly to come to me before dinner. She was wrong to play that trick with the signs, but I don't mean to scold her. I want to comfort her, instead. I think she's been punished enough already, if she's really frightened about that gypsy." Dolly seemed to be a good deal chastened after her talk with Eleanor, and Bessie felt glad that the Guardian, though she evidently did not take the episode of the gypsy as seriously as did Bessie, had still thought it worth while to let Dolly think she did. "I'm going to stay close to the camp after this, Bessie," she said. "And, oh, Miss Eleanor said that there were footprints this morning near the water that a deer must have made. I've got my camera here; suppose we try to get a picture of one tonight? We could go to sleep early, and then get up. Miss Eleanor said it would be all right, just for the two of us. She said if any more sat up it would frighten the deer." "All right," agreed Bessie. "That would be lots of fun." So they slept for an hour or so, and then, about midnight, got up and went down to the shore of the lake, to a spot where a narrow trail came out of the woods. There they hid themselves behind some brush and placed Dolly's camera and a flashlight powder, to be ready in case the deer appeared. They waited a long time. But at last there was a rustling in the trees, and they could hear the branches being pushed aside as some creature made its way slowly toward the water. "All ready, Bessie?" whispered Dolly. "When I give you a squeeze press that button; that will set the flashlight off, and I'll take the picture as you do it." They waited tensely, and Bessie was as excited as Dolly herself. She felt as if she could scarcely wait for the signal. Dolly held her left hand loosely, and two or three times she thought the grip was tightening. But the signal came at last, and there was a blinding flash. But it was not a deer which stood out in the glare; it was the gypsy who had pursued Dolly! CHAPTER VII A THIEF IN THE NIGHT The glare of the explosion lasted for only a moment. Dolly's eyes were fixed on the camera, as she bent her head down, and Bessie realized, thankfully, that she had not seen the evil face of the gypsy. As for the man, he cried out once, but the sound of his voice was drowned by the noise of the explosion. And then, as soon as the flashlight powder had burned out, the light was succeeded by a darkness so black that no one could have seen anything, so great was the contrast between it and the preceding illumination. "Come, Dolly! Quick! Don't stop to argue! Run!" urged Bessie. She seized Dolly's hand in hers, and made off, running down by the lake, and, for a few steps, actually through the water. Her one object was to get back to the camp as quickly as possible. She thought, and the event proved that she was right, the gypsy, if he saw them nearing the camp fire, which was still burning brightly, would not dare to follow them very closely. He had no means of knowing that there were no men in the camp, and, while he might not have been afraid to follow them right into camp had he known that, Bessie judged correctly that he would take no more chances than were necessary. "Bessie, are you crazy?" gasped Dolly, as they came into the circle of light from the fire. "My feet are all wet! Whatever is the matter with you? You nearly made me smash my camera!" "I don't care," said Bessie, panting, but immensely relieved. "Sit down here by the fire and take off your shoes and stockings; they'll soon get dry. I'm going to do it." She was as good as her word, and not until they had dried their feet and set the shoes and stockings to dry would she explain what had caused her wild dash from the scene of the trap they had laid for the deer, and which had so nearly proved to be a trap for them, instead. "If you'd looked up when that powder went off you'd have run yourself, Dolly, without being made to do it," she said, then. "That wasn't a deer we heard, Dolly." "What was it, a bear or some sort of a wild animal?" "No, it was a man." Dolly's face was pale, even in the ruddy glow of the fire. "You don't mean--it wasn't--" "The gypsy? Yes, that's just who it was, Dolly. He's found out somehow where we are, you see. It's just what I was afraid of, that he would manage to follow us over here. But I'm not afraid now, as long as we know he's around. I don't see how he can possibly do you any harm." "Oh, Bessie, what a lucky, lucky thing that we saw him! If we hadn't just happened to try to get that picture we would never have done it. The nasty brute! The idea of his daring to follow us over here. Do you think he would have really tried to carry me back to his tribe, Bessie?" "I don't know, Dolly. His face looked awful when I saw it in the glare. But then, of course, he was terribly surprised. He probably thought he was the only soul awake for miles and miles, and to have that thing go off in one's face would startle anybody, and make them look pretty scary." "I should say so! You have to pucker up your face and shut your eyes. Do you think he saw us, Bessie?" "I shouldn't think it was very likely, Dolly. You see, it's just as you say. The glare of a flashlight is blinding, when it goes off suddenly like that, right in front of you. I don't think you're likely to see much of anything except the glare. And, of course, he hadn't the slightest reason to be expecting to see us. I expect he's more puzzled and frightened than we are; he's certainly a good deal more puzzled." "Then maybe he'll be so frightened that he'll go back to his people and let me alone, Bessie." "I certainly hope so, Dolly. It really doesn't seem possible that he'd dare to carry you off, even if he could get hold of you. He'd know that we'd be sure to suspect that he was the one who had done it, and even a gypsy ought to know what happens to people who do things like that. I don't see how he could hope to escape." "But, Bessie, I was thinking: suppose he didn't carry me to the place where the other gypsies are? Suppose he took me right off into the woods somewhere, and hid?" "You'd both have to have food, Dolly. And as he couldn't get that very easily, he'd be taking a big chance of getting caught. No, what I really think is that he wants to see you, and try to persuade you to go with him willingly. Then he wouldn't be in any danger, you see." "Ugh! He must be an awful fool to think he could do that!" "Well, he's not bad looking, Dolly. And he's probably vain. The chances are that all the gypsy girls set their caps at him, because, if you remember, he was about the only good looking young man there in their camp. Most of the men were married. So, if he's always been popular with the girls of his own people, he may have got the idea that he's quite irresistible. That all he's got to do is to tell a girl he wants to marry her to have her fall right into his arms, like a ripe apple falling from a tree." "The horrid brute! If he ever comes near me again, I'll slap his face for him." "You'd better not do anything of the sort. The best thing for you to do if you ever see him anywhere near you again is to run, just as hard as you can. Dolly, you've no idea of the rage a man like that can fly into. If you struck him you can't tell what he might try to do. But I hope you'll never see him again." Dolly shivered a little. "Are you sleepy, Bessie?" she asked. "No, I think I'm too excited to be sleepy. It was so startling to be expecting to see a deer, and then to see his face in the light. No, I'm not sleepy." "Oh, Bessie! Isn't it possible that you were mistaken? You know, you couldn't have seen his face for more than a moment, if you did see it. Weren't you thinking so much of that gypsy that you just fancied you saw him, when you really didn't at all?" "No, no, I'm quite sure, Dolly. I was perfectly certain it was a deer, and that was all I was thinking about. And I heard him cry out, too. That would be enough to make me certain that I was right. A deer wouldn't have cried out, and it wouldn't have stood perfectly still, either. It would have turned around and run as soon as it saw the light; any animal would have. It would have been too terrified to do anything else." "But don't you suppose he was frightened? Why didn't he run?" "Were you ever so frightened that you couldn't do a thing but just stand still? I have been; so frightened that I couldn't even have cried out for help, and couldn't have moved for a minute or so, for anything in the world. "I think he may have been frightened that way. Men aren't like animals, they're more likely to be too frightened to move than to run away because they're afraid. And the fear that makes a man run away is a different sort, anyhow." "It's getting cold, isn't it?" "Yes, the fire's burning low. We'd better get to bed, Dolly." "Oh, no; I couldn't. I don't want to be there in the dark. I'm sure I couldn't sleep if I went to bed. I'd much rather sit out here by the fire and talk, if you're not sleepy. And you said you weren't." "I suppose we could get some more wood and throw it on the fire. It would be warm enough then, if we got a couple of blankets to wrap around us." "I think it's a good idea to stay awake and keep watch, anyhow, in case he should come back. Then, if he saw someone sitting up by the fire he would be scared off, I should think." "All right. Slip in as quietly as you can, Dolly, and get our blankets from the tent, while I put on some more wood. There's lots of it, that's a good thing. There's no reason why we shouldn't use it." So, while Dolly crept into their tent to get the; blankets, Bessie piled wood high on the embers of the camp fire, until the sparks began to fly, and the wood began to burn with a high, clear flame. And when Dolly returned she had with her a box of marshmallows; "Now we'll have a treat," she said. "I forgot all about these. I didn't remember I'd brought them with me. Give me a pointed stick and I'll toast you one." Bessie looked on curiously. The joys of toasted marshmallows were new to her, but when she tasted her first one she was prepared to agree with Dolly that they were just the things to eat in such a spot. "I never liked them much before," said Bessie. "They're ever so much better when they're toasted this way." "They're good for you, too," said Dolly, her mouth full of the soft confection. "At least, that's what everyone says, and I know they've never hurt me. Sometimes I eat so much candy that I don't feel well afterwards, but it's never been that way with toasted marshmallows. My, but I'm glad I found that box!" "So'm I," admitted Bessie. "It seems to make the time pass to have them to eat. Here, let me toast some of them, now. You're doing all the work." "I will not, you'd spoil them. It takes a lot of skill to toast marshmallows properly," Dolly boasted. "Heavens, Bessie, when there is something I can do well, let me do it. Aunt Mabel says she thinks I'd be a good cook if I would put my mind to it, but that's only because she likes the fudge I make." "How do you make fudge?" "Why, Bessie King! Do you mean to say you don't know? I thought you were such a good cook!" "I never said so, Dolly. I had to do a lot of cooking at the farm when Maw Hoover wasn't well, but she never let me do anything but cook plain food. That's the only sort we ever had, anyhow. So I never got a chance to learn to make fudge or anything like that." "Well, I'll teach you, when we get a good chance, Bessie," promised Dolly, seriously. "I'll be glad to take lessons from you, Dolly," she said. "I think it would be fine to know how to make all sorts of candy. Then, if you did know, and could do it really well, you could make lots of it, and sell it. People always like candy, and in the city a lot of the shops have signs saying that they sell Home Made Candy and Fudge. So people must like it better than the sort they make in factories." "I should say so, Bessie. But most of those stores are just cheating you, because the stuff they sell isn't home made at all. Everyone says mine is much better." Bessie grew serious. "Why, Dolly," she said, "I think it would be a fine idea to make candy to sell! I really believe I'd like to do that--" "I bet you would make just lots and lots of money if you did," said Dolly, taking hold of a new idea, as she always did, with enthusiasm. "And we could get one of the stores to sell it for us and keep some of the money for their trouble. Suppose we sold it for fifty cents a pound, the store would get twenty or twenty-five cents and we'd get the rest. And--" Bessie laughed. "You're not forgetting that it costs something to make, are you!" she asked. "You have to allow for what it costs before you begin to think of how you're going to spend your profits. But I really do think it would work, Dolly. When we get back to town we'll figure it all out, and see how much it would cost for butter and sugar and nuts and chocolate and all the things we'd need." "Yes, and if we used lots of things we'd get them cheaper, too, Bessie," said Dolly, surprising Bessie by this exhibition of her business knowledge. "Oh, I think that would be fine. I'd just love to have money that I'd earned myself. Some of the other girls have been winning honor beads by earning money, but I never could think of any way that I could do it." Dolly was beginning to yawn, and Bessie herself felt sleepy. But when she proposed that they should go into the tent now Dolly protested. "Oh, let's stay outside, Bessie," she said. "If we went in now we'd just wake ourselves up. We can sleep out here just as well as not. What's the difference!" And Bessie was so sleepy that she was glad to agree to that. In a few moments they were sound asleep, with no thought of the exciting episodes of the day and night to disturb them. The fire was low when Bessie awoke with a start. At first everything seemed all right; she could hear nothing. But then, suddenly, she looked over to where Dolly had been lying. There was no sign of her chum! And, just as Bessie herself was about to cry out, she heard a muffled call, in Dolly's tones, and then a loud crashing through the undergrowth near the camp, as someone or something made off swiftly through the woods! The gypsy had come back! CHAPTER VIII THE PURSUIT For a moment Bessie was too paralyzed with fear even to cry but. It was plain that the gypsy had carried poor Dolly away with him, and that, moreover, he had muffled her one cry for help. For a moment Bessie stood wondering what to do. To alarm the camp would be almost useless, she felt; the girls, waking up out of a sound sleep, could do nothing until they understood what had happened, and even then the chances were against their being able to help in any practical manner. And so Bessie fought down that blind instinct to scream out her terror, and, in a moment, throwing off her blanket, she began to creep out into the black woods, dark now as pitch, and as impenetrable, it seemed, as one of the tropical jungles she had read of. One thing Bessie felt to be, above everything, necessary. She must find out what the gypsy meant to do, and where he was taking Dolly. If, by some lucky chance, she could track him, there would be a far better opportunity to rescue Dolly in the morning, when the guides would be called to help, and, if necessary, men from the hotel at Loon Pond and other places in the woods. To such a call for help, Bessie knew well there would be an instant response. "He'll never go back to the camp," Bessie told herself, trying to argue the problem out, so that she might overlook none of the points that were involved, and that might make so much difference to poor Dolly, who was paying so dear a price for her prank. "If he did, he'd be sure that there would be people there, looking for him, as soon as the word got around that Dolly was missing." She stopped for a moment, to listen attentively, but though the woods were full of slight noises, she heard nothing that she could decide positively was the gypsy. Still, burdened as he was with Dolly, it seemed to Bessie that he must make some noise, no matter how skilled a woodsman he might be, and how much training he had had in silent traveling in his activities as a poacher and hunter of game in woods where keepers were on guard. "He'll find out some place where they're not likely to look for him, and stay there until the people around here have given up the idea of finding him," said Bessie to herself. "That's why I've got to follow him now. And I'm sure he's on one of the trails; he couldn't carry Dolly through the thick woods, no one could. Oh, I wish I could hear something!" That wish, for the time, at least, was to be denied, but it was not long before Bessie, still tramping through thick undergrowth in the direction she was sure her quarry had taken, came to a break in the woods, where it was a little lighter, and she could see her way. She saw at once that she had come to a trail, and, though she had never seen it before, she guessed that it was the one that led to Deer Mountain, from what Miss Eleanor had told her about the trails about the camp. And, moreover, as she started to follow it, convinced that the gypsy, on finding it, would have abandoned the rougher traveling of the uncut woods, she saw something that almost wrung a cry of startled joy from her. It was not much that she saw, only a fragment of white cloth, caught in the branches of a bush that had pushed itself out onto the trail. But it was as good as a long letter, for the cloth was from Dolly's dress, and it was plain and unmistakable evidence that her chum had been carried along this trail. She walked on more quickly now, pausing about once in a hundred yards to listen for sounds of those who were, as she was convinced, ahead of her, and, about half a mile beyond the spot where she had found that white pointer, she saw another piece of mute but convincing evidence, of exactly the same sort, and caught in the same way. As Bessie kept on, the ground continued to rise, and she realized that she must be on the crest of Deer Mountain, one of the heights that lifted itself above the level of the surrounding woods. Although a high mountain, the climb from Long Lake was not a particularly severe one, for all the ground was so high that even the highest peaks in the range that was covered by these woods did not seem, unless one were looking at them from a distance of many miles, in the plain below, to be as high as they really were. The trail that Bessie followed, as she knew, was leading her directly away from Loon Pond and the gypsy camp, but that did not disturb her, since she had expected the gypsy to bear away from his companions. Her mind was working quickly now, and she wondered just how far the gypsies were likely to go in support of their reckless companion. She knew that the bonds among these nomads were very strong, but there was another element in this particular case that might, she thought, complicate matters. The man who had carried Dolly off was engaged to be married to the dark-eyed girl they had talked with, and it was possible that that fact might make trouble for him, and prevent him from receiving the aid of his tribe, as he would surely have done in any ordinary struggle with the laws of the people whom the gypsies seemed to despise and dislike. Undoubtedly the girl's parents, if she had any, would resent the slight he was casting upon their daughter, and if they were powerful or influential in the tribe, they would probably try to get him cast out, and cause the other gypsies to refuse him the aid he was probably counting upon. The most important thing, Bessie still felt, was to find out where Dolly was to be hidden. And, as she pressed on, tired, but determined not to give up what seemed to her to be the best chance of rescuing her chum, Bessie looked about constantly for some fresh evidence of Dolly's presence. But luck was not to favor her again. Sharp as was her watch, there were no more torn pieces of Dolly's dress to guide her, and, even had Bessie been an expert in woodcraft, and so able to follow their tracks, it was too dark to use that means of tracing them. Bessie did, indeed, think of that, and of waiting until some guide should come, who might be able to read the message of the trail. But she reflected that it was more than possible that none of the men in the neighborhood might be able to do so, and it seemed to her that it was better to take the slim chance she had than abandon it in favor of something that might, after all, turn out to be no chance at all. The darkness was beginning to yield now to the first forerunners of the day. In the east there was a faint radiance that told of the coming of the sun, and Bessie hurried on, since she felt sure that the gypsy would not venture to travel in daylight, and must mean to hide Dolly before the coming of the sun lightened the task of his pursuers, since he must feel certain that he would be pursued, although he might have no inkling that anyone was already on his trail. But now Bessie had to face a new problem that did, indeed, force her to rest. For suddenly the well defined, broad trail ended, and broke up into a series of smaller paths. Evidently this was a spot at which those who wished to reach the summit of the mountain took diverging paths, according to the particular spot they wanted to reach, and whether they were bound on a picnic or merely wanted to get to a spot whence they might see the splendid view for which Deer Mountain was famed. In the darkness there was absolutely no way of telling which of these many diverging trails the gypsy had followed, and Bessie, ready to cry with disappointment and anxiety for Dolly, was forced to sit down on a stump and wait for daylight. Even that might not help her. Her best chance, however, was to wait until the light came, and then, despite her lack of acquaintance with the art of reading footprints, to try to distinguish those of the gypsy. All that she needed was some clue to enable her to guess which path her quarry had taken; beyond that the message of the footprints was not necessary. As she sat there, watching the slow, slow lightening in the east, Bessie wondered if the day was ever coming. She had seen the sun rise before, but never had it seemed so lazy, so inclined to linger in its couch of night. But every wait comes to an end at last, and finally Bessie was able to go back a little way, before the other trails began to branch off, and bending over, to try to pick out the footprints of the man who had carried Dolly off. It was easy to do, fortunately, or Bessie could scarcely have hoped to accomplish it. There had been a light rain the previous morning, enough to soften the ground and wipe out the traces of the numerous parties that had made Deer Mountain the objective point of a tramp in the woods, and, mingled with her own small footsteps, Bessie soon found the marks of hobnailed feet, that must, she was sure, have been made by the gypsy. Step by step she followed them, and she was just about at the first of the diverging trails when a sound behind her made her turn, terrified, to see who was approaching. But it was not the man who had so frightened her whom she saw as she turned. It was a girl--a gypsy, to be sure--but a girl, and Bessie had no fear of her, even when she saw that it was the same girl the scamp she was pursuing was to marry. Moreover, the girl seemed as surprised and frightened at the sight of Bessie, crouching there? as Bessie herself had been at the other's coming. "Where is he; that wicked man you are to marry?" cried Bessie, fiercely, springing to her feet, and advancing upon the trembling gypsy girl. "You shall tell me, or I will--" She seized the gypsy girls shoulders, and shook her, before she realized that the girl, whose eyes were filled with tears, probably knew as little as she herself. Then, repentant, she released her shoulders, but repeated her question. "You mean John, my man?" said the girl, a quiver in her tones. "I do not know, he was not at the camp last night. I was afraid. I think he does not love me any more." Something about the way she spoke made Bessie pity her. "What is your name?" she asked. "Lolla," said the gypsy. "I believe you do not know, Lolla," said Bessie, kindly. "And you do not want him to be sent to prison, perhaps for years and years, do you? You love this John?" "Prison? They would send him there? What for? No, no--yes, I love him. Do you know where he is; where he was last night?" "I know where he was last night, Lolla, yes. He came to our camp and carried my friend away. You remember, the one who was with me yesterday, when we looked at your camp? That is why I am looking for him. He says he will make her marry him later on; that he will keep her with your tribe until she is ready." Lolla's tears ceased suddenly, and there was a gleam of passionate anger in her eyes. "He will do that?" she said, angrily. "My brothers, they will kill him if he does that. He is to marry me, we are betrothed. You do not know where he is? You would like to find your friend?" "I must, Lolla." "Then I will help you, if you will help me. Will you?" Lolla looked intently at Bessie, as if she were trying to tell from her eyes whether she really meant what she said. "Oh, I wish I knew whether you are good; whether you speak the truth," cried the gypsy girl, passionately. "That other girl, your friend. She wants my John. So--" Bessie, serious as the situation was, could not help laughing. "Listen, Lolla," she said. "You mustn't think that. Dolly--that's my friend--thinks John is good looking, perhaps, but she hasn't even thought of marrying anyone yet, oh, for years. She's too young. We don't get married as early as you. So you may be sure that if John has her, all she wants is to get away and get back to her friends." Lolla's eyes lighted with relief. "That is good," she said. "Then I will help, for that is what I want, too. I do not want her to live in the tribe, and to be with us. You are sure John has taken her?" Then Bessie told her of the face they had seen in the flashlight, and of how Dolly had been spirited away from the camp fire afterward. And as she spoke, she was surprised to see that Lolla's eyes shone, as if she were delighted by the recital. "Why, Lolla, you look pleased!" said Bessie. "As if you were glad it had happened. How can that be; how can you seem as if you were happy about it?" Lolla blushed slightly. "He is my man," she said, simply. "He is strong and brave, do you not see? If he were not brave he would not dare to act so. He is a fine man. If I were bad, he would beat me. And he will beat anyone who is not good to me. Of course, I am glad that he was brave enough to act so, though I did not want him to do it." Bessie laughed. The primitive, elemental idea that was expressed in Lolla's words was beyond her comprehension, and, in fact, a good many people older and wiser than Bessie do not understand it. But Lolla did not mind the laugh. She did not understand what was in Bessie's mind; what she had said seemed so simple to her that it required no explanation. And now her mind was bent entirely upon the problem of getting Dolly back to her friends, in order that John might turn back to her and forget the American girl whose appeal to him had lain chiefly in the fact that she was so different from the women of his own race. "He will not take her back to camp," said Lolla, thoughtfully. "He knows they would look there first." "But will the others--your people--help him?" "He may tell them that he has stolen her to get a ransom; to keep her until her friends pay well for her to be returned. Our old men do not like that, they say it is too dangerous. But if he were to say that he had done so, they might help him, because our people stand and fall together. But," and her eyes shone, "I will tell my brothers the truth. They will believe me, and--Quick! Hide in those bushes; someone is coming!" Bessie obeyed instantly. But, once she had hidden herself, she heard nothing. It was not for a minute or more after she had slipped into the bushes that she heard the sound that had disturbed Lolla. But then, looking out, she saw John coming down one of the paths, peering about him cautiously. CHAPTER IX AN UNEXPECTED ALLY Bessie's heart leaped at the sight of the man who had given her her wild tramp through the night, and it was all she could do to resist her impulse to rush out, accuse him of the crime she knew he had committed, and demand that he give Dolly up to her at once. It was hard to believe that he was really dangerous. Here, in the early morning light, his clothes soaked by the wet woods, as were Bessie's for that matter, he looked very cheap and tawdry, and not at all like a man to be feared. But a moment's reflection convinced Bessie that, for the time at least, it would be far wiser to leave matters in the hands of Lolla, the gypsy girl, who understood this man, and, if she feared him, and with cause, did so from reasons very different from Bessie's. For a moment after he came in sight John did not see Lolla. Bessie watched the pair, so different from any people she had ever seen at close range before, narrowly. She was intensely interested in Lolla, and wondered mightily what the gypsy girl intended to do. But she did not have long to wait. Lolla, with a little cry, rushed forward, and, casting herself on the ground at her lover's feet, seized his hand and kissed it. At first she said not a word; only looked up at him with her black, brilliant eyes, in which Bessie could see that a tear was glistening. "Lolla! What are you doing here?" At the sight of the girl John had started, nervously. It was plain that he did not feel secure; that he thought his pursuers might, even thus early, have tracked him down, and, in the moment before he had recognized Lolla, Bessie saw him quail, while his face whitened, so that Bessie knew he was afraid. That knowledge, somehow, comforted her vastly. It removed at once some of the formidable quality which John had acquired in her eyes when he stole Dolly after the fright that he must have had when the flashlight powder exploded, almost in his face. But Bessie remembered that he had plucked up his courage after that scare; the chances were that he would do so again now. But, if Bessie was afraid of the kidnapper, Lolla was not. She rose, and faced him defiantly. Bessie thought there was something splendid about the gypsy girl, and she wondered why John, with such a girl ready and anxious to marry him, had been diverted from her by Dolly, charming though she was. "I have come to save you, John," said Lolla. "Where is the American girl you stole from her friends!" John started, evidently surprised by Lolla's knowledge of what he had done, and said something, sharply, in the gypsy tongue, which Bessie, of course, could not understand. Her question, it was plain, had frightened, as well as startled him; but it had also made him very angry. Lolla, however, did not seem to mind his anger. She faced him boldly, without giving ground, although he had moved toward her with a threatening gesture of his uplifted hand. "Hit me, if you will," she said. "I am not your wife yet, but when I am it will be your right to strike me if you wish. But I know what you have done. I know, too, that the Americans know it. Do you think you can escape from these woods without being caught?" John stared at her angrily. "I am going now to the camp," he said. "If. they come looking for news of the girl, they will find me there, and plenty to swear that I have been there all this night, and so could not have done what they charge. My tribe will help me; it is my right to call upon it for help." "You forget me," said Lolla, dangerously. "I will swear that I saw you here, where I came to look for you because you had stayed away from the camp all the night. And when I tell my brothers, what will they swear?" Again the man muttered something in the gypsy-tongue, but under his breath. When he spoke aloud to Lolla it was in English. "They are Barlomengri; they will support me. They will never let the policemen take me away. They are my brothers--" "Do you think you can jilt their sister, the girl you asked for as your wife before all the tribe, and escape their vengeance? Do you think they will not punish you, even by seeing that you die in a prison, in a cell?" And now John, beside himself with anger, fulfilled the threat of his uplifted hand, and struck Lolla sharply. "Strike me again!" cried Lolla, furiously. "I have done no wrong! I am trying only to save you from your own folly. Tell me, at least, where you have hidden the girl? Would you have her starve? You will be watched, so that you may not bring her food. Had you thought of that?" "Will you betray me? If you do not I shall not be watched! They will know as soon as they look for me that I was in the camp all through the night. Lolla, you fool, I love you, only you. I want her to win a ransom. They will pay to have her back, those Americans." Lolla had guessed right when she had said that this would be his plea. But Bessie was surprised, and thought Lolla must also wonder at his telling her such a story. Lolla looked scornfully at John. "I am no baby that I should believe such a tale as that," she said witheringly. "I give you your chance, John, your last chance. Will you take this girl back to her people, or set her free and show her the road? Or must I bear witness against you, and tell the tribe that you would shame me by forsaking me even before I am your wife?" "Let me go," said John furiously. "We shall see if a woman's talk is to be taken before mine. You fool! Even your brothers will laugh at your Jealousy, and rejoice with me over the money this girl will bring us. Let me pass--" "Tell me, at least, where you have hidden her! She will starve, I tell you--" "She will not starve. Think you I know no more than that of doing such a piece of work! It is not the first time we have made anxious fathers pay to win their children back! Ha-ha! Peter, my friend, comes to take my watch. He will see to it that she does not suffer for food. And he will keep her safe for me. Out of my way!" He brushed Lolla aside roughly, and strode off down the trail that Bessie had followed. For a moment, while she could hear the sound of his retreating footsteps, Lolla did not move. But then she raised herself, a smile in her eyes, and beckoned to Bessie. "Go up that path, quickly," she whispered. "Somewhere up there, hidden, you will find your friend. Comfort her, but do not let her move. If she is tied up, leave her so. Tell her that help is near. I will free her." "But why--why not come with me, and free her now!" protested Bessie, eagerly. "We can find her, for he came down that path, so he must have left her somewhere up there. Oh, come, Lolla, you will never regret it!" "Did you not hear him say that Peter was coming? Peter is his best friend; they are closer together, and are more to one another, than brothers. If we tried to escape with her now, Peter would find us, and his hand is heavy. We should do your friend no good, and be punished ourselves. We must wait. But hurry, before he comes. Tell her to be happy, and not to fear. I will save her, and you. We will work together to save her." And with that Bessie, much as she would have liked to get Dolly out of the clutches of her captor at once, had to be content. She realized fully that in Lolla she had gained an utterly unexpected ally, in whom lay the best possible chance for the immediate release of her chum, and the mere knowledge of where Dolly was hidden would be extremely valuable. After all, it was all, and, possibly, more, than she had expected to accomplish when she had plunged into the woods after the gypsy and his prisoner, and she felt that she ought to be satisfied. So she hurried at once up the path that Lolla pointed out, leaving the gypsy girl below as a guard. The path was rough and steep, rising sharply, but Bessie paid little heed to its difficulties, since she felt that it was taking her to Dolly. She kept her eyes and ears open for any sight or sound that might make it easier to find Dolly, but she did not call out, since she felt that it was practically certain the gypsy had managed, in some manner, to make it impossible for poor Dolly to cry out, lest, in his absence, she alarm some passerby and so obtain her freedom. Bessie was sure that Dolly would not be left in some place that could be seen from the path, but she was also sure that she could not be far from it, since there had not been time for the gypsy to make any extended trip through the woods off the trail. Bessie had traveled fast through the night, and she was sure that John, with the weight of Dolly to carry, had not been able to move as fast as she, and could not, therefore, have been more than twenty minutes or half an hour ahead of her in reaching the trail she was now following. So she watched carefully for some break in the thick undergrowth that lined the trail, for some opening through which John might have gone with his burden. There might even, she thought, be another of those precious sign posts that, back on the other trail, had been made by the torn pieces from Dolly's skirt. But, careful as was her search, she reached the end of the trail without finding anything that looked like a promising place, or seeing anything that made her think Dolly was within a short distance of her. The trail led to an exposed peak, a ragged outcrop of rock, bare of trees, and covered only with a slight undergrowth. Once there Bessie understood why the trail had been made through the woods. The view was wonderful. Below her were the waving tops of countless trees, and beyond them she could look down and over the cultivated valleys, full of farms, whose fields, marked off by stone fences, looked small and insignificant from her high perch. Bessie, however, was in no mood to enjoy a view. She wasted no time in admiring it, but only peered over the edge of the peak on which she stood, to satisfy herself that Dolly was not hidden just below her. One look was enough to do that. There was a way, she soon saw, of descending, and reaching the woods again, but no man, carrying any sort of a burden, could have accomplished that descent. It was a task that called for the use of feet and hands and Bessie turned desperately, convinced that she must, in some manner, have overlooked the place at which John had turned off the main trail with his burden. Now, as she went downward, she searched the woods at each side with redoubled care, and at last she found what she had been looking for, or what, it seemed to her, must be the place, since she had seen no other that offered even a chance for a successful passage through the thick growth of trees and underbrush. Without hesitation she turned off the trail, and, though the going was rough, and her hands and face were scratched, while her clothes were torn, she was rewarded at last by finding that the ground below her grew smooth, showing that human feet had passed that way often enough to wear the faintest sort of a path. Once she became aware of the path her heart grew light, for she was sure now that she was going in the right direction at last. And, indeed, it was not more than five minutes before she almost stumbled over Dolly herself, bound to a tree, and with a handkerchief stuffed in her mouth so that she could not cry out. "Oh, Dolly! I'm so glad, so glad! Listen, dear; I can't stay. You'll have to be here a little while longer, but we will soon have you back at the camp, as safe and well as ever. Are you hurt? Does it give you pain? If it doesn't shake your head sideways." Dolly managed to shake her head, and in her eyes Bessie saw that now that she knew help was near Dolly's courage would sustain her. "That gypsy girl we saw is near, but the man who carried you off is going to send another man to watch, and if I let you go now we'd only meet him, and be in more trouble than ever. But be brave, dear! it won't be long now." Poor Dolly could not answer, for Bessie, remembering that Lolla had seemed to fear the man Peter more than she did John, dared not even loosen the gag. She saw, however, that while it must be making Dolly terribly uncomfortable, she could breathe, and that it was probably worse in appearance than in fact. So she leaned down and kissed her chum, and whispered in her ear. "I'm going back to Lolla now, dear, but I'll soon be back with enough help so that we needn't care how many of the gypsies there are near us. If I stay now I'm afraid they'll catch me, too, and then no one would know where you were. They can't get you away from here, so you're sure to be safe soon." Dolly nodded to show that she understood, and Bessie moved silently away. But, as she turned down the trail that would take her back to the spot where she had left Lolla, she had a new cause for fright. She heard Lolla's voice, raised loudly, arguing with a man who answered in low, guttural tones. What they were saying she could not distinguish, but somehow she understood that Peter had come even sooner than Lolla had feared, and the gypsy girl, at the risk of angering him, was trying to warn her, so that she might not descend the trail and so stumble right into his arms. So, although the prospect frightened her, she turned and made her way swiftly up to the peak again, determined that if the man should go past the opening that led to the place where Dolly lay, she would risk the danger and the difficulty of the rocky descent from the peak itself. As she hastened along silence fell behind her, and she knew that Peter must have started. He was whistling a queer gypsy tune and Bessie heard him pass the partly masked opening that she had herself found with so much difficulty. After that she hesitated no longer, but rushed to the rocky top of the peak, and in a moment she was making her way down, with as much caution as possible, swinging from one ledge to the next, hanging on to a bush here, and a projecting piece of rock there. Even an expert climber, equipped with rope and sharp pointed stick, would have found the descent difficult. And all that enabled Bessie to succeed was her knowledge that she must. CHAPTER X A TERRIBLE SURPRISE Bessie, though she had to pause more than once in her wild descent of the rocks, dared not look back to see if the gypsy, Peter, was pursuing her, or even whether he was looking down after her. She had two reasons. For one thing, the task was difficult and terrifying enough as it was, and to know that there was danger from behind, as well as the peril involved in the descent itself, would, she feared, unnerve her. And, moreover, even if Peter saw her, he might not, if she paid no attention to him, suspect that she had anything to do with Dolly, or that he and his companion had anything to dread from her. Bessie did not know whether he would recognize her as having been at the gypsy camp with Dolly, but she felt that it would be as well not to take the chance. Things were bad enough without running the risk of complicating them still further. The descent was a long and hard one, but when she was about half way down to the comparatively level ground at the foot of the peak, all real danger of a crippling fall was over, since there a path began. Evidently some trampers who were fond of climbing had worn it through the rough surface to a point where a good view was to be had, and had stopped there, content with the distance they had gone, and not disposed to try the further ascent. And as soon as Bessie reached that point she was able to stop and get her breath. Meanwhile she wondered what had become of Lolla. The gypsy girl, as Bessie understood thoroughly, was running severe risks. If the two men knew that she was in league with Dolly's friends they would certainly take some steps to silence her. But John, Bessie felt sure, did not believe that Lolla, no matter how jealous she might be, would actually betray her own people to the hated Americans. He had smiled in a confident manner while Lolla had made her threats, and Bessie thought he regarded the girl as a child in a temper, but sure to come to her senses before she actually put him in danger. What to do next was a problem. Bessie, when she had followed the rough path until it led to a trail, was completely lost. She knew, roughly, and in a general way, the direction of Camp Manasquan, as the camp at Long Lake was called, but that was about all. "If I go straight ahead I may be going just as straight as I can away from anyone who can help Dolly," she reflected. "Or I may get over toward Loon Pond, and run into that awful gypsy, and then I'd be worse off than ever! Oh, I do wish I knew where I was, or how I can find Lolla. She must know these woods, and she'd be able to help me, I'm sure." Finally, however, Bessie determined to move slowly along the trail in a direction that would, she thought, take her around the bottom of Deer Mountain. She remembered that just a little while before she had come to the place where she had first seen Lolla, a side path had crossed the trail on which she had followed Dolly and her captor, and it seemed likely to her that that path would also cross the trail she was now on. If it did she could work back to a spot she knew, and so find her bearings, at least. Then, if there was nothing else to be done, she would certainly be able to get back to Long Lake. For her to stay in the woods, lost and hungry, would not help Dolly. So she set out bravely, walking as fast as she could. The sun was high in the heavens now, and it was long after breakfast time, so that Bessie was hungry, but she thought little of that. As she had hoped, and half expected, she came, presently, and at what seemed to her the proper place, upon a trail that crossed the one she was following, and she turned to the left without hesitation. She might, she felt, be going in the wrong direction altogether, but she could not very well be more hopelessly lost she was already; and, if she had to be out in the woods without a clue to the proper way to turn, she felt it made very, little difference whether she was in one place or in another. The new trail was one evidently little used, and when Bessie had been on it for perhaps ten minutes, and was beginning to think that it was time she came in sight of the larger trail from Long Lake to Deer Mountain, she heard someone coming toward her, and, rounding a bend, came into sight of Lolla. The gypsy girl seemed overwhelmed with joy at the sight of Bessie. "Oh, how glad I am!" she exclaimed. "I was afraid that Peter had caught you and tied you up with your friend, and that you would think I had sent you up there so that he would trap you! How did you escape?" "I climbed down the rocks," said Bessie simply, and smiled at Lolla's gasp of astonishment. "_You_ climbed down the rocks!" cried the gypsy. "However did you do that? There ain't many men--not even many of our men--would try that, I can tell you. I thought perhaps you would try to do that, and I was coming around this way to get to the foot of the rocks and see if I could find out what had become of you." "You know where we are and how to get back, then?" asked Bessie. "Of course I do. I know all these woods." Lolla laughed. "I have set traps for partridges and rabbits here many and many a time, but the guides never saw me. You knew where you were going, didn't you? If you'd kept on as you were going when you met me you would have come to the main trail in a minute or two, and then, if you'd turned to the right, and kept straight on, you'd have come to Long Lake, where you started from." "I thought that was what would happen, Lolla, but I wasn't quite sure." "Did you hear me shouting when Peter came along? I hoped you would understand and bide yourself some way, so that he wouldn't find you. What I was most afraid of was that you would be in the woods with your friend, and that you wouldn't hear us." "Yes, I heard you, and I knew what you were doing, Lolla; that you meant to warn me that Peter had come sooner than you thought he would. I was grateful, too, but I was afraid just to hide myself and let him go by, because the woods were so thick on each side of the trail that I was afraid he would see where I had broken through and catch me." Lolla nodded her head. "You are wise. You would be a good gypsy, Bessie. You would soon learn all the things we know ourselves. Peter has very quick eyes, and he is very suspicious, too. He saw you at the camp, you know, and he would have guessed right away, if he had seen you there, that you were looking for Dolly." "That was just what I was afraid of, Lolla. He would have tied me up with her if he had found me, wouldn't he?" "Yes. He's a bad man, that Peter. I think if John and he were not so friendly John would not have done this. He is kind, and brave, and he always tried to stop anyone who wanted to steal children. He would steal a horse, or a deer, but never a child; that was cowardly, he said." "He didn't hurt you, did he, Lolla?" The gypsy girl laughed. "Oh, no. He tried to hit me, but I got away from him too quickly. I would not let him touch me. With John it is different. He is my man; he may beat me if he likes. But not Peter; I hate him. If he beat me I would put this into him." Bessie, surprised by the look of hate in Lolla's eyes, drew back in fear as Lolla produced a long, sharp knife from the folds of her dress, and flourished it for a moment. "Oh, Lolla, please put that away!" she exclaimed. "There's no one here to be afraid of." Lolla laughed. "No, but I have it if I need it," she said meaningly. "What are we going to do now, Lolla? We can't leave Dolly up there much longer. They've got her tied up, and gagged, so that she can't call out, and she's terribly uncomfortable, though I don't think she's suffering much." "We will get her soon," said Lolla, confidently. "You stay near where she is, so that they can't get her away," said Bessie, "and I'll go and get help. Then we shan't have any trouble." But Lolla frowned at the suggestion. "You would get those guides, and they would catch my man and put him in prison, oh, for years, perhaps! No, no; I will get her away, with you to help me. Leave that to me. Peter is stupid. Come with me now; I know what we must do." "Where are you going? This isn't the way back to where Dolly is," protested Bessie, as Lolla pressed on in the direction from which Bessie had come. "We can never get up those rocks, Lolla; it was hard enough to come down." "We are not going there, not yet," said Lolla. "I must go to the camp and find out what John is doing. If he comes back to watch her himself it will be harder. But if he has to stay, and Peter looks after her, then we shall have no trouble. You shall see; only trust me. I managed so that you saw her, didn't I? Doesn't that show you that I can do what I say?" "I suppose so," sighed Bessie. "I should think you wouldn't care if that man does go to prison, though, Lolla. He isn't nice to you, and you say he'll beat you when you're married. American men don't beat their wives. If they did they would be sent to prison. I should think you'd give him up--" Lolla's dark eyes flamed for a moment, but then she smiled, as if she had remembered that Bessie, not being a gypsy, could not be expected to understand the gypsy ways. "He is a good man," she said. "He will always see that I have enough to eat, and pretty things to wear. And if he beats me, it will be because I have been wicked, and deserve to be beaten. When I am his wife he will be like my father; if I am bad he will punish me. Is it not so among your people?" Bessie struggled with a laugh at the thought of the only married couple she had ever known at all well: Paw and Maw Hoover. The idea that Paw Hoover, the mildest and most inoffensive of men, might ever beat his wife would have made anyone who knew that couple laugh. Instead of turning when they reached the trail which Bessie had followed after her descent from the rocks, Lolla led the way straight on. "Are you sure you know where you are going, Lolla!" asked Bessie. Lolla smiled at her scornfully. "Yes, but it is not the way you would go," she said. "The trail to the camp will be full of people. They will be out all over the camp particularly. We must come to it from another direction. That is why we are going this way." It was not long before Bessie was as thoroughly lost as if she had been in a maze. Lolla, however, seemed to know just where she was going. She left one trail to turn into another without ever showing the slightest doubt of her direction, and, at times, when the woods were thin, she would take short cuts, leading the way through entirely pathless portions of the forest with as much assurance as if she had been walking through the streets of a city where she had lived all her life. Even Bessie, used to long walks around Hedgeville, in which she had learned the country thoroughly, was surprised. "I don't believe I'd ever get to know these woods as well as you do," she said admiringly. "Why, you never seem even to hesitate." "I've been here every summer since I was born," said Lolla, in a laughing tone. "I ought to know these woods pretty well, I think." "I hope no one sees us now," said Bessie, nervously. "I really do feel as if it were wrong for me to keep away. Miss Mercer must be as anxious about me as she is about Dolly." "Is she the lady who is with you girls?" "Yes. You see, she probably thinks that was carried off, as well as Dolly." "She will stop being anxious all the sooner for not knowing where you are. I think it will not be long now before we get your friend away from that place where she is hidden." "Well, I certainly hope so. Listen! I think I can hear voices in front of us." "I heard them two or three minutes ago," said Lolla, with a smile. "Stay here, now; hide behind that clump of bushes. I will go ahead and see what I can find. Even if it is some of your friends they would not suspect me; they would think I was just out for a walk." So Bessie waited for perhaps ten minutes, while Lolla crept forward alone. But the gypsy was back soon, smiling. "All is safe now," she said. "Come quickly, though, so we shall get behind them and be able to get near the camp. There is a place there where you may hide while I find out what is going on." They reached the spot Lolla meant in a few minutes more, and again Bessie had to play the inactive part and wait while Lolla went on to gain the information she needed. When she came back she was smiling happily. "That John is stupid, though he is so brave," she said to Bessie. "He went back there to the camp, and he is sitting in front of his wagon. There is a guide with a gun sitting near him, and my sister tells me that the guide says he will follow him and shoot him if he tries to get away. "There are many people there, and the whole camp is angry and frightened. The king says he will punish John, but John will not admit that he knows where your friend is. We are safe from him. They will not let him get away for a long time." Bessie was comforted by the news. With her captor under guard, Dolly had nothing to fear from him, and, though Peter might be a sullen and dangerous man, Bessie felt that Lolla was right, and that he was too thick witted to be greatly feared. They made the return trip with hearts far lighter than they had been as they made their way to the gypsy camp. Bessie had seen that Lolla was afraid of John, though now that he, had been over-reached she was ready enough to laugh at him. "What are you going to do! How are you going to get her away, Lolla?" asked Bessie, as they neared the point where she had first seen her ally." "I don't know yet," said Lolla, frankly. "If Peter is on the trail it will be harder. I hope he will be inside, so that we can slip by without his seeing us. If he is, and we get by, then you are to wait until you hear me sing. So." She sang a bar or two of a gypsy melody, and repeated it until Bessie, too, could hum it, to prove that she had it right, and would not fail to recognize it. "When you hear me sing that, remember that you must run down and go to your friend. Here is nay knife. Use it to cut the cords that tie her. Then you and she must go back toward the rocks where you went down. And when you hear me sing again you are to go down, as quickly as you can, but quietly, and, as soon as you are past the place where she was hidden, you must start running. I will try to catch up with you and go with you, but do not wait for me." "I don't quite understand," Bessie began. But now Lolla was the general, brooking no defiance. She stamped her foot. "It does not matter whether you understand or not," she said sharply. "If you want me to save your friend and get back to the others you must do as you are told, and quickly. Now, come." They went on up the trail, and, at the bend just below the spot where she had broken through to reach Dolly before, Bessie waited while Lolla, who had recognized the place from Bessie's description of it, crept forward to make sure that the way was clear. "All right," she whispered. "Come on." Silently, but as swiftly as they could, they crept past the place, and, when they were out of sight stopped. "Now, you will know my song when you hear it?" "Yes, indeed, Lolla. Why, what have you got there?" "What I need to make Peter come with me," laughed Lolla. "See, a fine meal, is it not? I got it at the camp. Let him smell that stew and he would follow me out of the woods." Bessie began to understand Lolla's plan at last. She was going to tempt Peter to betray his orders from his friend by appealing to his stomach. And Bessie wondered again, as she had many times since she had met Lolla, at the cunning of the gypsy girl. Her confidence in Lolla was complete by now, and she did not at all mind waiting as she saw the little brightly clad figure disappear amidst the green of the trail. It was some time, however, before she heard any signs that indicated that Lolla had obtained any results. And then it was not the song she heard, but Lolla's clear laugh, rising above the heavy tones of Peter. "Oh, oh! You would give me orders when I bring you breakfast? No, no, Peter; that won't do. Come, she is safe there; come and eat with me, where she cannot put a spell on your food to make it choke you." "Do you think she would do that?" That was Peter's voice, stupid and filled with doubt. Bessie laughed at Lolla's cleverness. Peter, she thought, would be just the sort of man to yield to the fears of superstition. "I know she would; she hates us. Come, Peter; does it not look good?" "Give it to me. There, I'll catch you--" Then there was a sound of scuffling and running, but Bessie, noticing that it drew further and further away, laughed. Lolla was a real strategist. She understood how to handle the big gypsy, evidently. And a moment later Bessie, her nerves quivering, all alert as she waited for the signal, heard the notes of Lolla's song. At once she rushed down, broke through the tangled growth, and was at Dolly's side, cutting away at the cords that bound Dolly, and, first of all, tearing the handkerchief from her mouth. "It's all right now, we're safe, Dolly. Only you'll have to come quickly, dear, when I get you free. There, that's it. Are you stiff? Can you Stand up?" "I guess so," gasped Dolly. "Oh, I'd do anything to get away from here. Bessie, look!" Bessie turned, to face Peter and Lolla, their faces twisted into malignant grins. Lolla had betrayed her! CHAPTER XI THE MYSTERIOUS VOICE For a moment Bessie stared at the two gypsies, their eyes glowing with malicious triumph, and delight at her shocked face, in such dazed astonishment that she could not speak at all. She had been completely outwitted and hoodwinked. She had trusted Lolla utterly; had made up her mind that the girl's jealousy was not feigned. Even now, for a wild moment, the thought flashed through her mind that perhaps Lolla had been unable to help herself; that Peter might have insisted on coming back, and that Lolla was forced, in order to be of help later on, to seem to fall in with his plans. But Lolla herself soon robbed her of the comfort that lay in such a thought. "You thought I would betray my people!" she cried, shrilly. "We do not do that; no, no! Ah, but it was easy to deceive you! When I saw you I knew you would be dangerous. I could not hold you by force until John came, I had to trick you. I thought we would catch you when you went up there. I did not think you would be brave enough to go down the rocks." Bessie said not a word, but only clung to Dolly's hand and stared at the treacherous gypsy. "So then, when you had gone, I had to find you again, and send word to Peter to do as I said, so that we could catch you, and stop you from going to your friends and telling them where we had hidden your friend who is there with you now. Now we have two, instead of one. Oh, I have done well, have I not, Peter?" Peter grinned, and grunted something in his own tongue that made Lolla smile. "Tie them up again, Peter," said Lolla, looking viciously at Bessie, and obviously gloating over the way in which she had tricked the American girl. And Peter, nothing loath, advanced to do so. But Bessie had stood all she could. Dolly, terribly cast down by this sudden upsetting of all the hopes of rescue that the coming of Bessie and her release from the cords that bound her had raised, was close beside her, shivering with fright and despair. And Bessie, with a sudden cry of anger, seized the knife Lolla had given her, which had been lying at her feet. Furiously she brandished it. "If either of you come a step nearer I'll use it!" she said, scarcely able to recognize her own voice, so changed was it by the anger that Lolla's treachery had aroused in her. "You'd better not think I'm joking. I mean it!" Peter hesitated, but Lolla, her eyes flashing, urged him on. "Go on! Do you want me to tell all the women that you were frightened by a little girl; a girl you could crush with one hand?" she cried, angrily. "You coward! Tie them up, I tell you! Oh, if my man John were here he'd show you! Here--" Peter, stung by her taunts, made a quick rush forward. For a moment Bessie did not know what to do. She wondered if, when it came to the test, she would really be able to use the knife; to try to cut or stab this man. He was getting nearer each moment, and, just as she was almost within his grasp she darted back and aimed a blow at him with the knife. There was no danger that it would strike him; Bessie thought that, if she could only convince him that she had meant what she said, he would hesitate. And she was right. He gave a cry of alarm as he saw the steel flash toward him and drew back. "She would stab me!" he exclaimed furiously, to Lolla. "I was not to be struck with a knife. John said nothing about that. He told me only to guard this girl--" "She wouldn't really touch you with it," screamed Lolla, so furious that she forgot the need of keeping her voice low. "John wouldn't let her frighten him that way, he is too brave. Oh, how the women will laugh when they hear how the brave Peter was frighted by a girl with a little knife!" But Bessie, in spite of her own indecision, had managed, somehow, to convince the man that she was serious, and Lolla's taunts no longer affected him. He drew back still farther, and stood looking stupidly at the two girls. "You're wiser than she," said Bessie approvingly. "I meant just what I said. Keep as far as that from me, and you'll be safe. I'm not afraid of you any more." Nor was she. Her victory, brief though it might be, had encouraged her, and revived her drooping spirits. Dolly, too, seemed to have gained new life from the sight of the big gypsy quailing before her chum. She had stopped trembling, and stood up bravely now, ready to face whatever might come. "Good for you, Bessie!" she exclaimed. She darted a vicious look at Lolla. "I wish that treacherous little gypsy would come somewhere near me," she went on, angrily. "I'd pull her hair and make her sorry she ever tried to help those villains to keep us. When they put her in prison I'm going to see her, and jeer at her!" Lolla, looking helpless now in her anger, said nothing, but she glared at the two girls. "I think these people are very superstitious," whispered Dolly to Bessie, when it became plain that, for the moment, the two gypsies intended only to watch them, without making any further attempt to tie them up. "I think so too," returned Bessie, in the same tone. "But I don't see what good that is going to do us, Dolly." "Neither do I, just yet, Bessie. But I can't help thinking that there must be some way that we could frighten them, if we could only think of it; so that they would be frightened and run away." "We might tell them--Oh, I've got an idea, Dolly." She looked at Peter and Lolla. They were at the very edge of the little clearing in which Dolly had been imprisoned. "Listen, Lolla," said Bessie, calmly. "I believe that you are a good girl, though you have lied to me, and tried to make me think you were my friend, when all the time you were planning, you could betray me. This place is dangerous." Lolla looked at her scornfully and tossed head. "Don't think you can frighten me with your stories," she said, with a laugh. "It is dangerous--for you. When my man comes you will find that he is not a coward, like Peter, to be frightened with your knife. He will take it away from you and beat you, too, for trying to frighten Peter with it." "Yes, he is brave, Lolla. We saw that when he ran away from the fire that he saw last night near the lake." Bessie was taking a chance when she said that. She did not know whether Lolla had heard of the mysterious flashlight explosion or not, but she thought it more than probable that John had told her of it. And she was reasonably sure that he was still wondering what had caused the light that had so suddenly blinded him. Her swift look at Lolla showed her that her blow had struck home. "He is a brave man, indeed, to keep on with his wicked plan to steal my friend after such a warning," Bessie went on sternly. "But his bravery will do him no good. There is a spirit looking after us. It made the fire that frightened him, and the next time he will not only see the fire; he will feel it, too." Now she looked not only at Lolla, who seemed shaken, but at Peter, who was staring at her as if fascinated. Evidently he, too, had heard of the strange fire. Bessie had reckoned on the probability, that seemed almost a certainty, that John would not have been able to explain, even to himself, the nature of the flashlight explosion. And evidently she was right. Then she took another chance, guessing at what she thought John would probably have said to explain the fire. "I know what he told you," she said slowly. "He said that the fire came from a spirit that was guiding him, and was trying to help him. But he only said that because he did not understand. It meant just the opposite; that it would be better for him to go home, and forget the wicked plot he had thought of." Peter seemed to be weakening, but Lolla tossed her head again. "Are you a baby? Do you think that is true?" she said to him. "Don't you see that she is only trying to frighten you, as she did with the knife?" "Indeed I am not," said Bessie, earnestly. "I am not angry with you, any more than I am afraid of you now. If you stay here something dreadful will happen to you both. You would not like to go to prison, would you, and stay there all through this summer, and the next winter, and the summer of next year, when you might be traveling the road with your brothers?" "Make them keep quiet, Peter," cried Lolla, furiously. "She is quite right There is danger here, but it comes from her friends. She thinks that if she can fool us into letting her talk, they may pass by and hear her voice." "You keep quiet," said Peter, doggedly, evidently deciding that, this time, he could safely obey Lolla's orders, and quite ready to do so. "If you make any more noise I will--" He left the sentence uncompleted, but a savage gesture showed what he meant. He had a stout stick, and this he now swung with a threatening air. Bessie had hoped to work on the superstitious nature of the gypsy man, and to frighten him, perhaps, if she had good luck, into letting her go off with Dolly. But Lolla's interference had put that out of the question. She turned sadly to Dolly, to see her companion's eyes twinkling. "Never you mind, Bessie," she said. "They're stupid, anyhow. And as long as they don't tie us up we're all right. I'd just as soon be here as anywhere. Someone will go along that trail presently looking for us, and when they do we can shout. They'll probably make a noise themselves, so as to let us know they are near. And I'm not frightened any more; really I'm not." But Bessie, tired and disappointed, was nearer to giving in than she had been since the moment when she had awakened and found that Dolly was missing. She felt that she ought to have distrusted Lolla; that she had made a great mistake in thinking, even for a moment, that the gypsy girl meant to betray her own people. Then suddenly a strange thing happened. A new voice, that belonged to none of the four who were in the clearing, suddenly broke the silence. It seemed to come from a tree directly over the heads of Lolla and Peter, and, as it spoke, they stared upward with one accord, listening intently to what it said. "Will you make me come down and punish you?" said the voice. It was that of an old, old man, feeble with age, but still clear. Bessie stared too, as surprised as the gypsy, and the voice went on: "I gave your companion a sign last night that should have warned him. I speak to you now, to warn you again. The next time I shall not give a warning; I shall act, and your punishment will be swift and terrible. Take heed; go, while there is time." For a moment the two gypsies were speechless, looking at one another in wonder, and Bessie was not disposed to blame them. Her own head was in a whirl. "Quick; it is in that tree!" said Lolla, easily the braver of the two of them. "Climb up there, and see who it is that is trying to frighten us, Peter." But Peter was not prepared to do anything of the sort. He was trembling, and casting nervous glances behind him, as if he were more minded to make a break and run down the trail. "Climb yourself! I shall stay here," he retorted. And Lolla, without further hesitation, sprang into the branches of the tree and began to climb. As she did so the mysterious voice sounded again. "You cannot see me, yet," it said. "You can only hear me. See, my voice is in your ears, but you cannot see as much as my little finger. Beware; go before you _do_ see me. For when you do, you will regret it; regret it as long as you live!" When Lolla, a moment later, reached firm ground again, she was trembling, and Bessie saw that her courage was beginning to fail. She looked about her nervously, as Peter was doing. And suddenly the voice spoke again, but this time it shouted, and it was in a stronger, more vigorous tone, and one of great anger. "Must I show myself! Must I punish you?" it said, furiously. "Fear me; you will do well! Go--GO!" With a yell of terror Peter turned suddenly, and ran through the thick bushes toward the trail, crying out as he went, and stumbling. "Come; it is the devil! I saw his horns and his tail then," he screamed. "Come, Lolla, this is an accursed place. I told John it was wrong to try to do this; that he would get into trouble." "He is wise; he is safe!" said the mysterious voice. "Go too, Lolla; I am growing impatient. Go, if you want to see John, your lover, and the brothers that you love, again. The time is growing short. I come; I come; and when I come--" And then at last Lolla's nerves, too, gave way, and she followed Peter, screaming, as he had done, while she ran. Bessie, as astonished and almost as frightened as the two gypsies had been, turned then to see how Dolly was bearing this extraordinary affair, to see her chum rolling about on the ground, with tears in her eyes. "Oh, that was funny!" Dolly exclaimed. "They were easy, after all, Bessie." "They've gone! It's all right now," said Bessie. "But who was it, Dolly? Who could it have been?" "It was me!" exclaimed Dolly, weakly, between gasps of laughter, forgetting her grammar altogether. "I learned that trick last summer. They call it ventriloquism. It just means throwing your voice out so that it doesn't seem to come from you at all, and changing it, so that people won't recognize it." Bessie stared at her, in wonder and admiration. "Why, Dolly Ransom!" she said. "However do you do it? I never heard of such a thing!" "I don't know how I do it," said Dolly, recovering her breath. "No one who can does, I guess. It's just something you happen to be able to do." "You certainly frightened them," said Bessie. "And you saved us with your trick, Dolly. I think they've run clear away. We can follow them down the trail; they won't stick to it, and I think we can go right back to Long Lake, now, without being afraid any more. Come on, we'd better start. I don't want to stay here." CHAPTER XII OUT OF THE FRYING PAN "Stay here? I should say not!" exclaimed Dolly. "I'm almost starved--and, Bessie, they must be terribly worried about us, too. And now tell me, as we go along, how you ever found me. I don't see how you managed that." So, as they made their way down the trail, Bessie told her of all that had happened since her rude awakening at the camp fire, just after the gypsy had carried Dolly off. "Oh, Bessie, it was perfectly fine of you, and it's only because of you that we're safe now! But you oughtn't to have taken such a risk! Just think of what might have happened!" "That's just it, Dolly. I've got time to think about it now, but then I could only think of you, and what was happening to you. If I'd stopped to think about the danger I'm afraid I wouldn't have come." "But you must have known it was dangerous! I don't know anyone else who would have done it for me." "Oh, yes, they would, Dolly. That's one of the things we promise when we join the Camp Fire Girls--always to help another member of the Camp Fire who is in trouble or in danger." "Yes--but not like that. It doesn't say anything about going into danger yourself, you know." "Listen, Dolly. If you saw me drowning in the water, you'd jump in after me, wouldn't you? Or after any of the girls--if there wasn't time to get help?" "I suppose so--but that's different. It just means going in quickly, without time to think very much about it. And you had plenty of time to think while you were tramping along that horrid dark trail after me." "Well, it's all over now, Dolly, and, after all, you had to save both of us in the end." "That was just a piece of luck, and a trick, Bessie. It didn't take any courage to do that--and, beside, if it hadn't been for you I would never have had the chance to do that. I wonder why Lolla let you have her knife to cut those cords about me?" "I think she's a regular actress, Dolly, and that she wanted to make me feel absolutely sure she was on our side, so that we would both be there in that trap when she and Peter came back." "It's a good thing he was such a coward, Bessie." "Oh, I think he'd be brave enough if he just had to fight with a man, so that it was the sort of fighting he was used to. You see it wasn't his plan, and when I said I'd use that knife he couldn't see why he should run any risk when all the profit was for the other man." "And when you played that trick with your voice he was frightened, because he'd never heard of anything of that sort, and he didn't know what was coming next. I think that would frighten a good many people who are really brave." "Bessie, why do I always get into so much trouble? All this happened just because I changed those signs that day." "Oh, I don't know about that, Dolly. It might have happened anyhow. I've got an idea now that they knew we were around, and that John planned to kidnap one of us and keep us until someone paid him a lot of money to let us go. Something Lolla said made me think that." "Then he was just playing a joke when he said he wanted to marry me?" "Yes, I think so, because I don't think he was foolish enough to think he could ever really get you to do that. I did think so at first, but if that had been so I'm quite sure that Lolla wouldn't have helped him." "She'd have been jealous, you mean?" "Yes, I'm quite sure, you see, that she saw him and talked to him when we went over to their camp that time, so that she could take orders from him to Peter. He knew he'd be watched, so he must have made up his mind from the first that he would have to have help." "I wonder what he is doing now, Bessie." "I certainly hope he's still over there at the camp, sitting near that guide. The guide said he would shoot him if he tried to get away, you know." "My, but I'll bet there's been a lot of commotion over this." "I'm sure there has, Dolly. Probably all the people at the hotel heard about it, too. I'll bet they've got people out all through the woods looking for us." "I wish we'd meet some of them--and that they'd have a lot of sandwiches and things. Bessie, I've simply got to sit down and rest. I want to get back to Miss Eleanor and the girls, but if I keep on any longer I'll drop just where we are. I'm too tired to take another step without a rest." "I am, too, Dolly. Here--here's a good place to sit down for a little while. We really can't be so very far from Long Lake now." "No," said a voice, behind them. "But you're so far that you'll never reach there, my dears!" And, turning, they saw John, the gypsy, leering at them. His clothes were torn, and he was hot and dirty, so that it was plain that he had had a long run, and a narrow escape from capture. But at the sight of them he smiled, evilly and triumphantly, as if that repaid him amply for any hardships he had undergone. "Don't you dare touch us!" said Bessie, shrilly. She realized even as she said it, that he was not likely to pay any attention to her, but the sight of his grinning face, when she had been so sure that their troubles were over at last, was too much for her. She sank down on a log beside Dolly, and hid her face in her hands, beginning to cry. Most men, no matter how bad, would have been moved to pity by the sight of her sufferings. But John was not. "Don't cry," he said, with mock sympathy. "I am not going to treat you badly. You shall stay in the woods with me. I have a good hiding place, a place where your friends will never find you until I am ready. You are tired. So am I. We will rest here. It is quite safe. A party of your friends passed this way five minutes ago. They will not come again--not soon. I was within a few feet of them, but they did not see me." Bessie groaned at the news. Had they only reached the place five minutes earlier, then, they would have been safe. She was struck by an idea, however, and lifted her voice in a shout for aid. In a moment the gypsy's hand covered her mouth and he was snarling in her ear. "None of that," he said, grittingly, "or I will find a way to make you keep still. You must do as I tell you now, or it will be the worse for you. Will you promise to keep quiet?" Bessie realized that there was no telling what this man would do if she did not promise--and keep her promise. He was cleverer than Peter, and, therefore, much more dangerous. She felt, somehow, that the trick which had worked so well when Dolly had used it before would be of no avail now. He might even understand it; he was most unlikely, she was sure, to yield to superstitious terror as Peter and Lolla had done. And, leaning over to Dolly, she whispered to her. "Don't try that trick, Dolly. You see, if the others had dared the voice to do something they would have found out that there was really nothing to be afraid of--and I'm afraid he'd wait. It may be useful again, but not with him, now. If we tried it, and it didn't work--" "I understand," Dolly whispered back. "I think you are right, too, Bessie. We'd be worse off than ever. I was thinking that if only some of the other gypsies were here we might frighten them so much with it that they'd make him let us go." "Yes. We'll save it for that." The gypsy was still breathing hard. He looked at the two girls malignantly, but he saw that they were too tired to walk much unless he let them rest, and, purely out of policy, and not at all because he was sorry for them, and for the hardships he had made them endure, he let them sit still for a while. But finally he rose. "Come," he said. "You've been loafing here long enough. Get up now, and walk in front of me--back, the way you came." They groaned at the prospect of retracing their footsteps once more, but he held the upper hand, and there was nothing for it but obedience. That much was plain. Desperately, as they began to drag their tired feet once more along the trail, they listened, hoping against hope for the sounds that would indicate that some of the searchers they were sure filled the woods were in the neighborhood. But no comforting shouts greeted them. The woods were silent, save for the calls of birds and animals, which, friendly though they might be, were powerless to aid the two girls against this traditional enemy of every furred and feathered creature in the forest. Steadily they plodded on. Bessie knew the ground well by this time, and, one by one they passed the landmarks she knew so well, until they came at last to the cross path which had brought Bessie back to the trap Lolla had prepared for her. And there they came upon a startling interruption of their journey. For suddenly Lolla herself, who had evidently been hiding there when they had passed, alone, before their meeting with John, sprang out and stood in front of them. Long as she had resisted her fear of the supernatural force that had come to the aid of the girls, she was plainly afraid of it still, for at sight of them her cheeks paled, and she cried out in terror. And behind her, as scared as she was herself, came Peter, the big gypsy, shaking in every limb. "A fine mess you made of things--letting them escape," growled John, as he saw his two compatriots. "If I hadn't found them on the trail, by sheer luck, they'd have been back at the lake by this time." "Let them go--for heaven's sake, let them go, John," wailed Lolla. "There is a devil fighting for them--he will kill you if you try any longer to keep them from their friends." "Pah! What child's talk is this? Be thankful that I do not beat you with my stick for letting them get free!" "Listen to her, John," said Peter, warningly. "She speaks the truth. It was a devil that spoke from the air. I saw his horns and his red tail. Be careful--he may be here now." John laughed, scornfully. "Run away, if you are afraid," he said. "I will manage alone now. I would not trust you--you have failed me once, both of you. Do not think you can frighten me into failure because you are as brave as a--chicken!" "Let them go, I say," said Peter, with a sternness in his voice that gave Bessie a new ray of hope. "I have had my warning, I will profit by it." "You coward!" sneered John. But that was too much for Peter. With a cry of rage he sprang forward. "I fear no man, no man I can see or touch," he cried. "And no man shall call me coward!" In a moment the two were grappling in a furious fight. John was smaller than Peter, but he was wiry and as lithe and powerful as a trained athlete, so that he was a match, at first, for the rugged strength of Peter. But he had had a hard day, and gradually Peter's strength wore him down, and, as they crashed to the ground together, Peter was on top, and plainly destined to be victor in the fight. He looked up at the two girls. "Go!" he said. "I will have nothing to do with you. I am fighting with my friend to save him, not for your sakes, you who have a devil to help you. If he keeps you harm will come to him. John, listen to me: I do this because you are my friend." Bessie and Dolly needed no second invitation. Amazing as was this latest intervention in favor, they were too happy to stop to question it. It was their chance to escape, and five minutes later they were out of sight, and making their way, as fast as their tired bodies would allow them to do, toward Long Lake and safety. CHAPTER XIII SAFE AT LAST Indeed, any lingering fear Bessie and Dolly might have had that John had succeeded in escaping from his two anxious friends who were so determined to protect him against his own recklessness, was dissipated before they came in sight of the lake, when, at a crossing of the trail, a glad cry hailed them and a sturdy guide stepped across their path. "Well, I'll be hornswoggled!" he exclaimed. "Ain't you the two that was lost, or stolen by that gypsy critter?" "We certainly are," said Dolly and Bessie, in one breath. "Were you looking for us?" "Lookin' fer you!" he exclaimed. "Every one in these here woods has been a-lookin' fer you two since sun-up, I guess. Godfrey, but we was scared! Didn't know but that there gypsy might have sneaked you clean out of the woods! How did you all ever come to get loose? Or was you just plain lost?" "No, we weren't lost," said Bessie. "He carried Dolly off all right; this is Dolly Ransom, you know. But he didn't catch me." "Then how in tarnation did you come to be lost, too? You was, wasn't you? They told us two girls was missin'." "Well, we were asleep in the open air, outside the tent, and I woke up just as he was carrying Dolly off. I didn't wake up until he'd got out of the firelight, and there wasn't any use calling anyone else. So I just followed myself." "She says anyone would have done it," Dolly broke in, her eyes shining. "But I don't believe it, do you?" "No, by Godfrey!" he said, emphatically. "A greenhorn, goin' out in them woods at night, in the dark, and a girl, at that? I guess not!" He looked at Bessie, as if puzzled to learn that she had actually done such a thing. "Well, you're all right now," he said. "Here, I'll just give the signal we fixed up. Listen, now!" He raised his rifle, and, pointing it straight in the air, fired two shots, and then, after a brief interval, two more. "The sound of that'll carry a long way," he explained, "and that means that you're both found. The other fellows who are searchin' for you will quit lookin', now, and come into Long Lake. If I'd fired just two shots, and hadn't fired the second two, that would have meant that one of you was found, and they'd have kept right on a-lookin' fer the other. I'll walk along with you now, an' I guess that varmint won't bother you no more. If he does--" He patted his rifle with a gesture that spoke more plainly than words could have done. "Tell me all about it as we go along," he said. "I guess maybe there'll be some work for us to do after we all get together--runnin' those gypsies out. They're a bad lot, but this is the fust time they ever done anythin' around here that give us a real chance to get even with them. We've suspected them of doin' lots of things, but a deer can't tell you who killed him out o' season, 'specially when all you find of the deer is a little skin and bones." He listened admiringly as Bessie told her story. At the tale of Lolla's treachery he laughed. "They're all tarred with the same brush," he said. "One's as bad as another." And when he heard of the trick by which Dolly had worked on the superstitious fears of Lolla and Peter his merriment knew no bounds, and he absolutely refused to keep on the trail until Dolly had given him a demonstration of just how she had managed it. "Well, by Godfrey!" he said, when she had thrown her voice far overhead, and once so that it seemed to come from just above his shoulder. "Don't that beat the Dutch! I don't wonder you skeered 'em! You'd have had me goin', I guess, an' I ain't no chicken, nor easy to skeer, neither. You two certainly done a smart job gettin' away from them." And so, when they reached Long Lake, the girls and the guides, who had scattered all over the woods searching for them, agreed, when they straggled in, one party after another. Eleanor Mercer was one of the first to return, and when she had finished proving her gratitude for their safe return, she turned a laughing face toward the chief guide. "Do you know the thing that pleases me best about this, Andrew?" she asked him. "I can guess, ma'am," he said, with a grin. "You told us when you come up here that you was goin' to prove that a party of girls could get along without help from men. And I reckon it looked to you this morning as if you was goin' to need us pretty bad, didn't it?" "It certainly did, Andrew," she answered, gravely. "And I don't want you to think for a moment that we're not grateful to you for the way you turned out and scoured the woods." "Don't talk of gratitude, Miss Eleanor. We've known you for years, but even if we'd never seen you before, and didn't know nothin' about the girls that thief had stolen, we'd ha' turned out jest the same way to rescue them. An' I guess any white men anywhere would ha' done the same thing. "But if it was only us you'd had to depend on, I'm afraid the young lady'd still be out there. It was her friend that saved her. Too bad she trusted that Lolla witch. If she'd gone to Jim Skelly when she was near the gypsy camp that time, an' told him where her chum was, he'd have had her free in two shakes of a lamb's tail." "I think Dolly and Bessie must be awfully hungry," said Zara, who had listened with shining eyes to the tale of her friends' adventures. "Oh, they must, indeed!" said Eleanor, remorsefully. "And here we've been listening to them, and letting them talk while they were starving." She turned toward the fire, but already two of the guides had leaped forward, and in a moment the smell of crisp bacon filled the air, and coffee was being made. "Oh, how good that smells!" said Dolly. "I _am_ hungry, but it was so exciting, remembering everything that happened, that I forgot all about it! Isn't it funny? I was dreadfully scared when I was alone there, and again afterward, when we thought we were safe, and that horrid man caught us. "But now that it's all over, it seems like good fun. If one only knew that everything was coming out all right when things like that happen, one could enjoy them while they were going on, couldn't one? But when one is frightened half to death there isn't much chance to think of how nice it's going to be when it's all over, and you're safe at home again." "That's just the trouble with adventures, Dolly," said Eleanor. "You never can be sure that they will come out all right, and lots of times they don't. It's like the thrilling story that the man told about being chased by the bear." "What was that, Miss Eleanor?" "Well, he told about how the bear chased him, and he got into a trap, and the bear was between him and the only way of getting out, and it seemed to him as if he was going to be killed. So they asked him what happened; how he got away?" "And how did he?" "He said he didn't; that the bear ate him up!" "Miss Eleanor," said Andrew, the old chief guide, as the two girls began ravenously to eat the tempting camp meal that the other guides had so quickly prepared, "we've got something more to do here." Eleanor looked at him questioningly. "We've got to find that gypsy," he said, "and see that he spends the night in jail, where he belongs. If I'm not mistaken, he'll spend a good many nights and days there, too, after he's been tried." "I suppose he must be caught and taken to a place where he can be tried," said Eleanor. "I don't like the idea of revenge, but--" "But this ain't revenge, Miss Eleanor. If you was a-goin' to say that you was quite right. It's self protection, and protection for young girls everywhere." "Yes, you're right, Andrew. Well, what do you want me to do? I am afraid I wouldn't be touch good in helping you to catch him." Andrew laughed heartily. "I ain't sayin' that, ma'am, but there's men enough of us to catch him, all right. Maybe you didn't notice it, but I sent out some of the men 'most as soon as they got here, just so's they'd be able to fix things for him to have to stay where we could catch him. Trouble is, none of us don't know him when we see him. I was wonderin'--" "Oh, no, not now, Andrew. I know what you mean. You want the girls to go with you, so as to point him out, don't you? But they're so tired, I'm sure they couldn't do any more tramping today." "I know they're tired, ma'am, and I wasn't aimin' to let them do any more walkin'. I've got more sense than that. But we could rig up a sort of a swing chair, so's two of the boys could carry one of them, easily. Then we could take her over there, and she could tell us which was him, and never be tired at all. She'd be jest as comfortable, ma'am, as if she was a settin' here by the lake, watchin' the water." "Well, I suppose we can manage it if you do it that way, Andrew, if you think it's really necessary." When it came to a choice, since it was necessary for only one of the girls to go, Dolly insisted on being the one. "Bessie is much more tired than I am," she said, stoutly. "I was carried a good part of the way and she tramped all around with that wretched little Lolla, when she thought Lolla wanted to help her get me away. So I'm going, and Bessie shall stay here and rest" "Don't, make no difference to me," said Andrew "Let the other girls come along with us, if you like, Miss Eleanor. And you can stay hind here with the one that stays to rest. See!" And so it was arranged. Bessie, lying on a cot that had been brought from Eleanor's tent, watched Dolly being carried off in the litter that had been hastily improvised, and Eleanor sat beside her. "You've certainly earned a rest, Bessie," said Eleanor, happily. It delighted her to think that Bessie, whom she had befriended, should prove herself so well worthy of her confidence. "I don't know what we'd have done without you. I'm afraid that Dolly would still be there in the woods if you'd just called us, as most girls would have done." "I don't quite understand one thing, even yet, Bessie," continued Eleanor, frowning, "You know, at first, it seemed as if the idea we had was right; that this man had some crazy idea that he might be able to make a gypsy of Dolly. "I'm beginning to think that there was some powerful reason back of what he did; that he expected to make a great deal of money out of kidnapping her. It seems, too, as if he knew where we were going to be, and who we all were, more than he had had any chance to find out." "I thought of that, too," said Bessie. "If it had been Zara he tried to steal--but it was Dolly. And she hasn't been mixed up at all in our affairs." "I know, and that's what is so puzzling, Bessie. Maybe if they catch him, though, he'll tell why he did it. I think those guides will frighten him. They're all perfectly furious, and they'll make him sorry he ever tried to do anything of the sort, I think--Why, Bessie! What's the matter?" "Don't turn around, Miss Eleanor. But I saw a pair of eyes, just behind you. I wonder if he could have sneaked back around and come here?" "Oh, I wish we'd had one of the men stay, I was afraid of something like that, Bessie." "I'm going to find out, Miss Eleanor. I'll pretend I don't suspect anything, and get up to go into the tent. Then, if it's John, I think he'll show himself." She rose, and in a moment their fears were confirmed. John, his eyes triumphant, stepped out, abandoning the concealment of the hushes. "Where is the other?" he said. "The one called Bessie--Bessie King? It's not you I want--" "Hands up!" cried the voice of Andrew, the chief guide. And the gypsy, wheeling with a savage cry, faced a half circle of grinning faces. He made one wild dash to escape, but it was useless, and in a moment he was on the ground, and his hands were tied. In the struggle a letter fell from his pocket, and Bessie picked it up. Suddenly, as she was looking at it idly, she saw something that made her cry out in surprise, and the next moment she and Miss Mercer were reading it together. "Get this girl, Bessie King, and I will pay you a thousand dollars," it read. "She is dark, and goes around with a fair girl called Dolly. It will be easy, and if you once get them to me and out of the woods, I will pay you the money, and see that you are not in danger of being arrested. I will back you up." "Who wrote that letter? Turn over, quickly!" cried Eleanor. "I know without looking," said Bessie. "Now we can guess why he was so reckless; why he took such chances! He thought I was Dolly, because of that mistake about our hair! Yes, see; it is Mr. Holmes who sent him this letter!" CHAPTER XIV THE GYPSY'S MOTIVE But, despite the revelation of that letter, the gypsy himself maintained a sullen silence when efforts were made to make him tell all he knew and the reason for his determined effort to kidnap Dolly. He snarled at his captors when they, asked him questions, and so enraged Andrew and the other guides by his refusal to answer that only Eleanor's intervention saved him from rough handling. "No I won't let you use violence, Andrew," said Eleanor, firmly. "It would do no good. He won't talk; that is his nature. You have him now, and the law will take him from you. There isn't any question of his guilt; there will be evidence enough to convict him anywhere, and he will go to prison, as he deserves to do. All I hope is that he won't be the only one, that we can get the man who bribed him to do this, and see that he gets punished properly, too." "I'm sure with you there, ma'am," said old Andrew. "He's a worthless critter enough, I know, but he ain't as bad as the man that set him on. If the law lets that other snake go, ma'am, jest you get him to come up here for a little hunting, and we'll make him sorry he ever went into such business, I'd like to get my hands on him. I'm an old man, but I reckon I'm strong enough to thrash any imitation of a man what would play such a cowardly trick as that. Afraid to do his own dirty work, is he? So he hires it done. Well, much good it's done him this time." "I'll keep this letter," said Eleanor. "I think it was mighty foolish of him to sign his name to it. It's a pretty good piece of evidence against the man, if he is rich and powerful. If there's any justice to be had, I think he'll suffer this time." "How did you ever get back here, just when you were so badly needed?" Bessie asked Andrew. He smiled at that. "Well, we get sort o' used to readin' tracks in our work around here, Miss, and we seen that someone who might be this feller was doublin' around mighty suspicious. So, bein' some worried about leavin' you two here alone anyhow, I decided to come back with three or four of the men here, an' we did it, leavin' the others to go on an' see if they could pick up the other two gypsies. "To tell the truth, I thought it'd be mighty strange if we found him anywhere near that camp. Seemed like he must know that we'd be lookin' fer him, and that there was the fust place we'd go to. So here we were, and mighty timely, as you say, Miss." It was no great while before the sounds of the other party, returning, resounded through the woods, and soon Lolla and Peter, the man bound, and the girl carefully guarded by two guides, each of whom held one of her arms, were brought into the clearing about the camp. Lolla, at the sight of John, lying against a tree, his arms and his feet bound, gave a cry of rage, and, snatching her arms from her guardians, ran toward him, wailing. "Go away, you fool!" muttered John. "This is your doing. If you and Peter had not been afraid of your own shadow, this would not have happened. I am glad they have caught you; you will go to prison now, like me." "Look here, young feller," said Andrew, angrily, "that ain't no way to talk to a lady, hear me! She may be a bad one, but she's stuck to you. If you get off any more talk like that I'll see if a dip in the lake will make you feel more polite like. See?" John gave no answer, but relapsed into his sullen silence again. Eleanor approached Lolla gently. "We are not angry with you, Lolla," she said, kindly. "No, nor with John. You love him, do you?" Lolla gave no answer, but looked up into Eleanor's face with eyes that spoke plainly enough. "I thought so. Then you do not want him to go to prison? Try to make him tell why he did this. If he will do that, perhaps he can go free, and you and Peter, too. You wouldn't like to have to leave your people, and not be able to travel along the road, and do all the things you are used to doing, would you? "Well, I am afraid that is what will happen to you, unless John will tell all he knows. They will take you away, soon now, and you will go down to the town and there you will be locked up, all three of you, and you and John will not even see one another, for a long time--two or three years, maybe, or even longer--" Still Lolla could not speak. But she began to cry, quietly, but with a display of suffering that moved Eleanor. After all, she felt Lolla was little more than a girl, and, though she had done wrong, very wrong, she had never had a proper chance to learn how to do what was right. "I'm sorry for you, Lolla," said Eleanor. "We all are. We think you didn't know what you were doing, and how wicked it was. I will do my best for you, but your best chance is to make John tell all he knows." "How can I? He blames me. He says if I and Peter hadn't been such cowards all would have been well. He is angry at me; he will not forgive me." "Oh, yes, he will, Lolla. I am sure he loves you, and that he did this wicked thing because he wanted to have much money to spend buying nice things for you; pretty dresses, and a fine wagon, with good horses. So he will be sorry for speaking angrily to you, soon, and you will be able to make him tell the truth, if you only try. Will you try?" "Yes," decided Lolla, suddenly. "I think you are good--that you forgive us. Do you?" "I certainly do. After all, you see, Lolla, you haven't done us any harm." Lolla pointed to Bessie. "Will she forgive me?" she inquired. "I tricked her--made a fool of her--but she made a fool of me afterward. I lied to her; will she forgive me, too, like you?" "Did you hear that, Bessie?" asked Eleanor, by way of answer to the gypsy girl's question. "Yes," said Bessie. "I'm sorry you did it, Lolla, because I only wanted to help your man, and if you hadn't done what you said you were going to do, and helped me to get Dolly away from him, he wouldn't be in all this trouble now. "But you didn't understand about that, and you helped your own people instead of a stranger. I don't think that's such a dreadful thing to do. It's something like a soldier in a war. He may think his country is wrong, but if there's a battle he has to fight for it, just the same." "But remember that the best way to help John now is to make him see that he has been wrong, and to try to make him understand that he can make up for his wickedness by helping us to punish the bad man who got him to do this," said Eleanor. "That man, you see, was too much of a coward to do his work himself, so he got your man to do it, knowing that if anyone was to be punished he would escape, and John would get into trouble. "John doesn't owe anything to a man like that; he needn't think he's got to keep him out of trouble. The man wouldn't do it for him. He won't help him now. He'll pretend he doesn't know anything about this at all." "I will try," promised Lolla. "But I think John is angry with me, and will not listen. But I will do my best." And, after a little while, which the guides used to cook a meal, and to rest after their strenuous tramping in the effort to find the missing girls, Andrew told off half a dozen of them to make their way to the county seat, a dozen miles away, with the three gypsies. "Just get them there and turn them over to the sheriff, boys," said the old guide. "He'll hold them safe until they've been tried, and we won't have any call to worry about them no more. But be careful while you're on your way down. They're slippery customers, and as like as not to try to run away from you and get to their own people." "You leave that to me," said the guide who was to be in charge of the party. "If they get away from us, Andrew, they'll be slicker than anyone I ever heard tell of, anywhere. We won't hurt them none, but they'll walk a chalk line, right in front of us, or I'll know the reason why." "All right," said Andrew. "Better be getting started, then. Don't want to make it too late when you get into town with them. Let the girl rest once in a while; she looks purty tired to me." Bessie and Dolly and the other girls watched the little procession start off on the trail, and Bessie, for one, felt sorry for Lolla, who looked utterly disconsolate and hopeless. "We couldn't let them go free, I suppose," said Eleanor, regretfully. "But I do feel sorry for that poor girl. I don't think she liked the idea from the very first, but she couldn't help herself. She had to do what the men told her. Women don't rank very high among the gypsies; they have to do what the men tell them, and they're expected to do all the work and take all the hard knocks beside." "You're right; there's nothing else to do, ma'am," said old Andrew. "Well, guess the rest of us guides had better be gettin' back to work. Ain't nothin' else we can do fer you, is there, ma'am?" "I don't think so. I don't suppose we need be afraid of the other gypsies, Andrew? Are they likely to try to get revenge for what has happened to their companions?" "Pshaw! They'll be as quiet as lambs for a long time now. They was a breakin' up camp over there by Loon Pond when the boys come away last time. Truth is, I reckon they're madder at John and his pals for gettin' the whole camp into trouble than they are at us. "You see, they know they needn't show their noses around here fer a long time now; not until this here shindy's had a chance to blow over an' be forgotten. And there ain't many places where they've been as welcome as over to the pond." "I shouldn't think they'd be very popular here in the woods." "They ain't, ma'am; they ain't, fer a fact. More'n once we've tried to make the hotel folks chase them away, but they sort of tickled the summer boarders over there, and so the hotel folks made out as they weren't as bad as they were painted, and was entitled to a chance to make camp around there as long as they behaved themselves." "I suppose they never stole any stuff from the hotel?" "That's jest it. They knew enough to keep on the right side of them people, you see, an' they did their poachin' in our woods. Any time they've been around it's always meant more work for us, and hard work, too." "Well, I should think that after this experience the people at the hotel would see that the gypsies aren't very good neighbors, after all." "That's what we're counting on, ma'am. Seems to me, from what I just happened to pick up, that there was some special reason, like, for this varmint to have acted that way today, or last night, maybe it was. Some feller in the city as was back of him." "There was, Andrew, I'm afraid; a man who ought to know better, and whom you wouldn't suspect of allowing such a dreadful thing to be done." Andrew shook his head wisely. "It's hard to know what to wish," she said. "Sometimes a man is much worse when he comes out of prison than he was when he went in. It seems just to harden them, and make it impossible for them to get started on the right road again." "It's their fault for going wrong in the fust place," said the old guide, sternly. "That's what I say. I don't take any stock in these new fangled notions of makin' the jail pleasant for them as does wrong. Make 'em know they're goin' to have a hard time, an' they'll be lest willin' to take chances of goin' wrong and bein' caught with the goods, like this feller here today. I bet you when he gets out of jail he'll be so scared of gettin' back that he'll be pretty nearly as good as a white man." "Of course, the main thing is to frighten any of the others from acting the same way," said Eleanor. "I think the hotel will be sorry it let those gypsies stay around there. Because it's very sure that mothers who have children there will be nervous, and they'll go away to some place where they can feel their children are safe. "Well, good-bye, Andrew. I'm glad you think it's safe now. I really would like to feel that we can get along by ourselves here, but, of course, I wouldn't let any pride stand in the way of safety, and if you thought it was better I'd ask you to leave one of the men here." "No call for that, ma'am. You've shown you can get along all right. We didn't have nothin' to do with gettin' Miss Dolly away from that scamp today. It was her chum done that. Goodbye." CHAPTER XV A FRIENDLY CONTEST Morning found both Dolly and Bessie refreshed, and, though the other girls asked them anxiously about themselves, neither seemed to feel any ill effects after the excitement of the previous day, with its series of surprising events. Dolly, at first, was a little chastened, and seemed wholly ready to stay quietly in camp. And, indeed, all the girls decided that it would be better, for the time at least, not to venture far into the woods. "I think it's as safe as ever now, along the well-known trails that are used all the time," said Miss Eleanor, "but, after all, we don't know much about the gypsies. Some of them may be hanging around still, even if the main party of them has moved on, and we do know that they are a revengeful race; that when one of them is hurt, or injured in any way, they are very likely not to rest until the injury is avenged. They don't care much whether they hurt the person who is guilty or not; his relatives or his friends will satisfy them equally well" "I'm perfectly willing to stay right here by the lake," said Margery Burton, "for one. It's as nice here as it can possibly be anywhere else. I'd like someone to go in swimming with me." "If it isn't too cold I will," cried Dolly, cheerfully. And so, after the midday meal--two hours afterward, too, for Eleanor Mercer was too wise a Guardian to allow them to run any risk by going into the water before their food had been thoroughly digested--bathing suits were brought out, and Margery Burton, or Minnehaha, as the one who had proposed the sport, was unanimously elected a committee of one to try the water, and see if it was warm enough for swimming. "And no tricks, Margery!" warned Dolly. "I know you, and if you found it was cold it would be just like you to pretend it was fine so that we'd all get in and be as cold as you were yourself!" "I'll be good! I promise," laughed Margery, and, without any preliminary hesitation on the water's edge, she walked to the end of the little dock that was used for the boats and plunged boldly in. She was a splendid swimmer, a fact that had once, when Bessie had first joined the Camp Fire, nearly cost her her life, for, seeing her upset, no one except Bessie had thought it necessary to jump in after her, and she had actually been slightly stunned, so that she had been unable to swim. But this time there was no accident. She disappeared under the water with a beautiful forward dive, and plunged along for many feet before she rose to the surface, laughing, and shaking the water out of her eyes. Then, treading water, she called to the group on the dock. "It's all right for everyone but Dolly, I think," she cried. "I'm afraid it would be too cold for her. I like it; I think it's great!" "You can't fool me," said Dolly, and, without any more delay, she too plunged in. But she rose to the surface at once, gasping for breath, and looking about for Margery. "Why, it's as cold as ice!" she exclaimed. "Ugh! I'm nearly frozen to death! Margery, why didn't you tell me it was so cold?" "I did, stupid!" laughed Margery. "I said it was warm enough for me, but that I was afraid it would be too cold for you, didn't I?" "I--I thought you were just fooling me; you knew I'd never let the others go in if I didn't!" "It's not my fault if you wouldn't believe me. All I promised was to tell you whether it was cold or not! Come on, you girls! It _is_ cold, but you won't mind it after you've been in for a minute!" "Look out! Give me room for a dive!" cried Eleanor Mercer, suddenly appearing from her tent. "I know this water; I've been in it every year since I was a lot smaller than you. I'm afraid of it every year the first time I go in, but how I do love it afterward!" And, running at full speed, she sped down to the edge of the dock, leaped up and turned a somersault, making a beautiful dive that filled the girls who were still dry with envy. And a moment later they were all in, swimming happily and enjoying themselves immensely. All, that is, except Zara, who could not swim. "Oh, I wish I could dive like that, Miss Eleanor!" exclaimed Bessie, who had been one of the first to go into the water. "Oh, that's nothing; you can learn easily, Bessie. You swim better than any of us. Isn't this water cold for you? I should think you wouldn't be used to it. All the others have been in pretty cold water before now." "Oh, so have I! You see, around Hedgeville we used to go into the regular swimming holes, and they never get very warm. There's no beach, you just go in off the bank, and most of the swimming holes have trees all around them so that they're shady, and the sun doesn't strike them. They're in the shade all the time, and that keeps the water cold. This is warmer than that, ever so much." "I tell you what we'll do, girls; we'll fix up a spring-board and have some lessons in real diving. Wouldn't that be fun?" "It certainly would! I'd love to be able to do a backward dive!" "Well, this is a good place to learn; no one around to make you nervous, and good deep water. It's sixteen or seventeen feet off that dock, all the time, and that's deep enough for almost any diving; for any that we're likely to do, certainly." Later they talked it over again, when they had dried and resumed the clothes they wore about the camp, and Eleanor Mercer, her enthusiasm warming her cheeks, told them something they had not heard even a hint of as yet. "A friend of mine is scoutmaster of a troop of Boy Scouts," she said. "And he has teased me, sometimes, about our work. He says we just imitate the Boy Scouts, and that we just pretend we're camping out and doing all the things they do. Well, I told him that some time we'd have a contest with them, and show them; a regular field day. And, just for fun, we made up a sort of list of events." "Oh, what were they?" "Well, we planned to start in, all morning, and make a regular trip, cook meals, and come back. And on the way we to divide into parties; there are three patrols his troop, you know, and we could divide up the same way. The parties were to keep in touch with one another by smoke signals--they're made with blankets--and there was to be a fire-making contest, to see which could make fire quickest without matches. And, oh, lots of other things." "That would be fine." "Then I got reckless, I think. I said my girls could beat his boys in the water--that we could swim better--I meant more usefully, not just faster, in a race, because I think they'd beat us easily in just a plain race. And I'm afraid I boasted a little." "I bet you didn't; I bet we can do just as well as any old Boy Scouts!" exclaimed Dolly. "I wish we just had the chance, that's all." "Well, you have," said Eleanor, with a smile. "That's what I'm trying to tell you, girls. Mr. Hastings is over at Third Lake right now with one patrol of his troop. He got there yesterday and the way I happened to hear about it was that he was on his way over yesterday morning--he got in ahead of the boys--to help us look for Dolly and Bessie, when they were found." "Oh, that's fine! And shall we have that field day?" "Later on, before we go home, yes. But he began teasing me again yesterday, and I told him we'd have a water carnival any time he wanted to bring his boys over. And he said they'd come Saturday." "We'll have to get ready and show them what we can do, then," said Margery Burton, with determination in her voice. "My brother's a Boy Scout, and I know just what they're like; they think we're just the same as all the other girls they know. I tell you what would be fun; to get up a baseball team." "Maybe we'll try that later," said Eleanor. "But right now we want to be ready for Saturday. So I'll teach you everything I can. And I'm quite sure we can beat them in a life-saving drill; their three best against our three. We'd have you, Margery, and Bessie, and Dolly Ransom." So it was agreed, and they all began to practice. "I wish I could do something," said Zara, wistfully. "But I don't believe I could learn to swim before Saturday." "You could learn to keep yourself afloat," said Margery. "But that wouldn't be much good, of course. You'd rather not go in at all, I suppose, unless you could really swim." "I know what I could do, though," said Zara, suddenly, after she had watched Bessie go through the life saving drill. But she would not confide her idea to anyone but Miss Mercer, who looked more than doubtful when she heard it. "I don't know, Zara," she said, "I'll see. It seems a little risky. But I'll think it over. It would be splendid, but, well, we'll see." Speed swimming, pure racing, was barred when Saturday came. But with Scoutmaster Hastings and Miss Mercer as referees, and three summer visitors from the Loon Pond Hotel, who had no prejudice in favor of either side as judges, several contests were arranged that called for skill rather than strength. "In this diving," Hastings explained to the judges, "what we want to figure on is the way they do it. If a dive is graceful, and the diver strikes the water true, going straight down, with arms and legs held close together, you give so many points for that. I'll make each dive first; that will serve as a model, you see." Scoutmaster Hastings was not speaking in a boastful manner. He was a noted diver, and had won prizes and medals in many meets for his skill. And, when everything was arranged, he did all the standard dives from the spring-board at the end of the dock, and three members of each organization followed him. Bessie had taken remarkably well to these new tricks, as she considered them. Her powers as a swimmer no one had questioned, but it was remarkable to see how quickly she had acquired the ability to dive well and gracefully. And, to the surprise and chagrin of the Boy Scouts, who had expected, as boys always do, when they are pitted against girls, to win so easily that they could afford to be magnanimous, and to abstain from gloating, the judges were unanimous in deciding that she had done better than any of the six competitors in all five of the standard dives in which Hastings showed the way. As there were six competitors, the judges awarded six points for first place in each dive, five for second, four for third, three for fourth, two for fifth, and one for sixth place. And in two of the dives second place went to Margery Burton, while one of the Boy Scouts, Jack Perry, was second in the other four. To the disgust of the other boys, Margery was placed third in the four dives in which Jack Perry beat her, and Dolly, a good, but not a really wonderful diver, was fifth in every one of the dives, beating at least one boy in each. So sixty-six points altogether went to the Camp Fire Girls, while the Boy Scouts, who had expected to finish one, two, three, had to be content with forty-eight, and were soundly beaten. "That girl that was first is a wonder," said Hastings admiringly to Miss Mercer. "I take it all back, Eleanor. But I didn't think you'd have anyone as good as she is. Why, she's better than you are, and I always thought you were the nearest to a fish of any girl I ever saw in the water. She could win the woman's championship with a little more practice." "Maybe you won't crow so much over us after this," said Eleanor, with a laugh. "Not about the diving, certainly," said Hastings, generously, "But that's tricky, after all. The life saving is going to be different There strength figures more. I really think my boys ought to give a handicap in that." "Not a bit of it," said Eleanor. "Women have been taking handicaps from men too long. They've got so that they think they can't do anything as well as a man. This Camp Fire movement is going to show you that that's all over and done with." "Well, we'll go through the tests first," said Hastings. "Then your girls will know what they've got to beat, anyhow." The tests for life saving were to be conducted on a time basis. From a boat a certain distance out in the lake a boy or girl was to be thrown overboard, and, at the same moment, the competitor was to leap in after the one who represented the victim and take him or her to shore, the winners being those who did it in the shortest time. Again, as there were to be six competitors, the first place was to count six points, the second, five, and so on. First, the boys went out and went through their exercise in fine style. Although the boy who played the part of victim could swim, he made no move to help himself, simply staying perfectly still and letting his "rescuer" take him in. Then, when the three boys had finished, with only five seconds between the fastest and the slowest, Eleanor and Hastings rowed out with the three who represented the Camp Fire Girls, and, as "victim," Zara! Zara had insisted. "I really would be drowned if they didn't save me," she said, "so it will be a real test." And, with that added spur, each of the three girls actually managed to beat the fastest time of the boys. Margery was first, Bessie was second, and Dolly third. Hastings, as soon as he discovered that Zara could not swim, was full of admiration. "That's the nerviest thing I ever heard of," he said. "Of course they did better. But it's your 'victim' that deserves the credit. She's certainly plucky." "So I really did help, didn't I!" said Zara. "My, I was scared at first. But then I knew the girls wouldn't let me go down, and, after the first time, it wasn't so bad." "Well, you gave us a surprise, and a licking," said Scoutmaster Hastings. "But we'll be ready for you when we have that field day. How about some day next week!" "Splendid," said Eleanor. "And we'll give you a chance to get even." 
11718	----	THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS AT SCHOOL or, The Wohelo Weavers By Hildegard G. Frey Author of "The Camp Fire Girls in the Maine Woods", "The Camp Fire Girls at Onoway House", "The Camp Fire Girls Go Motoring." 1916 CHAPTER I. CHRONICLES IN COLOR. "Speaking of diaries," said Gladys Evans, "what do you think of this for one?" She spread out a bead band, about an inch and a half wide and a yard or more long, in which she had worked out in colors the main events of her summer's camping trip with the Winnebago Camp Fire Girls. The girls dropped their hand work and crowded around Gladys to get a better look at the band, which told so cleverly the story of their wonderful summer. "Oh, look," cried "Sahwah" Brewster, excitedly pointing out the figures, "there's Shadow River and the canoe floating upside down, and Ed Roberts serenading Gladys--only it turned out to be Sherry serenading Nyoda--and the Hike, and the Fourth of July pageant, and everything!" The Winnebagos were loud in their expressions of admiration, and the "Don't you remembers" fell thick and fast as they recalled the events depicted in the bead band. It was a crisp evening in October and the Winnebagos were having their Work Meeting at the Bradford house, as the guests of Dorothy Bradford, or "Hinpoha," as she was known in the Winnebago circle. Here were all the girls we left standing on the boat dock at Loon Lake, looking just the same as when we saw them last, a trifle less sunburned perhaps, but just as full of life and spirit. Scissors, needles and crochet hooks flew fast as the seven girls and their Guardian sat around the cheerful wood fire in the library. Sahwah was tatting, Gladys and Migwan were embroidering, and Miss Kent, familiarly known as "Nyoda," the Guardian of the Winnebago group, was "mending her hole-proof hose," as she laughingly expressed it. The three more quiet girls in the circle, Nakwisi the Star Maiden, Chapa the Chipmunk, and Medmangi the Medicine Man Girl, were working out their various symbols in crochet patterns. Hinpoha was down on the floor popping corn over the glowing logs and turning over a row of apples which had been set before the fireplace to warm. The firelight streaming over her red curls made them shine like burning embers, until it seemed as if some of the fire had escaped from the grate and was playing around her face. Every few minutes she reached out her hand and dealt a gentle slap on the nose of "Mr. Bob," a young cocker spaniel attached to the house of Bradford, who persistently tried to take the apples in his mouth. Nyoda finally came to the rescue and diverted his attention by giving him her darning egg to chew. The room was filled with the light-hearted chatter of the girls. Sahwah was relating with many giggles, how she had gotten into a scrape at school. "And old Professor Fuzzytop made me bring all my books and sit up at that little table beside his desk for a week. Of course I didn't mind that a bit, because then I could see what _everybody_ in the room was doing instead of just the few around me. The only thing I prayed for was that Miss Muggins wouldn't come in and see me, because she has taken a sort of fancy to me and makes it easy for me in Latin, but if I ever fall from grace she won't pass me. But of all the luck, right in the middle of the Fourth Hour when everybody was in the room studying, in she walked. I saw her as she opened the door and quick as a wink I opened up the big dictionary on the table and buried my nose in it, so she'd think I had gone up there of my own accord. She stopped and looked at me, then patted me encouragingly on the shoulder and remarked what a studious girl I was. I thought everybody in the room would die trying not to laugh, but nobody gave me away. She came in during the Fourth Hour for several days after that, and every time I flew to the sheltering arms of the dictionary, and she always made some approving remark out loud. Now she thinks I'm a shark and I have a better stand-in than ever with her. She told her Senior session room that there was a girl in the Junior room who was so keen after knowledge that no matter when she came into the room she always found her consulting the dictionary!" Sahwah's imitation of the elderly and precise Miss Muggins was so close that the girls shrieked with laughter. Even Nyoda, who was a "faculty," and should have been the ally of the deluded instructor, was too much amused to say a word. "By the way, Sahwah," she said when the laughter had died down, "how are you coming on in Latin? The last time I saw you your Cicero had a strangle hold on you." Sahwah made a fearful grimace, and recited sarcastically: "Not showers to larks more pleasing, Not sunshine to the bee, Not sleep to toil more easing, Than Latin prose to me! "The flocks shall leave the mountains, The dew shall flee the rose, The nymphs forsake the fountains, Ere I forsake my prose!" Nyoda laughed and shook her head at Sahwah, and "Migwan," otherwise Elsie Gardiner, looked up at the despiser of prose composition in mild wonderment. "I don't see how you can make such a fuss about learning Latin," she said, "it's the least of my troubles." "But I'm not such a genius as you," answered Sahwah, "and my head won't stand the strain." Her mental limitations did not seem to cause her any anxiety, however, for she hummed a merry tune as she drew her tatting shuttle in and out. Migwan leaned back in her chair and looked around the tastefully furnished room with quiet enjoyment. This library in the Bradford house was a never-ending delight to her. It was finished in dark oak and the walls were hung with a rich brown paper. The floor was polished and covered with oriental rugs, whose patterns she loved to trace. At one end of the room was a big fireplace and on each side of it a cozy seat, piled with tapestry covered cushions. Over the fireplace hung two slender swords, the property of some departed Bradford. The handsome chairs were upholstered in brown leather to match the other furnishings, and everything in the room, from the Italian marble Psyche on its pedestal in the corner to the softly glowing lamps, gave the impression of wealth and culture. Migwan contrasted it with the shabby sitting room in her own home and sighed. She was keenly responsive to beautiful surroundings and would have been happy to stay forever in this library. But beautiful as the furnishings were, they were the least part of the attraction. The real drawing card were the books that filled the cases on three sides of the room. There were books of every kind; fiction, poetry, history, travel, science; and whole sets of books in handsome bindings that Migwan fairly revelled in whenever she came to visit. Hinpoha herself was not fond of reading anything but fiction, and although she had the freedom of all the cases she never looked at anything but "story books." Before her parents went to Europe they had tried making her keep an average of one book of fiction to one of another kind in the hope of instilling into her a love for essays and history, but in the absence of her father and mother, history and essays were having a long vacation and fiction was working overtime. "Let's play something," said Sahwah when the apples and popcorn had disappeared; "I'm tired of sitting still." "Can't somebody please think of a new game?" said Hinpoha. "We've played everything we know until I'm sick of it." "I thought of one the other day," said Gladys quietly. "I named it the 'Camp Fire Game.' You play it like Stage Coach, or Fruit Basket, only instead of taking parts of a coach or names of fruits you take articles that belong to the Camp Fire, like bead band, ring, moccasin, bracelet, fire, honor beads, symbol, fringe, Wohelo, hand sign, bow and drill, Mystic Fire, etc. Then somebody tells a story about Camp Fire Girls, and every time one of those articles is mentioned every one must get up and turn around. But if the words 'Ceremonial Meeting' or 'Council Fire' are mentioned, then all must change seats and the story teller tries to get a seat in the scramble, and the one who gets left out has to go on with the story." "Good!" cried Nyoda, "let's play it. You tell the story first." Gladys stood up in the center of the room and began: "Once upon a time there were a group of Camp Fire Girls called the Winnebagos, and they went to school in the Professors' big tepee on the avenue, where they pursued knowledge for all they were worth. So much wisdom did they imbibe that it was necessary to wear a head band to keep their heads from splitting open. Wherever they went they were immediately recognized by their rings and bracelets, and were pointed out as 'those dreadful young savages.' The professors and teachers hoped every day that they would not come to school, but they never stayed away because they received honor beads from their Guardian Mother for not being absent. Sometimes it seemed as if the tricks they did in class room could only have been accomplished by their having consulted one another, and yet it was impossible to catch them whispering in class because they always conversed by hand signs. However, this also led to disaster one day when one of our well-beloved sisters of the bow and drill tried to make the hand sign for 'girl,' and raised her hand above her head. The Big Chief, who was conducting the lesson, thought she wanted something, and said benevolently: 'What is your desire?' Absent-mindedly she replied, 'It is my desire to become a Camp Fire Girl and obey the Law of the Camp Fire, which is to seek beauty, give service, pursue knowledge, be trustworthy, hold on to health, glorify work, and be happy,' 'Begone,' said the Big Chief, 'what do you think this is, a Ceremonial Meeting?'" At the words "Ceremonial Meeting" all the girls jumped up to change places, and in the scramble a vase was knocked off the table and broken. Every one sat rooted to the spot with fright, all except Mr. Bob, who fled at the sound of the crash as if he had been the guilty one. Hinpoha calmly collected the pieces and carried them out. "My mother will be extremely grateful to you for this when she comes home," she said. "If there was one vase in the house she hated it was this one. My Aunt Phoebe brought it from the World's Fair in Chicago and thinks it's the chief ornament of our home. Won't mother be glad when she finds it broken and she can prove that none of us did it?" The tension relaxed and the girls breathed easily again. "When are your mother and father coming home?" asked Nyoda. "They sailed last week on the _Francona_," answered Hinpoha. "Weren't you worried to death to have them in Europe so long with the war going on?" asked Migwan. "No, not much," said Hinpoha, "because they have been in Switzerland all the while, which is safe enough, and as they are coming home on a neutral vessel they have had no trouble getting passage. They should be here in a week." And Hinpoha's eyes shone with a great, glad light, for although she had been having the jolliest time imaginable, doing as she pleased in the house, which was in the care of easy-going "Aunt Grace," who never cared a bit what Hinpoha did so long as it did not bother her, she missed her mother sorely, and could hardly wait until she returned. Nyoda saw the transfigured look that came into her eyes when she spoke of her mother's home coming, and her own eyes went dim, for her mother had died when she was just Hinpoha's age. After the breaking of the vase the game stopped and the girls sat down again in a quiet circle. "Do you know," said Nyoda, "that bead band Gladys made has given me an idea? Why can't we keep a personal record in bead work? It would be a great deal more interesting and picturesque than keeping a diary, and there would be no danger of your little sister getting hold of it and reading your secrets out loud to her friends." "It's a great idea," said Migwan, who had always kept a diary and had suffered much from an inquisitive brother and sister. "Besides," said Sahwah, "think how exciting it would be at Ceremonial Meetings, to sit with your life story hanging around your neck, and know that your neighbor was just breaking _her_ neck trying to figure out what the little pictures meant. Wouldn't old Fuzzytop love to be able to read mine, though!" And Sahwah giggled extravagantly as she saw in her mind's eye the bead record of some of her activities in the Junior session room. "Now, about all our activities," continued Nyoda, "are covered by the seven points of the Camp Fire Law, so that everything we do either fulfills or breaks the Law. What do you say if we register our commendable doings in colors, but record the event in black every time we break the Law?" The girls thought this would be a fascinating game, and Sahwah remarked that she must send to the Outfitting Company for a bunch of black beads directly, as she had only a very few left. "It's a good thing we didn't keep this record last summer," said Gladys with a thoughtful look in her eyes, "or mine would have been black from one end to the other." "It wouldn't, either," said Sahwah vehemently. "You did more for us in the end than we ever did for you. And my sins were as scarlet as yours, every bit." Since that terrible day in camp Gladys seemed to have been made over, and never once reverted to her old selfishness and superciliousness, so that she now had the love and esteem of every one of the Winnebagos. All mention of her old short-comings was quickly silenced by Sahwah, who now adored her, heart and soul. Gladys's entrance into the public school after two years at Miss Russell's had caused quite a stir among the girls of the neighborhood, who in times past had been wont to consider her proud and haughty, but her simple, unaffected manner quickly won for her a secure place in the affections of all. Teachers and scholars alike loved her. Sahwah was still counting up her own misdemeanors at camp when the Evans's automobile came for Gladys, and reluctantly all the girls prepared to go home. It always seemed harder to break away from Hinpoha's house than from any of the others'. In spite of the rich furnishings it had a cozy, homey atmosphere of being used from one end to the other, and no guest, however humble, ever felt awkward or out of place there. Thus it usually happens that when people are entirely at ease in their own surroundings, they soon make others feel the same way too. CHAPTER II. A SUDDEN MISFORTUNE. As the day drew near for the return of her mother and father Hinpoha went all over the house from garret to cellar seeing that everything was put to rights. She and the other Winnebagos took a trip into the country for bittersweet to decorate the fireplace in the library and in her father's study upstairs. With pardonable pride she arranged a little exhibition of the Craft work she had done in camp and the sketches she had made of the lake and hills. On the table in her mother's room she placed a work basket she had made of reed and lined with silk. "Gracious sakes, child," said her aunt, from her rocking chair by the front window of the living-room, "what a fuss you are going to! One would think it was your Aunt Phoebe who was coming instead of your mother and father. They'll be just as glad to see you if the house isn't as neat as a pin from top to bottom." And Aunt Grace resumed her rocking and her novel, as unconcerned about the imminent return of the travelers as if it were nothing more than the daily visit of the milkman. Nothing short of an earthquake would ever shake Aunt Grace out of her settled complacency. Hinpoha went happily on, seeing that every tack and screw was in place, and arranging the books in the cases to correspond to her father's catalog, for they had become sadly mixed during his absence. She even took out a volume of his favorite essays and pored over them diligently so that she might discuss them with him and show that she had used some of her time to good advantage. She straightened out her bureau drawers and mended all her clothes and stockings. When everything was in order she viewed the result with a happy feeling at the pleasure it would give her mother when she saw it. Hinpoha's most prominent trait in times past had not been neatness. Nyoda, who had been called in to make a final inspection before Hinpoha was satisfied, wondered if all the girls were "seeking beauty" as earnestly as Hinpoha was. She envied Hinpoha the homecoming of her mother from the bottom of her heart. This feeling was particularly strong one afternoon as she sat in the school room after the close of school, looking over some English papers. It was the anniversary of the death of her mother and she sat recalling little incidents of her childhood before this best of chums had been taken away. As she sat there half dreaming she heard voices in the hall before her door. "Have you heard the latest?" asked one voice. "No," said the second voice, "what is it?" "Why, the _Francona_ has gone down," answered the first voice. "Struck a mine in the ocean." At the word "Francona" Nyoda started up. That was the boat Hinpoha's parents were coming on! She hurried out into the hall after the two teachers. "What did you say about the _Francona_?" she asked. They handed her the "extra" they had been reading and she saw with her own eyes the account of the disaster. The list of "saved" was pitifully small, and Hinpoha's parents were not among them. Soon she came to the notation, "Among the lost are Mr. and Mrs. Adam Bradford, prominent Cleveland lawyer and his wife. Mr. Bradford was the son of the late Judge Bradford and a well-known man about town." Of what little avail is "prominence" when calamity stretches out her cruel hands! "Well known" and obscure gave up their lives together and found a grave side by side. "You look like a ghost, Miss Kent," said one of the teachers. "Any friends of yours on board?" "Dorothy Bradford's mother and father," answered Nyoda, "one of the pupils here at school." Leaving her work unfinished, she hastened to Hinpoha's house. The news had just been learned there. Aunt Grace had fainted and was being revived with salts. Hinpoha flung herself on Nyoda and clung to her like a drowning person. Between neighbors and friends coming to sympathize and reporters from the newspapers seeking interviews the house was a pandemonium. Nyoda saw that Hinpoha would never quiet down in those surroundings and took her away to her own apartment. Of all the friends who offered consolation Nyoda was the one to whom Hinpoha turned for comfort. Here the brilliant young college woman and the simple girl were on a level, for they shared a common experience, and each could comprehend the other's sorrow. Poor Hinpoha! She had need of all the consolation that Nyoda could give her in the days that followed. Full of bitterness as her cup was, there was to be added yet one more drop--the drop that caused it to run over. Aunt Phoebe came to live with her and be the mistress of the Bradford house. At some time in the past Judge Bradford and his sister Phoebe had been named joint guardians of Hinpoha, but the Judge was now dead and Aunt Phoebe was the sole guardian. Aunt Phoebe was a spinster of the type usually described in books, tall and spare, with steely blue eyes. She was sixty years old, but she might have been a hundred and sixty, for all the sympathy she had with youth. She had been disappointed in love when she was twenty and had never thought kindly of any man since. From her earliest childhood Hinpoha had dreaded the very name of Aunt Phoebe. When she came to visit a restraint fell over the whole house. The usual lively chatter at the dinner table was hushed, and Aunt Phoebe held forth in solemn tones, generally berating some unfortunate person who nearly always happened to be a good friend of Mrs. Bradford's. Hinpoha would be called up for a minute examination of her clothes and manners and would invariably do something which was not right in her great aunt's eyes. She had a vivid recollection of going tobogganing down the long front walk one winter day, her jolly mother on the sled with her, steering it adroitly around the corner and up the sidewalk for a distance after leaving the slope. Such fun they were having that they did not look to see if the road was clear, and went bumping into a female figure that was coming majestically along the street, knocking her off her feet and into a snowdrift. It was Aunt Phoebe, coming to make a formal afternoon call. She sat bolt upright in the snow and adjusted her lorgnette to see if by any chance her grandniece could be one of those rowdy children. When she discovered that it was not only Hinpoha, but her mother as well, frolicking so indecorously, she was speechless. Mrs. Bradford started to make an abject apology, but the sight of Aunt Phoebe sitting in the snowdrift with her lorgnette was too much for her and she went off into a peal of laughter, in which Hinpoha joined gleefully. It was weeks before Aunt Phoebe could be coaxed to make another visit. And this was the woman who was coming to take the place of Hinpoha's beloved mother! Aunt Grace left the day she came. There was not enough room in one house for her and Aunt Phoebe. With Aunt Phoebe came "Silky," a wiggling, snapping Skye terrier. He gave one glance at genial Mr. Bob, who was rolling on his back before the fireplace, and with a growl fastened his teeth into his neck. Hinpoha rescued her pet and bore him away to her room, where she shed tears of despair while he licked her hand sympathetically. Aunt Phoebe's first act was to put Hinpoha into deep mourning. Hinpoha objected strenuously, but there was no help, and she went to school swathed from head to foot in black. Nyoda was wrathful at the sight, for if there was one point she felt strongly about it was putting children into mourning. Among the gaily dressed girls Hinpoha stood out like some dark spirit from the underworld, casting a gloom wherever she went. "Where is that beautiful vase I brought your mother from the World's Fair?" asked Aunt Phoebe one day, suddenly missing it. "It was accidently broken at our last Camp Fire meeting," answered Hinpoha, with a tightening around her heart when she thought of that last happy gathering. "Camp Fire!" said Aunt Phoebe with a snort. "You don't mean to tell me that you are mixed up in any such foolishness as that?" "I certainly am," said Hinpoha energetically, "and it isn't foolishness, either. I've learned more since I have been a Camp Fire Girl than I did in all the years before." "Well, you may consider yourself graduated, then," said Aunt Phoebe, drily, "for I'll have no such nonsense about me. I can teach you all you need to know outside of what you learn in school." "Camp Fire always had mother's fullest approval," said Hinpoha darkly. "I dare say," returned her aunt. "But I want you to understand once for all that I won't have any girls holding 'meetings' here, to upset the house and break valuable ornaments." "But you don't care if I go to them at other girls' houses, do you?" asked Hinpoha, the fear gripping her that she was to be denied the consolation of these weekly gatherings with the Winnebagos. "I don't want you to have anything to do with that Camp Fire business," said Aunt Phoebe in a tone of finality, and Hinpoha left the room, her heart swelling with bitterness. She was too wise to argue the point with Aunt Phoebe, and resolved to depend on Nyoda to show her the way. She dried her tears and went down to the living room and began to play softly on the piano. It had been her mother's piano, the wedding gift of her father, and it seemed that her mother's spirit hovered over it. It was the first time she had touched the keys since that awful Wednesday when the world had been turned into chaos; she had had no heart to play, but to-day the sound of the music comforted her and her bitter resentment against her aunt lost some of its sting. She played on, lost in memories, when suddenly the sharp voice of her aunt brought her back to earth. "What does this mean?" cried Aunt Phoebe, "playing on the piano when your father and mother have just died! I never heard of such a thing! Come away immediately and don't open that piano again until our period of mourning is over." She closed the piano and locked it, putting the key into her bag. Under Aunt Phoebe's management the house soon lost its look of inviting friendliness. The blinds were always kept drawn, so that even on the brightest days the rooms had a gloomy appearance. No more cheerful wood fires crackled and glowed in the grate. They made ashes on the rugs and were extravagant, as the house was heated by steam. The bookcases were locked and Hinpoha was forbidden to read fiction, as this was not proper when one was in mourning. "You will become acquainted with much pleasant literature reading to me while I crochet," she said when Hinpoha rose in revolt at this edict. The "pleasant literature" which Aunt Phoebe was just then perusing was a History of the Presbyterian Church in eleven volumes, which bored Hinpoha so it nearly gagged her. Besides, Aunt Phoebe constantly found fault with Hinpoha's manner of reading. It was either too loud or not loud enough; either too fast or too slow, but it was never right. That reading aloud was the last straw to Hinpoha. After sitting still a whole afternoon getting her school lessons, she longed to move about after supper, but then Aunt Phoebe expected her to sit still the entire evening and entertain her with the activities of the Early Presbytery. After nearly a week of this deadly dullness Hinpoha was ready to fly. And yet Aunt Phoebe was not conscious that there was anything wrong in the way she was treating Hinpoha. She cared for her in her frozen way. She was merely trying to bring her up in the way she herself had been brought up by a maiden aunt, not taking into account that this was another day and age. In her time it was considered the proper thing to shut down on all lightheartedness after a death in the family, and she was adhering steadfastly to the old principles. She was yet to learn that she could not force obsolete customs upon a girl who had lived for sixteen years in the sunlight of modern ideas. All Hinpoha's troubles were confided to Nyoda, who sympathized with her entirely, but bade her be of good cheer and hope for the time when Aunt Phoebe would see for herself that the new way was best; and above all to win the respect and liking of her aunt the first thing, as more could be accomplished in this way than by being antagonistic. "I don't suppose you could go for a long walk with me Sunday afternoon?" said Nyoda. Hinpoha shook her head sadly. "We don't do anything like that on Sunday," she answered, with resentment flaming in her eye. "We go to church morning and evening and in the afternoon I am supposed to read the Bible or a book by a man named Thomas à Kempis." Nyoda turned her eyes inward with such a comical expression that Hinpoha forgot her troubles for a moment and laughed. "The Bible and Thomas à Kempis," said Nyoda musingly; "where did I hear those two mentioned before? Oh, I have it! Did you ever read this anywhere, 'Commit to memory one hundred verses of the Bible or an equal amount of sacred literature, such as Thomas à Kempis'?" Hinpoha hung her head, still smiling. "Why, Nyoda," she said, "there's a chance to earn an honor bead that I probably wouldn't have thought of otherwise!" "Right-o," said Nyoda. "'It's an ill wind,' you know. And while you are doing so much Bible reading you will undoubtedly come across something about 'in the wilderness a cedar,' and will learn that most waste places can be turned into blooming gardens if we only know how." "Thank you," said Hinpoha, "I always feel less forlorn after a talk with you." Her face brightened, but immediately fell again. "But what good will it do me to work for honors?" she said sadly. "Aunt Phoebe won't let me come to the meetings." "Won't she really?" asked Nyoda in surprise. Hinpoha nodded, near to tears. "I must see about that," said Nyoda resolutely. "I think if I explain the mission and activities of Camp Fire she will not object to your belonging. She probably has a wrong idea of what it means." Accordingly Nyoda came a-calling on Aunt Phoebe that very night. In addition to being very pretty Nyoda had a great deal of dignity, and when she put on her formal manner she looked very impressive indeed. She did not act as if she had come to see Hinpoha at all, but asked for "Miss Bradford," and said she had come to pay her respects to her new neighbor. She listened politely to Aunt Phoebe's account of her last siege of rheumatism, admired her crochet work, and hoped she liked this street as well as her former neighborhood. She said she had often seen Miss Bradford's name in the papers in connection with various charitable organizations and was very glad to have the honor of meeting the sister of the prominent Judge. Aunt Phoebe was pleased and flattered at the deference paid her. But when Nyoda announced herself as the leader of the club to which Hinpoha belonged and asked permission for her to attend the meetings, she refused. She was perfectly polite about it, and did not mention her antipathy to Camp Fire, and taking refuge behind her favorite excuse, that of being in mourning, stated that she did not wish Hinpoha to go out in society. "But this isn't 'society'," broke in Hinpoha desperately. "A meeting of a club partakes of a social nature," returned her aunt, "and is not to be thought of." And there the matter rested. So Nyoda had to depart without accomplishing her mission. Hinpoha, utterly crushed, followed her to the door, and Nyoda gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. "Don't despair, dear," she whispered hopefully; "she will come around to it eventually, but it will take time. Be patient. And in the meantime read this," and she slipped into her hand a tiny copy of "The Desert of Waiting." "Just be true to the Law, and see if you cannot find the roses among the thorns and from them distil the precious ointment that will open the door of the City of Your Desire later on." Hinpoha thrust the little book into her blouse, and when she was safe in her own room read it from cover to cover. When she finished there was a song in her heart again and a light in her eyes. Resolutely she turned her face to the East and began her long sojourn in the Desert of Waiting. Nyoda pondered the problem for a long while that night, and the next day she went to call on Gladys's mother. Mrs. Evans had taken a great liking to the popular young teacher of whom Gladys was so fond, and cordially invited her to spend as much time as she could at the house with the family. It was to her, then, that Nyoda appealed for advice in regard to Hinpoha. Mrs. Evans made a slight grimace when the facts were laid before her. "If that isn't just like Phoebe Bradford," she exclaimed indignantly. "Trying to shut up that poor girl like a nun to conform to some moth-eaten ideas of hers! If the Judge were alive that house wouldn't look as if there was a perpetual funeral going on! I certainly will call and see if I can do anything to change her mind, although I doubt very much if that could be accomplished by human means." The next day Aunt Phoebe was agreeably surprised to receive a call from Mrs. Evans, "All the best people in the neighborhood are making haste to call on the sister of Judge Bradford," she reflected complacently. Mrs. Evans made herself very agreeable, speaking of many friends they had in common, and finally led the conversation around to Hinpoha. "The child looks very pale," she said. "I presume the death of her parents was a terrible shock to her?" Aunt Phoebe dabbed her eyes with her black-bordered handkerchief. "The hand of misfortune has fallen heavily upon this house," she said mournfully. "It has indeed!" thought Mrs. Evans. Aloud she said, "You must not let the girl grieve herself sick. Cheerful company is what she needs at this time. Make her go out with the Camp Fire Girls as much as possible." Aunt Phoebe drew herself up rather stiffly. "I do not approve of the Camp Fire Girls," she said. "Not approve of the Camp Fire Girls!" echoed Mrs. Evans in well-feigned astonishment; "why, what's wrong with them?" Just what the great objection was Aunt Phoebe was not prepared to say, but she remarked that such nonsense had never been thought of in her day. "And, of course," she added, hiding behind her usual argument, "while we are in mourning my grandniece will not go out to any gatherings." "Why, I wouldn't think of keeping Gladys home for that reason," said Mrs. Evans, seeing the subterfuge. "She went to a Camp Fire meeting the day after her grandfather's funeral. It's not like going to a social function, you know." Aunt Phoebe shook her head, but her policy of seclusion for Hinpoha was getting shaky. Mrs. Homer Evans was a power in the community, and what she did set the fashion in a good many directions. Aunt Phoebe was very anxious to keep her as a permanent acquaintance, and if Mrs. Evans gave her sanction to this Camp Fire business, she wondered if she had not better swallow her prejudice--outwardly at least, for she declared inwardly that she had never heard of such foolishness in all her born days. When Mrs. Evans went home Aunt Phoebe had actually promised that after three months Hinpoha might attend the meetings as before. Those three months of mourning, however, were sacred to her, and on no account would she have consented to allow a single ray of cheer to enter the house during that period. CHAPTER III. SOME TRIALS OF GENIUS. "The sum of the angles of a triangle is equal to two right angles." Migwan drew the construction lines as indicated in the book and labored valiantly to understand why the Angle A was equal to its alternate, DBA, her brow puckered into a studious frown. Geometry was not her long suit, her talents running to literature and languages. Outside the October sun was shining on the crimson and yellow maples, making the long street a scene of dazzling splendor. The carpet of dry leaves on the walk and sidewalk tantalized Migwan with their crisp dryness; she longed to be out swishing and crackling through them. She sighed and stirred impatiently in her chair, wishing heartily that Euclid had died in his cradle. "I can't study with all this noise going on!" she groaned, flinging her pencil and compass down in despair. Indeed, it would have taken a much more keenly interested person than Migwan to have concentrated on a geometry lesson just then. From somewhere upstairs there came an ear-splitting din. It sounded like an earthquake in a tin shop, mingled with the noise of the sky falling on a glass roof, and accompanied by the tramping of an army; a noise such as could only have been produced by an extremely large elephant or an extremely small boy amusing himself indoors. Migwan rose resolutely and mounted the stairs to the room overhead, where her twelve-year-old brother and two of his bosom friends were holding forth. "Tom," she said appealingly, "wouldn't you and the boys just as soon play outdoors or in somebody else's house? I simply can't study with all that noise going on." "But the others have no punching bag," said Tom in an injured tone, "and Jim brought George over especially to-day to practice." "Can't you take the punching bag over to Jim's?" suggested Migwan desperately. "Sure," said Jim good-naturedly; "that's a good idea." So the boys unscrewed the object of attraction and departed with it, their pockets bulging with ginger cookies which Migwan gave them as a reward for their trouble. Silence fell on the house and Migwan returned to the mastering of the sum of the angles. Geometry was the bane of her existence and she was only cheered into digging away at it by the thought of the money lying in her name in the bank, which she had received for giving the clew leading to little Raymond Bartlett's discovery the summer before, and which would pay her way to college for one year at least. The theorem was learned at last so that she could make a recitation on it, even if she did not understand it perfectly, and Migwan left it to take up a piece of work which gave her as much pleasure as the other did pain. This was the writing of a story which she intended to send away to a magazine. She wrote it in the back of an old notebook, and when she was not working at it she kept it carefully in the bottom of her shirtwaist box, where the prying eyes of her younger sister would not find it. She had all the golden dreams and aspirations of a young authoress writing her first story, and her days were filled with a secret delight when she thought of the riches that would soon be hers when the story was accepted, as it of course would be. If she had known then of the long years of cruel disillusionment that would drag their weary length along until her efforts were finally crowned with success it is doubtful whether she would have stayed in out of the October sunshine so cheerfully and worked with such enthusiasm. Migwan's family could have used to advantage all the gold which she was dreaming of earning. After her father died her mother's income, from various sources, amounted to only about seventy-five dollars a month, which is not a great amount when there are three children to keep in school, and it was a struggle all the way around to make both ends meet. Mrs. Gardiner was a poor manager and kept no accounts, and so took no notice of the small leaks that drained her purse from month to month. She was fond of reading, as Migwan was, and sat up until midnight every night burning gas. Then the next morning she would be too tired to get up in time to get the children off to school, and they would depart with a hasty bite, according to their own fancy, or without any breakfast at all, if they were late. She bought ready-made clothes when she could have made them herself at half the cost, and generally chose light colors which soiled quickly. She never went to the store herself, depending on Tom or scatter-brained Betty, her younger daughter, to do her marketing, and in consequence paid the highest prices for inferior-grade goods. Thus the seventy-five dollars covered less ground every month as prices mounted, and little bills began to be left outstanding. Part of the income was from a house which rented for twenty dollars but this last month the tenants had abruptly moved, and that much was cut off. Migwan, unbusiness-like as she was, began to be worried about the condition of their affairs, and worked on her story feverishly, that it might be turned into money as soon as possible. She was deep in the intricacies of literary construction when her mother entered the room, broom in hand and dust cap on head, and sank into a chair. "Do you suppose you could finish this sweeping?" she asked Migwan. "My back aches so I just can't stand up any longer." "Why can't Betty do it?" asked Migwan a little impatiently, for she thought she ought not be disturbed when she was engaged in such an important piece of work. "Betty's off in the neighborhood somewhere," said her mother wearily. "Did you ever see her around when there was any work to be done?" Migwan was filled with exasperation. That was the way things always went at their house. Tom was allowed to upset the place from one end to the other without ever having to pick up his things; Betty was never asked to do any housework, and her mother left the Saturday dinner dishes standing and began to sweep in the afternoon and then was unable to finish. Migwan was just about to suggest a search for the errant Betty, when she remembered the "Give Service" part of the Camp Fire Law. She rose cheerfully and took the broom from her mother's hand. "Lie down a while, mother," she said, plumping up the pillows on the couch. Mrs. Gardiner sank down gratefully and Migwan put away her story and went at the sweeping. She soon turned it into a game in which she was a good fairy fighting the hosts of the goblin Dust, and must have them completely vanquished by four o'clock, or her magic wand, which had for the time being taken the shape of a broom, would vanish and leave her weaponless. Needless to say, she was in complete possession of the field when the clock struck the charmed hour. Being then out of the mood to continue her writing, she passed on into the kitchen and attacked the Fortress of Dishes, which she razed to the ground completely, leaving her banner, in the form of the dish towel, flying over the spot. "What are you planning for supper?" she asked her mother, looking into the sitting room to see how she was feeling. "Oh, dear, I don't know," said Mrs. Gardiner. "I hadn't given it a thought. I don't believe there's anything left from dinner. Run down to the store, will you, and get a couple of porterhouse steaks, there's a dear. And stop at the baker's as you come by and get us each a cream puff for dessert. Betty is so fond of them." Migwan returned to the kitchen and got her mother's pocketbook. There was just twenty-five cents in it. Migwan realized with a shock that it would not pay for what her mother wanted, and her sensitive nature shrank from asking to have things charged. "I won't buy the cream puffs," she decided. "I wonder if there is anything in the house I could make into a dessert?" Search revealed nothing but a bag of prunes, which had been on the shelf for months, and were as dry as a bone. They did not appeal to Migwan in the least, but there was nothing else in evidence. "I might make prune whip," she thought rather doubtfully. "They're pretty hard, but I can soak them. I'll need the oven to make prune whip, so I will bake the potatoes too." She hunted around for the potatoes and finally found them in a small paper bag. "Buying potatoes two quarts at a time must be rather expensive," she reflected. She put the prunes to soak and the potatoes in the oven and went down to the store. "How much is porterhouse steak?" she asked before she had the butcher cut any off. "Twenty-eight cents a pound," answered the man behind the counter. Migwan gave a little gasp. The money she had would not even buy a pound. "How much is round steak?" she inquired. "Twenty-two," came the reply. "Give me twenty-five cents' worth," she said. It did not look particularly tender and Migwan thought distressedly how her mother would complain when she found round steak instead of porterhouse. "But there is no help for it," she said to herself grimly, "beggars cannot be choosers." She stopped on the way home to get the recipe for prune whip from Sahwah. Sahwah was not at home, but her mother gave Migwan the recipe and added many directions as to the proper mixing of the ingredients. "Is--is there any way of making tough round steak tender?" she asked timidly, just a little ashamed to admit that they had to eat round steak. "There certainly is," answered Mrs. Brewster. "You just pound all the flour into it that it will take up. I hardly ever buy porterhouse steaks any more since I learned that trick. I am having some to-night. It is one of our favorite dishes here. Round steak prepared in this way is known in the restaurants as 'Dutch steak,' and commands a high price." Considerably cheered by this last intelligence, Migwan sped home and got her prune dessert into the oven and then set to work transforming the tough steak into a tender morsel. "What kind of meat is this?" asked her mother when they had taken their places at the table. "Guess," said Migwan. "It tastes like tenderloin," said her mother. "Guess again," said Migwan gleefully; "it's round steak." "The butcher must be buying better meat than usual, then," said Mrs. Gardiner. "I never got such round steak as this out here before." "And you never will, either," said Migwan, swelling with pride, "if you leave it to the butcher," and she told how she had treated the steak to produce the present result. "I never heard of that before," said her mother, amazed at this simple culinary trick. Next the prune whip was brought on and pronounced good by every one and "bully" by Tom, who ate his in great spoonfuls. "I see I'll have to let you get the meals after this," said Mrs. Gardiner to Migwan. "You have a knack of putting things together, which I have not." Migwan was too tired to write any more that night after the dishes were done, but she was entirely light-hearted as she wove into her bead band the symbols of that day's achievements--a broom and a frying pan. She had learned something that afternoon besides how to prepare beefsteak. She had waked up to the careless fashion in which the house was being run, and her head was full of plans for cutting down expenses. Monday afternoon, on her way home from school, Migwan saw a farmer's wagon standing in front of the Brewsters' home, and Mrs. Brewster stood at the curb, buying her winter supply of potatoes. "Have you put your potatoes in yet?" she asked as Migwan came along. Migwan stopped. "I don't believe we ever bought them in large quantities," she answered. "How much are they a bushel?" "Sixty-five cents," said the farmer. Migwan made a quick mental calculation. At the rate they had been buying potatoes in two-quart lots they had been paying a dollar and seventy-five cents a bushel. Migwan came to a sudden decision. "Are they all good?" she asked Mrs. Brewster. "They have always been in the past years," answered Sahwah's mother, "and I have bought my potatoes from this man for the last six winters." "How many would it take for a family of four?" asked Migwan. "About five bushels," answered Mrs. Brewster. "All right," said Migwan to the man; "bring five bushels over to this address." The potatoes were duly deposited in the Gardiner cellar, without asking the advice of Mrs. Gardiner, which was the only safe way of getting things done, for had she been consulted she would surely have wanted to wait a while, and then would have kept putting it off until it was too late. It was the same way with flour and sugar. Migwan found that her mother had been buying these in small quantities at an exorbitant price, and calmly took matters into her own hands, ordering a whole barrel of flour, because there was more in a barrel even than in four sacks. A certain large store was offering a liberal discount that week on fifty pounds of sugar, and Migwan took advantage of this sale also. Then she had a terrified counting up. Those three items, potatoes, flour and sugar, had used up every cent of that week's income, leaving nothing at all for running expenses. All other supplies would have to be bought on credit. Migwan made a careful estimate of the necessary expenses for the coming week, and pare down as she might, the sum was nearly fifteen dollars. The loss of the rent money was making itself keenly felt. "Mother," she said quietly, looking up from her account book, "we can't live on fifty-five dollars a month. We must rent the house again immediately." Mrs. Gardiner made a gesture of despair. "The sign has been up nearly a month, and if people don't make inquiries I can't help it." "Have you been in the house since the last people moved out?" asked Migwan. "No," said Mrs. Gardiner; "what good would that do? I haven't the time to go all the way over to the East Side to look at that old house. People know it's for rent, and if they want it they'll take it without my sitting over there waiting for them." Nevertheless, Migwan made the long trip the very next day after school to look at the property. "It's no wonder no one has been making inquiries for it," she said when she returned. "The 'For Rent' sign was gone and I found it later when I was going back up the street. Some boys had used it to make the end piece of a wagon. Then, the plumbing is bad and the cellar is flooded, and the water will not run off in the kitchen sink. These must have been the repairs the old tenants wanted made when you told them you had no money to fix the house, and so they moved. I don't blame them at all. "Then, there is another thing I thought of when I was looking through the rooms. You know that big unfinished space over the kitchen? Well, I thought, why can't we make a furnished room of that? There is space enough to build a large room and a bathroom, for part of it is just above the bathroom downstairs. A large furnished room with a private bath would bring in ten dollars a month. It is just at the head of the back stairs and the side door where the back stairs connect with the cellar way could be used as a private entrance, so the tenants of the house would not be disturbed in the least. It would cost over a hundred dollars to do it, most likely, but we could borrow the money from my college fund and the extra rent would soon pay it back." Migwan's eyes were shining with ambition. Mrs. Gardiner shook her head wearily. "We never could do it," she answered. "Something would surely happen to upset our plans." But Migwan was not to be waved aside. She had seen a vision of increased income and meant to make it come true. She argued the merits of her idea until Mrs. Gardiner was too tired of the subject to argue back, and agreed that if Miss Kent approved the step she would give her consent. Nyoda was therefore called into consultation. She looked at the house and saw no reason why the improvements could not be made to advantage. The house was in a good neighborhood, and furnished rooms were always in demand. She advised the step and gave Mrs. Gardiner the names of several contractors whom she knew to be reliable. Mrs. Gardiner was a little breathless at the speed with which things were moving, but there was no stopping Migwan once she was started. A contractor was engaged and work begun on the house one week from the day Migwan had thought of the plan. Meanwhile financial matters at home were in bad shape, and Mrs. Gardiner willingly gave over the distribution of the family budget to Migwan. She herself was utterly unable to cope with the problem. And Migwan surprised even herself by the efficient way in which she managed things. By planning menus with the greatest care and omitting meat from the bill of fare to a great extent she made it possible to live on their slender income until the rent would begin to come in again. "Whatever have you done with yourself?" asked Gladys at the weekly meeting of the Camp Fire. "Of late you rush home from school as if you were pursued." Migwan only laughed and said she had had uncommonly hard problems to solve these last few weeks. The other girls of course did not know the exact state of the Gardiner finances, and never dreamed that Migwan was having a struggle even to stay in high school. She was such a fine, aristocratic-looking girl, and was so sparkling and witty all the time that it was hard to connect her with poverty and worry. "Let's all go to the matinee next Saturday afternoon," suggested Gladys. "The 'Blue Bird' is going to be played." The girls agreed eagerly and asked Gladys to get seats for them, all but Migwan, who said nothing. "Don't you want to go, Migwan?" they asked. "Not this time," Migwan answered in a casual tone. "There is something else I have to do Saturday afternoon." The girls accepted this explanation readily. It never occurred to them that Migwan could not afford to go. "What is this mysterious something you are always doing?" asked Gladys teasingly. "Girls, I believe Migwan is writing a book. She has retired from polite society altogether." Migwan smiled blandly at her, but made no answer. At home that night, however, she felt very low-spirited indeed. She was only human, after all, and wanted dreadfully to go to the matinee with the girls. Gladys would take them all to Schiller's afterward for a parfait and bring them home in style in her machine. It did not seem fair that she should be cut off from every pleasure that involved the spending of a little money. This was her last year in high school, the year which should be the happiest, but she must resolutely turn her face away from all those little festivities that add such touches of color to the memory fabric of school days. She knew that at the merest hint of her circumstances to Gladys or Nyoda they would have gladly paid her way everywhere the group went, but Migwan's pride forbade this. If she could not afford to go to places she would stay at home and nobody would be any the wiser. Nevertheless, a few tears would come at the thought of the good time she was missing, and she had no heart to work on her story. "Cry-baby!" she said to herself fiercely, winking the tears back. "Crying because you can't do as you would like all the time! You're lots better off than poor Hinpoha this very minute, even if she is rich. You ought to be ashamed of yourself!" The thought of Hinpoha, who would likewise miss the jolly party, comforted her somewhat, and she dried her tears and fell to writing with a will. Now Nyoda, although she did not know just how hard pressed the Gardiners were at that time, rather surmised something of the kind, and wondered, after she left the girls, if that were not the reason for Migwan's not planning to go to the matinee. She remembered Migwan's saying some time before that she wanted very much to see "The Bluebird" when it came. She knew it would never do to offer to pay Migwan's way; Migwan was too proud for that. She lay awake a long time over it and finally formulated a plan. The next morning when Migwan came to school she saw a conspicuous notice on the Bulletin Board: LOST: Handbag containing book of lecture notes and ticket for Saturday afternoon's performance of "The Bluebird." Finder may keep theater ticket if he or she will return notebook to Miss Moore, Room 10. Migwan read the notice and passed on, as did the other pupils. That morning in English class Nyoda sent Migwan to an unused lecture room to get an English book she had left there. When Migwan opened the door she stumbled over something on the floor. It was a lady's handbag. She opened it and found Miss Moore's notebook and the theater ticket inside. Miss Moore was overjoyed at the return of the notebook and insisted on her keeping the ticket, which Migwan at first declined to accept. "My dear child," said Miss Moore, "if you knew what trouble I had collecting those notes you would think, too, that it was worth the price of a theater ticket to get them back!" And when Migwan's back was turned she winked solemnly at Nyoda. By a curious coincidence that seat was directly behind those occupied by the other Winnebagos! CHAPTER IV. ANOTHER KITCHEN. The night of the last Camp Fire Meeting Gladys and Nyoda might have been seen in close consultation. "The first pleasant Saturday," said Nyoda. "Remember, it's my treat," said Gladys. The first week in November was as balmy as May, with every promise of fine weather on Saturday. Accordingly, Nyoda gathered all the Winnebagos around her desk on Thursday and made an announcement. Sahwah forgot that she was in a class room and started to raise a joyful whoop, but Nyoda stifled it in time by putting her hand over her mouth. "I can't help it!" cried Sahwah; "we're going on a trip up the river! I'm going to paddle the _Keewaydin_ once more!" The plan suggested by Gladys and just announced by Nyoda was this: The following Saturday they would charter a launch big enough to hold them all, and follow the course of the Cuyahoga River upstream to the dam at the falls, where they would land and cook their dinner over an open fire. They would tow the _Keewaydin_, Sahwah's birchbark canoe, behind the launch, and some time during the day would manage to let every one go for a paddle. The Winnebagos thrilled with pleasurable anticipation, all but Hinpoha, who crept sadly away, for she could not bear to hear about the fun that was being planned when she could not have a part in it. One desire of her heart was being fulfilled, and she was getting thin. What a whole summer of rigid dieting had not been able to accomplish was brought to pass by a few weeks of mental suffering, and her clothes were beginning to hang on her. Her appetite began to fail her, and her aunt, noticing this, bought her a big bottle of tonic, which, taken before meals, killed any small desire for food she may have had. Then Aunt Phoebe decided that the two-mile walk to school was too much for her, and had her taken and called for in the machine, much to Hinpoha's disgust, for that walk was her chief joy these days. After a week of the tonic her soul rebelled against the nauseous dose, and when the first bottle was empty and Aunt Phoebe sent her to get it refilled, she "refilled" it herself with a mixture of licorice candy and water, which produced a black syrup similar in appearance to the original medicine, but minus the bad taste and the stigma of "patent medicine," a thing which the Winnebagos had promised their Guardian they would not take. As this was deceiving her aunt she felt obliged to put a blot on her head 'scutcheon, in the form of a black record, but she was so inwardly amused at it that her appetite improved of its own accord, and Aunt Phoebe remarked in a gratified way that she had never known the equal of Mullin's Modifier as a tonic. Migwan finished her story, copied it carefully on foolscap and sent it away to a magazine, confident that in a very short time she would behold it in print, and the payment she would receive for it would keep her in spending money throughout the school year. So with a light and merry heart she set out for Gladys's house on Saturday morning, where the girls were all to meet for the outing. It was one of those dream-like days in late autumn, when the earth, still decked in her brilliant garments, seems to lie spellbound in the sunshine, as if there were no such thing as the coming of winter. The girls, clad in blue skirts and white middies and heavy sweaters, were whirled down to the dock in the Evans's automobile, with the _Keewaydin_ tied upright at the back. The launch was waiting for them, at one of the big boat docks, sandwiched in between two immense lake steamers. Nothing could have been a greater contrast to their trip up the Shadow River the summer before than this excursion. On that other trip they had been the only living beings on the horizon, and nature was supreme everywhere, but here they were fairly engulfed by the works of man. The tiny craft nosed her way among giant steamers, six-hundred-foot freighters, coal barges, lighters, fire boats, tugs, scows, and all the other kinds of vessels that crowd the river-harbor of a great lake port. Viewed from below, the steel structure of the viaduct over the river stretched out like the monstrous skeleton of some prehistoric beast. Whistles shrieked deafeningly in their ears and trains pounded jarringly over railroad bridges. A jack-knife bridge began to descend over their very heads. Over where the new bridge was being constructed men stood on slender girders high in the air, catching red-hot rivets that were being tossed them, while an automatic riveting hammer filled the air with its nerve-destroying clamor. Everywhere was bustle and confusion, and noise, noise, noise. And in the midst of this tumult the tiny launch, filled with laughing girls, threaded its way up the black river, flying the Winnebago banner, while behind it trailed a birchbark canoe, with Sahwah squatting calmly in the stern, leaning her back against her paddle. Many times they had to bury their noses in their handkerchiefs to shut out the smells that assailed them on every side. On they chugged, past the lumber yards with their acres of stacked boards, some of which had come from the very neighborhood of Camp Winnebago; past the chemical works, pouring out its darkly polluted streams into the river. "Ugh," said Gladys with a shiver, "to think that that stuff flows on into the lake and we drink lake water!" "It seems like a different world altogether," said Migwan, looking out across the miles of factory-covered "flats." She was perfectly fascinated by the rolling mills, with their rows of black stacks standing out against the sky like organ pipes, and by the long trains of oil-tank cars curving through the valley like huge worms, the divisions giving the effect of body sections. While the Winnebagos were gliding along among scenes strange and new, Hinpoha was vainly trying to comfort herself for having to stay at home by catching in a bottle the bees which were crawling in and out of the cosmos blossoms in the garden. Interesting as the bees were, however, they could not keep her thoughts from turning to the Winnebagos afloat on the river, and it was a very doleful face that bent over the flowers. Her dismal reflections were interrupted by the sharp voice of Aunt Phoebe calling her to come in. "What is it?" she asked listlessly, as she came up on the porch. "Mrs. Evans is here," said her aunt in the doorway, "and she has asked to see you." Hinpoha was very glad to see Mrs. Evans, who rose smilingly and took her hands in hers. "How thin you are getting, child!" she exclaimed, smoothing back the red curls. "I don't believe you get out enough. By the way," she said to Aunt Phoebe, "may I borrow this girl for to-day? I have considerable driving about to do and it is rather tiresome going alone. Gladys has gone on an all-day boat ride." Aunt Phoebe could not very well refuse, for driving about in a machine with an older woman was a very proper form of recreation indeed, in her estimation. Hinpoha flew upstairs and deposited her bottle of bees on the table in her room for future observation and started off with Mrs. Evans. "We will not be back for lunch, and possibly not for supper," said Gladys's mother as she bade Aunt Phoebe a gracious good-bye, "but it will not be long after that." "And now for a grand spin," she said, as she started the car and sent it crackling through the dry leaves on the pavement. "Now I see why the Indians named this river 'Cuyahoga,' or 'Crooked,'" said Migwan, as they rounded bend after bend in the stream. "It coils back on itself like a snake, and I have already counted seven coils within the city limits. I didn't believe it when the captain of a freighter told me that there was a place in the river which his boat couldn't pass because two sharp turns came so near together, but now I see how that could easily be possible." As the launch putt-putt-putt-ed steadily up the river the water gradually became less black, and the factories along the shore gave way to open stretches of country. By noon they reached the dam and went ashore to look for a place to build a fire. They were in a deep gorge, its steep sides thickly covered with flaming maples and oaks, and brilliant sumachs, stretching on either side as far as they could reach. "It's too gorgeous to seem real," said Nyoda, shading her eyes and looking down the valley; "where _does_ Mother Nature keep her pot of 'Diamond Dyes' in the summer time?" High up along the top of one of the cliffs a narrow road wound along, and as Nyoda stood looking into the distance she saw an automobile coming along this road. When it was directly above her it stopped and two people got out, a woman and a girl. The sunlight fell on a mass of red curls on the girl's head. "Hinpoha!" exclaimed Nyoda in amazement. From above came floating down a far-echoing yodel--the familiar Winnebago call. The girls all looked up in surprise to see Hinpoha scrambling down the face of the cliff, and aiding Mrs. Evans to descend. "Why, _mother_!" called Gladys, running up to meet her. The surprise at the meeting was mutual. Mrs. Evans, spinning along the country roads, had no idea she was hard on the trail of her daughter and the other Winnebagos until she came suddenly upon them after they had gotten out of the launch. "Can't you stay and spend the day with us, now that you're here?" they pleaded. Hinpoha's longing soul looked out of her eyes, but she answered, "I'm afraid not. Aunt Phoebe wouldn't approve." "Did she say you couldn't?" asked Sahwah. "No," said Hinpoha, "for I never even asked her if I might go along with you in the launch. I knew it would be no use." "Oh, please stay," tempted some of the girls; "your aunt'll never know the difference." "Oh, I couldn't do that," said Hinpoha in a tone of horror. A little approving smile crept around the corners of Nyoda's eyes as she heard Hinpoha so resolutely bidding Satan get behind her. Mrs. Evans was genuinely sorry they had encountered the girls, because it made it so much harder for Hinpoha. "I wonder," she said musingly, "if I drove on to a house in the road and telephoned your aunt that she would let you stay?" "You might try," said Hinpoha doubtfully. Mrs. Evans thought it was worth trying. She found a house with a telephone and got Aunt Phoebe on the wire. With the utmost tact she explained how they had met the girls accidently, and that she had taken a notion that she would like to spend the day with them, but of course she could not do so unless Hinpoha would be allowed to stay with her, as she had charge of her for the day. What was Aunt Phoebe to do? She was not equal to telling the admired Mrs. Evans to forego her pleasure because of Hinpoha, and gave a grudging consent to her keeping her niece with her on the condition that she would bring her home in the machine and not let her come back in the launch with the Winnebagos. Jubilant, they returned to the girls in the gorge and told the good news. "Cheer for Mrs. Evans," cried Sahwah, and the Winnebagos gave it with a hearty good will. Hinpoha, with Sahwah close beside her, began I searching for firewood industriously. "It seems just like last summer," she said, chopping sticks with Sahwah's hatchet. The two had wandered off a short distance from the others, following a tiny footpath. Suddenly they came upon a huge rock formation, that looked like an immense fireplace, about forty feet wide and twenty or more feet high. Under that great stone arch a dozen spits, each big enough to hold a whole ox, might easily have swung. Sahwah and Hinpoha looked at it in amazement and then called for the other girls to come and see. "Why, that's the 'Old Maid's Kitchen,'" said Mrs. Evans, when she arrived on the scene. "I've been here before. Just why it should be called the _Old Maid's_ Kitchen is more than I can tell, for it looks like the fireplace belonging to the grand-mother of all giantesses." "Let's build our fire inside of it," said Nyoda. "The original 'Old Maid' had a convenience that didn't usually go with open fireplaces," said Gladys, "and that is running water," and she held her cup under a tiny stream that trickled out between two rocks, cold as ice and clear as crystal. "Wouldn't this be a grand place for a Ceremonial Meeting?" said Migwan, as they all stood round the blazing fire roasting "wieners" and bacon. The Kitchen had a floor of smooth slabs of rock, and the arch of the fireplace formed a roof over their heads, while its wide opening afforded them a wonderful view of the gorge. "Whenever you want to come here again, just say so," said Mrs. Evans, "and I'll bring you down in the machine." Mrs. Evans was enjoying herself as much as any of the girls. It was the first time she had ever cooked wieners and bacon over an open fire on green sticks, and she was perfectly delighted with the experience. "If my husband could only see me now," she said, laughing like a girl as she dropped her last wiener in the dirt and calmly washed it off in the trickling stream. "How good this hot cocoa tastes!" she exclaimed, drinking down a whole cupful without stopping. "What kind is it?" "Camp Fire Girl Cocoa," answered the girls. "What kind is that?" asked Mrs. Evans. "It is a brand that is put up by a New York firm for the Camp Fire Girls to sell," answered Nyoda. "Why have we never had any of this at our house?" asked Mrs. Evans, turning to Gladys. "You have always insisted that you would use no other kind than Van Horn's," replied Gladys, "so I thought there would be no use in mentioning it." "I like this better than Van Horn's," said her mother. "Is there any to be had now?" "There certainly is," answered Nyoda. "We are trying to dispose of a hundred-can lot to pay our annual dues." "Let me have a dozen cans," said Mrs. Evans. "I will serve Camp Fire Girl Cocoa to my Civic Club next Wednesday afternoon. I----" Here a terrific shriek from Migwan brought them all to their feet. She had been poking about in the corner of the Kitchen, when something had suddenly jumped out at her, unfolded itself like a fan and was whirling around her head. "It's a bat!" cried Sahwah, and they all laughed heartily at Migwan's fright. The bat wheeled around, blind in the daylight, and went bumping against the girls, causing them to run in alarm lest it should get entangled in their hair. It finally found its way back to the dark corner of the Kitchen and hung itself up neatly the way Migwan had found it and the dinner proceeded. "What kind of a bat was it?" asked Gladys. "Must have been a _bacon bat_," said Sahwah, dodging the acorn that Hinpoha threw at her for making a pun. "Tell us a new game to play, Nyoda," said Gladys, "or Sahwah will go right on making puns." "Here is one I thought of on the way down," answered Nyoda. "Think of all the things that you know are manufactured in Cleveland, or form an important part of the shipping industry. Then we'll go around the circle, naming them in alphabetical order. Each girl may have ten seconds in which to think when her turn comes, and if she misses she is out of the game. She may only come in again by supplying a word when another has missed, before the next girl in the circle can think of one." "And let the two that hold out the longest have the first ride in the canoe," suggested Sahwah. The game started. Nyoda had the first chance. "Automobiles," she began. "Bricks," said Gladys. "Clothing," said Migwan. "Drugs," said Sahwah. "Engines," said Hinpoha. "Flour," said Mrs. Evans. "Gasoline," said Nakwisi. "Hardware," said Chapa. "Iron," said Medmangi. Nyoda hesitated, fishing for a "J." "One, two, three, four, five, six," began Sahwah. "Jewelry!" cried Nyoda on the tenth count. "Knitted goods," continued Gladys. "Lamps," said Migwan. "Macaroni," said Sahwah. "That reminds me," said Mrs. Evans, "I meant to order some macaroni to-day and forgot it." "N," said Hinpoha, "N,--why, Nothing!" The girls laughed at the witty application, but she was ruled out nevertheless. "Nails," said Mrs. Evans. "Oil," said Nakwisi. "Paint," said Chapa. Medmangi sat down. Nyoda began to count. "Quadrupeds!" cried Medmangi hastily. "Explain yourself," said Nyoda. "Tables and chairs," said Medmangi. The girls shouted in derision, but Nyoda ruled the answer in, and the game proceeded. "Refrigerators," said Nyoda. "Salt," said Gladys. "Tents," said Migwan, with a reminiscent sigh. "Umbrellas," said Sahwah. Mrs. Evans fell down on "V." "Varnish," said Chapa. "W" was too much for Medmangi. "Wire," said Nyoda. "X," said Sahwah, "there is no such thing. Oh, yes, there is, too; Xylophones, they're made here." Gladys and Migwan met their Waterloo on "Y." "Yeast," said Nyoda. "Z," sent Chapa and Nakwisi to the dummy corner and it came back to Sahwah. "Zerolene," she said. "What's that?" they all cried. "I don't know," she answered, "but I saw it on one of the big oil tanks as we passed." Sahwah and Nyoda won the right to take the first paddle in the _Keewaydin_. They carried the canoe on their heads, portage fashion, around the dam, and launched it up above, where the confined waters had spread out into a wide pond. "Oh, what a joy to dip a paddle again!" sighed Sahwah blissfully, sending the _Keewaydin_ flying through the water with long, vigorous strokes. "I'd love to paddle all the way home." She had completely forgotten that there was such a thing as school and lessons in the world. She was the Daughter of the River, and this was a joyous homecoming. "Time to go back and let the rest have a turn," said Nyoda. Reluctantly Sahwah steered the canoe around and returned to the waiting group. Mrs. Evans watched with interest as Gladys and Hinpoha pushed out from shore. Could this be her once frail daughter, who had despised all strenuous sports and hated water above all things, who was swinging her paddle so lustily and steering the _Keewaydin_ so skilfully? What was this strange Something that the Camp Fire had instilled into her? She caught her breath with the beauty of it, as the girls glided along between the radiant banks, the two paddles flashing in and out in perfect rhythm. They were singing a favorite boating song, and their voices floated back on the breeze: "Through the mystic haze of the autumn days Like a phantom ghost I glide, Where the big moose sees the crimson trees Mirrored on the silver tide, And the blood red sun when day is done Sinks below the hill, The night hawk swoops, the lily droops, And all the world is still!" Sahwah lingered on the river after the others had gone in a body to try to climb to the top of the rocky fireplace. She was all alone in the _Keewaydin_, and sent it darting around like a water spider on the surface of the stream. So absorbed was she in the joy of paddling that she did not see a sign on a tree beside the river which warned people in boats to go no further than that point, neither did she realize the significance of the quicker progress which the _Keewaydin_ was making. When she did realize that she was getting dangerously near the edge of the dam, and attempted to turn back, she discovered to her horror that it was impossible to turn back. The _Keewaydin_ was being swept helplessly and irresistibly onward. Recent rains had swollen the stream and the water was pouring over the dam. Sahwah screamed aloud when she saw the peril in which she was. Nyoda and Mrs. Evans and the girls, standing up on the rocks, turned and saw her. Help was out of the question. Frozen to the spot they saw her rushing along to that descent of waters. Gladys moaned and covered her face with her hands. Below the falls the great rocks jutted out, jagged and bare. Any boat going over would be dashed to pieces. The _Keewaydin_ shot forward, gaining speed with every second. The roar of the falls filled Sahwah's ears. Not ten feet from the brink a rock jutted up a little above the surface, just enough to divide the current into two streams. When the _Keewaydin_ reached this point it turned sharply and was hurled into the current nearest the shore. On the bank right at the brink of the falls stood a great willow tree, its long branches drooping far out over the water. It was one chance in a million and Sahwah saw it. As she passed under the tree she reached up and caught hold of a branch, seized it firmly and jumped clear of the canoe, which went over the falls almost under her feet. Then, swinging along by her arms, she reached the shore and stood in safety. It had all happened so quickly the girls could hardly comprehend it. Gladys, who had hidden her eyes to shut out the dreadful sight, heard an incredulous shout from the girls and looked down to see the _Keewaydin_ landing on the rocks below, empty, and Sahwah standing on the bank. "How did you ever manage to do it?" gasped Hinpoha, when they had surrounded her with exclamations of joy and amazement. "You're a heroine again." "You're nothing of the sort," said Nyoda. "It was sheer foolhardiness or carelessness that got you into that scrape. A girl who doesn't know enough to keep out of the current isn't to be trusted with a canoe, no matter what a fine paddler she is. I certainly thought better of you than that, Sahwah. I never used to have the slightest anxiety when you were on the water, I had such a perfect trust in your common sense, but now I can never feel quite sure of you again." Sahwah hung her head in shame, for she felt the truth of Nyoda's words. "I think you can trust me after this," she said humbly. "I have learned my lesson." She was not likely to forget the horror of the moment when she had heard the water roaring over the dam and thought her time had come. Sahwah liked to be thought clever as well as daring, and it was certainly far from clever to run blindly into danger as she had done. She sank dejectedly down on the bank, feeling disgraced forever in the eyes of the Winnebagos. "Girls," said Mrs. Evans, wishing to take their minds off the fright they had received, "do you know that we are not many miles from one of the model dairy farms of the world? I could take you over in the car and bring you back here in time to go home in the launch." "Let's do it, Nyoda," begged all the Winnebagos, and into the machine they piled. When they were still far in the distance they could see the high towers of the barns rising in the air. "We're nearly there," said Mrs. Evans; "here is the beginning to the cement fence that runs all the way around the four-thousand-acre farm." Mrs. Evans knew some of the people in charge of the farm and they had no difficulty gaining admittance. That visit to the Carter Farm was a long-remembered one. The girls walked through the long stables exclaiming at everything they saw. "Why, there's an electric fan in each stall!" gasped Migwan, "and the windows are screened!" "Oo, look at the darling calf," gurgled Hinpoha, on her knees before one of the stalls, caressing a ten-thousand-dollar baby. "It doesn't look a bit like its mother," observed Nyoda, comparing it with the cow standing beside it. "That isn't its mother, that's its nurse," said the man who was showing them around. "Its what?" said Nyoda. Then the man explained that the milk from the blooded cows was too valuable to be fed to calves, as it commanded a high price on the market, and so a herd of common cows were kept to feed the aristocratic babies. The lovely little creatures were as tame as kittens and allowed the girls to fondle them to their hearts' content. Sometimes a pair of polished horns would come poking between a calf and the visitors, and a soft-eyed cow would view the proceedings with a comically anxious face, and then it was easy to tell which calf was with its mother. In one of the largest stalls they saw the champion Guernsey of the world. Her coat was like satin and her horns were polished until they shone. She did not seem to be in the least set up on account of her great reputation and thrust out her nose in the friendliest manner possible to be patted and fussed over. She eyed Gladys, who stood next to her, with amiable curiosity, and then suddenly licked her face. Mrs. Evans watched Gladys in surprise. Instead of quivering all over with disgust as she would have a year ago she simply laughed and patted the cow's nose. "What is going to happen?" said Mrs. Evans to herself, "Gladys isn't afraid of cows any more!" But the most interesting part came when the cows were milked. They were driven into another barn for this performance and their heads fastened into sort of metal hoops suspended from the ceiling. These turned in either direction and caused them no discomfort, but kept them standing in one place. The milking was done with vacuum-suction machines run by electricity and took only a short time. When the girls had watched the process as long as they wished they were taken to see the prize hogs and chickens, and then went through the hot houses. There were rows and rows of glass houses filled with grapes, the great bunches hanging down from the roof and threatening to fall with their own weight. And one did fall, just as they were going through, and came smashing down in the path at their feet. Nakwisi ran to pick it up and the guide said she might have it, adding that such a bunch, unbruised, sold for twenty-five cents in the city market. "Oh, how delicious!" cried Nakwisi,' tasting the grapes and dividing them among the girls. Mrs. Evans bought a basketful and let them eat all they wanted. In some of the hothouses tangerines were growing, and in some persimmons, while others were given over to the raising of roses, carnations and rare orchids. It was a trip through fairyland for the girls, and they could hardly tear themselves away when the time came. "There is something else I must show you while we are in the neighborhood," said Mrs. Evans, as they passed through Akron. "Does anybody know what two historical things are near here?" Nobody knew. Mrs. Evans began humming, "John Brown's Body Lies A-mouldering in the Grave." "What has that to do with it?" asked Gladys. "Everything, with one of them," said Mrs. Evans. "Did you know that John Brown, owner of the said body, was born in Akron, and there is a monument here to his memory?" "Oh how lovely," cried Migwan, "let us see it." So Mrs. Evans drove them over to the monument and they all stood around it and sang "John Brown's Body" in his honor. "Now, what's the other thing?" they asked. "I believe I know," said Nyoda. "Doesn't the old Portage Trail run through here somewhere?" "That's it," said Mrs. Evans. Then Nyoda told them about the Portage Path of Indian days, before the canal was built, that extended from Lake Erie to the Ohio River. "The part that runs through Akron is still called Portage Path," said Mrs. Evans, and the girls were eager to see it. "Why, it's nothing but a paved street!" exclaimed Migwan in disappointment, when they had reached the historical spot. "That's all it is now," answered Mrs. Evans, "but it is built over the old Portage Trail, and some of these old trees undoubtedly shaded the original path." In the minds of the girls the handsome residences faded from sight, and in place of the wide street they saw the narrow path trailing off through the forest, with dusky forms stealing along it on their long journey southward. "It's time to strike our own trail now," said Nyoda, breaking the silence, and they started back to the river. Every one was anxious to make it as pleasant as possible for Hinpoha, and the jests came thick and fast as they drove along. "Who is the best Latin scholar here?" asked Nyoda. "I am," said Sahwah, mischievously. "Then you can undoubtedly tell me what Caesar said on the Fourth of July, 45 B.C." said Nyoda. "I don't seem to recollect," said Sahwah. "Then read for yourself," said Nyoda, scribbling a few words on a leaf from her notebook and handing it to her. "What's this?" said Sahwah, spelling out the words. On the paper was written, _Quis crudis enim rufus, albus et expiravit._ Sahwah tried to translate. "_Quis,_ who; _crudis_, raw; _enim_--what's _enim_?" "For," answered Migwan. "And _expiravit_" said Sahwah, "what's that from?" "_Expiro_" answered Migwan, "_expirare, expiravi, expiratus_. It means 'blow,' '_Expiravit_' is 'have blown.'" "_Rufus_ is 'red,'" continued Sahwah, "and is _albus_ 'white'?" Migwan nodded, and Sahwah went back to the beginning and began to read: "_Who raw for red white and have blown._" Nyoda shouted. "That last word is _blew_, not _have blown_" she said. "I have it!" cried Migwan, jumping up. "It's '_Who raw for the red, white and blew.' 'Hoorah for the red, white and blue!_'" "Such wit!" said Sahwah, laughing with the rest. "Now, I'll make a motto for Sahwah," said Migwan, seizing the pencil. Migwan was a Senior and took French, and having a sudden inspiration, she wrote, "_Pas de lieu Rhone que nous!_" The girls could not translate it and Nyoda puzzled over it for a long time. "I don't seem to be able to make anything out of it," she said at length. "Don't try to translate it," said Migwan, "just read it out loud," Nyoda complied and Sahwah caught it immediately. "It's '_Paddle your own canoe!_" she cried. Thus, laughing and joking, they followed the road back to the dam and embarked in the launch with all speed, for the sun was already sinking beneath the treetops and they had a two-hour ride ahead of them. Mrs. Evans took Hinpoha back in the machine and delivered her to her aunt safe and sound at eight o'clock, with many expressions of pleasure at the fun she had had with the Camp Fire Girls, which were intended as seeds to be planted in Aunt Phoebe's mind. "I think your mother's a perfect dear," said Sahwah to Gladys on the trip home. "I used to be frightened to death of her, because she always looked so straight-laced and proper, but she isn't like that at all. She's a regular Camp Fire Girl!" CHAPTER V. A COASTING PARTY. The memory of that happy day sustained Hinpoha through many of the trials that came to her in the days that followed. It seemed that everything she did brought down the wrath of her aunt in some way or another. For instance, she left a bottle of bees standing on the table in her room, and Aunt Phoebe's dog Silky, who had been in the habit of going into the room and chewing Hinpoha's painted paddle, knocked the bottle over and let the bees out, getting badly stung in the process. Then there was a scene with Aunt Phoebe because she had brought the bees in. This and a dozen more incidents of a similar nature made Hinpoha despair of ever gaining the good will of her aunt. Thus the autumn wore away to winter and as yet the Desert of Waiting had borne nothing but thorns. Gladys's progress through school was like the advance of a conquering hero. Although she had just entered this fall she was already one of the most popular girls in school. She had that fair, delicate prettiness which invariably appeals to boys, and an open, unaffected manner which endeared her to the girls. Beside her very lovable personality she had a background which was almost certain to insure popularity to a girl. She was rich and lived in a great house on a fashionable avenue; she had a little electric car all her own, and she wore the smartest clothes of any girl in school. Her fame as a dancer soon spread and she was in constant demand at school entertainments. Nyoda watched her a trifle anxiously at first. She was just a little afraid that Gladys's head would be turned with all the homage paid her, or that, blinded by her present success, she would lose the deeper meanings of life and be nothing but a butterfly after all. But she need not have feared. Gladys's experience in camp had kindled a fire in her that would never be extinguished as long as life guarded the flame. Having changed her Camp Fire name from Butterfly to Real Woman, she was anxious to prove her right to the name. So she worked diligently to win new honors which made her efficient in the home as well as those which helped her to shine in society. Mrs. Evans was returning from an afternoon card party. She was tired and her head ached and she felt out of sorts. A remark which she had overheard during the afternoon stayed in her mind and made her cross. Two ladies on the other side of a large screen near which she was sitting were discussing a campaign in which they were interested to raise funds for a certain philanthropy. "I am going to ask Mrs. Evans if she would not like to subscribe one hundred dollars," said the one lady. "So much?" asked the other in an uncertain voice, "I don't believe I would if I were you." "Why not?" asked the first lady. "Haven't you heard," replied the second lady, with the air of imparting a delicious secret, "that Mr. Evans is on the verge of financial ruin?" "No," replied the second in a tone of lively interest, "I haven't. Who told you so?" "A great many people are saying so," continued the first. "Do you know that they took their daughter out of the private school she had been attending and sent her to public school this year? They must be hard up if they can't pay school bills any more." "It certainly looks like it," said the first lady. "Possibly I had better not ask Mrs. Evans for any subscription at all. It might embarrass her, poor thing." The voices trailed off and Mrs. Evans was left feeling decidedly annoyed. She was the kind of woman who rarely discussed other people's affairs, and likewise disliked having her own discussed by other people. The thought that some folks might misconstrue Gladys's entering the public school to mean that her father was about to fail in business, first amused, and then irritated her. Nothing like that could be farther from correct, but the thought came to her that such rumors floating around might have some effect on Mr. Evans's standing in the business world. She began to wonder if after all it had not been a mistake to take Gladys out of Miss Russell's school in the middle of her course. Thinking cynical thoughts about the gossiping abilities of most people, she drove up the long driveway and entered the house. The long hall with its wide staircase and large, splendidly furnished rooms opening on either side, struck her as being cold and gloomy. The polished chairs and tables shone dully in the fast waning light of the December afternoon, cheerless and unfriendly looking. The house suddenly seemed to her to be less a home than a collection of furniture. For the moment she almost hated the wealth which made it necessary to maintain this vast and magnificent display. The women she had played cards with that afternoon seemed shallow and artificial. Life was decidedly uninteresting just then. She went upstairs and took off her wraps and came down again, aimlessly. Gladys was nowhere in sight, which made the house seem lonelier than ever, for with Gladys around there would have been somebody to talk to. At the foot of the stairs she paused. She could hear some one singing in a distant part of the house. "Katy's happy, anyway," she said with a sigh, "if she feels like singing in that hot kitchen," A desire for company led her out to the kitchen. It was not Katy, however, who greeted her when she opened the door. It was Gladys--Gladys with a big apron on and her sleeves rolled up, just taking from the oven a pan of golden brown muffins. The room was filled with the delicious odor of freshly baked dough. Gladys looked up with a smile when she saw her mother in the doorway. "How do you like the new cook?" she asked. "Katy went home sick this afternoon and I thought I would get supper myself." The kitchen looked so cheerful and inviting that Mrs. Evans came in and sat down. Gladys began mixing up potatoes for croquettes. "Can't I do something?" asked her mother. "Why, yes," said Gladys, bringing out another apron and tying it around her waist, "you heat the fat to fry these in." Mrs. Evans and Gladys had never had such a good time together. Gladys had planned the entire menu and her mother meekly followed her directions as to what to do next. She and Gladys frolicked around the kitchen with increasing hilarity as the supper progressed. Never before had there existed such a comradeship between them. "Do you think this is seasoned right?" asked Mrs. Evans, holding out a spoonful of white sauce for Gladys to taste. "A little more salt," said Gladys judicially. Mrs. Evans had forgotten her irritation of the afternoon. The conversation which had aroused her ire before now struck her as humorous. "If Mrs. Davis and Mrs. Jones could only see me now," she thought with an inward chuckle, "doing my own cooking!" The half-formed plan of sending Gladys back to Miss Russell's the first of the year faded from her mind. Send Gladys away? Why, she was just beginning to enjoy her company! Another plan presented itself to her mind. In the Christmas vacation Gladys should give a party which would forever dispel any doubts about the soundness of their financial standing. Her brain was already at work on the details. Gladys should have a dress from Madame Charmant's in New York. They would have Waldstein, from the Symphony Orchestra, with a half dozen of his best players, furnish the music. There would be expensive prizes and favors for the games. Mrs. Davis and Mrs. Jones would have a chance to alter their opinions when their daughters brought home accounts of the affair. She planned the whole thing while she was eating her supper. After supper Gladys washed the dishes and her mother wiped them, and they put them away together. Then Gladys began to get ready to go to Camp Fire meeting and Mrs. Evans reluctantly prepared to go out for the evening. The nearer ready she was the more disinclined she felt to go. "Those Jamieson musicales are always such a bore," she said to herself wearily. "They never have good singers--my Gladys could do better than any of them--and they are interminable. Father looks tired to death, and I know he would rather stay at home. Gladys," she called, looking into her daughter's room, "where is your Camp Fire meeting to-night?" "At the Brewsters'," answered Gladys. "Do you ever have visitors?" continued her mother. "Why, yes," answered Gladys, "we often do." "Do you mind if you have one to-night?" asked Mrs. Evans. "Certainly not," replied Gladys. "Well, then, I'm coming along," said her mother. "Will you?" cried Gladys. "Oh goody!" The Winnebagos were surprised and delighted when Mrs. Evans appeared with Gladys. Since that Saturday's outing she had held a very warm place in their affections. "Come in, mother," called Sahwah; "you might as well join the group too, we have one guest. This is Mrs. Evans, Gladys's mother," she said, when her mother appeared after hastily brushing back her hair and putting on a white apron. The two women held out their hands in formal greeting, and then changed their minds and fell on each other's necks. "Why, Molly Richards!" exclaimed Mrs. Evans. "Why, Helen Adamson!" gasped Mrs. Brewster. The Winnebagos looked on, mystified. "You can't introduce me to your mother," said Mrs. Evans to Sahwah, laughing at her look of surprise. "We were good friends when we were younger than you. Do you remember the time," she said, turning back to Mrs. Brewster, "when you drew a picture of Miss Scully in your history and she found it and made you stand up in front of the room and hold it up so the whole class could see it?" "Do you remember the time," returned Mrs. Brewster, "when we ran away from school to see the Lilliputian bazaar and your mother was there and walked you out by the ear?" Thus the flow of reminiscences went on. "How little I thought," said Mrs. Evans, "when I first saw Sarah Ann going around with Gladys, that she was your daughter!" "How little I thought," said Mrs. Brewster, "when Gladys began coming here, that she was _your_ daughter!" "How many more of these girls' mothers are our old schoolmates, I wonder?" said Mrs. Evans. "Let's meet them and find out," said Mrs. Brewster. "Here, you girls," she said, "every one of you go home and get your mother." Delightedly the girls obeyed, and the mothers came, a little backward, some of them, a little shy, pathetically eager, and decidedly breathless. Migwan's mother, Mrs. Gardiner, had known Mrs. Brewster in her girlhood, and Nakwisi's mother had known Mrs. Evans, and Chapa's and Medmangi's mothers had known each other. What a happy reunion that was, and what a chorus of "Don't you remembers" rose on every side! Tears mingled with the laughter when they spoke of the death of Mrs. Bradford, whom most of them had known in their school days. "Do you remember," said one of the mothers, "how we used to go coasting down the reservoir hill? You girls have never seen the old reservoir. It was levelled off years ago." "I'd enjoy going coasting yet," said Mrs. Brewster. "Let's!" said Mrs. Evans. "The snow is just right." Girls and mothers hurried into their coats and out into the frosty air. The street sloped down sharply, and the middle of the road was filled with flying bobsleds, as the young people of the neighborhood took advantage of the snowy crust. Sahwah brought out her brother's bob, which he was not using this evening, and piled the whole company on behind her. She could steer as well as a boy. Down the long street they shot, from one patch of light into another as they passed the lamp posts. The mothers shrieked with excitement and held on for dear life. "Oh," panted Mrs. Brewster when they came to a standstill at the bottom of the slope, "is there anything in the world half so exciting and delightful as coasting?" Down they went, again and again, laughing all the way, and causing many another bobload to look around and wonder who the jolly ladies were. Most of the mothers lost their breath in the swift rush and had to be helped up the hill to the starting point. Once Sahwah turned too short at the bottom of the street and upset the whole sledful into a deep pile of snow, from which they emerged looking like snowmen. "Oh-h-h," sputtered Mrs. Brewster, "the snow is all going down inside of my collar! Sarah Ann, you wretch, you deserve to have your face washed for that!" She picked up a great lump of snow and hurled it deftly at Sahwah's head. It struck its mark and flew all to pieces, much of it going down the back of her neck. "This coasting is all right," said Mrs. Gardiner, "but, oh, that walk up hill!" Mrs. Evans spied her machine standing in front of the Brewster house, and it gave her an idea. "Why not tie the bob to the machine," she said, "and go for a regular ride?" This suggestion was hailed with great joy, and carried out with alacrity. "Would you like to drive, mother?" asked Gladys. "No, indeed!" said her mother. "I'm out sleigh-riding to-night. You get in and drive it yourself!" Gladys complied, with Migwan up beside her for company, and away they flew up one street and down another and through the park. And just as they were going around a curve, Sahwah, who sat at the front end of the sled, untied the rope, and away went the machine around the corner, and left them stranded in the snow. Gladys felt the release of the trailer, but pretended that she knew nothing about it, and drove ahead at full speed, and traveling in a circle, came up behind the marooned voyagers and surprised them with a hearty laugh. This time she towed them back to Sahwah's house, where they drank hot cocoa to warm themselves up, and all declared they had never had such fun in their lives. "And to think how near I came to missing this!" said Mrs. Evans, as she and Gladys were driving home, and she shivered when she remembered how she had almost gone to the musicale. CHAPTER VI. GLADYS UPHOLDS THE FAMILY CREDIT. Mrs. Evans confided her plans for a Christmas week party to Gladys the day following the snow frolic, and Gladys was delighted with the idea. She dearly loved to entertain her friends. The frock was ordered from New York and Mrs. Evans and Gladys spent long hours working out the details of the affair. Rumors of the party and the dress Gladys was to have leaked out to the Winnebagos and from them to the whole class. Every one was on tiptoe to find out who would be invited. Mrs. Davis and Mrs. Jones, hearing the talk about the coming function, began to wonder if they were on the right track after all in regard to the Evans fortune. Two weeks before Christmas the invitations came out. Twenty-five girls and twenty-five boys, mostly from the high school class, were asked. What a flutter of satisfaction there was among those who had been invited, and what a disappointment among those who had not been, and what consultations about dresses among the favored ones! This question was an acute one with Migwan. She had not had a new party dress for several years, and in the present state of their finances she could not get one now. She looked at the old one, faded and spotted, and shook her head despairingly. "I foresee where Miss Migwan develops a sudden illness on the night of the party," she said with tight lips, "unless I hear from my story in time." As if in answer to her thoughts the story came back the very next day. There was no letter from the editor concerning the merits or faults of the piece, only a printed rejection slip, but that stated that only typewritten manuscripts would be considered. Migwan's air castle tumbled about her ears. She had no typewriter and knew no one who had. Her experience did not include a knowledge of public stenographers, and even if she had thought of that way out the expense would have prevented her from having her story copied. Her dream of fame and wealth was short-lived, and the world was stale, flat and unprofitable. The house was not yet rented, as the repairs had been delayed again and again. It would be another month at least before that would be a paying proposition. Hearing the other girls talk about Gladys's party all the time filled her with desperation. She began to shun the Winnebagos. The keen zest went out of her studying and even her beloved Latin lost its savor. Nyoda finally noticed it. Migwan failed to recite in English class for two days in succession, which was an unheard-of thing. Nyoda thought that Migwan had her head so full of the coming party that she was neglecting her lessons, and said so, half banteringly, as Migwan lingered after class to pick up some papers she had dropped on the floor. That was the last straw, and Migwan burst into tears. Nyoda was all sympathy in a moment. Now Nyoda happened to have the "seeing eye," with which some people are blessed, and had surmised, from certain little signs she had observed, that Migwan had written something or other, and sent it away to a magazine. She knew only too well what the outcome would be, and her heart ached when she thought of Migwan's coming disappointment. Therefore, when Migwan, quickly recovering her composure, said calmly, "It's nothing, Nyoda; I simply tried to do something and failed," Nyoda asked quietly, "Did your story come back?" Migwan looked at her in amazement. "How did you know I had written any story?" she asked. "Oh, a little bird told me," replied Nyoda lightly. "Cheer up. All the famous authors had their first work rejected. You have achieved the first mark of fame." Migwan smiled wanly. Her tragedies always seemed to lose their sting in the light of Nyoda's optimism. She told her about the necessity for a typewriter. "I could have told you that to begin with, if you had asked my humble advice," replied Nyoda. "But if a miserable writing machine is all that stands between you and fame and fortune, your fortune is already made. The woman whose rooms I am living in has one in her possession. It belongs to her son, I believe, but as he is at present in China there is no danger of his wanting it for some time. She has offered to let me use it on several occasions, and I don't doubt but what we can make some arrangement to accommodate you." The world seemed a pretty good place of habitation after all to Migwan that day when she went home from school, in spite of the fact that she had no dress to wear to the party. The situation began to appear faintly humorous to her. Here was all the interest centered on what Gladys was going to wear, when all the time the real, vital question was what _she_ was going to wear! What a commotion there would be if the other Winnebagos knew the truth! Her thoughts began to beat themselves, into rhythm as she walked home through the crunching snow: "Broke, broke, broke, And such clothes in the windows I see! And I would that my purse could answer The demands that are made on she! "O well for the millionaire's wife, Who can pay eighty bones for a shawl, And well for the African maids, Who don't need any clothes at all! "And the pennies, they all go To the grocer, and so do the dimes, But, O, for the little crepe meteor dress I saw down in Oppenheim's! "Broke, broke, broke, And such styles in the windows I see! What would I not give for the rest of the month For the salary of John D!" "Would you just as soon run up to the attic and get the blanket sheets out of the trunk?" asked her mother when she had finished her dinner. "I was cold in bed last night." Migwan went up promptly. She found the sheets and laid them out, and was then seized with a desire to rummage among the things in the trunk. She pawed over old valentines, bonnets of a by-gone day, lace mitts, and all the useless relics that are usually found in mother's trunk that had been _her_ mother's. Down at the bottom, however, there was a paper package of considerable size. Migwan opened it carefully and brought to view a dress made of white brocaded satin, yellowed with age. A sudden inspiration struck her, and, laying it carefully on top of the blankets, she ran downstairs to her mother. "What is this dress?" she asked eagerly. Mrs. Gardiner's face lighted tenderly when she saw it. "Why, that's my wedding dress," she said. "Oh," said Migwan in a disappointed tone, laying the dress down. "What did you want with it?" asked her mother. "Why, I thought if it was just a dress," replied Migwan, "I could make it over to wear to Gladys's party, but of course if it is your wedding dress you wouldn't care to have it changed." "I don't see why not," said Mrs. Gardiner. "It's no good as it is. I've never had it on since my wedding day. The material in that dress cost two dollars a yard and is better than what you get at that price nowadays." A sudden recollection illumined her face. "The night of the party is my wedding anniversary," she said. "There couldn't be a better occasion to wear it!" "Would you really be willing to have me cut it up?" asked Migwan rapturously clasping her hands. That afternoon her head really was so full of party plans that she forgot to get her lessons. The dress was laid out on the dining room table and examined as to its possibilities. "I don't know but what it would be best to dye it some pretty shade of green or blue," said Mrs. Gardiner, after thinking the matter over. "It is too yellow to use as it is, and there is no time to bleach it properly." So it was ripped up and dyed Nile green, a shade which was particularly becoming to Migwan. There was enough goods in the train to make the entire dress, so there was no need to do any piecing. Instead of avoiding the subject of the party, Migwan now joined happily in the discussions, and asked questions right and left about the best style in which to make her dress. She said nothing about the former function of that particular piece of goods. "Extravagant Migwan!" said Sahwah, "getting a satin dress for the party. My mother made me get silk poplin," Gladys's dress had arrived from New York, but she would not breathe a word in regard to it and the girls were wild with curiosity. Only Hinpoha was allowed to behold its glories, as a consolation for not being able to come to the party. Of course Hinpoha had been sworn to secrecy regarding it, but that did not keep her from rhapsodizing about it on general principles and pitching the girls' curiosity still higher. Now there was one girl who had been invited to the party who said very little about it. This was Emily Meeks, who sat beside Gladys in the session room. Emily had also entered the class this fall, but, unlike Gladys, her path had not been marked by triumphs. She was timid and retiring, and after being three months in the class was little better known than she had been at first. The truth was that Emily was an orphan, working her way through High School by taking care of the children of one of the professors after school hours, and had neither money nor time to spend in the company of her classmates. Gladys was sorry for her because she always looked so sad and lonely, and, thinking to give her one good time at least to treasure up in the memory of her school days, invited her to the party. Emily accepted the invitation gratefully. The night of the party came at last. Migwan's dress was finished and when she was finally arrayed in it she could compare favorably with the wealthiest girl in the crowd. She even wore her mother's high-heeled white satin wedding slippers with the little gold buckles, which fitted her perfectly. She skipped away happily with a good-bye kiss to her mother, who was tired out with her labors. Gladys had relented at the last minute, and promised the Winnebagos that if they would come a half hour early they might help her dress. That was because the Winnebagos were closer kin to her than the rest of the girls, and it would be a shame to have any one else see the dress first. So they all gathered in Gladys's room, where the dress lay on the bed. It was of light blue chiffon, exquisitely hand embroidered in dainty-colored butterflies. "Oh-h," they gasped, not daring to touch it. "There goes the bell!" exclaimed Gladys, "and I'm not even dressed. It's some of the boys, I hear their voices," she said presently, after listening for the sounds from below. "Run down, will you, girls, and entertain them until I come?" The Winnebagos departed to act the part of hostesses for their friend and Gladys got hurriedly into her dress. Before she was ready to go down she heard a large group of girls arriving, then another delegation of boys. The orchestra had begun playing. Gladys's foot tapped the floor in time to the music as she fastened up the dress. "Just wait until they see me dance the Butterfly Dance," she was thinking, with innocent pride. She clasped the butterflies on her shoulders in place and with a last survey of herself in the glass she set forth to greet her guests. When she reached the head of the stairs the bell rang again and she paused to see who it was. From the hall upstairs she could get a view of the entire reception room without being seen herself. The last comer was Emily Meeks, whom the maid was relieving of her wraps. She was all alone, apparently at a loss what to do in company, and--dressed in a white skirt and middy blouse! Gladys could see the coldly amused glances some of the girls were bestowing on her, and the indifference with which she was being treated by the boys. Why did she come dressed in such a fashion? Gladys felt a little indignant at her. Then she reflected that Emily probably had nothing else to wear, and, besides, it didn't make any difference if one was dressed so plainly; there were enough brightly dressed girls to make the brilliant scene that she loved. But at the same time a thought struck her which made her decidedly uncomfortable. It was, "How would you like to be the odd one in the crowd, and have all the others take notice of you because you didn't match your surroundings? To face a battery of eyes that were amused or scornful or pitying, according to the disposition of the owner of the eyes? To feel lonesome in the midst of a crowd and wish you were miles away?" With one foot on the top step Gladys hesitated. In her mind there rose a picture--the picture of her first night in camp when she had seen a Camp Fire Ceremonial for the first time, when she felt lonesome and far away and out of place. Again she saw the figures circling around the fire and heard the words of their song: "Whose hand above this blaze is lifted Shall be with magic touch engifted To warm the hearts of lonely mortals Who stand without their open portals. * * * * * "Whoso shall stand By this hearthstone Flame fanned, Shall never stand alone----" And later the flame had been given into her keeping, and she was supposed to possess the magic touch to warm lonely hearts. She glanced at herself in the long mirror in the hall, and was struck afresh by the beauty of the dress. The shade of blue was just the right one to bring out the tint of her eyes and the gold of her hair. From head to foot she was a vision of loveliness such as delighted her dainty nature. One interpretation of "Seek Beauty" was to always dress as beautifully and becomingly as possible. Her mother was impatiently waiting for her to come down and show herself. Then she looked over the railing again. Emily Meeks had withdrawn from the groups of laughing girls and boys and had crept into a corner by herself. The words of the Fire Song echoed again in her ears: "_Whoso shall stand By this hearthstone Flame fanned, Shall never stand alone!_" Gladys turned and fled to her room and resolutely began to unclasp the fasteners of her butterfly dress. A ripple of astonishment went through the rooms downstairs when she descended clad in a white linen skirt and a middy blouse. All the girls had heard about the dress from New York and were impatient to see it. Frances Jones and Caroline Davis stood right at the foot of the stairs waiting for Gladys to come down so they would not lose a detail of it, and Mrs. Evans was watching them to see what effect the butterfly dress would have on them. When Gladys came down dressed in a white skirt and middy she could not believe her eyes. She hurried forward and asked in a low voice what was the matter with the new dress. "Nothing, mother," said Gladys sweetly, with such a beautiful smile that her mother dropped back in perplexity. Gladys advanced straight to Emily Meeks and greeted her first of all, with a friendly cordiality that put her at her ease at once. Emily, who had been dismayed when she found herself so conspicuous among all the brightly gowned girls, was reassured when she saw Gladys similarly clad, and never found out about that quick change of costume that had taken place after her coming. The other girls of course understood this fine little act of courtesy, and shamefacedly began to include Emily in their conversation and merrymaking. So, if Mrs. Evans had counted on Gladys's dress that night to testify to the soundness of the Evans fortune she was destined to be disappointed; but on the other hand, if inborn courtesy is a sign of high birth and breeding, then Gladys had proven herself to be a princess of the royal blood. CHAPTER VII. HARD TIMES FOR POETS. True to her word, Nyoda brought it about that Migwan might use the typewriter which belonged to her landlady, and every evening after her lessons were learned she worked diligently to master the keys. In a week or so she managed to copy her story and sent it out again. It came back as promptly as before, with the same kind of rejection slip. She sent it to another magazine and began writing a new one. She worked feverishly, and far beyond her strength. The room where the typewriter was was directly below Nyoda's sitting room, and hearing the machine still rattling after ten o'clock one night she calmly walked in and pulled Migwan away from the keys. Migwan protested. "It's past closing time," said Nyoda firmly. "But I must finish this page," said Migwan. "You must nothing of the kind," said Nyoda, forcing Migwan into her coat. "'Hold on to Health' does not mean work yourself to death. Hereafter you stop writing at nine o'clock or I will take the typewriter away from you." "Oh, mayn't I stay until half past nine?" asked Migwan coaxingly. "No, ma'm," said Nyoda emphatically. "Nine o'clock is the time. That's a bargain. As long as you keep your part of it you may use the typewriter, but as soon as you step over the line I go back on my part. Now remember, 'No checkee, no shirtee.'" And Migwan perforce had to submit. The stories came back as fast as they were sent out, and Migwan began to have new sidelights on the charmed life supposedly led by authors and authoresses. The struggle to get along without getting into debt was becoming an acute one with the Gardiner family. Tom delivered papers during the week and helped out in a grocery store on Saturday, and his earnings helped slightly, but not much. Midwinter taxes on two houses ate up more than two weeks' income. With almost superhuman ingenuity Migwan apportioned their expenses so the money covered them. This she had to do practically alone, for her mother was as helpless before a column of figures as she would have been in a flood. Meat practically disappeared from the table. The big bag of nuts which Tom had gathered in the fall and which they had thought of only as a treat to pass around in the evening now became a prominent part of the menu. Dried peas and beans, boiled and made into soup, made their appearance on the table several times a week. Cornbread was another standby. Long years afterward Migwan would shudder at the sight of either bean soup or cornbread. She nearly wore out the cook book looking for new ways in which to serve potatoes, squash, turnips, onions and parsnips. She soon discovered that most provisions could be bought a few cents cheaper in the market than in the stores, so every Saturday afternoon she made a trip downtown with a big market basket and bought the week's supply of butter, eggs and vegetables. At first the necessity for spending carfare cut into her profits, but she got around this in an adroit way that promised well for her future ability to handle her affairs to the best advantage. She tried a little publicity work to swing things around to suit her purpose. She simply exalted the joys of marketing until the other Winnebagos were crazy to do the family marketing, too. As soon as Gladys caught the fever her object was accomplished, for Gladys took all the girls to market in her father's big car and brought all their purchases home. So Migwan accomplished her own ends and gave the Winnebagos a new opportunity to pursue knowledge at the same time. At Christmas time she had also fallen back on her ingenuity to produce the gifts she wished to give. There was no money at all to be spent for this purpose. Migwan took a careful stock of the resources of the house. The only promising thing she found was a leather skin which Hinpoha had given her the summer before for helping her write up the weekly Count in Hiawatha meter, which was outside of Hinpoha's range of talents. She considered the possibilities of that skin carefully. It must yield seven articles--a present for each of the Winnebagos. She decided on book covers. She wrote up seven different incidents of the summer camping trip in verse and copied them with the typewriter on rough yellow drawing paper, thinking to decorate each sheet. But Migwan had little artistic ability and soon saw that her decorations were not beautiful enough to adorn Christmas gifts. After spoiling several pages she gave up in disgust and threw the spoiled pages into the grate. The next morning she was cleaning out the grate and found the pieces of paper, only partially burned around the edges. She suddenly had an idea. The fire had burned a neat and artistic brown border around the writing. Why not burn all her sheets around the edges? Accordingly she set to work with a candle, and in a short time had her pages decorated in an odd and original way which could not fail to appeal to a Camp Fire Girl. Then she pasted the irregular pieces of yellow paper on straight pages of heavy brown paper, which brought out the burned edges beautifully. On the cover of each book she painted the symbol of the girl for whom it was intended, and on the inside of the back cover she painted her own. The Winnebagos were delighted with the books and took greater pride in showing them to their friends than they did their more expensive presents. That piece of ingenuity was bread cast on the water for Migwan. Nyoda came to her one day while she was working her head off on the typewriter. "Could the authoress be persuaded to desist from her labors for a while?" she asked, tiptoeing around the room in a ridiculous effort to be quiet, which convulsed Migwan. "Speak," said Migwan. "Your wish is already granted." Nyoda sat down. "You remember that cunning little book you made me for Christmas?" she asked. Migwan nodded. "Well," continued Nyoda, "I was showing it to Professor Green the other night and he was quite carried away with it. He has a quantity of notes he took on a hunting trip last fall and wants to know if you will make them into a book like that for him. There will be quite a bit of work connected with it, as all the material will have to be copied on the typewriter and arranged in good order, and he is willing to pay two and a half dollars for your services. Would you be willing to do it?" Would she be willing to do it? Would she see two and a half dollars lying in the street and not pick it up? The professor's notes were speedily secured and she set to work happily to transform them into an artistic record book. Her sister Betty grumbled a good deal these days because she was asked to do so much of the housework. Before Migwan took to typewriting at night Betty had been in the habit of staying out of the house until supper was ready, and then getting up from the table and going out again immediately, leaving Migwan to get supper and wash the dishes. It was easier to do the work herself than to argue with Betty about it, and if she appealed to her mother Mrs. Gardiner always said, "Just leave the dishes and I'll do them alone," so rather than have her mother do them Migwan generally washed and wiped them alone. But now that she was working so hard she needed the whole afternoon to get her lessons in, and insisted that Betty should help get supper and wipe dishes afterwards. For once Mrs. Gardiner took sides with Migwan and commanded Betty to do her share of the work. In consequence Betty developed a fierce resentment against Migwan's literary efforts, and taunted her continually with her failure to make anything of it. Since she had been working on Professor Green's book Migwan had done nothing at all in the house, and her usual Saturday work fell to Betty. Mrs. Gardiner was not feeling well of late, and could do no sweeping, so Betty found herself with a good day's work ahead of her one Saturday morning. Instead of playing that the dirt was a host of evil sprits, as Migwan did, which she could vanquish with the aid of her magic broom, Betty went at it sullenly and with a firm determination to do as little as possible and get through just as quickly as she could. She made up her mind that when Migwan went to market in the afternoon she would go along with her in the automobile. So by going hastily over the surface of things she got through by three o'clock, and when Gladys called for Migwan, Betty came running out too, with her coat and hat on, dressed in her best dress. "Where are you going?" asked Migwan. "Along with you," answered Betty. "I'm afraid we can't take you," said Migwan; "there isn't enough room." "Oh, I'll squeeze in," said Betty lightly. Now seven girls with market baskets in addition to the driver are somewhat of a crowd, and there really was no room for Betty in the machine. Besides, Betty was a great tease and the girls dreaded to have her with them, so no one said a word of encouragement. "You can't come, and that is all there is to it," said Migwan rather crossly. She was in a hurry to be off and get the marketing done. Betty stamped her foot, and snatching Migwan's market basket, she ran around the corner of the house with it. Migwan ran after her, and forcibly recovering the basket, hit Betty over the head with it several times. Then she jumped into the automobile and the driver started off, leaving Betty standing looking after the rapidly disappearing car and working herself into a terrible temper. She ran into the house and slammed the door with such a jar that the vases on the mantel rattled and threatened to fall down. She threw her hat and coat on the floor and stamped on them in a perfect fury. On the sitting room table lay the pages of the book which Migwan was making for Professor Green. The edges were already burned and they were ready to be pasted on the brown mat. Betty's eyes suddenly snapped when she saw them. Here was a fine chance to be revenged on Migwan. With an exclamation of triumph she seized the leaves, tore them in half and threw them into the grate, standing by until they were consumed to ashes, and laughing spitefully the while. Migwan came in briskly with her basket of provisions. Betty looked up slyly from the book she was reading, but said not a word. Migwan went into the sitting room and Betty heard her moving around. "Mother," called Migwan up the stairway, "where did you put the pages of my book? I left them on the sitting room table." "I didn't touch them," replied her mother; "I haven't been downstairs since you went out." "Betty," said Migwan sternly, "did you hide my work?" Betty laughed mockingly, but made no reply. "Make haste and give them back," commanded Migwan. "I have no time to waste." Betty still maintained a provoking silence and Migwan began looking through the table drawers for the missing leaves. Betty watched her with malicious glee. "You may look a while before you find them," she said meaningly; "they're hidden in a nice, safe place." Migwan stood and faced her, exasperated beyond endurance. "Betty Gardiner," she said angrily, "stop this nonsense at once and tell me where those pages are!" "Well, if you're really curious to know," answered Betty, smiling wickedly, "I'll tell you. They're _there_" and she pointed to the grate. "Betty," gasped Migwan, turning white, "you don't mean that you've burned them?" "That's what I do mean," said Betty coolly. "I'll show you if you can treat me like a baby." Migwan stood as if turned to stone. She could hardly believe that those fair pages, which represented so many hours of patient work, had been swept away in one moment of passion. Blindly she turned, and putting on her wraps, walked from the house without a word. It seemed to her that Fate had decreed that nothing which she undertook should succeed. Discouragement settled down on her like a black pall. With the ability to do things which should set her above her fellows, she was being relentlessly pursued by some strange fatality which marked every effort of hers a failure. She walked aimlessly up street after street without any idea where she was going, entirely oblivious to her surroundings. Wandering thus, she discovered that she was in the park, and had come out on the high bluff of the lake. She stood moodily looking down at the vast field of ice that such a short time before had been tossing waves. The lake, to all appearances, was frozen solid out as far as the one-mile crib. There was a curious stillness in the air, as when the clock had stopped, due to the absence of the noise made by the waves dashing on the rocks. Nothing had ever appealed so to Migwan as did the absolute silence and solitude of that frozen lake. Her bruised young spirit was weary of contact with people, and found balm in this icy desert where there was so sound of a human voice. As far as the eye could see there was not a living being in sight. A skating carnival in the other end of the park drew the attention of all who were abroad on this Saturday afternoon, and kept them away from the lake front. A desire to be enveloped in this solitude came over Migwan; to get her feet off the earth altogether. She half slid and half climbed down the cliff and walked out on the ice. Before her the grey horizon line stretched vast and unbroken, and she walked out toward it, lost in dreaming. Sometimes the floor under her feet was smooth and polished as a pane of glass, and sometimes it was rough and covered with hummocks where the water had frozen in the wind. In Migwan's fancy this was not the lake she was walking on; it was one of the great Swiss glaciers. Those grey clouds there, standing out against the black ones, they were the mountains, and she was taking her perilous journey through the mountain pass. The ice cracked slightly under her feet, but she did not notice. She was a Swiss guide, taking a party of tourists across the glacier. Underneath this floor of ice were the bodies of those travelers who had fallen into the crevices. She was telling the tourists the stories of the famous disasters and they were shuddering at her tale. The ice cracked again under her feet, but her mind, soaring in flights of fancy, took no heed. Her imagination took another turn. Now she was Mrs. Knollys, in the famous story, waiting for the body of her husband to be given up by the glacier. The long years of waiting passed and she stood at the foot of the glacier watching the miracle unfold before her eyes. The glacier was making queer cracking noises as it descended, and it sounded as though there was water underneath it. She could hear it lapping. C-R-A-C-K! A sound rang out on the still air that startled Migwan like the report of a pistol, followed immediately by another. She came to her senses with a rush. With hardly a moment's warning the ice on which she was standing broke away from the main mass and began to move. Struck motionless by fright, she had not the presence of mind to jump back to the larger field. A wave washed in between, separating her by several feet from the solid ice. The cake she was on began to heave and fall sickeningly. There was another cracking sound and the edge of the solid body of ice broke up into dozens of floating cakes, that ground and pounded each other as the waves set them in motion. Every drop of blood receded from Migwan's heart as she realized what had happened. She screamed aloud, once, and then knew the futility of it. Her voice could not reach to the shore. Lake and sky and horizon line now mocked her with their silence. The cake of ice, lurching and tipping, began floating out to sea. On this wintry afternoon Sahwah left the house in a far different mood from that which had carried Migwan blindly over the ground. Her eyes were sparkling with the joy of life and her cheeks were glowing in the cold. She wore a heavy reefer sweater and a knitted cap. Under her arm was her latest plaything--a pair of skis. By her side walked Dick Albright, one of the boys in her class, whom she considered especially good fun. Dick also had a pair of skis. The two of them were bound for the park to practice "making descents" from the hillsides. Sahwah was absolutely happy, and chattered like one of the sparrows that were flocking on the lawns and streets. Her chief interest in life just now was the school basketball team, of which she was a member. Soon, very soon, would come the big game with the Carnegie Mechanics, which would decide the championship of the city. Sahwah was the star forward for the Washington High team, and it was no secret that the winning of that game depended upon her to a great extent. Sahwah was the idol of the athletically inclined portion of the school. Dick thought there never was such a player--for a girl. Sahwah was full of basketball talk now, and made shrewd comments on the good and bad points of both teams, weighing the chances of each with great care. "Mechanicals' center is shorter than ours; we have the advantage there. One of their forwards is good and the other isn't, and one of our guards is weak. On the whole, we're about evenly matched." "Fine chance Mechanicals'll have with you in the game," said Dick. "The only thing I'm afraid of," said Sahwah, with a thoughtful pucker, "is Marie Lanning; you know, Joe Lanning's cousin. She's to guard me and she's a head taller." "Don't worry, you'll manage all right," said Dick. Sahwah laughed. It was pleasant to be looked up to as the hope of the school. "If you only don't get sick," said Dick. "Don't be afraid," answered Sahwah. "I won't get sick. But if I don't get my Physics notebook finished by the First of February I'll not be eligible for the game, and that's no joke. Fizzy said nobody would get a passing grade this month who didn't have that old notebook finished, and you know what that means." "There really isn't any danger of your not getting it in, is there?" asked Dick breathlessly. "Not if I keep at it," answered Sahwah, and Dick breathed easy again. To allow yourself to be declared ineligible for a game on account of studies when the school was depending on you to win that game would have been a crime too awful to contemplate. The snow on the hills in the park had a hard crust, which made it just right for skiing. Sahwah and Dick made one descent after another, sometimes tripping over the point of a ski and landing in a sprawling heap, but more often sailing down in perfect form with a breathless rush. "That last leap of yours was a beauty," said Sahwah admiringly. "I think I'm learning," said Dick modestly. "I 'stump' you to go down the big hill on the lake front," said Sahwah, her eyes sparkling with mischief. Dick knew what that particular hill was like, but, boylike, he could not refuse a dare given by a girl. "Do you want to see me do it?" he said stoutly. "All right, I will." "Don't," said Sahwah, frightened at what she had driven him to do; "you'll break your neck. I didn't really mean to dare you to do it." But Dick had made up his mind to go down that cliff hill just to show Sahwah that he could, and nothing could turn him aside now. "Come along," he said; "I can make it." And he started off toward the lake front at a brisk pace. But when he had reached the top of the hill in question he stood still and stared out over the lake. "Hello," he said in surprise, "there's somebody having trouble out there on the ice." Sahwah came and stood beside him, shading her eyes with her hand to see what was happening. At that distance she did not recognize Migwan. "The ice is breaking!" cried Dick, who was far-sighted and saw the girl on the floating ice cake. Like a whirlwind he sped down the hillside, dropped over the edge of the cliff like a plummet and shot nearly a hundred feet out over the glassy surface of the lake. Without pausing an instant Sahwah was after him. She had a dizzy sensation of falling off the earth when she made the jump from the hillside, which was a greater distance than she had ever dropped before, but it was over so quickly that she had no time to lose her breath before she was on solid ground again and taking the long slide over the lake. In a short time they reached the edge of the broken ice. "Migwan!" gasped Sahwah when she saw who the girl on the floating cake was. They could not get very near her, as the edge of the solid mass was continually breaking away, and there was a strip of moving pieces between them and her. "Fasten the skis together and make a long pole," said Sahwah, "and then she can take hold of one end of it and we can pull her toward us," said Sahwah. "Good idea," said Dick, and proceeded to lash the long strips together with the straps, aided by sundry strings and handkerchiefs. Then there were several moments of suspense until Migwan came within reach of the pole. She simply had to wait until she floated near enough to grasp it, which the perverse ice cake seemed to have no intention of doing. The right combination of wind and wave came at last, however, and drove her in toward the shore. She was still beyond the end of the pole. "Jump onto the next cake," called Sahwah. Migwan obeyed in fear and trembling. It took still another jump before she could reach the lifesaver. She was now separated from the broken mass at the edge of the solid ice by about six feet. With Migwan clinging fast to the pole Dick began to pull in gently, so as not to pull her off the ice, and the cake began to move across this open space until it was close beside the nearer mass of broken pieces. Then, supported by the improvised hand rail, Migwan leaped from one cake to the next, and so made her way back to the solid part. It was an exciting process, for the pieces tipped and heaved when she stepped on them, and bobbed up and down, and some turned over just as her feet left them. "Eliza crossing the ice," said Sahwah, giggling nervously. Migwan sank down exhausted when she felt the solid mass under her feet and knew that the danger was over. She was chilled through and through, and more than one wave had splashed over the floating ice while she was on it and soaked her shoes and stockings. Sahwah took this in at a glance. "Get up," she said sharply, "and run. Run all the way home if you don't want to get pneumonia. It's your only chance." Taking hold of her hands, Dick and Sahwah ran along beside her, making her keep up the pace when she pleaded fatigue. More dead than alive she reached home, but warm from head to foot. Sahwah rolled her in hot blankets and administered hot drinks with a practiced hand. Neither Mrs. Gardiner nor Betty were at home. Migwan soon dropped off to sleep, and woke feeling entirely well. Thanks to Sahwah's taking her in hand she emerged from the experience without even a sign of a cold. With heroic patience and courage she began again the weary task of typing and burning all the pages of Professor Green's book and finished it this time without mishap. The money she received for it all went into the family purse. Not a cent did she spend on herself. Not long after this Migwan had a taste of fame. She had a poem printed in the paper! It happened in this way. At the Sunbeam Nursery one morning Nyoda saw her surrounded by a group of breathlessly listening children and joined the circle to hear the story Migwan was telling. She had apparently just finished, and the childish voices were calling out from all sides, "Tell it again!" Nyoda listened with interest as Migwan, with a solemn expression and impressive voice, recited the tragic tale of the "Goop Who Wouldn't Wash": Gunther Augustus Agricola Gunn, He was a Goop if there ever was one! Slapped his small sister whene'er he could reach her, Muddied the carpet, made mouths at the preacher, Talked back to his mother whenever she chid, Always did otherwise than he was bid; Gunther Augustus Agricola Gunn, Manners he certainly had not a one! O bad little Goops, wheresoe'er you may be, Take heed what befell young Agricola G! For Gunther Augustus (unlike you, I hope), Had an inborn aversion to water and soap; He fought when they washed him, he squirmed and he twisted, He shrieked, scratched and wriggled until they desisted; He would not be combed--it was no use to try-- O he was a Goop, they could all testify! So Gunther went dirty--unwashed and uncombed, With hands black as pitch through the garden he roamed; When suddenly a monstrous black shadow fell o'er him, And the Woman Who Scrubs Dirty Goops stood before him! Her waist was a washcloth, her skirt was a towel, She looked down at him with a horrible scowl; One hand was a brush and the other a comb, Her forehead was soap and her pompadour foam! Her foot was a shoebrush, and on it did grow A shiny steel nail file in place of a toe! Gunther Augustus Agricola Gunn, He had a fright if he ever had one! In a twinkling she seized him--Oh, how he did shriek! And threw him headforemost right into the creek! Rubbed soap in his eyes (Dirty Goops, O beware!), And in combing the snarls pulled out handfuls of hair! Scrubbed the skin off his nose, brushed his teeth till they bled, Tweaked his ears, rapped his knuckles, and gleefully said, "Gunther Augustus Agricola Gunn, There'll be a difference when I get done!" After that young Agricola strove hard to see How very, how heavenly good he could be! Wiped his feet at the door, tipped his hat to the preacher, Caressed his small sister whene'er he could reach her! Stood still while they washed him and combed out his hair, His garments he folded and laid on a chair! Gunter Augustus Agricola Gunn, He was a saint if there ever was one! "Where did you get that poem?" asked Nyoda. "I wrote it myself," answered Migwan. "Good work!" said Nyoda; "will you give me a copy?" Nyoda showed the poem to Professor Green and Professor Green showed it to a friend who was column editor of one of the big dailies, and one fine morning the poem appeared in the paper, with Migwan's full name and address at the bottom, "Elsie Gardiner, Adams Ave." The Gardiners did not happen to take that particular paper and Migwan knew nothing of it until she reached school and was congratulated on all sides. Professor Green, who had taken a great interest in Migwan since she had worked up his hunting notes in such a striking style, and regarded her as his special protégé, was anxious to have the whole school know what a gifted girl she was. He had a conference with the principal, and as a result Migwan was asked to read her poem at the rhetorical exercises in the auditorium that day. When she finished the applause was deafening, and with blushing cheeks and downcast eyes she ran from the stage. There were distinguished visitors at school that day, representatives of a national organization who had come to address the scholars, and they came up to Migwan after she had read her poem to be introduced and offer congratulations. Teachers stopped her in the hall to tell her how bright she was, and the other pupils regarded her with great respect. Migwan was the lion of the hour. She hurried home on flying feet and danced into the house waving the paper. "Oh, mother," she called, as soon as she was inside the door, "guess what I've got to show you!" Her mother was not in the kitchen and she ran through the house looking for her. "Oh, mother," she called, "oh, moth--why, what's the matter?" she asked, stopping in surprise in the sitting room door. Mrs. Gardiner lay on the couch, and beside her sat the family doctor. Betty stood by looking very much frightened. Mrs. Gardiner looked up as Migwan came in. "It's nothing," she said, trying to speak lightly; "just a little spell." "Mother has to go to the hospital," said Betty in a scared voice. "Just a little operation," said Mrs. Gardiner hastily, as Migwan looked ready to drop. "Nothing serious--very." Migwan's hour of triumph was completely forgotten in the anxiety of the next few days. Her mother rallied slowly from the operation, and it looked as though she would have to remain in the hospital a long time. It was impossible to meet this added expense from their little income, and Migwan, setting her teeth bravely, drew the remainder of her college money from the bank to pay the hospital and surgeon's bills. Then she set to work with redoubled zeal to write something which would sell. So far everything she had sent out had come back promptly. For a long time certain advertisements in the magazines had been holding her attention. They read something like this: "Write Moving Picture Plays. Bring $50 to $100 each. We teach you how by an infallible method. Anybody can do it. Full particulars sent for a postage stamp." Migwan had seen quite a few picture plays, many of them miserably poor, and felt that she could write better ones than some, or at least just as good. She wrote to the address given in one of the advertisements, asking for "full particulars." Back came a letter couched in the most glowing terms, which Migwan was not experienced enough to recognize as a multigraphed copy, which stated that the writer had noticed in her letter of inquiry a literary ability well worth cultivating, and he would feel himself highly honored to be allowed to teach her to write moving picture plays, a field in which she would speedily gain fame and fortune. He would throw open the gates of success for her for the nominal fee of thirty dollars, with five dollars extra for "stationery, etc." His regular fee was thirty-five dollars, but it was not often that he came across so much ability as she had, and he considered the pleasure he would derive from the correspondence course worth five dollars to him. Would she not send the first payment of five dollars by return mail so that his enjoyment might begin as soon as possible? Migwan read the letter through with a beating heart until she came to the price, when her heart sank into her shoes. To pay thirty dollars was entirely out of the question. She wrote to several more advertisements and received much the same answer from all of them. There was only one which she could consider at all. This one offered no correspondence course, but advertised a book giving all the details of scenario writing, "history of the picture play, form, where to sell your plays, etc., all in one comprehensive volume." The price of the book was three dollars. Migwan hesitated a long time over this last one, but the subtle language of the advertisement drew her back again and again like a magnet, and finally overcame her doubts. "It will pay for itself many times when I have learned to write plays," she reflected. So she took three precious dollars from the housekeeping money and sent for the book. She did not ask Nyoda's advice this time; somehow she shrank from telling her about it. In three days the book arrived. The "comprehensive volume" was a paper-covered pamphlet containing exactly twenty-nine pages. It could not have sold for more than ten or fifteen cents in a book store. The first five pages were devoted to a description of the phenomenal sale of the first edition of the book, two more enlarged upon the "unfillable demand" of the motion picture companies for scenarios, while the remainder of the book was given over to the "technique" of scenario writing. Migwan read it through eagerly, and did gain an idea of the form in which a play should be cast, although the information was meagre enough. Three dollars was an outrageous price to pay for the book, thought Migwan, but she comforted herself with the thought that by means of it she would soon lift the family out of their difficulties. She set to work with a cheery heart. Writing picture plays was easier than writing stories on account of the skeleton form in which they were cast, which made it unnecessary to strive for excellence of literary style. She finished the first one in two nights and sent it off with high hopes. The company she sent it to was listed in the book as "greatly in need of one-reel scenarios, and taking about everything sent to them." She was filled with a secret elation and went about the house singing like a lark, until Betty, who had been moping like an owl since her mother went to the hospital, was quite cheered up. "What are you so happy about?" she asked curiously. "You act as if somebody had left you a fortune." "Maybe they have," replied Migwan mysteriously; "wait and see!" Her joy was short-lived, however, for the play came back even more promptly than the stories had. Undaunted, she sent it out again and again. The reasons given for rejection would have been amusing if Migwan had not felt so disappointed. One said there was insufficient plot; one said the plot was too complicated; one said it was too long for a one-reel, and the next said it was too short even for a split-reel. Two places kept the return postage she had enclosed and sent the manuscript back collect. Scenario writing became a rather expensive amusement, instead of a bringer of fortune. In spite of all this, she kept on writing scenarios, for the fascination of the game had her in its grip, and she would never be satisfied until she succeeded. Lessons were thrust into the background of her mind by the throng of "scene-plots," "leaders," "bust-scenes," "inserts," "synopses," etc., that flashed through her head continually. To write steadily night after night, after the lessons had been gotten out of the way, was a great tax on her young strength. Nyoda was inflexible about her stopping typewriting at nine o'clock, but she went home and wrote by hand until midnight. Nyoda was over at the house one afternoon when Migwan was settling down to get her lessons, and saw her take a dose from a phial. "What are you taking medicine for?" she asked. "Oh, this is just something to tone me up," replied Migwan. "What is it?" insisted Nyoda. "It's strychnine," said Migwan. "Strychnine!" said Nyoda in a horrified voice. "Who taught you to take strychnine as a stimulant?" "Mabel Collins did," answered Migwan. "She said she always took it when she had a dance on for every night in the week and couldn't keep up any other way, and it made her feel fine." Mabel Collins belonged to what the class called the "fast bunch." "I'll have a talk with Mabel Collins," said Nyoda with a resolute gleam in her eye. "And, remember, no more of this 'tonic' for you. I knew girls in college who took strychnine to keep themselves going through examinations or other occasions of great physical strain, and they have suffered for it ever since. If you are doing so much that you can't 'keep up' any other way than by taking powerful medicines, it is time you 'kept down.' Fresh air and regular sleep are all the tonic you need. You stay away from that typewriter for a whole week and go to bed at nine o'clock every night. I'm coming down to tuck you in. Now remember!" And with this solemn warning Nyoda left her. CHAPTER VIII. SAHWAH MAKES A BASKET. The game between the Washington High School and the Carnegie Mechanics Institute, which was to decide the girls' basketball championship of the city, was scheduled for the 15th of February. Up until this year Washington High had never come within sight of the championship. Then this season something had happened to the Varsity team which had made it a power to be reckoned with among the schools of the city. That something was Sahwah. Thanks to her playing, Washington High had not lost a single game so far. Her being put on the team was purely due to chance. Sahwah was a Junior and the Varsity team were all Seniors. She was a member of the "scrub" or practice team and an ardent devotee of the sport. During one of the early games of the season Sahwah was sitting on the side lines attentively watching every bit of play. The game was going against the Washington, due to the fact that their forwards were too slow to break through the guarding of the rival team. Sahwah saw the weakness and tingled with a desire to get into the game and do some speed work. As by a miracle the chance was given her. One of the forwards strained her finger slightly and was taken from the game. Her substitute, who had been sitting next to Sahwah, had left her seat and gone to the other end of the gymnasium. The instructor, who was acting as referee, in her excitement mistook Sahwah for the substitute and called her out on the floor. Sahwah wondered but obeyed instantly and went into the game as forward. Then the spectators began to sit up and take notice. Sahwah had not been two minutes on the floor when she made a basket right between the arms of the tall guard. The ripple of surprise had hardly died away before she had made another. Then the baskets followed thick and fast. In five minutes of play she had tied the score. The guards could hardly believe their eyes when they saw this lithe girl slipping like an eel through their defense and caging the ball with a sure hand every time. The game ended with an overwhelming victory for the Washingtons and there was a new star forward on the horizon. Sahwah was changed from the practice team to the Varsity. From that time forward Washington High forged steadily ahead in the race for the championship and as yet had no defeat on its record. However, Washington had a formidable rival in the Carnegie Mechanics Institute, which was also undefeated so far. The Mechanicals were slightly older girls and were known as a whirlwind team. Sahwah, who foresaw long ago that the supreme struggle would be between the Washingtons and the Mechanicals, attended the games played by the Mechanicals whenever she could and studied their style of playing. "Star players, every one," was her deduction, "but weak on team work." Sahwah was not so dazzled by her own excellence as a player that she could not recognize greatness in a rival, and she readily admitted that one of the girls who guarded for the Mechanicals was the best guard she had ever seen. This was Marie Lanning, whose cousin Joe was in Sahwah's class at Washington High. Sahwah knew instinctively that when the struggle came she would go up against this girl. The game would really be between these two. Washington's hope lay in Sahwah's ability to make baskets, and the hope of the Mechanicals was Marie's ability to keep her from making them. So she studied Marie's guarding until she knew the places where she could break through. Marie Lanning also knew that it was Sahwah she would have to deal with. But there was a difference in the attitude of the girls toward each other. Sahwah regarded Marie as her opponent, but she respected her prowess. She had no personal resentment against Marie for being a good guard; she looked upon her as an enemy merely because she belonged to a rival school. Marie on the other hand actually hated Sahwah. Before Sahwah appeared on the scene she had been the greatest player in the Athletic Association, the heroine of every game. She was pointed out everywhere she went as "Marie Lanning, the basketball player." Now some of her glory was dimmed, for another star had risen, Sarah Ann Brewster, the whirlwind forward of the Washington High team, was threatening to overshadow her. It was a distinctly personal matter with her. Sahwah wanted to win that game so her school would have the championship; Marie wanted to win it for her own glory. She did not really believe that Sahwah was as great as she was made out. It was only because she had never run against a great guard that she had been able to roll up the score for Washington so many times. Well, she would find out a thing or two when she played the Mechanicals, Marie reflected complacently. She had never seen Sahwah play, and if any one had suggested that it would be a good thing to watch her tactics she would have been very scornful. She was confident in her own powers. Then there came a rather important game of Washington High's on a night when Marie was visiting her cousin Joe. He had tickets for the game and took her along. Now for the first time she beheld her foe. After watching Sahwah's marvelous shots at the basket and the confusion of the girl who was guarding her, Marie began to feel uneasy. It now seemed to her that Sahwah's powers had been underestimated in the reports instead of over-estimated. The game ended just as all the others had done, with a great score for Washington High and Sahwah the idol of the hour. Marie looked on with a slight sneer when Sahwah, after the game was over, frankly congratulated the losing team on their playing, which had been pretty good throughout. "Do you know," said Sahwah straightforwardly, "that if you had had a little better team work, I don't believe we could have beaten you." "Any day we could have won with you in the game," said one of the losers, "the way you can shoot that ball into the basket." Without being at all puffed up by this compliment, Sahwah proceeded to make her point. "My throwing the ball into the basket wasn't what won the game," she said simply, "it was the fact that I had it to throw. It's all due to the girls who see that I get it. It's team work that wins every time and not individual starring." Thus was Sahwah in the habit of disclaiming the credit of victory. Joe brought up Marie Lanning and introduced her. "So this is my deadly enemy," said Sahwah pleasantly. Marie acknowledged the introduction politely, but while her lips smiled her eyes had a steely glitter. Sahwah was surrounded by a crowd of admiring friends at this time and there was no chance for further conversation, and she did not become aware of Marie's animosity. "We'll meet again," Sahwah said meaningly, with a pleasant laugh, as Marie and Joe turned to go. "That is," she added with a humorous twinkle, "if I don't go down in my studies and get myself debarred from playing." "Fine chance of your going down," said Joe. "Oh, I don't know," laughed Sahwah; "it all depends on whether I get my Physics notebook in by the First." A shout of laughter greeted this remark. The idea of Sahwah's getting herself debarred on account of her studies was too funny for words. "Well," said Joe to Marie when they were outside the building, "that's the girl you're going to have to play against. What do you think of her?" In his heart Joe thought that his cousin Marie would have no trouble holding Sahwah down. "She's a great deal faster than I thought," said Marie with a thoughtful frown. "But you can beat her, can't you?" asked Joe anxiously. "You've got to. I've staked my whole winter's allowance that you would win the championship." "I didn't know that you were in the habit of betting," said Marie a little disdainfully. "I never did before," said Joe, "but some of the fellows were saying that nobody could hold out against that Brewster girl and I said I bet my cousin could, and so we talked back and forth until I offered to bet real money on you." Marie was flattered at this, as her kind would be. "I can beat her," she said, but there was fear in her heart. "Oh, if she would only be debarred from the game!" she exclaimed eagerly. But Sahwah had no intentions of being put out on that score. She applied herself assiduously to the making of the notebook that was required as the resume of the half year's work. She finished it a whole day ahead of time, and then, Sahwah-like, was so pleased with herself that she decided to celebrate the event. "Come over to the house to-night," she said to various of her girl and boy friends in school that day. "I'm entertaining in honor of my Physics notebook!" When the guests arrived the notebook was enthroned on a gilded easel on the parlor table and decorated with a wreath of flowers and a card bearing the inscription "Endlich!" The very ridiculousness of the whole affair was enough to make every one have a good time. The Winnebagos were there, and some of their brothers and cousins, and Dick Albright and Joe Lanning and several more boys from the class. Naturally much of the conversation turned on the coming game, and Sahwah was solemnly assured that she would forfeit their friendship forever if she did not win the championship for the school. School spirit ran high and songs and yells were practiced until the neighbors groaned. Joe Lanning joined in the yells with as much vigor as any. No one knew that he was secretly on the side of the Mechanicals. Sahwah's notebook came in for inspection and much admiration, for she was good at Physics and her drawings were to be envied. "I see you have a list of all the problems the class has done this year," said Dick Albright, looking through the notebook. "Do you mind if I copy them from your list? I lost the one Fizzy gave us in class and it'll take me all night to pick them out from the ones in the book." "Certainly, you may," said Sahwah cordially. "Take it along with you and bring it to school in the morning. It'll be all right as long as I get it in by that time. But don't forget it, whatever you do, unless you want to see me put out of the game." Joe Lanning wished fervently that Dick would forget to bring it. The party broke up and the boys and girls prepared to depart. "What car do you take, Dick?" asked one of the boys. "I don't think I'll take any," said Dick. "I'll just run around the corner with this lady," he said, indicating Migwan, "and then I'll walk the rest of the way." "Isn't it pretty far?" asked some one else. "Not the way I go," answered Dick. "I take the short cut through the railway tunnel." Joe Lanning's eyes gleamed suddenly. The good-nights were all said and Sahwah shut the door and set the furniture straight before she went to bed. "Didn't your friends stay rather late?" asked her mother from upstairs. "No," said Sahwah, "I don't think so, it's only--why, the clock has stopped," she finished after a look at the mantel, "I don't know what time it is." "Get the time from the telephone operator," said her mother, "and set the clock." Sahwah picked up the receiver. There was a strange buzzing noise on the wire. "Zig-a-zig, ziz-zig-zig-a-zig, zig-g-g, zig-g-g, zig-g-g-g." Puzzled at first, she soon recognized what it was. It was the sound of Joe Lanning's wireless. Joe lived directly back of Sahwah on the next street, and the aerial of his wireless apparatus was fastened to the telephone pole in the Brewsters' yard. Joe was "sending," and the vibrations were being picked up by the telephone wires and carried to her ear when she had the receiver down. Sahwah understood the wireless code the boys used, and, in fact, had both sent and received messages. She knew it was Joe's custom to listen for the time every night as it was flashed out from the station at Arlington, and then send it to his friend Abraham Goldstein, a young Jewish lad in the class, who also had a wireless. Then the two would send each other messages and verify them the next day. "Oh, what fun," thought Sahwah; "I can get Arlington time to-night." She asked the operator to look up a new number for her to keep her off the line and then got out paper and pencil to take down the message as it went out. As she deciphered it she gasped in astonishment. She had expected a message something on this order: "Hello, Abraham--how are you?--Arlington says ten bells--How's the weather in your neck of the woods?" Instead the words were entirely different. She could not believe her eyes as she made them out. "Albright going through railway tunnel--hold him up--get notebook away--keep Brewster out of game." Her senses reeled as she understood the meaning of the message. That Joe was plotting against her when he pretended to be a friend cut her to the quick. For a moment her lip quivered; then her nature asserted itself. There was a thing to do and she must do it. Dick must be kept from going through the tunnel. Turning out the lights downstairs, she crept noiselessly out of the house, found her brother's bicycle on the porch and pedaled off after Dick. She knew exactly the way he would take. From Migwan's house he would go up Adams to Locust Street and from there to ----th Avenue, and keep on going until he came to the dark tunnel. Sahwah nearly burst with indignation when she thought of Joe's cowardly conduct. He was calmly getting Abraham to do the dirty work for him, so he would never be suspected of having anything to do with it in case Dick recognized Abraham. She could see how the thing would work out. Abraham lived just the other side of the tunnel. All he would have to do would be to stand in the shadow of the tunnel, jump out on Dick as he came through, seize the notebook from his hand, and run away before Dick knew what had happened. There would be no need of fighting or hurting him. But Joe's end would be accomplished and Washington would lose the game. The fact that he was a traitor to the school hurt Sahwah ten times worse than the injury he was trying to do her. "Even if his cousin _is_ on the other side, he belongs to Washington," she repeated over and over to herself. Down Locust Street she flew and along deserted ----th Avenue. It was bitterly cold riding, but she took no notice. Far ahead of her she could see Dick walking briskly toward the fatal tunnel. Pedaling for dear life she caught up with him when he was still some distance from it. "Whatever is the matter?" he asked, startled, as she flung herself breathless from the wheel beside him. "The notebook," she said. "Joe's trying to get it away from you. He's got Abraham Goldstein waiting in the tunnel to snatch it as you go by." Dick gave vent to a long whistle of astonishment. "Of all the underhand tricks!" he exclaimed when the full significance of Joe's act was borne in on him. He was stupefied to think that Joe was a traitor to the school. "That'll fix his chances of getting into the _Thessalonians_," he said vehemently. "His name is coming up next week to be voted on. Just wait until I tell what I know about him!" Dick retraced his steps and took Sahwah home, where he left the precious notebook in her keeping to prevent any possibility of its getting lost before she could hand it in, and then took the streetcar and rode home the roundabout way, arriving there in safety. Abraham waited out in the cold tunnel for several hours and then gave it up and went home, feeling decidedly out of temper with Joe Lanning and his intrigues. The game was held in the Washington High gymnasium. The gallery and all available floor space were packed long before the commencement of the game. The Carnegie Mechanics came out in a body to witness their team win the championship. Joe Lanning was there, entirely composed, though inwardly raging at the failure of his trick, which he attributed to Dick's changing his mind about walking home, never dreaming that Sahwah had intercepted his message and his treachery was known. Although his sympathies were with the Mechanicals he stood with the Washingtons and yelled their yells as loudly as any. The Mechanicals, as the visiting, team, came out on the floor first and had the first practice. They were fine looking girls, every one of them, with their dazzling white middies and blue ties. They were greeted with a ringing cheer from their rooters: "_Me_-chan-i, _Me_-chan-i, _Me_-chan-i-can-can, _Me_-chan-i-can-can, Me-chan-i-cals!" Marie Lanning held up her head and looked self-conscious when she heard the familiar yell thundered at the team. It was meant mostly for herself, she was sure. She smiled proudly and graciously in the direction whence the yell had proceeded. Quiet had hardly fallen on the crowd when there was heard the sound of singing from the upper end of the gymnasium where the door to the dressing rooms was. The tune was "Old Black Joe": "We're coming, we're coming, Star players, every one, We're going to win the championship For Washington!" Washington's rooters caught up the yell and made the roof ring. Sahwah's heart swelled when she heard it, not with the feeling that they were singing to her, but with pride because she belonged to a team which called out this expression of loyalty. Then came individual cheers, with her name at the head of the list. "One, two, _three_, four, Who are _we_ for? BREWSTER!" Not even then was Sahwah puffed up. The Washington High team wore black bloomers and red ties; they were a brilliant sight as they marched in with their hands on each other's shoulders. The teams took their places; a hush fell on the crowd; the referee's whistle sounded; the ball went up. Washington's center knocked it toward her basket; Sahwah, darting out from under the basket, caught it, sent it flying back to center; center threw it to the other Washington forward; Sahwah jumped directly behind Marie Lanning, received the ball from the other forward and shot the basket. Time, one minute from the sending up of the ball. The Washington team machine was working splendidly. A deafening roar greeted the first score. Marie bit her lip angrily. She had vowed to keep Washington from scoring. But Sahwah had not watched Marie play for nothing. She saw that she put up a wonderful guard when confronting her girl, but she was not always quick in turning around. Sahwah's plan of action was to keep away from her as much as possible and to get hold of the ball when she was behind Marie's back and throw for the basket before Marie could turn around. Guarding is only effective when you have some one to guard and Marie discovered she was really playing a game of tag with Sahwah, who was continually running away from her. With the wonderful team work which the Washington team had developed and their perfect understanding of each other's movements, Sahwah could get widely separated from Marie and be sure to receive the ball at just the right moment to throw a basket. Twice she made it; three times; four times. Pandemonium reigned. "Guard her, Marie!" shrieked the Mechanicals. The score stood 8 to in favor of Washington at the end of the first five minutes. Marie was white with rage. Was this a girl she was trying to guard, or was it an eel? She would get her cornered with the ball, Sahwah would measure Marie's height with her eye, locate the basket with a brief glance, stiffen her muscles for a jump, and then as Marie stood ready to beat down the ball, as it rose in the air, Sahwah would suddenly relax, twist into some inconceivable position, shoot the ball low to center and be a dozen feet away before Marie could get her hands down from the air. "B-R-E, DOUBLE-U, S, T-E-R, BREWSTER!" sang the Washington rooters in ecstasy. It was maddening. There was no hope of keeping her from scoring. The time came when Sahwah and Marie both had their hands on the ball at the same time and it called for a toss-up. As the ball rose in the air Marie struck out as if to send it flying to center, but instead of that, her hand, clenched, with a heavy ring on one finger, struck Sahwah full on the nose. It was purely accidental, as every one could see. Sahwah staggered back dizzily, seeing stars. Her nose began to bleed furiously. She was taken from the game and her substitute put in. A groan went up from the Washington students as she was led out, followed by a suppressed cheer from the Carnegie Mechanics. Marie met Joe's eye with a triumphant gleam in her own. Sahwah was beside herself at the thing which had happened to her. The game and the championship were lost to Washington. The hope of the team was gone. The girl who took her place was far inferior, both in skill in throwing the ball and in tactics. She could not make a single basket. The score rolled up on the Mechanicals' side; now it was tied. Sahwah, trying to stanch the blood that flowed in a steady stream, heard the roar that followed the tying of the score and ground her teeth in misery. The Mechanicals were scoring steadily now. The first half ended 12 to 8 in their favor. But if Marie had expected to be the heroine of the game now that Sahwah was out of it she was disappointed. The girl who had taken Sahwah's place required no skilful guarding; she would not have made any baskets anyhow, and there was no chance for a brilliant display of Marie's powers. Marie stood still on the floor after the first half ended, listening to the cheers and expecting her name to be shouted above the rest, but nothing like that happened. The yells were for the team in general, while the Washingtons, loyal to Sahwah to the last, cheered her to the echo. The noise penetrated to the dressing room where she lay on a mat: "Ach du lieber lieber, Ach du lieber lieber, BREWSTER! No, ja, bum bum! Ach du lieber lieber, Ach du lieber lieber, BREWSTER! No, ja!" Sahwah raised her head. Another cheer rent the air: "B-R-E, DOUBLE-U, S, T-E-R, BREWSTER!" Sahwah sat up. "BREWSTER! BREWSTER! WE WANT BREWSTER!" thundered the gallery. Sahwah sprang to her feet. Like a knight of old, who, expiring on the battlefield, heard the voice of his lady love and recovered miraculously, Sahwah regained her strength with a rush when she heard the voice of her beloved school calling her. When the teams came out for the second half Sahwah came out with them. The gallery rocked with the joy of the Washingtonians. The whistle sounded; the ball went up; the machine was in working order again. Washington was jubilant; Carnegie Mechanics was equally confident now that it was in the lead. Sahwah played like a whirlwind. She shot the ball into the basket right through Marie's hands. Once! Twice! The score was again tied. "12 to 12," shouted the scorekeeper through her megaphone. Like the roar of the waves of the sea rose the yell of the Washingtonians: "Who tied the score when the score was rolling? Who tied the score when the score was rolling? Brewster, yes? Well, I guess! _She_ tied the score when the score was rolling!" Then Sahwah's luck turned and she could make no more baskets. She began to feel weak again and fumbled the ball more than once. Marie laughed sneeringly when Sahwah failed to score on a foul. The game was drawing to a close. "Two more minutes to play!" called the referee. The ball was under the Mechanicals' basket. The Washington guards got possession of it and passed it forward to Sahwah, who threw for the basket and missed. The ball came down right in the hands of Marie. The Mechanicals were excellently placed to pass it by several stages down to their basket. Instead of throwing it to center, however, she tried to make a grandstand play and threw it the entire length of the gymnasium to the waiting forward. It fell short and there was a wild scramble to secure it. Washington got it. "One minute to play!" called the referee. A score must be made now by one side or the other or the game would end in a tie. The Washington guard located Sahwah. The Mechanicals closed in around her so that she could not get away by herself. Marie towered over her triumphantly. At last had come the chance to use her famous method of guarding. The crowd in the gallery leaned forward, tense and silent. The Mechanicals' forwards ran back under their basket to be in position to throw the ball in when Marie should send it down to them. The Washington guard threw the ball toward the massed group in the center of the floor. As a tiger leaps to its prey, Sahwah, with a mighty spring, jumped high in the air and caught the ball over the heads of the blocking guards. Before the Mechanicals had recovered from their surprise she sent it whirling toward the distant basket. It rolled around the rim, hesitated for one breathless instant and then dropped neatly through the netting. It was a record throw from the field. "Time's up," called the referee. "Score, 14 to 12 in favor of Washington High," shouted the scorekeeper. The pent-up emotions of the Washington rooters found vent in a prolonged cheer; then the crowd surged across the floor and surrounded Sahwah, and she was borne in triumph from the gymnasium. Joe Lanning and his cousin Marie, avoiding the merry throng, left the building with long faces and never a word to say. CHAPTER IX. THE THESSALONIAN PLAY. It was the custom each year for the Thessalonians, the Boys' Literary Society of Washington High School, to give a play in the school auditorium. This year the play was to be a translation of Briand's four-act drama, "Marie Latour." After a careful consideration of the talents of their various girl friends, Gladys was asked to play the leading role and Sahwah was also given a part in the cast. It was the play where the unfortunate Marie Latour, pursued by enemies, hides her child in a hollow statue of Joan of Arc. In order to produce the piece a large statue of the Maid of Orleans was made to order. It was constructed of some inexpensive composition and painted to look like bronze. In the one scene a halo appears around the head of the Maid while she is sheltering the child. This effect was produced by a circle of tiny lights worked by a storage battery inside the statue. For the sake of convenience in installing the electric apparatus and the wiring, one half of the skirt--it was the statue representing Joan in woman's clothes, not the one in armor--was made in the form of a door, which opened on hinges. The base of the statue was of wood. It was not finished until the day before the play and was used for the first time at the dress rehearsal, when it was left standing on the stage. Joe Lanning was in rather a dark mood these days. In the first place, he had lost his winter's allowance of pocket money by staking it on the Washington-Carnegie Mechanics game. After this he was treated coolly by a large number of his classmates, and, not knowing that the story of his treachery was being privately circulated around the school, he could not guess the reason. The keenest desire of his life was to be made a member of the Thessalonian Literary Society, and if he had kept his record unsmirched he would have been taken in at the February election. He confidently expected to be elected, and was already planning in his mind the things he would do and say at the meetings, and what girls he would take to the Thessalonian dances. He received a rude shock when the election came and went and he was not taken in. He knew from reliable sources that his name was coming up to be voted on, and it was not very flattering to realize that he had been blackballed. From an eager interest in all Thessalonian doings his feeling changed to bitter resentment against the society. Just now the Thessalonian play was the topic of the hour, and the very mention of it almost made him ill. If he had been elected he would have been an usher at the play with the other new members and worn the club colors in his buttonhole to be admired by the girls and envied by the other fellows. But now there was none of that charmed fellowship for him. He nourished his feeling of bitterness and hatred until his scheming mind began to grope for some way of spoiling the success of the play. As usual, he turned to his friend, Abraham Goldstein, who was about the only one who had not shown any coolness. Together they watched their chance. The play progressed toward perfection, the dress rehearsal had been held, the day of the "First Night" had arrived. The stage was set and the statue of the Maid of Orleans was in place. Joe, poking around the back of the stage, saw the statue and received his evil inspiration. Just about the time the play was given there was being held in the school an exhibition of water-color paintings. A famous and very valuable collection had been loaned by a friend of the school for the benefit of the students of drawing. The paintings were on display in one of the girls' club rooms on the fourth floor of the building. Hinpoha took great pleasure in examining them and spent a long time over them every day after school was closed. On the day of the play she went up as usual to the club room for an hour before going home. Reluctantly she tore herself away when she realized that the afternoon was passing. As she returned to the cloakroom where her wraps were she was surprised to find Emily Meeks there. Emily started guiltily when Hinpoha entered and made a desperate effort to finish wrapping up something she had in her hand. But her nervousness got into her fingers and made them tremble so that the object she held fell to the floor. As it fell the wrapper came open and Hinpoha could see what it was. It was one of the water colors of the exhibition collection, one of the smallest and most exquisite ones. Hinpoha gasped with astonishment when she caught Emily in the act of stealing it. Emily Meeks was the last person in the world Hinpoha would ever have accused of stealing anything. Emily turned white and red by turns and leaned against the wall trembling. "Yes, I stole it," she said in a kind of desperation. Something in her voice took the scorn out of Hinpoha's face. She looked at her curiously. "Why did you try to steal, Emily?" she asked gently. Emily burst into tears and sank to her knees. "You wouldn't understand," she sobbed. "Maybe I would," said Hinpoha softly, "try it and see." Haltingly Emily told her tale. In a moment's folly she had promised to buy a set of books from an agent and had signed a paper pledging herself to pay for it within three months. The price was five dollars. At the time she thought she could save enough out of her meager wages to pay it, but found that she could not. The time was up several months ago and the agent was threatening her with a lawsuit if she did not pay up this month. Fearing that the people with whom she lived would be angry if they heard of the affair and would turn her out of her home into the streets--for to her a lawsuit was something vague and terrible and she thought she would have to go to jail when it was found she could not pay--she grew desperate, and being alone in the room with the paintings for an instant she had seized the opportunity and carried one out under her middy blouse. She intended to sell it and pay for the books. Hinpoha's eyes filled with tears at Emily's distress. She was very tender hearted and was easily touched by other people's troubles. "If I lent you five dollars to pay for the books, would you take it?" she asked. Emily started up like a condemned prisoner who is pardoned on the way to execution. "I'll pay it back," she cried, "if I have to go out scrubbing to earn the money. And you won't say anything about the picture," she said, clasping her hands beseechingly, "if I put it back where I got it?" "No," said Hinpoha, with all the conviction of her loyal young nature, "I give you my word of honor that I will never say anything about it." "Oh, you're an angel straight from heaven," exclaimed Emily. "First time I've heard of a red-headed angel," laughed Hinpoha. Emily stooped to pick up the painting and restore it to its place, when she caught her breath in dismay. She had dropped a tear on the picture and made a light spot on the dark brown trunk of a tree. It was conspicuously noticeable, and would be sure to call forth the strictest inquiry. Emily covered her face with her hands. "It's my punishment," she groaned, "for trying to steal. Now I've ruined the honor of the school. We promised to send those pictures back unharmed if Mr. White would let us have them." Her dismay was intense. Hinpoha examined the spot carefully. "Do you know," she said, "I believe I could fill in that place with dark color so it would never be noticed? The bark of the tree has a rough appearance and the slight unevenness around the edges of the spot will never be noticed. Don't worry, all will yet be well." If Hinpoha would have let her, Emily would have gone down on her knees to her. "Come, we must make haste," said Hinpoha. "You go right home and I will take the picture into our club room and fix it up and then slip upstairs with it and nobody will ever be any the wiser. It's a good thing there's nobody up there now." Emily took her departure, vowing undying gratitude to Hinpoha, and Hinpoha took her paints from her desk and went into her own club room, which was on the third floor, and with infinite pains matched the shade of the tree trunk and repaired the damage. Her efforts were crowned with better success even than she had hoped for, and with thankfulness in her heart at the talent which could thus be turned to account to help a friend out of trouble, she surveyed the little painting, looking just as it did when loaned to the school. She carried it carefully upstairs, but at the door of the exhibition room she paused in dismay. A whole group of teachers and their friends were looking at the paintings and it was impossible to put the one back without being noticed. Irresolutely she turned away and retraced her steps to the third floor, intending to wait in her club room until the coast was clear. But alas! In coming out Hinpoha had left the door open. The club rooms were generally kept locked. While she was going upstairs a number of students coming out from late practice in the gymnasium spied the open door and went in to look around. It was impossible for Hinpoha to go in there with that picture in her hand. The only thing to do if she did not wish to get into trouble, was to get rid of it immediately. Delay was getting dangerous. She was standing near the back entrance of the stage when she was looking for a place to hide the picture. Beside the stage entrance there was a little room containing all the lighting switches for the stage, various battery boxes and other electrical equipment, together with a motley collection of stage properties. Quick as a flash Hinpoha opened the door of this room, darted in and hid the picture in a roll of cheesecloth. When she came out one of the teachers was standing directly before the door, pointing out to a friend the construction of the stage. "Have we a new electrician?" he inquired genially, as he saw her coming out of the electric room. Hinpoha laughed at his pleasantry, but she was flushed and uncomfortable from the excitement of the last moment. Hinpoha was a poor dissembler. She went upstairs until the art room was empty of visitors and then returned swiftly to the electric room for the picture. She slipped it under her middy blouse, where it was safe from detection, and sped upstairs with it. As she crossed the hall to the stairs she met the same teacher the second time. "Well, you must be an electrician," he said; "that's twice you've rushed out of there in such a businesslike manner," Hinpoha laughed, but flushed painfully. It seemed to her that his eyes could look right through her middy and see the picture underneath. This time the coast was clear in the room where the pictures were and she deposited the adventurous water color safely. She heaved a great sigh of relief when she realized that the danger was over and she had nothing more to conceal. She trudged home through the snow light-heartedly, with a warm feeling that she had been the means of saving a friend from disgrace. Sahwah, who was in the play and had a right to go up on the stage, which was all ready set for the first scene, ran in to see how things looked late in the afternoon. The school was practically empty. All the rest of the cast had gone home to get some sleep to fit them for the ordeal of the coming performance, and the teachers who had been looking at the paintings had also left. The rest of the building was in darkness, as twilight had already fallen. One set of lights was burning on the stage. Sahwah had no special business on the stage, she was simply curious to see what it looked like. Sahwah never stopped to analyze her motives for doing things. She paused to admire the statue of Joan of Arc, standing in all the majesty of its nine-foot height. This was the first chance she had had to examine it leisurely. In the rehearsal the night before she had merely seen it in a general way as she whisked off and on the stage in her part. The construction of the thing fascinated her, and she opened the door in the skirt to satisfy her curiosity about the inner workings of the miraculous halo. She saw how the thing was done and then became interested in the inside of the statue itself. There was plenty of room in it to conceal a person. Just for the fun of the thing Sahwah got inside and drew the door shut after her, trying to imagine herself a fugitive hiding in there. There were no openings in the skirt part, but up above the waist line there were various holes to admit air. "It's no fun hiding in a statue if you can't see what's going on outside," thought Sahwah, and so she stood up straight, as in this position her eyes would come on a level with one of the holes. She could see out without being seen herself, just as if she were looking through the face piece of a suit of armor. The fun she got out of this sport, however, soon changed to dismay when she tried to get down again. It had taken some squeezing to get her head into the upper space, and now she found that she was wedged securely in. She could not move her head one particle. What was worse, a quantity of cotton wool, which had been put inside the upper part of the body for some reason or other, was dislodged by her squeezing in and pressed against her mouth, forming an effective silencer. Thus, while she could see out over the stage, she could not call out for help. Her hands were pinioned down at her sides, and by standing up she had brought her knees into a narrow place so that they were wedged together and she could not attract attention by kicking. Here was a pretty state of affairs. The benign Maid of Orleans had Sahwah in as merciless a grip as that with which the famous Iron Maiden of medieval times crushed out the lives of its victims. Sahwah knew that her failure to come from school would call out a search, but who would ever look for her in the statue on the stage? Her only hope was to wait until the play was in progress and the door was opened to conceal the child. Then another thought startled her into a perspiration. She was in the opening scene of the play. If she was not there, the play could not commence. They would spend the evening searching for her and the statue would not be opened. What would they do about the play? The house was sold out and the people would come to see the performance and there would be none. All on account of her stupidity in wedging herself inside of the statue. Sahwah called herself severe names as she languished in her prison. Fortunately there were enough holes in the thing to supply plenty of ventilation, otherwise it might have gone hard with her. The cramped position became exceedingly tiresome. She tried, by forcing her weight against the one side or the other, to throw the statue over, thinking that it would attract attention in this way and some one would be likely to open it, but the heavy wooden base to which it was fastened held it secure. Sahwah was caught like a rat in a trap. The minutes passed like hours. Sounds died away in the building, as the last of the lingerers on the downstairs floor took themselves off through the front entrance. She could hear the slam of the heavy door and then a shout as one boy hailed another in greeting. Then silence over everything. A quarter, or maybe a half, hour dragged by on leaden feet. Suddenly, without noise or warning, two figures appeared on the stage, coming on through the back entrance. Sahwah's heart beat joyfully. Here was some one to look over the scenery again and if she could only attract their attention they would liberate her. She made a desperate effort and wrenched her mouth open to call, only to get it full of fuzzy cotton wool that nearly choked her. There was no hope then, but that they would open the door of the statue and find her accidentally. She could hear the sound of talking in low voices. The boys were on the other side of the statue, where she could not see them. "Let it down easy," she heard one of them say. "Better get around on the other side," said a second voice. The boy thus spoken to moved around until he was directly before the opening in front of Sahwah's eyes. With a start she recognized Joe Lanning. What business had Joe Lanning on the stage at this time? He was not in the play and he did not belong to the Thessalonian Society. There was only one explanation--Joe was up to some mischief again. She had not the slightest doubt that the other voice belonged to Abraham Goldstein, and thus indeed it proved, for a moment later he moved around so as to come into range of her vision. The two withdrew a few paces and looked at the statue, holding a hasty colloquy in inaudible tones, and then Joe, mounting a chair, laid hold of the Maid just above the waist line, while Abraham seized the wooden base. Sahwah felt her head going down and her feet going up. The boys were carrying the statue off the stage and out through the back entrance, over the little bridge at the back of the stage and into the hall. It was the queerest ride Sahwah had ever taken. The boys paused before the elevator, which seemed to be standing ready with the door open. "Will she go in?" asked Abraham. "I'm afraid not," answered Joe. "Well have to carry her downstairs." Sahwah shuddered. Would she go down head first or feet first? They carried her head first and she was dizzy with the rush of blood to her head before the two long flights were accomplished. At the foot of the last flight they laid the statue down. The hall was in total darkness. "What are you doing?" asked the voice of Joe. Abraham was apparently producing something from somewhere. In a minute Joe was laughing. "Good stunt," he said approvingly. "Where did you get them?" "Swiped them out of Room 22, where all the stuff for the play is." Joe flashed a small pocket electric light and by its glimmer Sahwah could see him adjusting a false beard--the one that was to be worn by the villain in the play. Abraham was apparently disguising himself in a similar fashion. This accomplished they picked up the statue again and carried it down the half flight of stairs to the back entrance of the school. For some mysterious reason this door was open. Just outside stood an automobile truck. At the back of the school lay the wide athletic field, extending for several acres. The nearest street was all of four blocks away. In the darkness it was impossible to see across this stretch of space and distinguish the actions of the two conspirators in the event people should be passing along this street. Even if the truck itself were seen that would cause no comment, for deliveries were constantly being made at the rear entrance of the school. The statue was lifted into the truck, covered with a piece of canvas, and Joe and Abraham sprang to the driver's seat and started the machine. Sahwah very nearly suffocated under that canvas. Fortunately the ride was a short one. In about seven or eight minutes she felt the bump as they turned into a driveway, and then the truck came to a stop. The boys jumped down from the seat, opened a door which slid back with a scraping noise like a barn door and then lifted the statue from the truck and carried it into a building. From the light of their pocket flashes Sahwah could make out that she was in a barn, which was evidently unused. It was entirely empty. Setting the statue in a corner, the boys went out, closing the door after them. Sahwah was left in total darkness, and in a ten times worse position than she had been in before. On the stage at school there was some hope of the statue's being opened eventually, but here she could remain for weeks before being discovered. Sahwah began to wonder just how long she could hold out before she starved. She was hungry already. She closed her eyes with weariness from her strained position, and it is possible that she dozed off for a few moments. In fact, that was what she did do. She dreamed that she was at the circus and all the wild animals had broken loose and were running about the audience. She could hear the roar of the lions and the screeching of the tigers. She woke up with a start and thought for a moment that her dream was true. The barn was full of wild animals which were roaring and chasing each other around. Then her senses cleared and she recognized the heavy bark of a large dog and the startled mi-ou of a cat. The dog was chasing the cat around the barn. She felt the slight thud as the cat leaped up and found refuge on top of the statue. She could hear it spitting at the dog and knew that its back was arched in an attitude of defiance. The dog barked furiously down below. Then, overcome by rage, he made a wild jump for the cat and lunged his heavy body against the side of the statue. It toppled over against the corner. For an instant Sahwah thought she was going to be killed. But the corner of the barn saved the statue from falling over altogether. It simply leaned back at a slight angle. But there was something different in her position now. At first she did not know what it was. Before this her feet were standing squarely on the wooden base of the statue, but now they were slipping around and seemed to be dangling. Then she realized what had happened. The shock of the dog's onslaught had knocked the statue clear off the base, and had also contrived to loosen her knees a little. To her joy she found that she could move her feet--could walk. For all the statue was immense, it was light, and wedged into it as she was she balanced the upper part of it perfectly. She moved out from the corner. The dog was still barking furiously and circling around the barn after the cat. Then the cat found a paneless window by which she had entered and disappeared into the night. The dog, who had also entered by that window when chasing the cat, had been helped on the outside by a box which stood under the sill, but there was no such aid on the inside and he did not attempt to make the jump from the floor, but stood barking until the place shook. Just then a voice was heard on the outside. "Lion, Lion," it called, "where are you?" Lion barked in answer. "Come out of that barn," commanded the voice of a small boy. Lion answered again in the only way he knew how. "Wait a minute, Lion, I'm coming," said the small boy. Sahwah heard some one fumbling at the door and then it was drawn open. The light from a street lamp streamed in. It fell directly on the statue as Sahwah took another step forward. The boy saw the apparition and fled in terror, followed by the dog, leaving the door wide open. Sahwah hastened to the door. Here she encountered a difficulty. The statue was nine feet high and the door was only about eight. Naturally the statue could not bend. It had been carried in in a horizontal position. Sahwah reflected a moment. Her powers of observation were remarkably good and she could sense things that went on around her without having to see them. She had noticed that when the boys carried the statue into the barn they had had to climb up into the doorway. The inclined entrance approach had undoubtedly rotted away. She figured that this step up had been a foot at least. Her ingenious mind told her that by standing close to the edge of the doorway and jumping down she would come clear of the doorway. She put this theory to trial immediately. The scheme worked. She landed on her feet on the snow-covered ground, with the top of the statue free in the air. As fast as she could she made her way up the driveway. Her hands were still pinioned at her sides. As she passed the house in front of the barn she could see by the street light that it was empty. A grand scheme it would have been indeed, if it had worked, hiding the statue in the unused barn where it would not have been discovered for weeks, or possibly months. Of course, Sahwah readily admitted, Joe did not know that she was in the statue; his object had merely been to spoil the play. And a very effective method he had taken, too, for the play without the statue of Joan of Arc would have been nothing. Sahwah stood still on the street and tried to get her bearings. She was in an unfamiliar neighborhood. She walked up the street. Coming toward her was a man. Sahwah breathed a sigh of relief. Without a doubt he would see the trouble she was in and free her. Now Sahwah did not know it, but in the scramble with the dog the button had been pushed which worked the halo. The neighborhood she was in was largely inhabited by foreigners, and the man coming toward her was a Hungarian who had not been long in this country. Taking his way homeward with never a thought in his mind but his dinner, he suddenly looked up to see the gigantic figure of a woman bearing down on him, brandishing a gleaming sword and with a dim halo playing around her head. For an instant he stood rooted to the spot, and then with a wild yell he ran across the street, darted between two houses and disappeared over the back fence. Then began a series of encounters which threw Sahwah into hysterics twenty years later when she happened to remember them. Intent only on her own liberation she was at the time unconscious of the terrifying figure she presented, and hastened along at the top of her speed. Everywhere the people fled before her in the extremity of terror. On all sides she could hear shrieks of "War!" "War!" "It is a sign of war!" In one street through which she passed lived a simple Slovak priest. He was sorely torn over the sad conflict raging in Europe and was undecided whether he should preach a sermon advocating peace at all costs or preparation for fighting. He debated the question back and forth in his mind, and, unable to come to any decision in the narrow confines of his little house, walked up and down on the cold porch seeking for light in the matter. "Oh, for a sign from heaven," he sighed, "such as came to the saints of old to solve their troublesome questions!" Scarcely had the wish passed through his mind when a vision appeared. Down the dark street came rushing the heroic image of Joan of Arc, with sword uplifted, her head shining with the refulgence of the halo. At his gate she paused and stood a long time looking at him. Sahwah thought that he would come down and help her out. Instead he fell on his knees on the porch and bowed his head, crying out something in a foreign tongue. Seeing that expectation of help from that quarter was useless, Sahwah ran on and turned a nearby corner. When the priest lifted his head again the vision was gone. "It is to be war, then," he muttered. "I have a divine command to bid my people take up arms in battle." This was the origin of the military demonstration which took place in the Slovak settlement the following Sunday, which ended in such serious rioting. Sahwah, running onward, suddenly found herself in the very middle of the road where two carlines crossed each other. This was a very congested corner and a policeman was stationed there to direct the traffic. This policeman, however, on this cold February day, found Mike McCarty's saloon on the corner a much pleasanter place than the middle of the road, and paid one visit after another, while the traffic directed itself. This last time he had stayed inside much longer than he had intended to, having become involved in an argument with the proprietor of the place, and coming to himself with a guilty start he hurried out to resume his duties. On the sidewalk he stood as if paralyzed. In the middle of the road, in his place, stood an enormously tall woman, directing the traffic with a gleaming sword. "Mother av Hiven," he muttered superstitiously, "it's one of the saints come down to look after the job I jumped, and waiting to strike me dead when I come back." He turned on his heel and fled up the street without once looking over his shoulder. And thus Sahwah went from place to place, vainly looking for some one who would pull her out of the statue, and leaving everywhere she went a trail of superstitious terror, such as had never been known in the annals of the city. For a week the papers were full of the mysterious appearance of the armed woman, which was taken as a presumptive augury of war. Many affirmed that she had stopped them on the street and commanded them in tones of thunder to take up arms to save the country from destruction, and promising to lead them to victory when the time for battle came. Many of the foreigners believed to their dying day that they had seen a vision from heaven. Sahwah at last got her bearings and found that she was not a great distance from the school, so she took her way thither where she might encounter some one who was connected with the play and knew of the existence of the statue, a secret which was being closely guarded from the public, that the effect might be greater. She nearly wept with joy when she saw Dick Albright just about to enter the building. Although he was startled almost out of a year's growth at the sight of the statue, which he supposed to be standing on the stage in the building, running up the front steps after him, he did not disappear into space as had all of the others she had met. After the first fright he suspected some practical joke and stood still to see what would happen next. Sahwah knew that the only thing visible of her was her feet and that she could not explain matters with her voice, so, coming close to Dick, she stretched out her foot as far as possible. Now Sahwah, with her riotous love of color, had bright red buttons on her black shoes, the only set like them in the school. Dick recognized the buttons and knew that it was Sahwah in the statue. He still thought she was playing a joke, and laughed uproariously. Sahwah grew desperate. She must make him understand that she wanted him to pull her out. The broad stone terrace before the door was covered with a light fall of snow. With the point of her toe she traced in the snow the words "PULL ME OUT." Dick now took in the situation. He opened the door of the statue and with some difficulty succeeded in extricating Sahwah from her precarious position. Together they carried the much-traveled Maid into the building and up the stairs and set her in place on the stage. She had just been missed by the arriving players and the place was in an uproar. Sahwah told what had happened that afternoon and the adventures she had had in getting back to the school, while her listeners exclaimed incredulously. There was no longer time to go home for supper so Sahwah ran off to the green room to begin making up for her part in the play. CHAPTER X. WHO CUT THE WIRE? The house was packed on this the first night of the Thessalonian play. It was already long past time for the performance to begin. The orchestra finished the overture and waited a few minutes; then began another selection. They played this through, and there was still no indication of the curtain going up. They played a third piece. The house became restless and began to clap for the appearance of the performers. No sign from the stage. Behind the curtain there was pandemonium. When everything was about ready to begin it was discovered that none of the stage lights would work. Neither the foot lights nor the big cluster up over the center of the stage nor any of the side lights could be turned on. A hasty examination of the wiring led to the discovery that the wires which supplied the current had been cut in the room where the switchboard was. The plaster had been broken into in order to reach them. This was the reason that the play was not beginning. The President of the Thessalonians came out in front and explained to the audience that something had gone wrong with the lights, which would cause a delay in the rising of the curtain, but the trouble was being fixed and he begged the indulgence of the house for a few minutes. The orchestra filled in the time by playing lively marches, while the boys behind the scenes worked feverishly to mend the severed wires, and the curtain went up a whole hour after scheduled time. The first act went off famously. Gladys was a born actress and sustained the difficult role of _Marie Latour_ well. The part where she defies her tyrannical father brought down the house. Sahwah came in for her share of applause too. Seeing her composed manner and hearing her calm voice, no one in the audience could ever have guessed the strenuous experience she had just been through. In the second scene Marie, driven from her home, wanders around in the streets with her child, until, faint from hunger, she sinks to the ground. The scene is laid before the wall of her father's large estate and she falls at his very gates. Gladys made the scene very realistic, and the audience sat tense and sympathetic. "_Food, food_," moaned Marie Latour, "_only a crust to keep the life in me and my child!"_ She lay weakly in the road, unable to rise. "_Food, food_," she moaned again. At this moment there suddenly descended, as from the very heavens, a ham sandwich on the end of a string. It dangled within an inch of her nose. Gladys was petrified. The audience sat up in surprise, and a ripple of laughter ran through the house. It was such an unexpected anticlimax. That some one was playing a practical joke Gladys did not for a moment doubt, and she was furious at this ridiculous interruption of her big scene. In the play Marie loses consciousness and is found by a peasant, and it is on this occurrence that the rest of the play hinges. The sudden appearance of the ham sandwich in response to her cry for food was fatal to the pathos of the scene. The rest of the cast, standing in the wings, saw what had happened and were at their wits' end. But Gladys was equal to the occasion. Moving her head wearily and passing her hand over her eyes she murmured faintly but audibly, "Cruel, cruel mirage to taunt me thus! Vanish, thou image of a fevered brain, thou absurd memory! Come not to mock me!" The actors in the wings, taking their cue from her speech, found the string to which the sandwich was tied and jerked it. The sandwich vanished from the sight of the audience. The scene was saved. The spectators simply passed it over as a more or less clumsy attempt to portray a vision of a disordered brain. The string on the sandwich had been passed over certain rigging above the stage that moved the scenery, and on through a little ventilator that came out on the fourth floor, from which point the manipulator had been able to listen to the speeches on the stage and time the drop of the sandwich. By the time the Thessalonian boys had traced the string to its end the perpetrator of the joke was nowhere to be found. He had fled as soon as the thing had been lowered. The scene ended without further calamity. In the third scene--the one in the peasant's hut--there is a cat on the stage. The presence of this cat was the signal for further trouble. In one of the tense passages, where Marie Latour is pleading with the son of the peasant to flee for his life before the agents of her father come and capture them both, and the cat lies asleep on the hearth, there was a sudden uproar, and a dog bounded through the entrance of the stage. The cat rushed around in terror and finally ran up the curtain. The lovers parted hastily and tried to capture the dog, but eluding their pursuit he jumped over the footlights into the orchestra, landing with a crash on the keys of the piano, and then out into the audience. Nyoda and three or four of the Winnebagos, sitting together near the front on the first floor of the auditorium, recognized the dog with a good deal of surprise. It was Mr. Bob, Hinpoha's black cocker spaniel. How he had gotten in was a mystery, for Hinpoha herself was not there. Nyoda called to him sharply and he came to her wagging his tail, and allowed himself to be put out with the best nature in the world. But the scene had been spoiled. During the rest of the evening Nyoda, as well as a number of the other teachers, sat with brows knitted, going over the various things that had happened to interrupt that play. As yet they did not know about the attempt to steal the statue, which Sahwah had accidentally nipped in the bud. But the following week, when the play was all over, and the various occurrences had been made known, there was a day of reckoning at Washington High School. Joe Lanning and Abraham Goldstein were called up before the principal and confronted with Sahwah, who told, to their infinite amazement, every move they had made in carrying off the statue. At first they denied everything as a made-up story gotten up to spite them, but when Sahwah led the way to the barn where she had been confined and triumphantly produced the base of the statue, they saw that further denial was useless and admitted their guilt. They also confessed to being the authors of the sandwich joke and the ones who had brought in the dog. Both were expelled from school. But the thing which the principal and teachers considered the bigger crime--the cutting of the wires at the back of the stage--was still a mystery. Joe's and Abraham's complicity in the statue affair furnished them with a complete alibi in regard to the other. It was proven, beyond a doubt, that they had not been in the building in the early part of the afternoon nor after they had carried off the statue, until after the wires had been cut. Then who had cut the wires? That was the question that agitated the school. It was too big a piece of vandalism to let slip. The principal, Mr. Jackson, was determined to run down the offender. Joe and Abraham denied all knowledge of the affair and there was no clue. The whole school was up in arms about the matter. Then things took a rather unexpected turn. In one of the teachers' meetings where the matter was being discussed, one of the teachers, Mr. Wardwell, suddenly got to his feet. He had just recollected something. "I remember," he said, "seeing Dorothy Bradford coming out of the electric room late on the afternoon of the play. She came out twice, once about three o'clock and once about four. Each time she seemed embarrassed about meeting me and turned scarlet." There was a murmur of surprise among the teachers. Nyoda sat up very straight. The next day Hinpoha was summoned to the office. Unsuspectingly she went. She had been summoned before, always on matters of more or less congenial business. She found Mr. Jackson, Mr. Wardwell and Nyoda together in the private office. "Miss Bradford," began Mr. Jackson, without preliminary, "Mr. Wardwell tells me he saw you coming out of the electric room on the afternoon of the play. In view of what happened that night, the presence of anybody in that room looks suspicious. Will you kindly state what you did in there?" Nyoda listened with an untroubled heart, sure of an innocent and convincing reason why Hinpoha had been in that room. Hinpoha, taken completely by surprise, was speechless. To Nyoda's astonishment and dismay, she turned fiery red. Hinpoha always blushed at the slightest provocation. In the stress of the moment she could not think of a single worth-while excuse for having gone into the electric room. Telling the real reason was of course out of the question because she had promised to shield Emily Meeks. "I left something in there," she stammered, "and went back after it." "You carried nothing in your hands either time when you came out," said Mr. Wardwell. Hinpoha was struck dumb. She was a poor hand at deception and was totally unable to "bluff" anything through. "I didn't say I carried anything out," she said in an agitated voice. "I went in after something and it--wasn't there." "What was it?" asked Mr. Jackson. "I can't tell you," said Hinpoha. "How did you happen to leave anything in the electric room?" persisted Mr. Jackson. "What were you doing in there in the first place?" "I went in to see if I had left something there," said poor Hinpoha, floundering desperately in the attempt to tell a plausible tale and yet not lie deliberately. Then, realizing that she was contradicting herself and getting more involved all the time, she gave it up in despair and sat silent and miserable. Nyoda's expression of amazement and concern was an added torture. "You admit, then, that you were in the electric room twice on Thursday afternoon, doing something which you cannot explain?" said Mr. Jackson, slowly. Hinpoha nodded, mutely. She never for an instant wavered in her loyalty to Emily. "There is another thing," continued Mr. Jackson, "that seems to point to the fact that you were in league with those who wished to spoil the play. It was your dog that was let out on the stage in pursuit of the cat." "I know it was," said Hinpoha, feeling that she was being drawn helplessly into a net from which there was no escape. "But that wasn't my fault. I haven't the slightest idea how he got there. It was pure chance that he was coaxed into the building." "That may all be," said Mr. Jackson, with frowning wrinkles around the corners of his eyes, "but it looks suspicious." "You certainly don't think I cut those wires, do you?" said Hinpoha incredulously. Mr. Jackson looked wise. "You were not at the play yourself, were you?" he asked. "No," answered Hinpoha. "Why weren't you?" pursued Mr. Jackson. "Have you anything against the Thessalonian Society?" "No, not at all," said Hinpoha with a catch in her voice. "I am not going to anything this winter." She looked down at her black dress expressively, not trusting her voice to speak. "Further," continued Mr. Jackson, "you were seen in the company of Joe Lanning the day before these things happened." Now, Hinpoha had walked home from school with Joe that Wednesday. She had done it merely because she was too courteous to snub him flatly when he had caught up with her on the street. She despised him just as the rest of the class did and avoided him whenever she could, but when brought face to face with him she had not the hardihood to refuse his company. That this innocent act should be misconstrued into meaning that she was mixed up in his doings seemed monstrous. Yet Mr. Jackson apparently believed this to be the truth. Things seemed to be closing around her. To Mr. Jackson her guilt was perfectly clear. She was a friend of Joe Lanning's; she had lent him her dog to work mischief on the stage; she admitted being in the electric room and refused to tell what she had been doing there. "Well," he said crisply, "somebody cut those wires Thursday Afternoon, and only one person was seen going in and out of the electric room during that time, and that person is yourself. You admit that you were in there doing something which will not bear explanation. It looks pretty suspicious, doesn't it?" "I didn't do it," Hinpoha declared stoutly. In her distress she did not dare meet Nyoda's eyes. What was Nyoda thinking of her, anyhow? "And so," continued Mr. Jackson, not heeding her denial, "until you can give a satisfactory explanation of your presence in the electric room last Thursday I must consider that you had something to do with the cutting of those wires. I have been asked by the Board of Education to look into the matter thoroughly and to punish the culprit with expulsion from school. As all evidence points to you as the guilty person, I shall be obliged, under the circumstances, to expel you." Hinpoha sat as if turned to stone. The wild beating of her heart almost suffocated her. Expelled from school! But even with that terrible sentence ringing in her ears it never entered her head to betray Emily. If this was to be the price of loyalty, then she would pay the price. There was no other way. She had not been clever enough to explain her presence in the electric room to the satisfaction of Mr. Jackson and yet breathe no word of the real situation, and this was the result. Her head whirled from the sudden calamity which had overwhelmed her; her thoughts were chaos. She hardly heard when Mr. Jackson said curtly, "You may go." As one in a dream she walked out of the office. Nyoda came out with her. "Of all things," said Mr. Wardwell to Mr. Jackson, when they were left alone, "to think that a girl should have done that thing." "It seems strange, too," mused Mr. Jackson, "that she should have been able to do it. You would hardly look for a girl to be cutting electric wires, would you? It takes some skill to do that. Where did she learn how to do it?" "Those Camp Fire Girls," said Mr. Wardwell emphatically, "know everything. I don't know where they learn it, but they do." Nyoda led Hinpoha into one of the empty club rooms and sat down beside her. "Now, my dear," she said quietly, "will you please tell me the whole story? It is absurd of course to accuse you of cutting those wires, but what were you doing in that room? All you have to do is give a satisfactory explanation and the accusation will be withdrawn." Nyoda's voice was friendly and sympathetic and it was a sore temptation to Hinpoha to tell her the whole thing just as it happened. But she had promised Emily not to tell a living soul, and a promise was a promise with Hinpoha. "Nyoda," she said steadily, "I _was_ in that electric room twice on Thursday afternoon. I carried something in and I carried it out again. But I can't tell you what it was." "Not even to save yourself from being expelled?" asked Nyoda curiously. "Not even to save myself from being expelled," said Hinpoha steadfastly. And Nyoda, baffled, gave it up. But of one thing she was sure. Whatever silly thing Hinpoha had done that she was ashamed to confess, she had never in the world cut those wires. It was simply impossible for her to have done such a thing. Entirely convinced on this point, Nyoda went back to Mr. Jackson, and told him her belief, begging him not to put his threat of expulsion into execution. But Mr. Jackson was obdurate. There was something under the surface of which Nyoda knew nothing. All the year there had been a certain lawless element in the school which was continually breaking out in open defiance of law and order. Mr. Jackson had been totally unable to cope with the situation. He had been severely criticised for not having succeeded in stamping out this disorder, and was accused of not being able to control his scholars. The events connected with the giving of the play had been widely published--it was impossible to keep them a secret--and Mr. Jackson had been taken to task by those above him in the educational department for not being able to find out who had cut the wires. Smarting under this censure, he had determined to fix the blame at an early date at all costs, and when the opportunity came of fastening a suspicion onto Hinpoha he had seized it eagerly, and intended to publish far and wide that he had found the guilty one. Therefore he met Nyoda's appeal with stony indifference. "I shall consider her guilty until she has proven her innocence," he maintained obstinately, "and you will find that I am right. That is nothing but a made-up story about going in there for something she had left. You noticed how she contradicted herself half a dozen times in as many minutes. She is the guilty one, all right," and in sore distress Nyoda left him. The axe fell and Hinpoha was expelled from school. If lightning had fallen on a clear day and cleft the roof open, the pupils could not have been more dumbfounded. Hinpoha was the very last one any one would have suspected of cutting wires. In fact, many were openly incredulous. But Mr. Jackson took care to make all the damaging facts public, and Hinpoha's fair name was dragged in the mud. Emily Meeks was one who stood loyal to Hinpoha. She was ignorant that it was to shield her Hinpoha had refused to tell what she was doing in the electric room, as she had gone home before Hinpoha had retouched the picture, but she refused to believe that her angel, as she always thought of Hinpoha, could be guilty of any wrong doing. As for Hinpoha herself, life was not worth living. The scene with Aunt Phoebe, when she heard of her disgrace, was too painful to record here. Suffice to say that Hinpoha was regarded as a criminal of the worst type and was never allowed to forget for one instant that she had disgraced the name of Bradford forever. It was awful not to be going to school and getting lessons. Those days at home were nightmares that she remembered to the end of her life with a shudder. The only ray of comfort she had was the fact that Nyoda and the Winnebagos stood by her stanchly. "I can bear it," she said to Nyoda forlornly, "knowing that you believe in me, but if you ever went back on me I couldn't live." Nyoda urged her no more to tell her secret, for she suspected that it concerned some one else whom Hinpoha would not expose, and trusted to time to solve the mystery and remove the stain from Hinpoha's name. The excitement over, school settled down into its old rut. Joe Lanning's father sent him away to military school and Abraham's father began to use his influence to have him reinstated. Mr. Goldstein put forth such a touching plea about Abraham's having been led astray by Joe Lanning and being no more than a tool in his hands, and Abraham promised so faithfully that he would never deviate from the path of virtue again, now that his evil genius was removed, if they would only let him come back and graduate, that he was given the chance. Nothing new came up about the cutting of the wires except that the end of a knife blade was found on the floor under the place where the hole had been made in the wall. There were no marks of identification on it and nothing was done about it. One day, Dick Albright, in the Physics room on the third floor of the building, stood by the window and looked across at a friend of his who was standing at the window of the Chemistry room. The two rooms faced each other across an open space in the back of the building, which was designed to let more light into certain rooms. This space was only open at the third and fourth floors. The second floor was roofed over with a skylight at this point. It was after school hours and Dick was alone in the room. So, apparently, was his friend. Dick raised the window and called across the space to the other boy, who raised his window and answered him. From talking back and forth they passed to throwing a ball of twine to each other. Once Dick failed to catch it, and falling short of the window, it rolled down upon the roof of the second story. Dick promptly climbed out of the window, and sliding down the waterspout, reached the roof and went in pursuit of the ball. One of the windows opening from the third story onto this open space was that in the electric room, and it was under this window that the ball came to a standstill. As Dick stooped to pick it up he found a knife lying beside it. He brought it along with him and climbed back into his room. Then he pulled it out and looked at it. It was an ordinary pocket knife with a horn handle. On one side of the handle there was a plate bearing the name F. Boyd. "Frank Boyd's knife," said Dick to himself. "He must have dropped it out of the window." Idly he opened the blade. It was broken off about half an inch from the point. Dick began to turn things over in his mind. A piece of a knife blade had been found in the electric room. A knife with a broken blade had been found on the roof under the window of the electric room. That knife belonged to Frank Boyd. The inference was very simple. Frank had climbed in the window of the electric room from the roof of the second story and cut the wires, and then climbed out again, and so was not seen coming out of the room into the hall. In climbing out he had dropped the knife without noticing it. He had already left a piece of the blade inside. Frank Boyd was one of the lawless spirits who had caused much of the trouble all through the year. He had also been blackballed at the last election of the Thessalonian Society. It was very easy to believe that he would try to do something to spite the Thessalonians. Dick hastened down to Mr. Jackson's office with the knife and asked him to fit the broken piece to the shortened blade. It fitted perfectly. Beyond a doubt it was Frank Boyd and not Hinpoha who had cut the wires in the electric room. The next morning Frank was confronted with the evidence of the knife and confessed his guilt. He had been in league with Joe Lanning, and cutting the wires had been his part of the job. He had done it in the early part of the evening while the actors were making up for their parts, getting in and out of the window, just as Dick had figured out. No one had detected him in the act and the lucky incident of Hinpoha's having been seen coming out of the electric room turned all suspicion away from him. Justice in his case was tardy but certain, and Frank Boyd was expelled, and Hinpoha was reinstated. Mr. Jackson, in his elation over having caught the real culprit and effectually breaking up the "Rowdy Ring," was gracious enough to make a public apology to Hinpoha. So the blot was wiped off her scutcheon, and Emily's secret was still intact, for no one ever asked again what Hinpoha had been doing in the electric room on the afternoon of the Thessalonian play. CHAPTER XI. ANOTHER COASTING PARTY. "This is the terrible Hunger Moon, the lean gray wolf can hardly bay," quoted Hinpoha, as she threw out a handful of crumbs for the birds. The ground was covered with ice and snow, and the wintry winds whistled through the bare trees in the yard, ruffling up the feathers of the poor little sparrows huddling on the branches. Gladys stood beside Hinpoha, watching the hungry little winter citizens flying hastily down to their feast. "What is Mr. Bob barking at?" she asked, pausing to listen. "I'll go and find out," said Hinpoha. From the porch she could see Mr. Bob standing under an evergreen tree in the back yard, barking up at it with all his might. Hinpoha came out to see what was the matter. "Hush, Mr. Bob," she commanded, throwing a snowball at him. She picked her way through the deep snow to the tree. "Oh, Gladys, come here," she called. Gladys came out and joined her. "What is it?" she asked. Huddled up in the low branches of the tree was a great ghostly looking bird, white as the snow under their feet. Its eyes were closed and it was apparently asleep. Hinpoha stretched out her hand and touched its feathers. It woke up with a start and looked at her with great round eyes full of alarm. "It's an owl!" said Hinpoha in amazement, "a snowy owl! It must have flown across the lake from Canada. They do sometimes when the food is scarce and the cold too intense up there." The owl blinked and closed his eyes again. The glare of the sun on the snow blinded him. He acted stupid and half frozen, and sat crouched close against the trunk of the tree, making no effort to fly away. "How tame he is!" said Gladys. "He doesn't seem to mind us in the least." Hinpoha tried to stroke him but he jerked away and tumbled to the ground. One wing was apparently broken. Mr. Bob made a leap for the bird as he fell, but Hinpoha seized him by the collar and dragged him into the house. When she returned the owl was making desperate efforts to get up into the tree again by jumping, but without success. Hinpoha caught him easily in spite of his struggles and bore him into the house. There was an empty cage down in the cellar which had once housed a parrot, and into this the solemn-eyed creature was put. "That wing will heal again, and then we can let him go," said Hinpoha. "Hadn't it better be tied down?" suggested Gladys. "He flutters it so much." With infinite pains Hinpoha tied the broken wing down to the bird's side, using strips of gauze bandage for the purpose. The owl made no sound. They fixed a perch in the cage and he stepped decorously up on it and regarded them with an intense, mournful gaze. "Isn't he spooky looking?" said Gladys, shivering and turning away. "He gives me the creeps." "What will we feed him?" asked Hinpoha. "Do owls eat crumbs?" asked Gladys. Hinpoha shook her head. "That isn't enough. I've always read that they catch mice and things like that to eat." She brightened up. "There are several mice in the trap now. I saw them when I brought up the cage." She sped down cellar and returned with three mice in a trap. "Ugh," said Gladys in disgust, as Hinpoha pulled them out by the tails. She put them in the cage with the owl and he pecked at them hungrily. "What will your aunt say when she sees him?" asked Gladys. "I don't know," said Hinpoha doubtfully. Aunt Phoebe was away for the afternoon and so had not been in a position to interfere thus far. "Maybe I had better take the cage home with me," suggested Gladys. "No," said Hinpoha firmly, "I want him myself. I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll put the cage up in the attic and she'll never know I have him. I can slip up and feed him. It would be better for him up there, anyway. It's too warm for him downstairs. He's used to a cold climate." So "Snowy," as they had christened him, was established by a window under the eaves on the third floor, where he could look out at the trees for which he would be pining. Aunt Phoebe always took a nap after lunch, and this gave Hinpoha a chance to run up and look at her patient. She fed him on chicken feed and mice when there were any. Never did he show the slightest sign of friendliness or recognition when she hovered over him; but continued to stare sorrowfully at her with an unblinking eye. If he liked his new lodging under the cozy eaves he made no mention of it, and if he pined for his winter palace in the Canadian forest he was equally uncommunicative. Hinpoha longed to poke him in order to make him give some expression of feeling. But at all events, he did not struggle against his captivity, and Hinpoha reflected judicially that after all it was a good thing that he had such a stolid personality, for a calm frame of mind aids the recovery of the patient and he would not be likely to keep his wing from healing by dashing it against the side of the cage. It seemed almost as though he knew his presence in the house was a secret, and was in league with Hinpoha not to betray himself. So Aunt Phoebe lived downstairs in blissful ignorance of the feathered boarder in the attic. She was suffering from a cold that week and was more than usually exacting. She finally took to her bed in an air-tight room with a mustard plaster and an electric heating pad, expressing her intention of staying there until her cold was cured. "But you ought to have some fresh air," protested Hinpoha, "you'll smother in there with all that heat." "You leave that window shut," said Aunt Phoebe crossly. "All this foolishness about open windows makes me tired. It's a pity if a young girl has to tell her elders what's best for them. Now bring the History of the Presbyterian Church, and read that seventh chapter over again; my mind was preoccupied last night and I did not hear it distinctly." This was Aunt Phoebe's excuse for having fallen asleep during the reading. So poor Hinpoha had to sit in that stifling room and read until she thought she would faint. Aunt Phoebe fell asleep presently, however, to her great relief, and she stole out softly, leaving the door open behind her so that some air could get in from the hall. Aunt Phoebe woke up in the middle of the night feeling decidedly uncomfortable. She was nearly baked with the heat that was being applied on all sides. She turned off the heating pad and threw back one of the covers, and as she grew more comfortable sleep began to hover near. She was just sinking off into a doze when she suddenly started up in terror. There was a presence in the room--something white was moving silently toward the bed. Aunt Phoebe was terribly superstitious and believed in ghosts as firmly as she believed in the gospel. She always expected to see a sheeted figure standing in the hall some night, its hand outstretched in solemn warning. But this ghost was more terrifying than any she had ever imagined. It was not in the form of a being at all--just a formless Thing that moved with strange jerks and starts, sometimes rising at least a foot in the air. The hair stood up straight on Aunt Phoebe's head, and her lips became so dry they cracked. Then her heart almost stopped beating altogether. The ghost rose in the air and stood on her bed, where it continued its uncanny movements. Aunt Phoebe folded her hands and began to pray. The ghost sailed upward once more and stood on the foot board of her bed. Aunt Phoebe prayed harder. "Hoot!" said the ghost. Aunt Phoebe moaned. "Hoot!" said the ghost. Aunt Phoebe tried to scream, but her throat was paralyzed. "Hoot!" said the ghost. Aunt Phoebe found her voice. "WOW-OW-OW-OW!" she screeched in tones that could have been heard a block. Hinpoha jumped clear out of bed in one leap and reached Aunt Phoebe's room in one more. Visions of burglars and fire were in her mind. Hastily she turned on the light. Aunt Phoebe was sitting up in bed still screaming at the top of her lungs, and on the footboard of the bed sat Snowy, blinking in the sudden light. Hinpoha stood frozen to the spot. How had the bird gotten out? "Snowy!" she stammered. The owl looked at her with his old solemn stare, and then slowly he winked one eye. "Stop screaming, Aunt Phoebe," said Hinpoha; "it's nothing but an owl." "_An owl_!" exclaimed Aunt Phoebe faintly. "How could an owl get in here with all the doors and windows shut?" "But I left your door open when I went out," said Hinpoha, "and Snowy must have gotten out of his cage and come down the attic stairs." "Must have gotten out of his cage!" echoed Aunt Phoebe. "Do you mean to tell me that you have an owl in a cage somewhere in this house?" There was no use denying the fact any more, as Snowy had given himself away so completely, and Hinpoha told about finding the snowy owl in the yard and putting it up in the cage. "What next!" gasped Aunt Phoebe. "I suppose I shall wake up some morning and find a boa constrictor in my bed." "I'm sorry he frightened you so," said Hinpoha contritely, "but I'll see that he doesn't get out again. I may keep him until his wing heals, mayn't I?" she asked pleadingly. "I suppose there's no getting around you," sighed Aunt Phoebe, sinking back on her pillow. "If it wasn't a bird you'd be having something else. Only keep him out of my sight!" Hinpoha caught the owl and carried him out with many flutters and pecks. The cage door stood open and the wires were bent out, showing where his powerful bill had pecked until he gained his freedom. Hinpoha fastened him in again and he stepped decorously up on his perch and sat there in such a dignified attitude that it was hard to believe him capable of breaking jail and entering a lady's bedroom. Aunt Phoebe spent the next day in bed, recovering from her fright. This was the night of the Camp Fire meeting which Hinpoha had been given permission to attend. She had been in such a fever of anticipation all week that Aunt Phoebe was surprised when she came into her room after supper and sat down with the History of the Presbyterian Church. "Well, aren't you going to that precious meeting of yours?" she asked sharply. "I think," said Hinpoha slowly, "that I had better stay at home with you." "I won't die without you," said Aunt Phoebe drily. "I can ring for Mary if I want anything." A mighty struggle was going on inside of Hinpoha. First she saw in her mind's eye her beloved Winnebagos, having a meeting at Nyoda's house, the place where she best loved to go to meetings, waiting to welcome her back into their midst with open arms; and then she saw this cross old woman, her aunt, sick and lonesome, left alone in the house with a maid who despised her. With the cup of enjoyment raised to her lips she set it down again. "I think I would _rather_ stay with you, Aunt Phoebe," she said simply. And in the Desert of Waiting there blossomed a fragrant rose! The deferred celebration for Hinpoha's return into the Winnebago fold was held the following week. With the joy of the returned pilgrim she took her place in the Council Circle, and once more joined in singing, "Burn, Fire, Burn," and "Mystic Fire," and this time when Nyoda called the roll and pronounced the name "Hinpoha," she was answered by a joyous "Kolah" instead of the sorrowful silence which had followed that name for so many weeks. February froze, thawed, snowed and sleeted itself off the calendar, and March set in like a roaring lion, with a worse snowstorm than even the Snow Moon had produced. Venturesome treebuds, who loved the warm sun like Aunt Phoebe loved her heating pad, and who had crept out of their dark blankets one balmy day in February to be nearer the genial heat giver, shivered until their sap froze in their veins, and a drab-colored phoebe bird, who had nested under the eaves of the Bradford porch the year before, coming back to his summer residence according to the date marked on his calendar, huddled disconsolately beside the old nest, feeling sure that he would contract bronchitis before the wife of his bosom arrived to join him. Hinpoha listened to his disgruntled "pewit phoebe, pewit phoebe," and made haste to throw him some crumbs. It seemed like a delicious joke to her that he should be calling so plaintively for his phoebe, not knowing that there was a Phoebe on the premises all the while. And one day the little mate came and both birds forgot the snow and cold in the joy of their reunion. Phoebes consider it extremely indecorous to travel in mixed company, (just like Aunt Phoebe, thought Hinpoha humorously,) so the females linger behind for several days after the males start north and join them in the seclusion of their own homes. Hinpoha's heart sang in sympathy with the joy of the reunited lovers. Sahwah had come over to get her lessons with Hinpoha, and as she turned the leaves of her "Cicero" a little red heart dropped out on the floor. Hinpoha stooped to pick it up. "What's this?" she asked with interest. Sahwah blushed. "Ned Roberts--you remember Ned Roberts up at camp--sent it to me for a valentine." Hinpoha went back in her thoughts to the dance at the Mountain Lake Camp the summer before, where she had had such a royal good time. How far removed that time seemed now! "I wonder if Sherry ever writes to Nyoda," she said musingly. "I don't believe he does," said Sahwah, "for Nyoda has never said anything." If they could have seen Nyoda at that very moment, reading a certain letter and thrusting it into her bureau drawer with a pile of others bearing the same post-mark, they would really have had something to gossip about. "Did you ever see such a snowfall in March?" said Hinpoha, looking out the window at the white landscape. "It must be perfectly grand coasting," said Sahwah, ever with an eye for sport. "Dick Albright promised he would take us out on his new bob the next time there was snow, and this is the next time, and will probably be the last time. Do you suppose you could come along?" "I doubt it," said Hinpoha. "Aunt Phoebe thinks coasting is too rough. Did I ever tell you the time mother and I coasted down the walk and ran into Aunt Phoebe?" Sahwah laughed heartily over the story. "Poor Aunt Phoebe!" she said, wiping the tears of laughter from her eyes. "She is bound to get all the shocks that flesh is heir to." As she was walking home through the snow that afternoon some one came up behind her and took her books from her hand. It was Dick Albright. "Good afternoon, Miss Brewster," he said formally. "Good afternoon, _Mr_. Albright," said Sahwah in the same tone, her eyes dancing in her head. Then she burst out, "Oh, Dick, won't you take us coasting to-morrow night? This is positively the last snow of the season." "Sure," said Dick. "Take you to-night if you want to." Sahwah shook her head. "'Strictly nothing doing,' to quote your own elegant phrase," she said. "I've a German test on to-morrow morning, and consequently have an engagement with my friend Wilhelm Tell to-night. I've simply got to get above eighty-five in this test or go below passing for the month. I got through last month without ever looking at it, but it won't work again this month." "How did you do it?" asked Dick. "Why," answered Sahwah, "when it came to the test and we were asked to tell the story of the book I simply wrote down, 'I can't tell you that one, but I can tell another just as good,' and I did. Old Prof. Frühlingslied was so floored by my 'blooming cheek' that he passed me, but he has had a watchful eye on me ever since." Dick laughed outright. "I never saw anything like you," he said, swinging her books around in his hand. The red heart fell out into the snow. Dick picked it up. "Who's your friend?" he said, deliberately reading the name, and immediately filled with jealous pangs. Dick liked Sahwah better than any girl in school. Her irrepressible, fun--loving nature held him fascinated. Sahwah liked Dick, too, but no better than she liked most of the boys in the class. Sahwah was a poor hand to regard a boy as a "beau." Boys were good things to skate with, or play ball or go rowing with; they came in handy when there were heavy things to lift, and all that; but in none of these things did one seem to have any advantage over the others, so it was immaterial to her which one she had a good time with. The good time was the main thing to her. Sahwah had a fifteen--year--old brother, and she knew what a boy was under his white collar and "boiled" shirt. There was no silly sentimentality in her spicy make-up. She was a royal good companion when there was any fun going on, but it was about as easy to "get soft" with her as with a stone fence post. She was a master hand at ridicule and the boys knew this and respected her accordingly. In spite of all this Dick's admiration of her remained steadfast, and he would have attempted to jump over the moon if she had dared him to do it. Hence the valentine signed "Ned Roberts" piqued him. Sahwah had ordered him not to send her one and he had meekly obeyed. It hurt him to think any one else had the right to do it. "Who's your friend?" he repeated as he handed her the heart. "Oh, somebody," said Sahwah, enjoying the opportunity of teasing him. And that was all he could get out of her, in spite of numerous questions. "You'll surely go coasting to-morrow night?" he said as he left her in front of her house. "I surely will,"' said Sahwah, flashing him a brilliant smile, "I wouldn't miss it for the world!" If ever a girl had the power to allure and torment a boy that girl was Sahwah. * * * * * The house belonging to the Gardiners was now rented, together with the furnished room, and brought in thirty dollars a month, which made housekeeping much smoother sailing for Migwan, but the fact still remained that the money which was to have put her into college the next year was spent, and there was no present prospect of replacing it. Her mother was now home from the hospital and fully on the road to recovery, and Migwan tried to make her happiness over this fact overbalance her disappointment at her own loss. None of her stories or picture plays had been accepted, and of late she had had to give up writing, for with her mother sick most of the housework fell on her shoulders. Although she maintained a bright and cheery exterior, she went about mourning in secret for her lost career, as she called it, and the heart went out of her studying. She was walking soberly through the hall at school one morning when she heard somebody call out, "Oh, Miss Gardiner, come here a minute." It was Professor Green, standing in the door of his class room. "There is something I want to tell you about," he said, smiling down at her when she came up to him. "You like to study History pretty well, don't you?" Migwan nodded. Next to Latin, history was her favorite study. "Well," resumed Professor Green, "here is a chance for you to do something with it. You remember that Professor Parsons who lectured to the school on various historical subjects last winter? You know he is a perfect crank on having boys and girls learn history. He has now offered a prize of $100 to the boy or girl in the graduating class of this High School who can pass the best examination in Ancient, Medieval and Modern History. You have had all three of those subjects, have you not?" "Yes," said Migwan, eagerly. "The examination is to take place the last week in April," continued Professor Green. "'A word to the wise is sufficient.' You are one of the best students of history in the class." Migwan went away after thanking him for telling her about it, feeling as if she were treading on air. There was no doubt in her mind about her ability to learn history, as there was about geometry. She had an amazing memory for dates and events and in her imaginative mind the happenings of centuries ago took form and color and stood out as vividly as if she saw them passing by in review. Her heart beat violently when she thought that she had as good a chance, if not better than any one else in the class, of winning that $100 prize. This would pay her tuition in the local university for the first year. She resolved to throw her fruitless writing to the winds and put all her strength into her history. The world stretched out before her a blooming, sunny meadow, instead of a stagnant fen, and exultantly she sang to herself one of the pageant songs of the Camp Fire Girls: "Darkness behind us, Peace around us, Joy before us, White Flame forever!" That morning the announcement of the prize examination was made to the whole class, and Abraham Goldstein also resolved that he would win that $100. The snow lasted over another day and the next night Sahwah and Dick Albright and a half dozen other girls and boys went coasting. It was bright moonlight and the air was clear and crisp, just cold enough to keep the snow hard and not cold enough to chill them as they sat on the bob. The place where they went coasting was down the long lake drive in the park, an unbroken stretch of over half a mile. Halfway down the slope the land rose up in a "thank--you--marm," and when the bob struck this it shot into the air and came down again in the path with a thrilling leap which never failed to make the girls shriek. Migwan was there in the crowd, and Gladys, and one or two more of the Winnebagos. Dick Albright was in his element as he steered the bob down the long white lane, for Sahwah sat right behind him, shouting merry nonsense into his ear. "Now let me steer," she commanded, when they had gone down a couple of times. "Don't you do it, Dick," said one of the other boys, "she'll never steer us around the bend." Dick hesitated. There was a sharp turn in the road, right near the bottom of the descent, and as the bob had acquired a high degree of speed by the time it reached this point, it required quick work to make the turn. "If you don't let me steer just once I'll never speak to you again, Dick Albright," said Sahwah, with flashing eyes. Dick wavered. The chances were that Sahwah would land them safely at the bottom, and he thought it worth the risk of a possible spill to stay in her good graces. "All right, go ahead," he said, "I believe you can do it all right. Be careful when you come to the turn, that's all." Sahwah slid in behind the steering wheel and they started off. The sled traveled faster than it did before, but Sahwah negotiated both the thank--you--marm and the turn with as much skill as Dick himself could have done it, and danced a triumphant war dance when she had brought the bob safely to a stop. "There now, smarty," she said to the boy who had mistrusted her powers, "you see that a girl can do it as well as a boy." "_You_ certainly can," said Dick, no less pleased than she herself at her success, "and you may steer the bob the rest of the evening if you want to." Sahwah engineered two or three more trips and then the excitement lost its tang for her as the element of danger was removed, for the turn had no difficulties for her. "Let's coast down the side of the hill once," she suggested. "No, thanks," said Migwan, eyeing the steep slope that rose beside the drive. "Oh, come on," pleaded Sahwah; "it's more fun to go down a steep hill. You go so much faster. It lands you in a snowbank at the bottom, but it's perfectly safe." None of the boys and girls appeared anxious to go. Sahwah jumped up and down with impatience. "Oh, you slowpokes!" she exclaimed, rather crossly. Then she turned to Dick Albright. "Dick," she said, "will you come with me even if the others won't?" Dick shook his head. "It's dangerous," he answered. "You're afraid," said Sahwah tauntingly. "I'm not," said Dick hotly. "You are too," said Sahwah. "All right if you're afraid, but I know some one who wouldn't be." Now Sahwah had no one definite in mind when she said this last, it was simply an effort to make Dick feel small, but Dick immediately took it as a reference to the unknown Ned Roberts who had sent her the valentine, and his jealousy got the better of his discretion. "All right," he said, firmly determined to measure up to this pattern of dauntlessness, "come on if you want to. I'll go with you." The two climbed up the steep hill, dragging the bob after them. When Sahwah was sitting behind the steering wheel, poised at the top and ready to make the swift descent, she shuddered at the sight of the sharp incline. It looked so much worse from the top than from the bottom. She would have drawn back and given it up, but Sahwah had a stubborn pride that shrank from saying she was afraid to do anything she had undertaken. "Shove off!" she commanded, gritting her chattering teeth together. The bob shot downward like a cannon ball. In spite of her terror Sahwah enjoyed the sensation. She held firmly on to the steering wheel and made for the great bank of snow which had been thrown up by the men cleaning the foot walks. At that moment an automobile turned into the lake drive, and its blinding lights shone full into Sahwah's eyes. Dazzled, she turned her head away, at the same time jerking the steering wheel to the right. The bob swerved sharply to one side and crashed into a tree. The force of the impact threw Dick clear of the sled and he rolled head over heels down the hill, landing in the snow at the bottom badly shaken, but otherwise unhurt. Sahwah lay motionless in the snow beside the wreck of the bob. CHAPTER XII. DR. HOFFMAN. The girls and boys crowded around her with frightened faces. "Is she killed?" they asked each other in terrified tones. "It's all my fault," said Dick Albright, nearly beside himself; "I should have known better than to let her go. She didn't think of the danger, but I did, and I should have prevented her. Was there ever such a fool as I?" Gladys and Migwan were kneeling beside Sahwah and opening her coat. "She is not dead," said Gladys, feeling her pulse. "We must get her home. She is possibly only stunned." Sahwah moved slightly and groaned, but she did not open her eyes. A passing automobile was hailed and she was carried to it as carefully as possible and taken home. "A slight concussion of the brain," said the hastily summoned doctor, after he had made his examination, "and a fractured hip. The hip can be fixed all right, but the concussion may be worse than it looks. That is an ugly contusion on her head." The next few days were anxious ones in the Brewster home. Sahwah gave no sign of returning consciousness, and her fever rose steadily. Mrs. Brewster felt her hair turning gray with the suspense, and the Winnebagos could neither eat nor sleep. Poor Dick was frantic, yet he dared not show himself at the house for fear every one would point an accusing finger at him as the one responsible for the misfortune. But Sahwah, true to her usual habit of always doing the unexpected thing, progressed along just the opposite lines from those prophesied by the physician. After a few days her fever abated and the danger from the concussion was over. Sahwah's head had demonstrated itself to be of a superior solidness of construction. But the hip, which at first had not given them a moment's uneasiness, steadfastly refused to mend. Dr. Benson looked puzzled; then grave. The splintered end of that hip bone began to be a nightmare to him. He called in another doctor for consultation. The new doctor set it in a different way, nearly killing Sahwah with the pain, although she struggled valiantly to be brave and bear it in silence. Nyoda never forgot that tortured smile with which Sahwah greeted her when she came in after the process was over. A week or two passed and the bones still made no effort to knit. Another consulting physician was called in; a prominent surgeon. He ordered Sahwah removed to the hospital, where he made half a dozen X-ray pictures of her hip. The joint was so badly inflamed and swollen that it was impossible to tell just where the trouble lay. Sahwah fumed and fretted with impatience at having to stay in bed so long. Surgeon after surgeon examined the fracture and shook their heads. At last a long consultation was held, at the close of which Mr. and Mrs. Brewster were called into the council of physicians. "We have discovered," said Dr. Lord, a man high up in the profession who was considered the final authority, "that the ball joint of your daughter's hip has been fractured in such a way that it can never heal. There is one inevitable result of this condition, and that is tuberculosis of the bone. If not arrested this will in time communicate itself to the bones of the upper part of the body and terminate fatally. There is only one way to prevent this outcome and that is amputation of the limb before the disease gets a hold on the system." "You mean, cut her leg off?" asked Mrs. Brewster faintly. "Yes," said Dr. Lord shortly. He was a man of few words. Sahwah was stunned when she heard the verdict of the surgeons. She knew little about disease and it seemed wildly impossible to her that this limb of hers which had been so strong and supple a month ago would become an agent of death if not amputated. She was in an agony of mind. Never to swim again! Never to run and jump and slide and skate and dance! Always to go about on crutches! Before the prospect of being crippled for life her active nature shrank in unutterable horror. Death seemed preferable to her. She buried her face in the pillow in such anguish that the watchers by the bedside could not stand by and see it. After a day of acute mental suffering her old-time courage began to rear its head and she made up her mind that if this terrible thing had to be done she might as well go through with it as bravely as possible. She resigned herself to her fate and urged her parents to give their consent to the operation. Poor Mrs. Brewster was nearly out of her mind with worry over the affair. "When will you do it?" asked Sahwah, struggling to keep her voice steady. "In about a week," said Dr. Lord, "when you get a little stronger." Nyoda went home heartsick from the hospital that day. Sahwah had asked her to write to Dr. Hoffman, her old friend in camp, and tell him the news. With a shaking hand she wrote the letter. "Poor old Dr. Hoffman," she said to herself, "how badly he will feel when he hears that Sahwah is hurt and he can do nothing to help her." Sahwah had never dreamed how many friends she had until this misfortune overcame her. Boys and girls, as well as old people and little children, horrified at the calamity, came by the dozen to offer cheer and comfort. Her room was filled to overflowing with flowers. Even "old Fuzzytop," whom Sahwah had tormented nearly to death, came to offer his sympathy and present a potted tulip. Stiff and precise Miss Muggins came to say how she missed her from the Latin class. Aunt Phoebe forgave all the jokes she had made at her expense and sent over a crocheted dressing jacket made of fleecy wool. "Don't feel so badly, Nyoda dear," she said one day as Nyoda sat beside her in the depths of despair. The usual jolly teacher had now no cheery word to offer. The prospect of the gay dancing Sahwah on crutches for the remainder of her life was an appalling tragedy. "I can act out 'The Little Tin Soldier' quite realistically--then," went on Sahwah, her mind already at work to find the humor of the situation. But Nyoda sat staring miserably at the flowers on the dresser. "Telegram for Miss Brewster," said the nurse, appearing in the doorway. "A telegram for me?" asked Sahwah curiously, stretching out her hand for the envelope. She tore it open eagerly and read, "Don't operate until I come. Dr. Hoffman." "He's coming!" cried Sahwah. "Dr. Hoffman is coming! He said if I ever broke a bone again he would come and set it! Poor Doctor, how disappointed he'll be when he finds he can't 'set it'!" Dr. Hoffman arrived the next day. "Vell, vell, Missis Sahvah," he said anxiously as he saw her lying so ominously still on the bed, "you haf not been trying to push somevon across de top of Lake Erie, haf you?" Sahwah smiled faintly. A ray of sunlight seemed to have entered the room with the doctor, also a gust of wind. He had thrown his hat right into a bouquet of flowers and his hair stood on end and his tie was askew with the haste he had made in getting to the hospital from the train. "Now about this hip, yes?" he said in a businesslike tone. Without any ceremony he brushed the nurse aside and unwrapped the bandages. "Ach so," he said, feeling of the joint with a practised hand, "you did a good job, Missis Sahvah. You make out of your bone a splinter. But vot is dis I hear about operating?" he suddenly exclaimed. "De very idea! Don't you let dem amputate your leg off! Such fool doctors! It's a vonder dey did not cut your head off to cure de bump!" His voice rose to a regular roar. Dr. Lord, coming in at that moment, stopped in astonishment at the sight of this strange doctor standing over his patient. "For vy did you want to amputate her leg off?" shouted Dr. Hoffman at him, dancing up and down in front of him and shaking his finger under his nose. "It is no more diseased dan yours is. And you call yourself a surgeon doctor! Bah! You go out and play in de sunshine and let me take care of dis hip." "Who the dickens are you?" asked Dr. Lord, looking at him as though he thought he were an escaped lunatic. "Dis is who I am," replied Dr. Hoffman, handing him a card. "I vas in eighteen-ninety-five by de _Staatsklinick_ in Berlin." Dr. Lord fell back respectfully. "I know someting about dot Missis Sahvah's bones," went on Dr. Hoffman, "and I know dey vill knit if you gif dem a chance. If all goes vell she vill valk again in t'ree months." "I'd like to see you do it," said Dr. Lord. "Patience, my friend," said Dr. Hoffman, "first ve make a little plaster cast." When Mrs. Brewster came in the afternoon she found a strange doctor in command and Dr. Lord and the nurses obeying his orders as if hypnotized. When she went home that night, hope had come to life again in her heart, where it had been dead for more than a week. Dr. Hoffman spent the afternoon having X-ray photographs of the joint made, and sat up all night trying to figure out how those bones could be set so they would knit and still not leave the joint stiff. By morning he had the solution. The next day--the day the limb was to have been amputated--an operation of a very different nature took place. Dr. Hoffman, looking more like a pastry cook in his operating clothes than anything else, bustled around the operating room keeping the nurses and assisting physicians on the jump. "Who's the Dutchman that's doing the bossing?" asked a pert young interne of one of the doctors. "Shut up," answered the doctor addressed, "that's Hoffman, of the _Staatsklinick_ in Berlin, and the Royal College of Vienna. He was Professor of Anatomy in the _Staatsklinick_ '95-'96, don't you remember?" he said, turning to one of the other doctors. "He's a wizard at bonesetting. He performed that operation on Count Esterhazy's youngest son that kept him from being a cripple." The younger doctor looked at Dr. Hoffman with a sudden respect. The case in question was a famous one in surgical annals. Dr. Lord, angry as he was at Dr. Hoffman's arraignment of him before the nurses and visitors, was yet a big enough man to realize that he had a chance to learn something from this sarcastic intruder who had so unceremoniously taken his case out of his hands, and swallowing his wrath, asked permission to witness the operation. "Ach, yes, to be sure," said Dr. Hoffman, with his old geniality. "You must not mind that I vas so cross yesterday," he went on, "it vas because I vas so impatient ven I hear you vanted to amputate dot girl's leg off. But I forget," he said magnanimously, "you do not know how to set de badly splintered bones so dey vill knit, as I do. Bring all de doctors in you vant to, and all de nurses too. Ve vill haf a _Klinick_." Thus it was that the large operating room of the hospital was crowded to the very edge of the "sterile field" with eager medical men, glad of the chance to watch Dr. Hoffman at work. "Who is that young girl in here?" asked Dr. Lord impatiently, as the anaesthetic was about to be administered. "Some friend of the patient," explained the head nurse. "Hoffman let her in himself." The young girl in question was Medmangi. Dr. Hoffman knew all about her ambition to become a doctor and allowed her to come into the operating room. So she began her career by witnessing one of the most inspired operations of a widely famed surgeon. When Sahwah came out of the ether she felt as if she were held in a vise. "What's the matter?" she asked dreamily. "I feel so stiff and queer." "It's the cast they put you in," answered her mother. Sahwah moved her arms carefully to see if they were in working order yet. Lightly she touched the hard substance that surrounded her hip bone. "They didn't cut it off, did they?" she asked in sudden terror. She could not tell by the feeling whether she had two legs or one. Dr. Hoffman, coming in in time to hear the question, snorted violently. "Don't talk such nonsense, Missis Sahvah," he said, waving his hands emphatically. "Dot limb is still vere it belongs, and vill be as good as ever ven de cast comes off." The watchers around the bed that day wore very different expressions from what they had worn all week. Just since yesterday despair had given way to hope and hope to assurance. Her mother and father and Nyoda hovered over the bed with radiant faces, and the Winnebagos, after seeing Sahwah's favorable condition with their own eyes, retired to Gladys's barn to celebrate. The rules of the hospital forbade the amount of noise they felt they must make. Dick Albright smiled his first smile that day since the night of the accident. CHAPTER XIII. THE HONOR OF THE WINNEBAGOS. "For High Style use the Preterite, For Common use the Past, In compound verbal tenses Put the Participle last. The Perfect Tense with 'Avoir' With the Subject must agree (Or does this rule apply to the Auxiliary 'to be'?)." Migwan, in high spirits, resolved the rules in her French grammar into poetry as she learned them. Regular lessons were gotten out of the way as quickly as possible these days to give more time to the study of history. And to Migwan studying history meant not merely the memorizing of a number of facts attached to dates which might or might not stay in her mind at the crucial time; it was the bringing to life of bygone races and people, and putting herself in their places, and living along with them the events described on the pages. Taking it in this way, Migwan had a very clear and vivid picture of the things she was learning, and her answers to questions showed such a thorough knowledge of her subject that she was regarded as a "grind" at history, while the truth was that she did less "grinding" than the rest of the class, who merely memorized figures and facts without calling in the aid of the imagination. So Migwan learned her new history and reviewed her old, and was as happy as the day was long. As the time approached for the examination she felt more sure of herself every day. The long hours of patient study were about to be rewarded, and she would bring honor to the Winnebagos by winning the Parsons prize. That little point about bringing honor to the Winnebagos was keenly felt by Migwan. Ever since Sahwah had covered herself with undying glory in the game with the Carnegie Mechanics, Migwan felt a longing to distinguish herself in some way also. Sahwah's fame was widespread, and when any of the Winnebagos happened to mention that they belonged to that particular group, some one was sure to say, "The Winnebago Camp Fire? Oh, yes, it was one of your number who won the basketball championship for the school by making a record jump for the ball, wasn't it?" The whole group lived in the reflected glory of Sahwah the Sunfish. Now, thought Migwan resolutely, they would have something else to be proud about. In the future people would say, "The Winnebagos? Oh, yes, it was one of your girls who carried off the Parsons prize in history!" Migwan thrilled with the joy of it, and plunged more deeply into the pages before her. She was a different girl nowadays from the pale, anxious-faced one who had sat up night after night during the winter, desperately trying to add something to the scanty income by the labor of pen and typewriter. Now she was always happy and sparkling, and performed her household tasks with such a will that her languid mother, lying and watching her, was likewise filled with an ambition to be up and doing. She was never cross with Betty these days, no matter how many fits of temper that young lady indulged in. Professor Green often stopped her in the hall to ask her how she was getting along in her preparation, and offered to lend her reference books which would help her in her study. Everybody seemed to be anxious for her to win the prize, and willing to give her all the help possible. Migwan did not make the mistake of studying until late the night before the examination. She went to bed at nine o'clock, so as to be in fit condition. When she closed her books after the final study she knew all that was to be learned from them. The examination was held in the senior session room after the close of school. Five pupils participated. One was Abraham Goldstein, another was George Curtis, who liked Migwan very well and hated Abraham cordially; the other two were girls. They all sat in one row of seats; Migwan first, then George, then Abraham, and behind him the two girls. The lists of questions were given out. "I hardly need to say," said the teacher in attendance, "that the honor system will be in force during this examination." Migwan made an effort to still the wild beating of her heart and read the questions through. They all appeared easy to her, as she had had such a thorough preparation. George Curtis groaned to himself as he looked them over, for there were two which he saw at a glance he would be unable to answer. Abraham read his and looked thoughtful. Migwan wrote rapidly with a sure and inspired pen until she came to the last question. There she halted in dismay. The question was in the Ancient History group and read, in part, "Who was the invader of Israel before Sennacherib?" For the life of her she could not think of the name of the Assyrian invader. Last night the whole thing had been as clear as crystal in her mind. She thought until the perspiration stood out on her forehead; she tried every method of suggestion that she knew, but all in vain; the name still eluded her. While she was trying so desperately to recall the name, George Curtis in the seat behind was watching her. By chance he had caught a glimpse of her paper, and saw the figure 10 followed by an empty space, so he knew that it was the tenth question she was having trouble with. This happened to be one he knew and he had just written it out in a bold, black hand. He was out of the race for the prize, for there were two whole questions left out on his sheet. By certain signs of distress from the two girls behind him he knew that they, too, were out, and it now lay between Migwan and Abraham. Abraham was not very well liked by the boys since the affair of the statue. George despised him utterly, and he could not bear to think of his winning that prize. He watched his chance. It came at last. The teacher dropped her pencil behind her desk, and in the instant when she was picking it up he reached out and pulled Migwan's hair sharply. When she turned around in surprise he framed with his lips the name "Sargon." She understood it perfectly. Then came a mental struggle which matched Sahwah's terrific physical one that day in camp. On one side college stood with its doors wide open to welcome her; she heard the plaudits of her friends who expected and wanted her to win the prize; she saw the joy in her mother's face when she heard the news; she heard the heartfelt congratulations of Nyoda and the Winnebagos who would share in her glory. On the other hand she heard just five ugly words echoing in her ears. "_You didn't win it honestly!"_ She tried to stifle the voice of science. "I knew it perfectly all the time," she said to herself, "and it only slipped my mind for an instant." "But you forgot," said the voice, "and if he hadn't told you you wouldn't have known." Miserably she argued the question back and forth. It she didn't win the prize Abraham would, and he could well afford to go to college without the money. "He'd cheat if he had the chance," she told herself. "That doesn't help you any," pricked the accuser. "You talk about the honor of the Winnebagos. If you use that information you would be dishonoring the Winnebagos! You're a cheat, you're a cheat," it said tauntingly, and a little sparrow on the window sill outside took up the mocking refrain, "Cheat! Cheat!" Stung as though some one had pointed an accusing finger at her, Migwan flung down her pen in despair and resolutely blotted her paper. She handed in her examination with the last half of the last question unanswered, and fled from the room with unseeing eyes. And in the instant when George was trying to tell Migwan the answer, Abraham, who had also forgotten the name of Sargon, glanced over toward George's paper and saw it written out in his easily readable hand. Without a qualm he wrote it down on his own paper with a triumphant flourish. There was great surprise throughout the school a few days later when the grades of the examination were made public: Elsie Gardiner, 95; Abraham Goldstein, 98, winner of the Parsons cash prize of $100. Migwan felt like a wanderer on the face of the earth after losing that history prize. She shrank from meeting the friends who had so confidently expected her to win it, and her own thoughts were too painful to be left alone with. If Hinpoha had been wandering in the Desert of Waiting for the past few months, Migwan was sunk deep in the Slough of Despond. She was at the age when death seemed preferable to defeat, and she wished miserably that she would fall ill of some mortal disease, and never have to face the world again with failure written on her forehead. "Oh, why," she wailed in anguish of spirit, as has many an older and wiser person when confronted with this same unanswerable question, "why was I given this glimpse of Paradise only to have the gate slammed in my face?" That spectre of the winter before, the belief that success would never be hers, gripped her again with its icy hand. And was it any wonder? Twice now the means to enter college had been within her reach, and twice it had been swept away in a single day. But while Migwan was thus learning by hard experience that there is many a slip twixt the cup and the lip, she was also to learn from that same schoolmistress the truth of the old saying, "Three times and out." In the meantime, however, the skies were as gray as the wings of the Thunderbird, and life was like a jangling discord struck on a piano long out of tune. But even if we _would_ rather be dead than alive, as long as we _are_ alive there remain certain duties which have to be performed regardless of the state of our emotional barometers, and Migwan discovered with a start one day that there were at least a dozen letters in her top bureau drawer waiting to be answered. "It's a shame," she said to herself, as she looked them over. "I haven't written to the Bartletts since last November." The Bartletts were the parents of the little boy who was traced by the aid of her timely snapshot. She opened Mrs. Bartlett's letter and glanced over it to put herself in the mood for answering it. She laughed sardonically as she read. Mrs. Bartlett, confident that Migwan was going to use the reward money to go to college, discussed the merits of different courses, and advised Migwan, above all things, with her talent for writing, to put the emphasis on literature and history. Migwan took a certain grim delight in telling Mrs. Bartlett what had happened to her ambition to go to college. She had a Homeric sense of humor that could see the point when the gods were playing pranks on helpless mortals. She told the story simply and frankly, without any "literary style," such as was usually present in her letters to a high degree; neither did she bewail her lot and seek sympathy, for Migwan was no craven. Then, having told Mrs. Bartlett that she had made up her mind to give up thoughts of college for several years at least, as her duty to her mother came before her ambition, and had sealed and sent away the letter, it suddenly came over her that the writing she had done all winter and which she now considered a waste of time, had done something for her after all; it had taught her the use of the typewriter, a knowledge which she could turn to account during the summertime, and by working in an office somewhere, she could possibly earn enough money to enter college in the fall after all. And up went Migwan's spirits again, like a jack-in-the-box, and went soaring among the clouds like the swallows. CHAPTER XIV. AN AUTOMOBILE AND A DRIVER. Along in the last week of May, Nyoda, on a shopping tour downtown, dropped into a restaurant for a bit of lunch. As she was sitting down to the table, another young woman came and sat down opposite her. The two glanced at each other. "Why, Elizabeth Kent!" exclaimed the latest arrival. "Why, Norma Williamson!" exclaimed Nyoda, recognizing an old college friend. "Not Norma Williamson any more," said the friend, blushing as she drew off her glove and displayed the rings on her fourth finger; "Norma Bates." "What are you doing to pass the time away?" asked the pretty little matron when she had exhausted her own experiences of the last few years. Nyoda told her about her teaching and the guardianship of the Winnebagos. "Camp Fire Girls?" said Mrs. Bates. "How delightful! I think that is one of the best things that ever happened to girls. If I were not so frightfully busy I would take a group too--I may yet. But I wish you would bring your girls out to visit us. We're living on the Lake Shore for the summer. Camp Fire Girls would certainly know how to have a good time at our place. We have a launch and a sailboat and horses to ride and a tennis court. Can't you come out next Saturday?" Nyoda thought perhaps they could. "I'll tell you what to do," said Mrs. Bates, warming to the scheme. "Come out Friday after school and stay until Sunday night. That will give the girls more chance to do things. We have plenty of room." "The same hospitable Norma Williamson as of old," said Nyoda, smiling at her. "Don't you remember how we girls used to flock to your room in college, and when it was apparently as fall as it could get you would always make room for one more?" "I love to have people visit me," said Mrs. Bates simply. "By the way," said Nyoda, as she rose to depart, "how do you get to Bates Villa?" "Take the Interurban car," replied Mrs. Bates, "and get off at Stop _42_. The Limited leaves the Interurban Station at four o'clock; that would be a good car to come on." "All right," said Nyoda, extending her hand in farewell; "we'll be there." The news of the invitation to spend a week-end in the country was received with a shout by the Winnebagos. Their only regret was that Sahwah would be unable to go. "Never mind, Sahwah," comforted Nyoda, "Mrs. Bates wants us to come out again when the water is warm enough to go in bathing and by that time your hip will be all right." On Friday, after school was out, Nyoda and Gladys left the building together. "You are coming home with me, as we planned, until it is time to take the car?" asked Nyoda. "I'm afraid I'll have to go home first, after all," said Gladys. "I came away in such a hurry this morning that I forgot my sweater and my tennis shoes and I really must have them. You come home with me." But on arriving at the Evans house they found nobody home. Gladys rang and waited and rang again, but there was no answer. Gladys frowned with vexation. "I simply must have that sweater and those shoes," she said. "There's no use in waiting until some one comes home; it'll be too late. Mother has gone for the day and father is out of town, and if Katy has been given a day off she won't be at home until evening. We'll have to break into the house, that's all there is to it." Feeling like burglars, they tried all the windows on the first floor and the basement. Everything was locked tightly. Gladys began to feel desperate. "Do you suppose I had better break the pantry window," she asked, "or possibly one of the cellar ones? I'll pay for it out of my allowance. I think the pantry window would be the best, because the door at the head of the cellar stairs is likely to be locked and we might not be able to get upstairs if we did get into the cellar." Nyoda was inspecting the upper windows of the house. "There is one open a little," she said; "the one over the side entrance." Gladys abandoned her idea of breaking the pantry window and bent her energies to reaching the open one. With the aid of Nyoda she climbed up the post of the little side porch, swung herself over the edge of the roof and raised the window. "Stop where you are!" called a commanding voice. Gladys and Nyoda both started guiltily. A man was running across the lawn from the next estate. "Stop or I'll call the police," he said, coming upon the drive. He looked much disconcerted when Nyoda and Gladys both burst into a ringing peal of laughter. "Oh, it's too funny for anything," said Gladys, wiping her eyes, "to be caught breaking into your own house. You're a good man, whoever you are, for keeping an eye on the house," she said to the puzzled-looking arrester, "but the joke is on you this time. This is my father's house. I'm Gladys Evans. Give him one of my cards out of my purse, Nyoda, so he'll believe it." "I beg your pardon," said the man, convinced that Gladys had a right to enter the Evans's house by the second-story window if she chose. "I'm the new gardener next door and I didn't know you, and it always looks suspicious to see such goings-on." "You did perfectly right," said Gladys, as he went back to his work. Laughing extravagantly over their being taken for housebreakers, Gladys climbed into the window and went downstairs. Opening the front door a crack, she gave a low whistle which she fondly believed to be a burglar-like signal. Nyoda answered with a similar whistle. "Is that you, Diamond Dick?" she asked in a thrilling whisper. "Who stands without?" asked Gladys. "It is I, Dark-lantern Pete," hissed Nyoda. "Give the countersign," commanded Gladys. "Six buckets of blood!" replied Nyoda in a curdling voice. Gladys admitted her into the house and they both sat down on the stairs and shrieked with laughter. "Oh, I can hardly wait until we get down to the car, so we can tell the other girls," said Gladys. "Caught in the act! My fair name is ruined. Now for some dinner." "I'm hungry for a pickle," she said as they foraged in the pantry for something to eat. "Wait a minute until I go down cellar and get some." As she opened the door of the cool cellar she started back in surprise. On the floor lay Katy, the maid, unconscious. An overturned chair beside her and a shattered light globe told how she had tried to screw a new bulb into the fixture in the ceiling and had tipped over with the chair, striking her head on the cement floor. "Nyoda, come down here," called Gladys. Nyoda hastened down. Together they laid the unconscious girl on a pile of carpet and tried to revive her. After a few minutes' work Nyoda went upstairs and called the ambulance to take Katy to the hospital. When she had been examined by a surgeon and pronounced badly stunned but not seriously injured, Gladys and Nyoda breathed a sigh of relief and left her in the care of the hospital. "We've had enough excitement to-day to last a month," said Gladys, as they hastened tack to the house the second time to get the sweater and shoes. "I'm all tired out." "So am I," said Nyoda. "We have just time enough to make that four o'clock car, and none to spare," said Gladys, as they rode toward town in the street-car. As if everything were conspiring against them to-day, a heavy truck, loaded with boxes, got caught in the car-track right in front of them and blocked traffic for ten minutes. Gladys and Nyoda looked tragically at each other at this delay. Nyoda held up her watch significantly. It was ten minutes to four. Just then Gladys spied a man she knew in an automobile, slowly passing the car. She called to him through the open window. "Will you take us in if we get off the car?" she asked. "We're trying to make the four o'clock Limited." "Certainly," agreed the obliging friend. The transfer of seats was soon made. "How much time have you?" asked the friend as he shoved in the spark. "Ten minutes," replied Gladys. "We'll make it," said the friend, dodging between the vehicles that were standing around the disabled truck, helping to pull it from the car-tracks. Getting into a clear road, he opened the throttle and they proceeded like the wind for about six blocks. Then, for no apparent reason, the car slowed down, and with a whining whir of machinery came to a dead stop. "I'm afraid I can't make good my promise to catch that car," said the friend in a vexed tone, after vainly trying to start the car for several minutes. "I'll have to be towed to a garage," Nyoda and Gladys jumped out, hailed a passing street-car and reached the station just five minutes too late. The Limited had already pulled out. "Five girls with red ties?" repeated the crossing policeman when they made inquiries to find out if the other girls had gone and left them. "They all got on the Limited." There was no doubt about their having gone, then. "You know, you said if any were late they'd get left," said Gladys. "Whoever was here for the car was to go and not wait. Won't they laugh, though, at you being the late one?" "There won't be another Limited for two hours," said Nyoda impatiently, "and the local takes twice as long to get there. I'll telephone Mrs. Bates that we missed this car but will come out on the next Limited." "Missed the car?" said Mrs. Bates, when they had her on the wire. "That's too bad. But you won't have to wait for the other Limited. Our driver is in town to-day with the automobile and he can bring you out. He's in Morrison's now ordering some supplies, and the car is at the corner of ----th Avenue and L---- Street. Just get into the car and it'll be all right. John always calls me up before he starts for home and I'll tell him about you. It's a blue car, rather bright, with a cane streamer." Much cheered by the thought of an automobile ride through the country instead of a two-hour wait and the prospect of being packed like sardines into the crowded interurban car, Nyoda and Gladys moved down to the corner of ----th Avenue and L---- Street and found the car just as Mrs. Bates had said. With a sigh of comfort they settled down on the cushions. "Our struggles are over," said Nyoda, leaning back luxuriously and counting over the various things that had happened to them since leaving school at noon. In a few moments the driver appeared, touched his hat respectfully to the two girls in the tonneau, and got into the front seat without any comment. He had his orders from Mrs. Bates. "It's just like Norma Williamson to have a blue car with blue cushions," said Nyoda, as they sped through the streets toward the city limits. "She was always so fond of blue in college. And this cane streamer is just the finishing touch. She always liked things trimmed up gaily. It's a pleasant thing for the Winnebagos that I met her that day. She'll be a regular fairy godmother to us." Talking happily about the fun they would have on this week-end party, they rode along the pleasant country roads, bordered with flowering apple trees, and drank in the sweet-scented air with unbounded delight. "Could anything be lovelier than the country in May?" sighed Nyoda. "Wouldn't it be a joke," said Gladys, "if we were to get there ahead of the others, after missing the car? Wouldn't they stare, though, to find us waiting for them? We must be nearly there now." The automobile left the main road and turned down toward the lake. "That must be the place," continued Gladys, as a white house came into view far in the distance. "I don't see any of the girls waiting for us," said Nyoda. "I declare, I believe we're here first. Oh, what a joke!" The estate through which they were driving was a very large one, much of it covered with great trees. The house was painted white, and perched directly on the edge of the cliff. The automobile halted before the porch and Nyoda and Gladys got out. A woman, evidently a servant, came to the screen door and held it open, motioning them to come in. Neither Mrs. Bates nor any of the girls were in evidence. The servant said nothing. "I believe they're all hiding on us!" said Nyoda, getting a sudden light on this apparently neglectful reception. "I know Norma's tricks of old. If we could only think of some way to turn the laugh on them!" The servant who had admitted them led the way to an inner room and opened a door, stepping aside to let them go first. Then she followed and closed the door after them. They found that they were in an elevator. The woman pushed a button and they began to rise. "Of all things, an elevator in a country house!" said Gladys. They rose to a height which must have equalled the third story of the house, although they passed no open floor. They came to a halt before an opening covered with an iron grating. To the girls it looked like the ordinary elevator entrance. At a touch from the woman the grating moved aside and they stepped out into the room. The elevator descended noiselessly and Nyoda and Gladys were alone. "It's a tower room!" said Gladys. The chamber they were in was square, about fifteen by fifteen, furnished as a bedroom. Through a door which opened at one side they could see a luxurious tiled bath. The walls and ceiling of the chamber were tinted a deep violet, and the covers on the bed, dresser, table and the upholstery of the chairs were of the same shade. The lamp globes hanging from the ceiling were deep purple. "What an extraordinary color to decorate a room in," said Nyoda. "I wonder if this is where we are going to sleep. Where can Mrs. Bates be, I wonder?" she said, getting rather impatient for the joke to be sprung. Just at this time Gladys made a discovery. There was only one window in the room, curtained with heavy cretonne, purple, to match the rest of the hangings. Drawing the curtain aside to look out at the landscape, she suddenly stood still, frozen to the spot. At her exclamation Nyoda turned around and also stood as if turned to stone. _The window was barred_! "What does it mean?" asked Gladys in a horrified voice. The two hastened back to the elevator entrance and looked for the button to summon the elevator. There was none. They called down the shaft repeatedly, but there was no answer. As they stood listening for sounds from below they heard the automobile which had brought them start up and drive away from the house. After that there was not another sound of any kind. An unnamable terror seized them both. Each read the other's fear in her eyes. Rushing to the window, they looked out. There was nothing to be seen but the lake stretching out before them, calm and smiling in the May sunshine. The boom of the waves sounded directly beneath them, and they knew that the tower was on the extreme edge of the bluff. "This is not Norma Bates's house," said Nyoda in a frightened voice. "She said that they were a hundred feet back from the lake." "Whose house is it, then?" asked Gladys. "I can't imagine," said Nyoda. "It's all a mistake somewhere." "But that was the Bates's automobile, all right, that we got into," said Gladys. "Yes," said Nyoda reflectively; "bright blue with a cane streamer, standing at the corner of ----th Avenue and L---- Street. _But was it the right one?"_ she asked suddenly, putting her hands to her head. "That driver never said a word, just got in and drove off. What on earth are we into?" Gladys's face suddenly went as white as chalk. "Nyoda!" she gasped, clutching the other girl's arm. "What is it?" asked Nyoda. "You read every day in the papers of girls disappearing," said Gladys faintly, "never to be heard of again. Have we--have we--disappeared?" "I don't know," said Nyoda, with thoughts whirling. She turned away from the window, toward the elevator. Not a sound of any kind had been heard, and yet when she turned around there was the elevator up again with the same woman in it who had brought them up. Instead of opening the door, however, she pressed something and a little slide opened at about the height of her head. Through this she passed a supper tray, which she set on a shelf on the wall at the side of the elevator. Gladys and Nyoda hastened toward her. "What is the meaning of this?" asked Nyoda. The woman made no answer. "In whose house are we?" demanded Nyoda. Still no reply. "Answer me," said Nyoda sharply. The woman pointed to her ears and shook her head, then pointed to her lips and shook her head. "She's deaf and dumb!" exclaimed Nyoda. The woman pressed a button and the elevator sank from sight. Nyoda and Gladys faced each other in consternation. The mystery was becoming deeper. Beyond a doubt they were not in Mrs. Bates's house; beyond a doubt they were the victims of some mistake; but how was the mistake to be cleared up if they could not make themselves understood? They looked the room over thoroughly for some clew to the mystery. They found none. There was no door leading from the room except the one opening into the bath. There was no door leading out from the bath, to any other room; neither was there any window. The little room was lighted by electricity. As in the other room, everything here was violet-colored. The tiled walls, the floor, the calcimined ceiling, the light globe, the enameled medicine chest, the outside of the bathtub, and even a little three-legged stool, were all the same shade. The wonder of the girls increased momentarily. "Can this be real," asked Nyoda, looking around her in a daze, "or are we in the middle of some nightmare? Pinch me to see if I'm awake." "We're awake, all right," said Gladys. "Then have we dropped back into one of the novels of Dumas? Can this be the year 1915? Imprisoned in a lonely tower, with no window except one over the lake, and that window barred. How did we get here, anyway?" she asked wearily, her head spinning with the effort to make head or tail out of their position. "Let's see, just how was it? We missed the Limited, telephoned Mrs. Bates, and she told us that her automobile was at the corner of ----th Avenue and L---- Street--a bright blue automobile with a cane streamer--and we should get in and the driver would come and take us out to Bates Villa. We went down to the corner, found the automobile, got in, and the driver came and drove off and we landed here." Her temples throbbed as she tried to recall anything out of the way in the business. But no light came. The whole thing was mysterious, inexplicable, grotesque. "Hadn't we better eat something?" suggested Gladys gently. "It evidently isn't their intention to starve us, whatever they are keeping us here for." "You are right," said Nyoda, and she lifted the tray down from the shelf. The dishes and silver were of good quality, but the knives were so dull that it was impossible to cut anything with them. After vainly trying to make an impression on a piece of meat, Gladys threw her knife aside impatiently. "They certainly never made those knives to cut with," she said. At her remark Nyoda raised her head suddenly. She thought she saw a ray of light on the situation. "Gladys," she said, "do you know what kind of people they give dull knives to? It's insane people! This room was undoubtedly designed for some one afflicted in that way. That is why the window is barred, and there is no door, and why the room is done in lavender. Lavender has a soothing and depressing effect on people's nerves and would probably keep an insane person from becoming violent. We got here through some awful mistake." Gladys shuddered violently. "How horrible!" she said. "I suppose that woman actually considers us insane. How long do you suppose they will keep us here?" "Only until they find out their mistake," answered Nyoda, "which I hope will be soon. I shall write a note and give it to the woman when she comes up again." Both their spirits revived when they arrived at this theory, and they returned to their supper with good appetites. "I wish I could cut this meat," sighed Gladys. Then she brightened. "I have my Wohelo knife in my handbag," she said, rising and going over to the bed where her coat lay. She stopped in disappointment when she opened the bag. The knife was not there. "I remember now," she said; "I took it out just before we left home and must have forgotten to put it back in again, we left in such a hurry." "What will the girls think, anyway, when we fail to arrive at the Bates's?" said Nyoda. "They'll probably telephone to town," said Gladys, "and mother will know I didn't get there and she will be frantic." She lost all her appetite with a rush when this thought came to her. They waited impatiently for the return of the woman with the tray. Nyoda wrote a note and had it ready for her. It read: "There has been some mistake. We are not the persons you intended to keep here." But the woman did not come. Darkness fell outside the window and they lighted the lights in the room, but still there was no movement of the elevator. They spent the evening pacing up and down the room, discussing the mysterious situation in which they found themselves, until from sheer weariness they lay down on the bed. They did not undress and they left the lights burning, intending to watch for the return of the woman. They set the tray on the floor at some distance from the elevator. "Can it be possible," said Gladys, "that it was only this afternoon that we broke into our house? It seems years ago." Nyoda lay staring at the elevator shaft, awaiting the return of the cage. "This purple glare over everything hurts my eyes," she said. She closed them a minute to get relief. When she opened them again there was a broad streak of light coming in through the window. The lights were out in the room and the tray had disappeared from the floor. Gladys lay sound asleep, her head pillowed on her arm. Nyoda started up and was on the point of rousing Gladys. "No, I'll let her sleep," she thought; "it's a good thing she can." She went to the window and looked out through the bars at the sun rising over the water. There was the same old lake with which she had been familiar all her life, with the cliffs jutting out in points, one always a little farther out than the other, to form the great curve of the shore line. She must have passed this place dozens of times while riding in the lake boats. Here was a scene she had admired many times from the open shore, and now she was looking at it from behind bars, a prisoner. It was too grotesque to be true. She turned pensively toward the bed and noticed with a start that a tray containing breakfast for two stood on the shelf beside the elevator. And yet she had not heard a sound! Gladys was still asleep on the bed. As Nyoda stood looking down at her she woke up and stared around the room uncomprehendingly. She could not place herself at first. Then at the sight of the violet room the events of yesterday came back to her. They ate breakfast with what appetite they could and then sat down close beside the elevator shaft to be sure and see the deaf-mute when she came, for it seemed impossible to detect her visit when they had their backs turned. While they waited they examined the iron grating for the door opening, but found none. There was apparently no break in the scroll-work anywhere, no hinge, no slide arrangement. "Did we come into the room through there, or did we only imagine it?" asked Nyoda, completely baffled. "Surely we didn't come through that little grating that opens on top, did we? I declare, I'm getting so bewildered that if any one told us we did come in that way I wouldn't dispute them." Almost while she was speaking the elevator cage shot rapidly and noiselessly into view and the deaf-mute opened the slide to take the tray. Instead of giving it to her, however, they gave her the note first. She took it and read it and then looked at the two girls in silence. "Maybe she would write something if you gave her a pencil," suggested Gladys. Nyoda handed the woman a pencil through the iron scroll-work. She wrote something on the bottom of the paper and handed it back to Nyoda. Nyoda took the piece of paper and read: "_There is no mistake about your being here._" As she stood in open-mouthed astonishment the elevator sank from view. CHAPTER XV. THE ESCAPE. "No mistake about our being here!" gasped Nyoda. Her knees failed her and she sank weakly to the floor. "What can that mean? Are we kidnapped? Do you suppose we are being held for ransom?" "It's too horrible," said Gladys, passing her hand over her eyes. "Such things happen in novels, but not in real life." "And yet," said Nyoda musingly, "if you read the newspapers, you see that stranger things happen in reality than in fiction." "If we're being held for ransom," said Gladys, "then mother and father will find out where I am." She was more troubled about the worry her disappearance would cause her parents than about any evil which might befall herself. They rushed to the window to see if any boat was passing which they could signal. Not a sign of anything. Whoever had constructed this tower had considered a great many things. Built in the middle of an extensive estate and hidden on three sides by tall trees, it was not visible from the road at all. The barred window in the tower could only be seen from the lake side, so that if some one should wander through the grounds the appearance of the house itself would excite no suspicion. At some distance on each side of the tower a long rocky pier extended far out into the water. It was not a landing pier, for the rocks were piled unevenly on each other. These rocks changed the current of the water and made boating in the vicinity dangerous, so that launches and sailboats gave the place a wide berth. Then, on the outside of the barred window, clearing it by about two feet, there was an ornamental wooden trellis on which vines grew, which effectually screened the barred window from detection on the lake side. All these excellent points of construction were borne in on the girls as they circled the room again and again looking for some way of escape. Discouraged and heartsick, they finally sat down on the bed and faced each other When the woman brought their dinner they made a further attempt to get from her the meaning of their being held there, but in vain. To all their written questions she simply wrote, "I can tell you nothing." The afternoon dragged slowly by, the girls getting more dejected all the time. "I believe this violet color is affecting me already," said Nyoda. "I never felt so depressed and melancholy." "It's the same way with me," said Gladys. "If there was only one bright spot to relieve the monotony," said Nyoda, "it wouldn't be so bad." "How about our middy ties?" asked Gladys. "They're bright red and ought to inspire courage." She took the ties from her little satchel and spread them out over a chair. "That's better," said Nyoda. "I feel more cheerful already." After staring intently at the flaming square of silk for a while her mental activity began to revive and she commenced to turn over in her mind plans for their escape. Acting on this latest impulse, she wrote a letter addressed to a friend of hers and sealed and stamped it. When the deaf-mute brought their supper she drew a diamond ring from her finger, laid it beside the letter and wrote on a piece of paper, "The ring is yours if you will mail this letter." The woman shook her head. Nyoda drew off another ring, a handsome ruby surrounded by seed pearls and tiny diamonds. The woman gazed steadfastly at it, and Nyoda thought she saw a longing look in her eyes. She turned the ring so the stone sparkled in the light. The woman's lips parted and her hand crept toward the letter. Nyoda turned the ring in the light once more. By the look in the woman's face she knew that she had gained her point. In another moment she would accept the bribe. Just then the throbbing sound of a motor was heard on the drive. The woman started violently, jerked her hand back and sent the elevator down in haste. With a gesture of despair Nyoda threw the letter down on the dresser. "Do you suppose she really is deaf?" asked Gladys. "She seemed to hear that sound." "Maybe she heard it," said Nyoda, "and then again she may have felt the vibrations. Who do you suppose has come?" They spent the evening in a thrill of expectation, but were undisturbed. Without lighting the lights they stood looking at the stars through the openings in the trellis. At last Nyoda turned from the window and snapped on the switch. As she did so she noticed that the elevator cage had been up and was just going down. As it sank out of sight she saw that the occupant was a man. Soon afterward they heard the throb of the motor again and then the sound of a car driving away. "Where did you put the red ties?" asked Gladys the next morning. "I didn't take them," said Nyoda. The ties had disappeared from the chair overnight. From sheer nervousness Nyoda began twisting up her felt outing hat in her hands. As she did so she came upon something hard in the inside of the crown. Investigating she drew out her Wohelo knife. "I had forgotten I had it in there," she said. "I put that pocket in my hat just for fun and slipped the knife in to see if it would go in." Why is it that a knife in one's hand inspires a desire to cut something? Nyoda immediately began examining the room for a possible means of escape with the aid of the knife. Opening the window, she inspected the setting of the bars closely. They were set only into the wooden window sill. "Gladys," she whispered excitedly, "I believe we can cut the wood away from these bars and push them out." "And what then?" asked Gladys. "Jump," said Nyoda. "Jump into the lake and swim away." Not daring to make any attempt in the daytime for fear of the mysteriously silent visits of the deaf-mute, who never came at any regular time, they waited until after dark, and then Gladys sat close beside the elevator shaft, watching for the slightest indication of the approaching car. Nyoda meanwhile hacked away at the window casing, cutting and splitting it away from the bars. She worked feverishly for several hours and succeeded in freeing the ends of three of the bars, which would be enough to let them through. Just then Gladys gave a warning hiss. The elevator cord was moving. Nyoda drew the shade down over the window and closed the purple curtains over it, and both girls jumped into bed and pulled the covers over them. They had undressed so as to avert suspicion. The next moment the elevator door opened silently, but whether it moved up or down or side wise they could not make out, and the deaf-mute stepped into the room. Guided by a flash-light, she picked up Gladys's red petticoat from the chair and departed as silently as she had come. As soon as the elevator had sunk out of sight the girls were back at work again. Throwing all her weight against the bars, Nyoda bent them out and upward, the wood that held them at the top splintering with the strain. Then, leaning out, she began to cut away the trellis, which was in the way. It was built out from the sill and had no supports on the ground, and the vines which were on it came around the corner of the house. Looking down, she could see that they were indeed right above the lake, without a foot of ground at the bottom of the tower. No other part of the house was visible from this angle. The waves roared and dashed on the cliff below, and a strong wind was blowing from the west. "It looks as if a storm were coming," said Nyoda in a low tone. The night was wearing away fast and the girls knew that it was safer to escape under cover of darkness. About three o'clock in the morning the storm broke, a terrific thunder shower. The tower swayed in the wind and at each crash they held their breath, thinking that the house had been struck. The spray from the waves as they were flung against the rocks often came in through the open window. Both girls looked down into the boiling sea beneath them and drew back with a shudder. "Wait until the storm is over," said Gladys. "It may be daylight then," said Nyoda. Howling like an imprisoned giant, the wind hurled itself against the side of the tower. "There's one thing about it," said Nyoda, "we never can swim in those waves with skirts on. I'm going to have a bathing suit." Taking the blankets from the bed, she made them into straight narrow sacks, cutting various holes in them so as to leave the arms and limbs free. When the storm had abated somewhat they prepared for the plunge. The first faint streaks of dawn were showing in the east. Gladys crept out on the sill and then shrank back. The surface of the water seemed miles below her. "I can't do it, Nyoda," she panted. "Yes, you can," said Nyoda, patting her on the shoulder. "You aren't going to lose your nerve at this stage of the game, are you? 'Screw your courage to the sticking point,' We have our fate in our own hands now. 'Who hesitates is lost.'" "But the water is so far away," shuddered Gladys. "What of that?" said Nyoda. "It's perfectly safe to jump. The water is very deep along the shore here. Think, just one leap and then we're out of this!" Gladys still hung back. "You go first," she pleaded. Nyoda made a motion to go and then stopped. "No," she said firmly, "I'd rather you went first. You might be afraid to follow me afterward. Brace up; remember you're a Winnebago!" This had its effect and without allowing herself to stop to think Gladys tossed her bundle of clothes out of the window and, closing her eyes, dropped from the sill. There was a wild moment of suspense as she sank downward through the gloom, and then she struck the water and it rolled over her head. It was icy cold and for a minute she felt numb. Then the waves parted over her head and she felt the wind blowing against her face. A great splash beside her terrified her for an instant, and then she remembered that it was Nyoda jumping in after her. In a moment a head came up nearby and Nyoda inquired calmly how she enjoyed the bathing. "It's g-r-r-e-a-t," said Gladys with chattering teeth. "Now for a little pleasure swim," said Nyoda, striking out. While they were swimming away the storm broke the second time; the thunder sounded in their ears like cannon and the vivid lightning flashes lit up the shore for miles around. By its light they could see that they were nearing one of the long stone piers. Climbing up on this, they rested until they had their breath back again, although it was a rather exciting rest, for the waves were going high over the pier and threatened to wash them off every moment. The shore line along here was peculiarly rugged and forbidding. Instead of a beach, high cliffs rose perpendicularly out of deep water and afforded nowhere a landing place. The girls swam slowly and easily, fearing to spend their strength before they could reach shallow water, often turning over to float and gain a few moments' rest in this way. The waves were very rough and tossed them about a great deal, but the wind was west and they were swimming toward the east, and as the natural current of the lake was eastward toward Niagara, their progress was helped rather than retarded by the force of the water. The storm abated and the sun began to rise over the lake, gilding the crest of the waves. Still no sign of a beach. "I can't go much further," said Gladys faintly. Both girls were nearly spent when Nyoda spied a strip of yellow in the distance which put new strength into them. Putting forth their last efforts, they headed toward it. Trembling with weakness and breathless from being buffeted about so much, they gained the narrow beach and with a great sigh of relief rolled out onto the sand. CHAPTER XVI. A SCHEME AND WHAT CAME OF IT. We will now have to take our readers away from the Winnebagos and their affairs for a few moments and admit them into the private office of Mr. Rumford Thurston. Mr. Thurston, dealer in stocks and bonds and promoter of investments, was closeted with his business associate and intimate friend, Mr. Nathan Scovill. An earnest discussion was in progress, the theme of which was apparently drawn from a paper which was spread out on the desk between them. "I tell you, it's the chance of a lifetime," said Mr. Scovill. "We can clean up a cool half million on it before the public wakes up, and when they do we can take a trip to Hawaii or Manila for our health until the business is forgotten. You put in ten thousand now and you'll be on easy street for the rest of your life." "But I tell you, I haven't the ten thousand to put in," answered Mr. Thurston crossly. "I haven't one thousand. That last deal finished me." "Borrow some," said Mr. Scovill impatiently. "Can't get any more credit," said Mr. Thurston gloomily. "The office furniture is attached already." Mr. Scovill scowled. Then he went carefully over the ground again, dwelling on the ease of making money without working for it by the simple method of swindling the public, and enlarging on the joys of life as a rich man. "Think, man," he said in conclusion, "think what you're missing!" Mr. Thurston leaned his head on his hands and thought of what he was missing, and he also thought of something else. A peculiar calculating expression appeared in his eyes and around the corners of his mouth. "There is some money to be had," he said slowly, "if I can get hold of it." "Where?" asked Mr. Scovill eagerly. "If it's to be had you may rest assured we'll get hold of it by hook or crook." "You remember John Rogers?" asked Mr. Thurston. Mr. Scovill nodded. "When he died he left his daughters a fortune in stocks," continued Mr. Thurston. "Yes?" inquired Mr. Scovill encouragingly. "Well," said Mr. Thurston, with a glitter in his eye, "I was appointed guardian of those two girls." Mr. Scovill whistled. "Meaning to say------" he began. "That I have the managing of their property until they come of age," finished Mr. Thurston. "Our fortune's made," said Mr. Scovill, shaking him by the hand. "The only thing is," said Mr. Thurston, scratching his head reflectively, "that the oldest girl comes of age in June, and there might be an awkward inquiry just at the wrong time. We can't afford to have any investigations begun inside of the next six months if we expect to carry through the other scheme. Any breath of scandal would wreck our prospects." Mr. Scovill's face fell. He saw only too clearly the truth of the other's words. But where Mr. Thurston came to a halt in front of a dead wall, Scovill's scheming mind saw the loophole. "But just suppose," he said slowly, "that there shouldn't be any investigation when the oldest girl comes of age? Suppose she should never put in a claim for her property?" "What do you mean?" asked Mr. Thurston. "Something like this," said Mr. Scovill. "If she were to be kept shut up somewhere for a year or so until you have had time to make your fortune, it would be too late to hurt you with a disclosure after that. Where nobody asks questions there is no need of answering." Thurston saw the point, but he didn't see how it was going to be done. It was Scovill who thought out the whole scheme. He had a large piece of land far outside the city limits on the lake front. There was an unoccupied house on the property. Here the girl could be kept locked up on the pretext that she was insane, with a certain woman he knew as keeper, a deaf-mute. He shared a secret with her and could use this knowledge to force her to serve him. The whole thing was very simple. "But how are we going to keep the one locked up away from the other?" asked Mr. Thurston. "Her sister would have the whole country searching for her." "Then take them both," said Mr. Scovill promptly. "That'll make matters simpler yet. You say they have no relatives and are now away in school? Nothing could be easier. We'll build a room they can't get out of once they're in, and when it's finished you invite them to your house for a visit. They'll think they're coming to see you, but it's out there to that house they'll go and they'll not come back in a hurry. In the meantime you get hold of those stocks and bonds, sell them and put the money in this venture and come out a rich man. When you're ready to clear out of the country you can let the girls out, and they won't be any worse off than when they went in--except that they won't have a cent." Bit by bit the plan was perfected. Mr. Thurston took a sudden interest in his orphan wards to the extent of writing to the school where they were attending and asking when it closed for the summer. When he was informed that school closed the last week in May, he invited the two girls, Genevieve and Antoinette Rogers, to spend the first weeks of their vacation at his home. He had not seen either of them since they were little children. They graciously accepted the invitation. But on the day they were to arrive, Mr. Thurston found that some private business of his very urgently required his presence in another city, and left Mr. Scovill to see to the landing of the birds in the trap. Mr. Scovill met the unsuspecting girls at the train, explaining with many expressions of regret the enforced absence of their guardian, took them to dinner in a fine hotel and showed them the sights of the town with all the cordiality of a sincere friend of their host, who was doing his best to make up for his not being there. He won their hearts completely. They were simple girls who had been brought up in a strict church school, and the sights and sounds of the large city were all wonderful to them. Now, thanks to Mr. Scovill's activities, the trap was all set. The tower was built with its room at the top without any door and its barred window, and the deaf-mute was installed on the place and given instructions to act as guard to two girls who were mentally unbalanced. Furnishing the room in violet was the last touch of his cunning brain, because he knew the depressing effect it would have on the inmates. He gave strict orders to the keeper to remove any sign of a bright color, as this might cause them to become violent. Mr. Scovill had left directions for his automobile to be at a certain place at half-past four to convey them to the house in the country. Now, for reasons of his own, Mr. Scovill did not wish to be the last one seen in the company of the two girls in case his plans should go wrong and some one would start an inquiry for them. Therefore, he gave his driver private instructions to drive like the wind with two girls who should be placed in the car, and under no condition to let them out of the car. Accordingly, when they were all a little weary of sight-seeing he steered them gently toward the corner of ----th Avenue and L---- Street, where the car was to wait for them. Half a block off he saw that it was in place. So, pulling out his watch and suddenly remembering that he had an important engagement for that very minute, he courteously took his leave and pointed out the car they were to get into, telling them that it was Mr. Thurston's and would take them to his home. "You can't miss it, girls," he said, pointing with his finger. "It's that bright blue one with the basket-work streamer." Antoinette and Genevieve thanked him kindly for showing them such a good time and entered the car he had indicated. Mr. Scovill withdrew into a doorway and watched them. In a few moments the driver appeared, saw the two girls in the machine, touched his hat to them, and taking his place behind the wheel, drove rapidly off in the opposite direction. Mr. Scovill rubbed his hands together as he watched the car disappear. It was a way he had when his plans were turning out nicely. Forty-five minutes later his driver called up from the country house to say that he had brought the girls out in safety. Mr. Scovill smiled blandly. So far everything had played into his hands. When Mr. Thurston returned the following day he announced the fact to him that the birds were safe in the trap. Then he left town for a protracted stay. Mr. Thurston made one trip out to the house to behold the thing for himself. Riding up in the elevator, he saw the girls standing by the barred window of their prison. When they lit the light he descended in haste so as not to be seen by them. Then he also left town for a while. The Winnebagos, who were all in time for the Limited except Nyoda and Gladys, boarded the car without them and amused themselves during the ride by thinking up ways to tease the tardy ones when they should arrive on the next car. Pretty Mrs. Bates met them at the car stop with the news that Nyoda and Gladys were coming out in the automobile, and when they thought it was time for them to arrive they all lined up in the road where the drive turned off, and were ready to sing a funny song which Migwan had made up about not getting there on time. The blue car came in sight and the girls ranged themselves straight across the road so it could not pass until the entire song had been sung. With mouths open ready to sing they stopped in astonishment. The two girls in the tonneau were strangers. They smiled bashfully at the row of maidens with the bright red ties. Mrs. Bates stepped forward. "Whom have you brought us, John?" she asked. "Why, you said there'd be two girls in the car when I came out," answered the driver; "and there were." "Oh, is there any mistake?" asked one of the strange girls. "Our names are Genevieve and Antoinette Rogers. We've come up from Seaville to visit our guardian, Mr. Thurston. He couldn't meet us and another gentleman pointed out his automobile and said the driver would take us out to Mr. Thurston's country place, and we got in, and he brought us here." "This is Bates Villa," said Mrs. Bates. "You undoubtedly got into our car by mistake." "I'm sorry this is not the right place," said Antoinette in a tone of frank regret. "I was so glad when I saw all you girls and thought you were to be our friends." "You will be very welcome guests until your guardian comes for you," said Mrs. Bates in her gracious way. The Winnebagos were much amused to think that Gladys and Nyoda had missed their chance to ride out in the automobile, and added another verse to the song to be sung when they should arrive on the next Limited. Mrs. Bates found Mr. Thurston's name in the telephone book and called his residence, but could get no answer. Now, Mr. Scovill had introduced himself to Genevieve and Antoinette as "Mr. Adams." They did not know his initials and attempts to get him on the wire were futile. The girls all went down to the car-track when it was time for the next Limited. A regular fusilade of jests and jibes were prepared for Nyoda and Gladys. The Limited appeared and thundered by without stopping. "Not on this one?" said the girls. "What on earth could have happened?" "Here comes another car," said Hinpoha; "they're running a double-header. Nyoda and Gladys must be on this one." The second car whizzed by with a deafening clatter and a cloud of dust. "Maybe they're not coming," said one of the girls, and disappointment was visible on every face. This jolly party would not be complete without their beloved Guardian and Gladys. Mrs. Bates telephoned to the Evans's house in town, but there was nobody home. She tried the house where Nyoda lived, but got no satisfaction, for the landlady merely said that Miss Kent had not been home since leaving for school in the morning. The evening passed off as merrily as possible and the girls rose the next morning feeling sure that Nyoda and Gladys would be out on the first car. But the day passed with no sign of them. They telephoned to the Evans's again and this time they got Mrs. Evans. "Gladys hasn't arrived there?" she asked in a frightened voice. "She wasn't at home last night. Where can she be?" Wonder gave way to anxiety on all sides and there was no more thought of fun. "They must be out at Mr. Thurston's, of course," suggested Antoinette Rogers. Renewed efforts were made to get into communication with Mr. Thurston, but in vain. No answer came from the number which was opposite his name in the telephone book. Genevieve and Antoinette were highly embarrassed at being obliged to stay with strangers, and were not a little mystified over the non-appearance of their guardian. The days passed in frightful suspense for the parents and friends of the missing girls. The aid of the police was called in, but they could find no clue. Early on the morning of the fourth day Mrs. Evans was called to the phone and was overjoyed to hear Gladys's voice on the wire. She and Nyoda were at a house on the lake shore and would be home soon. There was a happy home-coming that morning. Nyoda and Gladys told the almost unbelievable tale of their imprisonment and escape from the tower. After lying exhausted on the beach for a time, they had walked until they came to a house where they were warmed and lent dry clothes, for they had lost their bundles in the waves. "And that's what would have become of us," said Antoinette Rogers with a shudder, when Nyoda and Gladys had finished their story, "if we had not made a mistake and gotten into the wrong automobile." The police were informed of the matter and as soon as Mr. Thurston returned to his place of business he was arrested and charged with the conspiracy to abduct and forcibly detain his two wards. At first he denied any knowledge of the affair, but the proof was overwhelming. Nyoda accompanied a delegation of police and witnesses in a motor boat to the foot of the tower and showed them the bent-out bars and the very place where they had jumped into the water, and later they raided the house from the land side. The deaf mute was nowhere to be found. She had fled when she discovered that her charges had escaped and was never heard of again. They ascended in the elevator but were unable to find the contrivance which opened the door into the room, so cunningly was it devised, and had to be content with looking through the grill-work into the lavender room. The Rogers girls, who were taken away from the guardianship of Mr. Thurston, went to stay with friends in Cincinnati. Mr. Thurston was left to pay the penalty of his villainy alone, for Mr. Scovill had made good his escape before the plot was disclosed. Thus Nyoda and Gladys all unknowingly were the cause of a great crime being averted, and were regarded as heroines forevermore by the Winnebagos and their friends. CHAPTER XVII. JOY BEFORE US. Aunt Phoebe and Hinpoha, armed with sharp meat knives, were cutting up suet in the kitchen. Hinpoha, as usual, under her aunt's eye, did nothing but make mistakes. "How awkward you are," said Aunt Phoebe impatiently. "You don't know how to do a thing properly. I wish that Camp Fire business of yours would teach you something worth while. Here, let me show you how to cut that suet." She took the knife from Hinpoha's hand and proceeded to demonstrate. The suet was hard, which was the reason Hinpoha had had no success in cutting it, and the knife in Aunt Phoebe's hand slipped and plunged into her wrist. The blood spurted high in the air. Aunt Phoebe screamed, "I'm bleeding to death!" Hinpoha did not scream. She took a handkerchief and calmly made a tourniquet above the gash, twisting it tight with a lead pencil. Then she telephoned for Dr. Josephy, Aunt Phoebe's physician. He was out. Frantically she tried doctor after doctor, but not a single one was to be had at once. Dr. Hoffman she knew was at the hospital. One of the doctors she had telephoned was said to be making a call on the street where she lived, and she ran down there but he had already left. Running back toward the house, she collided sharply with a man on the street. It was Dr. Hoffman, who was obligingly coming up to deliver a message from Sahwah. "Come quickly," she cried, catching hold of his hand and starting to run, "Aunt Phoebe will bleed to death!" Dr. Hoffman hurried to the spot and tied up the severed artery. "Who put on de tourniquet?" he asked. "I did," replied Hinpoha. "Good vork, good vork," said Dr. Hoffman approvingly, "if it had not ben for dat it vould haf been too late ven I came." "Where did you learn to do that?" asked Aunt Phoebe. "Camp Fire First Aid class," replied Hinpoha. "Humph!" said Aunt Phoebe. But she did some thinking nevertheless, and was fully aware that it was Hinpoha's prompt action which had saved her from bleeding to death. Her arm was tied up for some days afterward and she was unable to use it. Hinpoha waited on her with angelic patience. "I've changed my mind about this Camp Fire business," said Aunt Phoebe abruptly one day. "There's more sense to it than I thought. If you want to have meetings here I have no objection." Hinpoha nearly swooned, but managed to say gratefully, "Thank you, Aunt Phoebe." Hinpoha began to wonder, as she was thus thrown into closer contact with her aunt, whether Aunt Phoebe's austere tastes came from her having such a narrow nature, or because she had never known anything different. She could not help noticing that there were woefully few friends who came to see her during her indisposition. The daily visit of the doctor was about the only break in the monotony. From a fierce dislike Hinpoha's feelings changed to pity. "I wonder if Aunt Phoebe isn't ever lonesome," she thought. "I don't see how she can help being." A line of her fire song was ringing in her ears: "Whose hand above this blaze is lifted Shall be with magic touch engifted To warm the hearts of lonely mortals----" "I wonder if I couldn't bring something else into her life," thought Hinpoha. "At least, I'm going to try. Aunt Phoebe's never read anything but religious books all her life. I'd like to read her a corking good story once." Timidly she essayed it. "Wouldn't you like to have me read you something else before we begin the next volume?" she asked, when the third volume conveniently came to an end. "Do as you like," said Aunt Phoebe, who was profoundly bored. Hinpoha accordingly brought out "The Count of Monte Cristo" which she had been reading when the ban went on fiction, and it was not long before Aunt Phoebe was as excited over the mystery as she was. Romance, long dead in her heart, began to show signs of coming to life. Hinpoha, looking for a certain little shawl to put around Aunt Phoebe's shoulders one afternoon, opened up the big cedar chest that stood in her room. She had never seen inside of it before. The shawl was not there, but there were quantities of table and bed linens, all elaborately embroidered, and whole sets of undergarments, trimmed with the wonderfully fine crochet work at which Aunt Phoebe was a master hand. "What can all these things be?" wondered Hinpoha. "Aunt Phoebe certainly never uses them." A little further down she came upon a filmy white dress and a veil fastened onto a wreath. Then she knew. This was her aunt's wedding outfit--the garments she had fashioned in her girlhood in preparation for the marriage which was destined never to take place. A week before the wedding the bridegroom-to-be had run away with another girl. The pathos of Aunt Phoebe's blighted romance struck Hinpoha "amidships" as Sahwah would have expressed it, and she wept over the linens in the cedar chest. Poor Aunt Phoebe! No wonder she was sour and crabbed. Hinpoha forgave her all her crossness and tartness of manner, and thought of her only with pity. Her romantic nature thrilled at the thought of the blighted love affair and her aunt became a sort of heroine in her eyes. She yearned to comfort her and make her happy. Downstairs Aunt Phoebe sat with a letter in her hand. It was from Aunt Grace, Hinpoha's mother's sister, out in California. Aunt Grace had no children and was lonely, and was asking if Hinpoha could come and live with her. Aunt Phoebe pondered. Of late there had been growing on her a conviction that she was not a suitable person to bring up a young girl. She certainly had not succeeded in making her grandniece love her. Aunt Phoebe really was lonely and she did care for Hinpoha, but she did not know how to make her care for her. Her experiment had been a failure. Well, she would send Hinpoha out to California with her Aunt Grace, whom Hinpoha adored, and she would live on by herself. The prospect suddenly seemed rather dismal and she confessed that Hinpoha had been a great deal of company for her, but she would not stand in the way of her happiness. Her mind was made up. She pictured the joy with which Hinpoha would receive the news and it brought her another pang. At the supper table she told Hinpoha that after school was out she was to go West and live with Aunt Grace, and then sat cynically watching the unbelieving delight which flashed into her face at this announcement. But after the first flush of rapture Hinpoha reconsidered. In her mind's eye she saw Aunt Phoebe living on alone, unloving and unloved, to a lonesome old age. Again she saw the cedar chest with its pathetic wedding garments. Again the words of the fire song came into her mind. "Do I have to go to Aunt Grace's?" she asked. "Not unless you want to," said her aunt, wondering. "Then I think I'd rather stay with you," said Hinpoha. "Do you really mean it?" asked Aunt Phoebe incredulously. The ice was melting in her heart and something was beginning to sing. Hinpoha slipped out of her chair, and, going around behind Aunt Phoebe, put her arms around her neck. The gate of Aunt Phoebe's heart swung wide open. Reaching out her arms, she drew Hinpoha down into her lap. "My dear little girl," she said, "my dear little girl!" And the _Desert of Waiting_ suddenly blossomed with a thousand roses, and Hinpoha saw lying fair before her in the sunlight the _City of her Heart's Desire._ Migwan was once more "in the dumps." The heavy strain under which she had been working all winter, coupled with the constant worry and disappointment, produced the inevitable result, and she broke down. She was chosen a Commencement speaker, and the added work of writing a graduating essay was the last straw. She might be able to attend the graduating exercises of her class, said the doctor, but she was not to go to school any more, and of course there was to be no speech prepared. He would not hear of her working in an office during the summer, so her last hope of going to college in the fall went glimmering. But really this last disappointment did not affect her as strongly as the others had done. She was getting used to having everything she touched crumble to dust, and besides, she felt too tired to care which way things went any more. Thus the month of May brought widely different experiences to the various girls, and went on its way, giving them into the keeping of the Rose Moon. On one of the rarest of rare days that ever a poet dreamed of as belonging to June, the Winnebagos found themselves skimming over the country roads on a Saturday afternoon's frolic. There were three automobile loads altogether, for all the mothers were along, besides Aunt Phoebe and Dr. Hoffman. It was a double occasion for celebration, for besides being the Rose Moon Ceremonial Meeting, it was the day when Sahwah was to lay aside her crutches permanently. The cast had been removed several weeks before and the splintered joint was found to be as good as ever. And Migwan, although she did not know it yet, had more cause to celebrate than all the rest put together. Taken all in all, it would have been hard to find a merrier crowd than that which sped over the smooth yellow road on this perfect summer day, and many a bird, balancing himself on a blossoming twig, ceased his ecstatic outpouring of melody to listen to the blithe chorus of these earth birds, as they sang, "Hey Ho for Merry June," and "Let the Hills and Dales Resound," each machineful trying its best to outdo the others. And when they came to a sunny hill thickly starred with snowy, golden-hearted daisies they stopped the automobiles and picked great armfuls of the blossoms, and Aunt Phoebe and Dr. Hoffman wandered off by themselves to the other side of the hill in search of larger and finer ones. Migwan's mother, sitting on the hillside with the warm sweet breeze blowing in her face, felt the joy of health and strength returning with a rush. "Oh," she sighed blissfully to Mrs. Evans, who sat beside her, "I haven't had such a good time since we all went coasting that night. I declare I'm impatient for winter to return, so we can do it again." "Who says we have to wait for winter before we can go coasting," said Hinpoha, who had overheard the remark. "You just watch this child." Climbing to the top of the hill she beat a path down the slope, and then sat calmly down with her feet stretched out before her and slid down as swiftly as if the hill had been covered with ice. She had no sooner accomplished the feat than all the Winnebagos were at the top of the hill, eager to try it. They came down all in a row, each with her hand on the shoulder of the girl ahead of her, so that it looked like a real toboggan. Then Mrs. Evans tried it, pulling with her stout Mrs. Brewster, who puffed like an engine and got stuck half way down and had to be pushed the rest of the way. Then Dr. Hoffman and Aunt Phoebe returned from their ramble and the mothers hastily collected their dignity and their hairpins, breathless but bubbling over with the fun of it. Whoever has not slid down a grassy hillside in June has certainly missed a joy out of his life. They had frolicked so long in the daisy field that there was no time to go on to the place where they had intended to cook their supper, and they had to stay right there. Aunt Phoebe had her first taste of camp cookery on this occasion and was delighted beyond words with the experience, as was Doctor Hoffman. "Sometime you and I vill go camping and you vill make someting like dis, mein Liebchen?" he said to Aunt Phoebe, indicating the slumgullion. The group sat petrified at the term he had used in addressing her, and Aunt Phoebe blushed fiery red. Dr. Hoffman saw that the cat was out of the bag. Laughing sheepishly, he spoke. "Dis lady," he said, laying his hand on Aunt Phoebe's, "has promised to be mein vife." Hinpoha dropped her plate in her surprise. "Aunt Phoebe!" she cried, incredulously, throwing her arms around her. Then her face fell. "You are going away and leave me?" she asked anxiously. "No, dear," answered Aunt Phoebe, "the Doctor is going to make his home here and we will keep you with us always." And Hinpoha, though still dazed by the news she had just heard, breathed easy again. When the last bit of slumgullion was eaten and Doctor Hoffman had scraped out the kettle, the Winnebagos retired to the other side of the hill to don their ceremonial costumes, and the rest of the company found comfortable seats on the ground from which to watch the coming performance. As Migwan was wriggling into her gown a letter fell to the ground. The mail man had handed it to her just as she was starting off with the crowd, and she had thrust it into her blouse to read later. Being dressed a few minutes ahead of the rest, she tore open the envelope while she was waiting for them. If the other girls had been watching her as she read it they would have seen her clasp her hands together suddenly and draw in her breath sharply. Just then Nyoda's clear Wohelo call sounded, and she went with the rest into the circle around the fire. The Doctor noted with a thrill of artistic pleasure how each girl, as she came over the crest of the hill, stood silhouetted against the red line of the sun for an instant. A ripple of tender amusement went among the watchers as Althea was borne in, clad in her little ceremonial dress and headband. As this was the big Council Meeting of the year it was more elaborately staged than the ordinary ceremonial meeting. Instead of a large fire being kindled in the center of the circle the first thing, four fires were laid, one in the center and three small ones around it in the form of a triangle. The girls were divided into three groups to represent Work, Health and Love. Each group in turn tried to light the big fire in the center, but in vain; it went out every time. Sorrowfully the groups returned to their own small woodpiles, which they did not think it worth while to light. Suddenly a little, bent old woman appeared from somewhere and stood beside the Work group, shivering with cold. "The stranger is cold," said one of the Work Maidens, "we must light our fire for her sake, even if it is not worth while for ourselves." The fire was lighted and the little old woman stretched out her hands to the cheerful blaze until she was warmed through. Then with a blessing on the Work Maidens she went her way. Faint with hunger, she stopped beside the Health maidens and begged a bite of food. "We must light our fire and cook something for this hungry stranger," said one of the Health Maidens, "even if it is not worth lighting for ourselves." So they lit their fire and solemnly broiled a wiener which the little old lady devoured eagerly, and passed on, likewise giving them her blessing. When she came to the Love group it was quite dark, and she begged a light from them that she might find her way up the mountain. So they lit their fire and handed her a torch, upon which she straightened up and threw off her poor cloak and revealed herself as a young and beautiful maiden, the good fairy who inhabited those parts. Holding her torch aloft, she began to dance in and out among the three fires as lightly as a wandering night breeze. Suddenly she stooped to the Health fire and picked up a burning brand; then darting to the Work fire, she picked up a burning brand; then running to the great pile of firewood in the center of the circle, she flung all three down together. The mingled Fires of Work, Health and Love kindled the Fire of Wohelo, which each one separately had failed to light, and as the flames mounted in the big fire the little fires were scattered and stamped out, and the girls sprang to their feet singing, "Burn, Fire, Burn." A round of applause followed this masterly presentation, and Nyoda, who had worked it out, was called on to make a speech. A fine little bit of by-play not planned for by Nyoda was staged when Sahwah dramatically cast her crutches into the Fire of Health. Now this meeting was the time when the bead-band diaries were to be finished, and the most interesting looking one was to be interpreted if the girl was willing to do so. What tales were worked out in the bands belonging to Migwan, Hinpoha, Sahwah, Gladys and Nyoda! Nyoda hesitated a long time trying to decide which looked the most interesting, Hinpoha's or Migwan's, and finally decided on Migwan's. Nothing loth, Migwan told the story of her hard time during the winter, and the girls in the circle and the visitors alike were stirred by the account of the party dress and the family budget and the returned manuscripts and the vanishing college fund. "There is one incident not yet recorded," she said, as she came to the end of the figures on the band, "and I really think this ought to be told with the rest." From the beaded pocket of her ceremonial gown she drew the letter which she had read while the girls were dressing. It was from Mrs. Bartlett, the mother of little Raymond, and read as follows: "To say I was touched to the heart by your story of where the college money went, is putting it mildly. If any one ever put up a brave fight against circumstances, you have. I showed the letter to my husband and he was as much affected as I. And, curiously enough, a letter which we had received earlier in the day, and which had caused us much vexation, contained news of a certain state of affairs which is going to give us a chance to help you out of your difficulty. "We own a small farm just outside of Cleveland, and for years this has been worked for us by a man and his wife. Just this week this man is leaving our employ to take up some other line of work, leaving the farm without a caretaker at a critical time when the spring vegetables are all up and need attention. Now, our proposition is this: believing that as a Camp Fire Girl you know a great deal about growing things, we are going to ask you to take charge of the place for the summer, and will gladly allow you whatever profit you may make from the sale of vegetables and small fruits if you will see that the peach crop is brought through in good shape and keep the trees from being destroyed by bugs. We will attend to the marketing of the peaches ourselves when the time comes. Good luck to you if you want to undertake the job. "Your loving friend, "MABEL E. BARTLETT." "P.S. We have no objection if you wish to use the house for a Camp Fire Club House during the summer." A rousing cheer burst from the group around the fire when they heard this solution of Migwan's problem. By this time the full moon was climbing over the top of the hill and waking up the sleeping daisies, and the little company rose reluctantly and wandered back to the automobiles that stood by the roadside. Looking back at the peaceful hillside they had just left, it seemed that the nodding daisies and the murmuring brook and the rustling grasses all echoed the song the girls had sung around the fire just before the Council came to a close: "Darkness behind us, Peace around us, Joy before us, Light, O Light!" THE END The next volume in this series is entitled, "THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS AT ONOWAY HOUSE; OR, THE MAGIC GARDEN." 
20832	----	[Illustration: Campfire Girls at Twin Lake] ----------------------------------------------------------------------- CAMPFIRE GIRLS AT TWIN LAKES or, The Quest of a Summer Vacation BY STELLA M. FRANCIS M. A. DONOHUE & CO. CHICAGO NEW YORK ----------------------------------------------------------------------- CAMPFIRE GIRLS' SERIES CAMPFIRE GIRLS IN THE ALLEGHANY MOUNTAINS; or, A Christmas Success Against Odds. CAMPFIRE GIRLS IN THE COUNTRY; or, The Secret Aunt Hannah Forgot. CAMPFIRE GIRLS' TRIP UP THE RIVER; or, Ethel Hollister's First Lesson. CAMPFIRE GIRLS' OUTING; or, Ethel Hollister's Second Summer in Camp. CAMPFIRE GIRLS' ON A HIKE; or, Lost in the Great North Woods. CAMPFIRE GIRLS AT TWIN LAKES; or, The Quest of a Summer Vacation. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- COPYRIGHT 1918 M. A. DONOHUE & COMPANY MADE IN U. S. A. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- INDEX CHAPTER I About Teeth and Teddy Bears. 9 II A Special Meeting Called. 13 III A Boy and a Fortune. 18 IV The Girls Vote "Aye." 23 V Honors and Spies. 27 VI A Telegram En Route. 32 VII A Double-Room Mystery. 36 VIII Planning in Secret. 42 IX Further Plans. 47 X A Trip to Stony Point. 51 XI Miss Perfume Interferes. 56 XII The Man in the Auto. 61 XIII A Nonsense Plot. 65 XIV Sparring for a Fee. 70 XV Langford Gets a Check. 75 XVI Langford Checks Up. 82 XVII A Day of Hard Work. 87 XVIII Planning. 91 XIX Watched. 95 XX A Missile. 100 XXI "Sh!" 104 XXII The Graham Girls Call. 108 XXIII "High C." 115 XXIV The Runaway. 120 XXV A Little Scrapper. 125 XXVI Ammunition and Catapults. 130 XXVII The Ghost. 136 XXVIII A Bump on the Head. 141 XXIX A Cruel Woman. 146 XXX The Girls Win. 151 ----------------------------------------------------------------------- CAMP FIRE GIRLS AT TWIN LAKES OR The Quest of a Summer Vacation BY STELLA M. FRANCIS CHAPTER I. ABOUT TEETH AND TEDDY BEARS. "Girls, I have some great news for you. I'm sure you'll be interested, and I hope you'll be as delighted as I am. Come on, all of you. Gather around in a circle just as if we were going to have a Council Fire and I'll tell you something that will--that will--Teddy Bear your teeth." A chorus of laughter, just a little derisive, greeted Katherine Crane's enigmatical figure of speech. The merriment came from eleven members of Flamingo Camp Fire, who proceeded to form an arc of a circle in front of the speaker on the hillside grass plot near the white canvas tents of the girls' camp. "What does it mean to Teddy Bear your teeth?" inquired Julietta Hyde with mock impatience. "Come, Katherine, you are as much of a problem with your ideas as Harriet Newcomb is with her big words. Do you know the nicknames some of us are thinking of giving to her?" "No, what is it?" Katherine asked. "Polly." "Polly? Why Polly?" was the next question of the user of obscure figures of speech, who seemed by this time to have forgotten the subject that she started to introduce when she opened the conversation. "Polly Syllable, of course," Julietta answered, and the burst of laughter that followed would have been enough to silence the most ambitious joker, but this girl fun-maker was not in the least ambitious, so she laughed appreciatively with the others. "Well, anyway," she declared after the merriment had subsided; "Harriet always uses her polysyllables correctly, so I am not in the least offended at your comparison of my obscurities with her profundities. There, how's that? Don't you think you'd better call me Polly, too?" "Not till you explain to us what it means to Teddy Bear one's teeth," Azalia Atwood stipulated sternly. "What I'm afraid of is that you're trying to introduce politics into this club, and we won't stand for that a minute." "Oh, yes, Julietta, you may have your wish, if what Azalia says is true," Marie Crismore announced so eagerly that everybody present knew that she had an idea and waited expectantly for it to come out. "We'll call you Polly--Polly Tix." Of course everybody laughed at this, and then Harriet Newcomb demanded, that her rival for enigmatical honors make good. "What does it mean to Teddy Bear one's teeth?" she demanded. "Oh, you girls are making too much of that remark," Katherine protested modestly, "I really am astonished at every one of you, ashamed of you, in fact, for failing to get me. I meant that you would be delighted--dee-light-ed--get me?--dee-light-ed." "Oh, I get you," Helen Nash announced, lifting her hand over her head with an "I know, teacher," attitude. "Well, Helen, get up and speak your piece," Katherine directed. "You referred to the way Theodore Roosevelt shows his teeth when he says he's 'dee-light-ed'; but we got you wrong. When you said you would tell us something that would 'Teddy Bear' our teeth, you meant b-a-r-e, not b-e-a-r. When Teddy laughs, he bares his teeth. Isn't that it?" "This isn't the first time that Helen Nash has proved herself a regular Sherlock Holmes," Marion Stanlock declared enthusiastically. "We are pretty well equipped with brains in this camp, I want to tell you. We have Harriet, the walking dictionary; Katherine, the girl enigma; and Helen, the detective." "Every girl is supposed to be a puzzle," Ernestine Johanson reminded. "I don't like to snatch any honors away from anyone, but, you know, we should always have the truth." "Yes, let us have the truth about this interesting, Teddy-teeth-baring, dee-light-ing announcement that Katherine has to make to us," Estelle Adler implored. "The delay wasn't my fault," Katherine said, with an attitude of "perfect willingness if all this nonsense will stop." "But here comes Miss Ladd. Let's wait for her to join us, for I know you will all want her opinion of the proposition I am going to put to you." Miss Harriet Ladd, Guardian of the Fire, bearing a large bouquet of wild flowers that she had just gathered in timber and along the bank of the stream, joined the group of girls seated on the grass a minute later, and then all waited expectantly for Katherine to begin. CHAPTER II. A SPECIAL MEETING CALLED. Fern hollow--begging the indulgence of those who have read the earlier volume of this series--is a deep, richly vegetated ravine or gully forming one of a series of scenic convolutions of the surface of the earth which gave the neighboring town of Fairberry a wide reputation as a place of beauty. The thirteen Camp Fire Girls, who had pitched their tents on the lower hillside, a few hundred feet from a boisterous, gravel-and-boulder bedded stream known as Butter creek, were students at Hiawatha Institute, a girls' school in a neighboring state. The students of that school were all Camp Fire Girls, and it was not an uncommon thing for individual Fires to spend parts of their vacations together at favorite camping places. On the present occasion the members of Flamingo Fire were guests of one of their own number, Hazel Edwards, on the farm of the latter's aunt, Mrs. Hannah Hutchins, which included a considerable section of the scenic Ravine known as Fern hollow. They had had some startling adventures in the last few weeks, and although several days had elapsed since the windup in these events and it seemed that a season of quiet, peaceful camp life was in store for them, still they were sufficiently keyed up to the unusual in life to accept surprises and astonishing climaxes as almost matters of course. But all of these experiences had not rendered them restless and discontented when events slowed down to the ordinary course of every-day life, including three meals a day, eight hours' sleep, and a program of tramps, exercises and honor endeavors. The girls were really glad to return to their schedule and their handbook for instructions as to how they should occupy their time. After all, adventures make entertaining reading, but very few, if any, persons normally constituted would choose a melodramatic career if offered as an alternative along with an even-tenor existence. All within one week, these girls had witnessed the execution of an astonishing plot by a band of skilled lawbreakers and subsequently had followed Mrs. Hutchins through a series of experiences relative to the loss of a large amount of property, which she held in trust for a relative of her late husband, and its recovery through the brilliant and energetic endeavors of some of the members of the Camp Fire, particularly Hazel Edwards and Harriet Newcomb. The chief culprit, Percy Teich, a nephew of Mrs. Hutchins' late husband, had been captured, had escaped, had been captured again and lodged in jail, and clews as to the identity of a number of the rest had been worked out by the police, so that the hope was expressed confidently that eventually they, too, would be caught. "Mrs. Hutchins is very grateful for the part this Camp Fire took in the recovery of the lost securities of which she was trustee," Katherine announced by way of introducing her "great news" to the members of the Fire who assembled in response to her call. "Of course Hazel did the really big things, assisted and encouraged by the companionship of Harriet and Violet, but Mrs. Hutchins feels like thanking us all for being here and looking pleasant." Hazel Edwards, niece of Mrs. Hutchins, was not present during this conversation. By prearranged purpose, she was absent from the camp when Katherine put to the other girls the proposition made by the wealthy aunt of their girl hostess. The reason it was decided best for her to remain away while the other girls were considering the plan was that it was feared that her presence might tend to suppress arguments against its acceptance, and that was a possibility which Hazel and her aunt wished to avoid. So Katherine was selected to lay the matter before the Camp Fire because she was no more chummy with Hazel than any of the other girls. "Let's make this a special business meeting," suggested Miss Ladd, who had already discussed the proposition with Katherine and Mrs. Hutchins. "What Katherine has to say interests you as an organization. You'd have to bring the matter up at a business meeting anyway to take action on it and our regular one is two weeks ahead. We can't wait that long if we are going to do anything on the subject." It was a little after 10 o'clock and the girls had been working for the last hour at various occupations which appeared on their several routine schedules for this part of the day. In fact, all of their regular academic and handwork study hours were in the morning. Just before Katherine called the girls together, they were seated here and there in shaded spots on camp chairs or on the grass in the vicinity of the camp, occupied thus: Violet Munday and Marie Crismore were studying the lives of well-known Indians. Julietta Hyde and Estelle Adler were reading a book of Indian legends and making a study of Indian symbols. Harriet Newcomb and Azalia Atwood were studying the Camp Fire hand-sign language. Ernestine Johanson and Ethel Zimmerman were crocheting some luncheon sets. Ruth Hazelton and Helen Nash were mending their ceremonial gowns. Marion Stanlock was making a beaded head band and Katherine Crane, secretary of the Fire, was looking over the minutes of the last meeting and preparing a new book in which to enter the records of the next meeting. Everybody signifying assent to the Guardian's suggestion, a meeting was declared and called to order, the Wohelo Song was sung, the roll was called, the minutes of the last meeting were read, the reports of the treasurer and committees were deferred, as were also the recording of honors in the Record Book and the decorating of the count, and then the Guardian called for new business. This was the occasion for Katherine to address the meeting formally on the matter she had in mind. CHAPTER III. A BOY AND A FORTUNE. "Now," said Katherine after all the preliminaries of a business meeting had been gone through, "I'll begin all over again, so that this whole proceeding may be thoroughly regular. I admit I went at it rather spasmodically, but you know we girls are constituted along sentimental lines, and that is one of the handicaps we are up against in our efforts to develop strong-willed characters like those of men." "I don't agree with you," Marie Crismore put in with a rather saucy pout. "I don't believe we are built along sentimental lines at all. I've known lots of men--boys--a few, I mean--and have heard of many more who were just as sentimental as the most sentimental girl." There were several half-suppressed titters in the semicircle of Camp Fire Girls before whom Katherine stood as she began her address. Marie was an unusually pretty girl, a fact which of itself was quite enough to arouse the humor of laughing eyes when she commented on the sentimentality of the opposite sex. Moreover, her evident confusion as she tangled herself up, in her efforts to avoid personal embarrassment, was exceedingly amusing. "I would suggest, Katherine," Miss Ladd interposed, "that you be careful to make your statement simple and direct and not say anything that is likely to start an argument. If you will do that we shall be able to get through much more rapidly and more satisfactorily." Katherine accepted this as good advice and continued along the lines suggested. "Well, the main facts are these," she said: "Mrs. Hutchins has learned that the child whose property she holds in trust is not being cared for and treated as one would expect a young heir to be treated, and something like $3,000 a year is being paid to the people who have him in charge for his support and education. The people who have him in charge get this money in monthly installments and make no report to anybody as to the welfare of their ward. "The name of this young heir is Glen Irving. He is a son of Mrs. Hutchins' late husband's nephew. When Glen's father died he left most of his property in trust for the boy and made Mr. Hutchins trustee, and when Mr. Hutchins died, the trusteeship passed on to Mrs. Hutchins under the terms of the will. "That, you girls know, is the property which was lost for a year and a half following Mr. Hutchins' death because he had hidden the securities where they could not be found. Although Hazel, no doubt assisted very much by Harriet, is really the one who discovered those securities and returned them to her aunt, still Mrs. Hutchins seems disposed to give us all some of the credit. "For several months reports have reached Mrs. Hutchins that her grandnephew has not been receiving the best of care from the relatives who have charge of him. She has tried in various ways to find out how much truth there was in these reports, but was unsuccessful. Little Glen, who is only 10 years old, has been in the charge of an uncle and aunt on his mother's side ever since he became an orphan three or four years ago. His father, in his will, named this uncle and aunt as Glen's caretakers, but privately executed another instrument in which he gave Mr. and Mrs. Hutchins guardianship powers to supervise the welfare of little Glen. It was understood that these powers were not to be exercised unless special conditions made it necessary for them to step in and take charge of the boy. "Mrs. Hutchins wants to find out now whether such conditions exist. At the time of the death of Glen's father, he lived in Baltimore, and his uncle and aunt, who took charge of him, lived there, too. It seems that they were only moderately well-to-do and the $3,000 a year they got for the care and education of the boy was a boon to them. Of course, $3,000 a year was more than was needed, but that was the provision made by his father in his will, and as long as they had possession of the boy they were entitled to the money. Moreover, Mrs. Hutching understands that Glen's father desired to pay the caretakers of his child so well that there could be no doubt that he would get the best of everything he needed, particularly education. "But apparently his father made a big mistake in selecting the persons who were to take the places of father and mother to the little boy. If reports are true, they have been using most of the money on themselves and their own children and Glen has received but indifferent clothes, care, and education. Now I am coming to the main point of my statement to you. "Mrs. Hutchins talked the matter over with Miss Ladd and me and asked us to put it up to you in this way: She was wondering if we wouldn't like to make a trip to the place where Glen is living and find out how he is treated. Mrs. Hutchins has an idea that we are a pretty clever set of girls and there is no use of trying to argue her out of it. So that much must be agreed to so far as she is concerned. She wants to pay all of our expenses and has worked out quite an elaborate plan; or rather she and her lawyer worked it out together. Really, it is very interesting." "Why, she wants us to be real detectives," exclaimed Violet Munday excitedly. "No, don't put it that way," Julietta Hyde objected. "Just say she wants us to take the parts of fourteen Lady Sherlock Holmeses in a Juvenile drama in real life." "Very cleverly expressed," Miss Ladd remarked admiringly. "Detective is entirely too coarse a term to apply to any of my Camp Fire Girls and I won't stand for it." "We might call ourselves special agents, operatives, secret emissaries, or mystery probers," Harriet Newcomb suggested. "Yes, we could expect something like that from our walking dictionary," said Ernestine Johanson. "But whatever we call ourselves, I am ready to vote aye. Come on with your--or Mrs. Hutchins and her lawyers'--plan, Katherine. I'm impatient to hear the rest of it." Katherine produced an envelope from her middy-blouse pocket and drew from it a folded paper, which she unfolded and spread out before her. CHAPTER IV. THE GIRLS VOTE "AYE." "Before I take up the plan outlined by Mrs. Hutchins and her lawyer," Katherine continued, as she unfolded the paper, "I want to explain one circumstance that might be confusing if left unexplained. As I said, the uncle and aunt who have Glen in charge live in Baltimore. They do not own any real estate, but rent a rather expensive apartment, which they never could support on the family income aside from the monthly payments received from Mrs. Hutchins as trustee of Glen's estate. This family's name is Graham, and its head, James Graham, is a bookkeeper receiving a salary of about $1,800 a year. In these war times, when the cost of living is so high, that is a very moderate salary on which to support a family of six: father, mother, two girls and two boys, including Glen. "But this family, according to reports that have reached Mrs. Hutchins, is living in clover. Mr. Graham, who is a hard working man, still holds his bookkeeping position, but in this instance it is a case of 'everybody loafs but father.' He is said to be a very much henpecked husband. Mrs. Graham is said to be the financial dictator of the family. "Now, Mrs. Graham seems to be a woman of much social ambition. Among the necessaries of the best social equipment, you know, is a summer cottage in a society summer resort with sufficient means to support it respectably and leisure in the summer to spend at the resort. It is said that the Grahams have all this. They have purchased or leased a cottage at Twin Lakes, which you know is only about a hundred miles from Hiawatha Institute. I think that every one of us has been there at one time or another. It is about three hundred miles from here. "What Mrs. Hutchins wants us to do is to make a trip to Twin Lakes, pitch our tents and start a Camp Fire program just as if we were there to put in a season of recreation and honor work. But meanwhile, she wants us to become acquainted with the Graham family, cultivate an intimacy with them, if you please, and be able to report back to her just what conditions we find in their family circle, just how Glen is treated, and whether or not he gets reasonable benefits from the money given to the Grahams for his support and education. "I have given you in detail, I think, what is outlined on this paper I hold in my hand. I don't think I have left out anything except the names of the children of the Graham family. But there are no names at all on this paper. The reason for this is that it was thought best not to disclose the identity of the family for the information of any other person into whose hands it might fall, if it should be lost by us. The names are indicated thus: 'A' stands for the oldest member of the family, Mrs. Graham, for she is two years older than her husband and the real head of the household; 'B' stands for the next younger, Mr. Graham; 'C' stands for Addie, the oldest daughter; 'D' for the next daughter, Olga; 'E' for the only son, James, named after his father; and 'F' stands for Glen. There, you have the whole proposition. What do you want to do with it? Mrs. Hutchins, I neglected to mention, wants to pay all of our expenses and hire help to take off our hands all the labor of moving our camp." Replies were not slow coming. Nearly every one of the girls had something to say, as indicated by the eager attitudes of all and requests from several to be recognized by the Guardian, who was "in the chair." Azalia Atwood was the first one called upon. "I think the proposition of Mrs. Hutchins is simply great," the latter declared with vim. "It's delightfully romantic, sounds like a story with a plot, and would make fourteen heroines out of us if we were successful in our mission." "I want to warn you against one danger," Miss Ladd interposed at this point. "The natural thing for you to do at the start, after hearing this lengthy indictment of the Graham family, is to conclude that they are a bad lot and to feel an eagerness to set out to prove it. Now, I admit that that is my feeling in this matter, but I know also that there is a possibility of mistake. The Grahams may be high class people, but they may have enemies who are trying to injure them. If you take up the proposition of Mrs. Hutchins, you must keep this possibility in mind, for unless you do, you might do not only the Grahams a great injustice, but little Glen as well. It would be a pity to tear him away from a perfectly good home that has been vilified by false accusations made by unscrupulous enemies." The discussion was continued for nearly an hour, the written instructions in Katherine's possession were read aloud and then a vote was taken. It was unanimous, in favor of performing the task proposed by Mrs. Hutchins. CHAPTER V. HONORS AND SPIES. "Why couldn't this expedition be arranged so that we girls could all win some honors out of it?" Ruth Hazelton inquired, after the details of Mrs. Hutchins' plan had been discussed thoroughly and the vote had been taken. "That is a good suggestion," said Miss Ladd. "What kind of honors would you propose, Ruth?" The latter was silent for some minutes. She was going over in her mind the list of home-craft, health-craft, camp-craft, hand-craft, nature-lore, business and patriotism honors provided for by the organization, but none of them seemed to fit in with the program of the proposed secret investigation. "I don't think of any," she said at last. "There aren't any, are there?" "No, there are not," the Guardian replied. "But now is the time for the exercise of a little ingenuity. Who speaks first with an idea?" "I have one," announced Ethel Zimmerman eagerly. "Well, what is it, Ethel?" Miss Ladd inquired. "Local honors," replied the girl with the first idea. "Each Camp Fire is authorized to create local honors and award special beads and other emblems to those who make the requirements." "Under what circumstances is such a proceeding authorized?" was Miss Ladd's next question. "When it is found that local conditions call for the awarding of honors not provided for in the elective list." "Do such honors count for anything in the qualifications for higher rank?" "They do not," Ethel answered like a pupil who had learned her lesson very well and felt no hesitancy in making her recitation. "What kind of honor would you confer on me if I exhibited great skill in spying on someone else?" asked Helen Nash in her usual cool and deliberate manner. A problematical smile lit up the faces of several of the girls who caught the significance of this suggestion. Miss Ladd smiled, too, but not so problematically. "You mean to point out the incongruity of honors and spies, I presume," the Guardian interpreted, addressing Helen. "Not very seriously," the latter replied with an expression of dry humor. "I couldn't resist the temptation to ask the question and, moreover, it occurred to me that a little discussion on the subject of honors and spies might help to complete our study of the problem before us." "Do you mean that we are going to be spies?" Violet Munday questioned. "Why, of course we are," Helen replied, with a half-twinkle in her eyes. "I don't like the idea of spying on anybody and would rather call it something else," said Marie Crismore. "First someone calls us detectives and then somebody calls us spies. What next? Ugh!" "Why don't you like to spy on anybody?" asked Harriet Newcomb. "Well," Marie answered hesitatingly; "you know that there are thousands of foreign spies in this country trying to help our enemies in Europe, and I don't like to be classed with them." "That's patriotic," said Helen, the twinkle in her eyes becoming brighter. "But you must remember that there are spies and spies, good spies and bad spies. All of our law-enforcement officials are spies in their attempts to crush crime. Your mother was a spy when she watched you as a little tot stealing into the pantry to poke your fist into the jam. That is what Mrs. Hutchins suspects is taking place now. Someone has got his or her fist in the jam. We must go and peek in through the pantry door." "Oh, if you put it that way, it'll be lots of fun," Marie exclaimed eagerly. "I'd just like to catch 'em with their fists all--all--smeared!" She brought the last word out so ecstatically that everybody laughed. "I'm afraid you have fallen into the pit that I warned you against," Miss Ladd said, addressing Marie. "You mustn't start out eager to prove the persons, under suspicion, guilty." "Then we must drive out of our minds the picture of the fists smeared with jam," deplored Marie with a playful pout. "I fear that you must," was the smiling concurrence of the Guardian. "Very well; I'm a good soldier," said Marie, straightening up as if ready to "shoulder arms." "I won't imagine any jam until I see it." "Here comes Hazel," cried Julietta, and everybody looked in the direction indicated. Hazel Edwards had taken advantage of this occasion to go to her aunt's house and thence to the city Red Cross headquarters for a new supply of yarn for their army and navy knitting. As she emerged from the timber and continued along the edge of the woods toward the site of the camp, the assembled campers could see that she carried a good-sized bundle under one arm. "She's got some more yarn, and we can now take up our knitting again," said Ethel Zimmerman, who had proved herself to be the most rapid of all the members of the Camp Fire with the needles. Although the business of the meeting was finished, by tacit agreement those present decided not to adjourn until Hazel arrived and received official notice of what had been done. "I'm delighted with your decision," Hazel said eagerly. "And, do you know, I believe we are going to have some adventure. I've been talking the matter over with Aunt Hannah and she has told me a lot of very interesting things. But when do you want to go?" "We haven't discussed that yet," Miss Ladd replied. "I suppose we could go almost any time." "Let's go at once," proposed Marion Stanlock. "We haven't anything to keep us here and we can come back as soon as--as soon as we find the jam on somebody's fist." This figure of speech called for an explanation for Hazel's benefit. Then Ruth Hazelton moved that the Camp Fire place itself at Mrs. Hutchins' service to leave for Twin Lakes as soon as she thought best, and this motion was carried unanimously. "I move that Katherine Crane be appointed a committee of one to notify Mrs. Hutchins of our action and get instructions from her for our next move," said Violet Munday. "Second the motion," said Azalia Atwood. "Question!" shouted Harriet Newcomb. "Those in favor say aye," said Miss Ladd. A hearty chorus of "ayes" was the response. "Contrary minded, no." Silence. "The ayes have it." The meeting adjourned. CHAPTER VI. A TELEGRAM EN ROUTE. At 9 o'clock in the morning two days later, a train of three coaches, two sleepers and a parlor car, pulled out of Fairberry northwest bound. It was a clear midsummer day, not oppressively warm. The atmosphere had been freshened by a generous shower of rain a few hours before sunup. In the parlor car near one end sat a group of thirteen girls and one young woman. The latter, Miss Ladd, Guardian of Flamingo Camp Fire, we will hereafter designate as "one of the girls." She was indeed scarcely more than a girl, having passed her voting majority by less than a year. The last two days had been devoted principally to preparations for this trip. Mrs. Hutchins had engaged two men who struck the tents and packed these and all the other camp paraphernalia and expressed the entire outfit to Twin Lakes station. On the morning before us, Mrs. Hutchins accompanied the fourteen girls to the train at the Fairberry depot and bade them good-bye and wished them success in their enterprise. There were few other passengers in the parlor car when the Camp Fire Girls entered. One old gentleman obligingly moved forward from a seat at the rear end, and the new passengers were able to occupy a section all by themselves. Before starting for the train, Miss Ladd called her little flock of "spies" together and gave them a short lecture. "Now, girls," she said with keen deliberation, "we are about to embark on a venture that has in it elements which will put many of your qualities to severe test. And these tests are going to begin right away. Perhaps the first will be a test of your ability to hold your tongues. That's pretty hard for a bevy of girls who like to talk better than anything else, isn't it?" "Do you really mean to accuse us of liking to talk better than anything else?" inquired Marie Crismore, flushing prettily. "I didn't say so, did I?" was the Guardian's answering query. "Not exactly. But you meant it, didn't you?" "I refuse to be pinned down to an answer," replied Miss Ladd, smiling enigmatically. "I suspect that if I leave you something to guess about on that subject it may sink in deeper. Now, can any of you surmise what specifically I am driving at?" Nobody ventured an answer, and Miss Ladd continued: "Don't talk about our mission to Twin Lakes except on secret occasions. Don't drop remarks now and then or here and there that may be overheard and make someone listen for more. For instance, on the train, forget that you are on anything except a mere pleasure trip or Camp Fire excursion. Be absolutely certain that you don't drop any remarks that might arouse anybody's curiosity or suspicion. It might, you know, get to the very people whom we wish to keep in ignorance concerning our moves and motives." "I see you are bound to make sure enough spies out of us," said Marie Crismore pertly. "Well, I'm going to start out with the determination of pulling my hat down over my eyes, hiding in every shadow I see and peeking around every corner I can get to. Oh, I'm going to be some sleuth, believe me." "What will you say when you catch somebody with jam on his fingers?" Harriet Newcomb inquired. Marie leaned forward eagerly and answered dramatically: "I'll suddenly appear before the villain and shout: 'Halt, you are my prisoner! Throw up your jammed hands!'" After the laugh that greeted this response subsided, Miss Ladd closed her lecture thus: "I think you all appreciate the importance now of keeping your thoughts to yourselves except when we are in conference. I'm glad to see you have a lot of fun over this subject, but don't let your gay spirits cause you to permit any unguarded remarks to escape." On the train the girls all got out their knitting, and soon their needles were plying merrily away on sleeveless sweaters, socks, helmets, and wristlets for the boys at the front, timing their work by their wrist watches for patriotism honors. True to their resolve, following Miss Ladd's warning lecture, they kept the subject of their mission out of their conversation, and it is probable that no reference to it would have been made during the entire 300-mile journey if something had not happened which forced it keenly to the attention of every one of them. The train on which they were traveling was a limited and the first stop was fifty miles from Fairberry. A few moments after the train stopped, a telegraph messenger walked into the front entrance of the parlor car and called out: "Telegram for Miss Harriet Ladd." The latter arose and received the message, signed the receipt blank, and tore open the envelope. Imagine her astonishment as she read the following: "Miss Harriet Ladd, parlor car, Pocahontas Limited: Attorney Pierce Langford is on your train, first coach. Bought ticket for Twin Lakes. Small man, squint eyes, smooth face. Watch out for him. Letter follows telegram. Mrs. Hannah Hutchins." CHAPTER VII. A DOUBLE-ROOM MYSTERY. Miss Ladd passed the telegram around among the girls after writing the following explanation at the foot of the message: "Pierce Langford is the Fairberry attorney that represented scheming relatives of Mrs. Hutchins' late husband, who attempted to force money out of her after the disappearance of the securities belonging to Glen Irving's estate. Leave this matter to me and don't talk about it until we reach Twin Lakes." Nothing further was said about the incident during the rest of the journey, as requested by Miss Ladd. The girls knitted, rested, chatted, read, and wrote a few postcards or "train letters" to friends. But although there was not a word of conversation among the Camp Fire members relative to the passenger named in Mrs. Hutchins' telegram, yet the subject was not absent from their minds much of the time. They were being followed! No other construction could be put upon the telegram. But for what purpose? What did the unscrupulous lawyer--that was the way Mrs. Hutchins had once referred to Pierce Langford--have in mind to do? Would he make trouble for them in any way that would place them in an embarrassing position? These girls had had experiences in the last year which were likely to make them apprehensive of almost anything under such circumstances as these. Warned of the presence on the train of a probable agent of the family that Mrs. Hutchins had under suspicion, the girls were constantly on the alert for some evidence of his interest in them and their movements. And they were rewarded to this extent: In the course of the journey, Langford paid the conductor the extra mileage for parlor car privileges, and as he transferred from the coach, not one of the Flamingoites failed to observe the fact that in personal appearance he answered strikingly the description of the man referred to in the telegram received by Miss Ladd. The squint-eyed man of mystery, in the coolest and most nonchalant manner, took a seat a short distance in front of the bevy of knitting Camp Fire Girls, unfolded a newspaper and appeared to bury himself in its contents, oblivious to all else about him. Half an hour later he arose and left the car, passing out toward the rear end of the train. Another half hour elapsed and he did not reappear. Then Katherine Crane and Hazel Edwards put away their knitting and announced that they were going back into the observation car and look over the magazines. They did not communicate to each other their real purpose in making this move, but neither had any doubt as to what was going on in the mind of the other. Marie Crismore looked at them with a little squint of intelligence and said as she arose from her chair: "I think I'll go, too, for a change." But this is what she interpolated to herself: "They're going back there to spy, and I think I'll go and spy, too." They found Langford in the observation car, apparently asleep in a chair. Katherine, who entered first, declared afterwards that she was positive she saw him close his eyes like a flash and lapse into an appearance of drowsiness, but if she was not in error, his subsequent manner was a very clever simulation of midday slumber. Three or four times in the course of the next hour he shifted his position and half opened his eyes, but drooped back quickly into the most comfortable appearance of somnolent lassitude. The three girls were certain that all this was pure "make-believe," but they did not communicate their conviction to each other by look or suggestion of any kind. They played their part very well, and it is quite possible that Langford, peeking through his eyewinkers, was considerably puzzled by their manner. He had no reason to believe that he was known to them by name or reputation, much less by personal appearance. It was in fact a game of spy on both sides during most of the journey, with little but mystifying results. The train reached Twin Lakes at about sundown, and even then the girls had discovered no positive evidence as to the "squint-eyed man's" purpose in taking the trip they were taking. And Langford, as he left the train, could not confidently say to himself that he had detected any suggestion of interest on their part because of his presence on the train. Flamingo Camp Fire rode in an omnibus to the principal hotel in the town, the Crandell house, and were assigned to rooms on the second floor. They had had their supper on the train and proceeded at once to prepare for a night's rest. Still no words were exchanged among them relative to the purpose of their visit or the mysterious, squint-eyed passenger concerning whom all of them felt an irrepressible curiosity and not a little apprehension. Miss Ladd occupied a room with Katherine Crane. After making a general survey of the floor and noting the location of the rooms of the other girls, they entered their own apartment and closed the door. Marie Crismore and Julietta Hyde occupied the room immediately south of theirs, but to none of them had the room immediately north been assigned. "I wonder if the next room north is occupied," Katherine remarked as she took off her hat and laid it on a shelf in the closet. "Someone is entering now," Miss Ladd whispered, lifting her hand with a warning for low-toned conversation. The exchange of a few indistinct words between two persons could be heard; then one of them left, and the other was heard moving about in the room. "That's one of the hotel men who just brought a new guest up," Katherine remarked. "And I'm going to find out who it is," the Guardian declared in a low tone, turning toward the door. "I'll go with you," said Katherine, and together they went down to the office. They sought the register at once and began looking over the list of arrivals. Presently Miss Ladd pointed with her finger the following registration: "Pierce Langford, Fairberry, Room 36." Miss Ladd and Katherine occupied Room 35. "Anything you wish, ladies?" asked the proprietor, who stood behind the desk. "Yes," Miss Ladd answered. "We want another room." "I'll have to give you single rooms, if that one is not satisfactory," was the reply. "All my double rooms are filled." "Isn't 36 a double room?" Katherine inquired. "Yes, but it's occupied. I just sent a man up there." "Excuse the question," Miss Ladd said curiously; "but why did you put one person in a double room when it was the only double room you had and there were vacant single rooms in the house?" The hotel keeper smiled pleasantly, as if the question was the simplest in the world to answer. "Because he insisted on having it and paid me double rate in advance," was the landlord's startling reply. CHAPTER VIII. PLANNING IN SECRET. Without a word of comment relative to this remarkable information, Miss Ladd turned and started back upstairs, and Katherine followed. In the hall at the upper landing, the Guardian whispered thus in the ear of her roommate: "Sh! Don't say a word or commit an act that could arouse suspicion. He's probably listening, or looking, or both. Just forget this subject and talk about the new middy-blouse you are making, or something like that. Don't gush, either, or he may suspect your motive. We want to throw him off the track if possible." But Katherine preferred to say little, for she was tired, and made haste to get into bed. It was not long before the subject of their plans and problems and visions of spies and "jam-stained fists" were lost in the lethe of dreamland. They were awakened in the morning by the first breakfast bell and arose at once. They dressed hurriedly and went at once to the dining-room, where they found two of the girls ahead of them. The others appeared presently. As the second bell rang, Pierce Langford sauntered into the room and took a seat near the table occupied by Helen Nash and Violet Munday. He looked about him in a half-vacant inconsequential way and then began to "jolly" the waitress, who approached and sung off a string of alternates on the "Hooverized" bill of fare which she carried in her mind. She coldly ignored his "jollies," for it was difficult for Langford to be pleasing even when he tried to be pleasant, took his order, and proceeded on her way. The girls paid no further attention to the supposed spy-lawyer during breakfast, and the latter appeared to pay no further attention to them. After the meal, Miss Ladd called the girls together and suggested that they take a walk. Then she dismissed them to prepare. Twenty minutes later they reassembled, clad in khaki middy suits, brown sailor hats, and hiking shoes, and the walk was begun along a path that led down a wooded hill behind the hotel and toward the nearest lake. It was not so much for exercise and fresh air that this "hike" was taken as for an opportunity to hold a conference where there was little likelihood of its being overheard. They picked a grassy knoll near the lake, shaded by a border of oak and butternut trees, and sat down close together in order that they might carry on a conversation in subdued tones. "Now," said Miss Ladd, "we'll begin to form our plans. You all realize, I think, that we have an obstacle to work against that we did not reckon on when we started. But that need not surprise us. In fact, as I think matters over, it would have been surprising if something of the kind had not occurred. This man Langford is undoubtedly here to block our plans. If that is true, in a sense it is an advantage to us." "Why?" Hazel Edwards inquired. "I don't like the idea of answering questions of that kind without giving you girls an opportunity to answer them," the Guardian returned. "Now, who can tell me why it is an advantage to us to be followed by someone in the employ of the people whom we have been sent to investigate." "I think I can answer it," Hazel said quickly, observing that two or three of the other girls seemed to have something to say. "Let me speak first, please. I asked the foolish question and want a chance to redeem myself." "I wouldn't call it foolish," was the Guardian's reassuring reply. "It was a very natural question and one that comparatively few people would be able to answer without considerable study. And yet, it is simple after you once get it. But go ahead and redeem yourself." "The fact that someone has been put on our trail to watch us is pretty good evidence that something wrong is going on," said Hazel. "You warned us not to be sure that anybody is guilty until we see the jam on his fist. But we can work more confidently if we are reasonably certain that there is something to work for. If this man Langford is in the employ of the Grahams and is here watching us for them, we may be reasonably certain that Aunt Hannah was right in her suspicions about the way little Glen is being treated, may we not?" "That is very good, Hazel," Miss Ladd commented enthusiastically. "Many persons a good deal older than you could not have stated the situation as clearly as you have stated it. Yes, I think I may say that I am almost glad that we are being watched by a spy. "But I didn't call you out here to have a long talk with you, girls. There really isn't much to say right now. First I wanted you all to understand clearly that we are being watched and for what purpose. Langford convicted himself when he asked for the double room next to the one occupied by Katherine and me and offered to pay the regular rate for two. He thinks that he is able to maintain an appearance of utter disinterest in us and throw us off our guard. But he overdoes the thing. He makes too big an effort to appear unconscious of our presence. It doesn't jibe at all with the expression of decided interest I have caught on his face on two or three occasions. And I flatter myself that I successfully concealed my interest in his interest in us. "Now, there are two things I want to say to you, and we will return. First, do your best, every one of you, to throw Langford off the track by affecting the most innocent disinterest in him as of no more importance to us than the most obscure tourist on earth. Don't overdo it. Just make yourselves think that he is of no consequence and act accordingly without putting forth any effort to do so. The best way to effect this is to forget all about our mission when he is around. "Second, we must find out where the Graham cottage is and then determine where we want to locate our camp--somewhere in the vicinity of the Graham cottage, of course." "Let me go out on a scouting expedition to find out where they live," Katherine requested. "And let me go with her," begged Ruth Hazelton. "All right," Miss Ladd assented. "I'll commission you two to act as spies to approach the border of the enemy's country and make a map of their fortifications. But whatever you do, don't get caught. Keep your heads, don't do anything foolish or spasmodic, and keep this thing well in mind, that it is far better for you to come back empty handed than to make them suspicious of any ulterior motive on your part." CHAPTER IX. FURTHER PLANS. "Now, girls," said Miss Ladd, addressing Katherine and Hazel, "let me hear what your plan is, if you have any. If you haven't any, we must get busy and work one out, for you must not start such an enterprise without having some idea as to how you should go about it. But I will assume that a suggestion must have come to you as to how best to get the first information we want or you would not have volunteered." "Can't we work out an honor plan as we decide upon our duties and how we are to perform them?" Hazel inquired. "Certainly," the Guardian replied, "I was going to suggest that very thing. What would you propose, Hazel?" "Well, something like this," the latter replied: "that each of us be assigned to some specific duty to perform in the work before it, and that we be awarded honors for performing those duties intelligently and successfully." "Very well. I suppose this work you and Katherine have selected may count toward the winning of a bead for each of you. But what will you do after you have finished this task, which can hardly consume more than a few hours?" "Why not make them a permanent squad of scouts to go out and gather advance information needed at any time before we can determine what to do?" Marion Stanlock suggested. "That's a good idea," Miss Ladd replied. "But it will have to come up at a business meeting of the Camp Fire in order that honors may be awarded regularly. Meanwhile I will appoint you two girls as scouts of the Fire, and this can be confirmed at the next business meeting. We will also stipulate the condition on which honors will be awarded. But how will you go about to get the information we now need?" "First, I would look in the general residence directory to find out where the Grahams live," Katherine replied. "Yes, that is perhaps the best move to make first. But the chances are you will get nothing there. Can you tell me why?" "Because there are probably few summer cottages within the city limits," Hazel volunteered. "Exactly," the Guardian agreed. "Well, if the city directory fails to give you any information, what would you do next?" "Consult a telephone directory," Katherine said quickly. "Fine!" Miss Ladd exclaimed. "What then?" "They probably have a telephone; wouldn't be much society folks if they didn't," Katherine continued; "and there would, no doubt, be some sort of address for them in the 'phone book." "Yes." "And that would give us some sort of guide for beginning our search. We wouldn't have to use the names of the people we are looking for." "That is excellent!" Miss Ladd exclaimed enthusiastically. "If you two scouts use your heads as cleverly as that all the time, you ought to get along fine in your work. But go on. What next would you do?" "Go and find out where the people live. That needn't be hard. Then we'd look over the lay of the land to see if there were a good place nearby for us to pitch our tents." "Yes," put in Hazel; "and if we found a good place nearby, we'd begin the real work that we came here to do by going to the Graham house and asking who owns the land." "Fine again," Miss Ladd said. "I couldn't do better myself, maybe not as well. I did think of going with you on your first trip, but I guess I'll leave it all to you. Let's go back to the hotel now, and while you two scouts are gone scouting, the rest of us will find something to entertain us. Maybe we'll take a motorboat ride." They started back at once and were soon at the hotel. Katherine and Hazel decided that they would not even look for the address of the Grahams in the directories at the hotel, but would go to a drug store on the main business street for this information. The other girls waited on the hotel portico while they were away on this mission. They were gone about twenty minutes and returned with a supply of picture postcards to mail to their friends. On a piece of paper Katherine had written an address and she showed it to Miss Ladd. Here is what the latter read: "Stony Point." "That's about three miles up the lake," Hazel said. "We thought we'd hire an automobile and go up there." "Do," said Miss Ladd approvingly. "And we'll take a motorboat and ride up that way too, if we can get one. Oh, I have the idea now. We'll make it a double inspection, part by land and part from the lake. We'll meet you at a landing at Stony Point, if there is one, and will bring you back in the boat. Now, you, Katherine and Hazel, wait here while I go and find a motorboatman and make arrangements with him." "I'll go with you," said Violet Munday. The Guardian and Violet hastened down toward the main boat landing while the other twelve girls waited eagerly for a successful report on this part of the proposed program. CHAPTER X. A TRIP TO STONY POINT. Miss Ladd and Violet returned in about twenty minutes and reported that satisfactory arrangements had been made for a trip up the lake. They were to start in an hour and a half. Then Katherine and Hazel engaged an automobile for a few hours' drive and before the motorboat started with its load of passengers, they were speeding along a hard macadam road toward the point around which centered the interest of their interrupted vacation plans at Fairberry and their sudden departure on a very unusual and very romantic journey. Twin Lakes is a summer-resort town located on the lower of two bodies of water, similar in size, configuration, and scenery. The town has a more or less fixed population of about 2,500, most of whom are retired folk of means or earn their living directly or indirectly through the supplying of amusements, comfort, and sustenance for the thousands of pleasure and recreation seekers that visit the place every year. Each of the lakes is about four miles long and half as wide. A narrow river, strait, or rapids nearly a mile long connects the two. Originally this rapids was impassable by boats larger than canoes, and even such little craft were likely to be overturned unless handled by strong and skillful canoemen; but some years earlier the state had cleared this passage by removing numerous great boulders and shelves of rock from the bed of the stream so that although the water rushed along just as swiftly as ever, the passage was nevertheless safe for all boats of whatever draught that moved on the two lakes which it connected. The lower of the twin bodies of water had been named Twin-One because, perhaps, it was the first one seen, or more often seen by those who chose or approved the name; the other was Twin-Two. Geographically speaking, it may be, these names should have been applied vice versa, for Twin-Two was fed first by a deep and wide river whose source was in the mountains 200 miles away, and Twin-One received these waters after they had laved the shores of Twin-Two. The road followed by Katherine and Hazel in their automobile drive to Stony Point was a well-kept thoroughfare running from the south end of Twin-One, in gracefully curved windings along the east border of the lake, sometimes over a small stretch of rough or hilly shoreland, but usually through heavy growths of hemlock, white pine, oak, and other trees more or less characteristic of the country. Here and there along the way was a cottage, or summer house of more pretentious proportions, usually constructed near the water or some distance up on the side of the hill-shore, with a kind of terrace-walk leading down to a boat landing. The trip was quickly made. Stony Point the girls found to be a picturesque spot not at all devoid of the verdant beauties of nature in spite of the fact that, geographically, it was well named. This name was due principally to a rock-formed promontory, jutting out into the lake at this point and seeming to be bedded deep into the lofty shore-elevation. Right here was a cluster of cottages, not at all huddled together, but none the less a cluster if viewed from a distance upon the lake, and in this group of summer residences appeared to be almost sufficient excuse for the drawing up of a petition for incorporation as a village. But very few of the owners of these houses lived in them during the winter months. The main and centrally located group consisted of a hotel and a dozen or more cottages, known as "The Hemlocks," and so advertised in the outing and vacation columns of newspapers of various cities. On arriving at "the Point," Katherine and Hazel paid the chauffeur and informed him they would not need his machine any more that day. Then they began to look about them. They were rather disappointed and decidedly puzzled at what they saw. Evidently they had a considerable search before them to discover the location of the Graham cottage without making open inquiry as to where it stood. First they walked out upon the promontory, which had a flat table-like surface and was well suited for the arousing of the curiosity of tourists. There they had a good view up and down the bluff-jagged, hilly and tree-laden coast. "It's 11 o'clock now," said Hazel, looking at her wrist-watch. "The motorboat will be here at about 1 o'clock, and we have two hours in which to get the information we are after unless we want to share honors for success with the other girls when they arrive." "Let's take a walk through this place and see what we can see," Katherine suggested. "The road we came along runs through it and undoubtedly there are numerous paths." This seemed to be the best thing to do, and the two girls started from the Point toward the macadam highway. The latter was soon reached and they continued along this road northward from the place where they dismissed the automobile. Half a mile they traveled in this direction, their course keeping well along the lake shore. They passed several cottages of designedly rustic appearance and buried, as it were, amid a wealth of tree foliage and wild entanglements of shrubbery. Suddenly Katherine caught hold of Hazel's arm and held her back. "Did you hear that?" she inquired. "Yes, I did," Hazel replied. "It sounded like a child's voice, crying." "And not very far away, either. Listen; there it is again." It was a half-smothered sob that reached their ears and seemed to come from a clump of bushes to the left of the road not more than a dozen yards away. Both girls started for the spot, circling around the bushes and peering carefully, cautiously ahead of them as they advanced. The subdued sobs continued and led the girls directly to the spot whence they came. Presently they found themselves standing over the form of a little boy, his frightened, tear-stained face turned up toward them while he shrank back into the bushes as if fearing the approach of a fellow human being. CHAPTER XI. MISS PERFUME INTERFERES. The little fellow retreated into the bushes as far as he could get and crouched, there in manifest terror. Katherine and Hazel spoke gently, sympathetically to him, but with no result, at first, except to frighten him still more, if possible. "Don't be afraid, little boy," Hazel said, reaching out her hands toward him. "We won't hurt you." But he only shrank back farther, putting up his hands before his face and crying, "Don't, don't!" "What can be the matter with him?" said Hazel. "He doesn't seem to be demented. He's really afraid of something." Katherine looked all around carefully through the trees and into the neighboring bushes. "I can't imagine what it can be," she replied. "There's nothing in sight that could do him any harm. But, do you know, Hazel, I have an idea that may be worth considering. Suppose this should prove to be the little boy for whom we are looking." "That could hardly be," Hazel answered dubiously. "Look at his threadbare clothes, and how unkempt and neglected he appears to be. He surely doesn't look like a boy for whose care $250 is paid every month." "Don't forget what it was that sent us here," Katherine reminded. "Isn't it just possible that this little boy's fright is proof of the very condition we came here to expose?" "Yes, it's possible," Hazel replied thoughtfully. "At least, we ought not neglect to find out what this means." Then turning again to the crouching figure in the bushes, she said: "What is your name, little boy? Is it Glen?" At the utterance of this name, the youth shook as with ague. "Look out, Hazel; he'll have a spasm," Katherine cautioned. "He thinks we are not his friends and are going to do something he doesn't want us to do. Let me talk to him: "Listen, little boy," she continued, addressing the pitiful crouching figure. "We're not going to hurt you. We'll do just what you want us to do. We'll take you where you want to go. Will that be all right?" A relaxing of the tense attitude of the boy indicated that he was somewhat reassured by these words. His fists went suddenly to his eyes and he began to sob hysterically. Hazel moved toward him with more sympathetic reassurance, when there was an interruption of proceedings from a new source. A girl about 18 years old stepped up in front of the two Camp Fire Girls and reached forward as if to seize the juvenile refugee with both hands. She was rather ultra-stylishly clad for a negligee, summer-resort community, wearing a pleated taffeta skirt and Georgette crepe waist and a white sailor hat of expensive straw with a bright blue ribbon around the crown. Hazel afterwards remarked that "her face was as cold as an iceberg and the odor of perfume about her was enough to asphyxiate a field of phlox and shooting-stars." The boy ceased sobbing as he beheld this new arrival and his face became white with fear, while he shrank back again into the bushes as far as he could get. The girl of much perfume and stylish attire seemed to be unmoved by the new panic that seized him, but took hold of him and dragged him roughly out of his hiding place. "Oh, do be careful," pleaded Hazel. "Don't you see he's scared nearly to death? You may throw him into a spasm." "Is that any of your business?" the captor of the frightened youth snapped, looking defiantly at the one who addressed her. "He's my brother, and I guess I can take him back home without any interference from a perfect stranger. He's run away." "I beg your pardon," Hazel said gently; "but it didn't seem to me to be an ordinary case of fright. I didn't mean to intrude, but he's such a dear little boy I couldn't help being sympathetic." "He's a naughty bad runaway and ought to be whipped," the girl with the cold face returned as she started along a path through the timber, dragging the little fellow after her. "Isn't that a shame!" Hazel muttered, digging her fingernails into the palms of her hands. "My, but I just like to----" She stopped for want of words to express her feelings not too riotously, and Katherine came to her relief by swinging the subject along a different track. "Do you really believe that boy is Glen Irving?" she inquired. "No, I suppose not," Hazel answered dejectedly. "You heard that girl say he was her brother, didn't you? Well, Glen has no sister. But, do you know, I really am disappointed to find that he isn't the boy we are looking for, for my heart went right out to him when I first saw his crouching form and white face. Moreover, I can hardly bear the thought of leaving him in the hands of that frosted bottle of cheap Cologne." Katherine laughed at the figure. "You've painted her picture right," she said warmly. "Come on, let's follow her. We have as much right to go that way as she has, and we must go someway anyway." "All right; lead the way," Hazel said with smiling emphasis on the "way" to direct attention to Katherine's phonetic repetition. The latter started along the path that had been taken by the girl and her frightened prisoner, and Hazel followed. The two in advance were by this time out of sight beyond a thicket of bushes and small trees, but Katherine and Hazel did not hasten their steps, as they preferred to trust to the path to guide their steps rather than the view of the persons they sought to follow. In fact, they preferred to trust to the element of chance rather than run a risk of arousing the suspicion of the cold-faced girl with the perfume. Only once did they catch sight of the boy and his captor in the course of their hesitating pursuit, and this view was so satisfactory that they stopped short in order to avoid possible detection if the girl should look back. A turn in the path brought them to the hip of the elevation where the ground began to slope down to the lake and near the downward bend of this beach-hill was a rustic cottage, with an equally rustic garage to the rear and on one side a cleared space for a tennis court. At the door of the cottage was the girl with the pleated skirt and white sailor hat, still leading the now submissive but quivering youth. "Fine!" Katharine exclaimed under her breath. "Things have turned out just right. If that should prove to be the Graham home we couldn't wish for better luck. Come on; let's back through the timber and approach this place from another direction. They mustn't suspect that we followed that girl and the little boy." CHAPTER XII. THE MAN IN THE AUTO. Cautiously Katherine and Hazel withdrew from the path into a thicket and thence retreated along the path by which they had approached the house. They continued their retreat to the point where the path joined the automobile road and where grew the thicket within which they had discovered the frightened runaway child. "Now, I tell you what we ought to do," Katherine said. "We ought to follow this road about a mile, maybe, to get a view of the lay of the land and then return to this spot, or near it. We can get the information we want after we learn more of the camping possibilities of this neighborhood and can talk intelligently when we begin to make inquiries." "And when we get back," Hazel added, "we'll go to some neighboring house and ask all about who lives here and who lives there, and, of course, we'll be particular to ask the name of the family where that icy bottle of perfume lives." "That's the very idea," Katherine agreed enthusiastically. "But we haven't any time to waste, for it is nearly 12 o'clock now, and we have only a little more than an hour to work in if the motorboat arrives on time. We'd better not try to walk a mile--half a mile will be enough, maybe a quarter--just enough to enable us to talk intelligently about the lay of the land right around here." They walked north along the road nearly half a mile, found a path which led directly toward the lake, followed it until within view of the water's edge, satisfied themselves that there were several excellent camping places along the shore in this vicinity and then started back. They had passed three or four cottages on their way and at one of these they stopped to make inquiries as planned. A pleasant-faced woman in comfortable domestic attire met them at the door and answered their questions with a readiness that bespoke familiarity with the neighborhood and acquaintance with her neighbors. Katherine and Hazel experienced no slight difficulty in concealing their eager satisfaction when Mrs. Scott, the woman they were questioning, said: "The people who have the cottage just north of us are the Pruitts of Wilmington, those just south of us are the Ertsmans of Richmond, and those just south of the Ertsmans are the Grahams of Baltimore, I think. I am not very well acquainted with that family. I am sure we would be delighted to have a group of Camp Fire Girls near us and you ought to have no difficulty in getting permission to pitch your tents. This land along here belongs to an estate which is managed by a man living in Philadelphia. He is represented here by a real estate man, Mr. Ferris, of Twin Lakes. He probably will permit you to camp here for little or nothing." The girls thanked the woman warmly for this information and then hurried away. "We don't need to call at the Graham cottage now," Hazel said as they hastened back to the road. "We have all the preliminary information that we want. The next thing for us to do is to get back to the Point and meet the boat when it comes in and have a talk with the other girls. I suppose our first move then ought to be to go to Twin Lakes and get permission from that real estate man, Ferris, to pitch our tents on the land he has charge of." The two girls kept up their rapid walk until within a few hundred feet of the drive that led from the main road to the cottage occupied by the Grahams. Then they slowed up a little as they saw an automobile approaching ahead of them. The machine also slowed up somewhat as it neared the drive. Suddenly Hazel exclaimed, half under her breath: "It's going to stop. I wonder what for?" "Yes, and there's something familiar in that man's appearance," Katherine said slowly. "Why----" She did not finish the sentence, for the automobile was so near she was afraid the driver would hear her. But there was no need for her to say what she had in her mind to say. Hazel recognized the man as soon as she did. "Be careful," Katherine warned. "Don't let him see that we know him. Just pass him as you would a perfect stranger." But they did not pass the automobile as expected. Although slowing up, the machine did not stop, and for the first time the girls realized the probable nature of the man's visit to Stony Point. "O Hazel!" Katherine whispered; "he's turning in at the Graham place." "I bet he's come here to warn them against us," Hazel returned. "It must be something of the kind," Katherine agreed, and then the near approach to the automobile rendered unwise any further conversation on the subject. The girls were within 100 feet of the machine as it turned in on the Graham drive and found that they had all they could do to preserve a calm and unperturbed demeanor as they met the keen searching gaze of the squint eyes of Pierce Langford, the lawyer from Fairberry. CHAPTER XIII. A NONSENSE PLOT. Katherine and Hazel walked past the drive, into which Attorney Langford's automobile had turned, apparently without any concern or interest in the occupant of the machine. But after they had advanced forty or fifty yards beyond the drive, Hazel's curiosity got the best of her and she turned her head and looked back. The impulse to do this was so strong, she said afterward, that it seemed impossible for her to control the action. Her glance met the gaze of the squint eyes of the man in the auto. "My! that was a foolish thing for me to do," she said as she quickly faced ahead again. "I suppose that look has done more damage than anything else since we started from Fairberry. And to think that I above all others should have been the one to do it. I'm ashamed of myself." "Did he see you?" Katherine inquired. "He was looking right at me," Hazel replied; "and that look was full of suspicion and meaning. There's no doubt he's on our trail and suspects something of the nature of our mission." "Oh don't let that bother you," Katherine advised. "There's no reason why he should jump to a conclusion just because you looked back at him. That needn't necessarily mean anything. But if you let it make you uneasy, you may give us dead away the next time you meet him." "I believe he knows what our mission here is already," was Katharine's fatalistic answer. "If that's the case, you needn't worry any more about what you do or say in his presence," said Hazel. "We might as well go to him and tell him our story and have it all over with." "I don't agree with you," Katherine replied. "I believe that the worst chance we have to work against is the probability of suspicion on his part. I don't see how he can know anything positively. He probably merely learned of our intended departure for Twin Lakes and, knowing that the Grahams were spending the summer here, began to put two and two together. I figure that he followed us on his own responsibility." "And that his visit at the Graham cottage today is to give them warning of our coming," Hazel added. "Yes, very likely," Katherine agreed. "I'd like to hear the conversation that is about to take place in that house. I bet it would be very interesting to us." "No doubt of it," said the other; "and it might prove helpful to us in our search for the information we were sent to get." "Don't you think it strange, Hazel, that your aunt should select a bunch of girls like us to do so important a piece of work as this?" Katherine inquired. This question had puzzled her a good deal from the moment the proposition had been put to her. Although she had received it originally from Mrs. Hutchins even before the matter had been broached to Hazel, she had not questioned the wisdom of the move, but had accepted the role of advocate assigned to her as if the proceeding were very ordinary and commonsensible. "If you hadn't restricted your remark to 'a bunch of girls like us', I would answer 'yes'," Hazel replied; "I'd say that it was very strange for Aunt Hannah to select a 'bunch of girls' to do so important a piece of work as this. But when you speak of the 'bunch' as a 'bunch of girls like us,' I reply 'No, it wasn't strange at all'." "I'm afraid you're getting conceited, Hazel," Katherine protested gently. "I know you did some remarkable work when you found your aunt's missing papers, but you shouldn't pat yourself on the back with such a resounding slap." "I wasn't referring to myself particularly," Hazel replied with a smile suggestive of "something more coming." "I was referring principally to my very estimable Camp Fire chums, and of course it would look foolish for me to attempt to leave myself out of the compliment. I suppose I shall have to admit that I am a very classy girl, because if I weren't, I couldn't be associated with such a classy bunch--see? Either I have to be classy or accuse you other girls of being common like myself." "I'm quite content to be called common," said Katherine. "But I don't think you are common, and that's where the difficulty comes in." "Won't you be generous and call me classy, and I'll admit I'm classy to keep company with my classy associates, and you can do likewise and we can all be an uncommonly classy bunch of common folks." "If we could be talking a string of nonsense like this every time we meet Mr. Langford, we could throw him off the track as easy as scat," said Hazel meditatively. "What do you say, Katherine?--let's try it the next time he's around: We'll be regular imp--, inp-- What's the word--impromptu actors." "We mustn't overdo it," Katherine cautioned. "Of course not. Why should we? We'll do just as we did this time--let one idea lead on to another in easy, rapid succession. Think it over and whenever you get an idea pass it around, and we'll be all primed for him. It'll be lots of fun if we get him guessing, and be to our advantage, too." Hazel and Katherine reached the Point in time to see the motorboat containing the other members of the Fire approaching about a mile away. They did not know, of course, who were in the boat, and as it was deemed wise not to indulge in any demonstrations, no one on either side did any signalling; but they were not long in doubt as to who the passengers were. A flight of steps led from the top of the point to the landing, and the two advance spies, as they were now quite content to be called, walked down these and were waiting at the water's edge when the boat ran up along the pile-supported platform. CHAPTER XIV. SPARRING FOR A FEE. Pierce Langford drove the automobile, in which he made his first trip to Stony Point, up to the end of the drive near the Graham cottage, and advanced to the front entrance. The porch on which he stood awaiting the appearance of someone to answer his knock--there was no bell at the door--was bordered with a railing of rough-hewn, but uniformly selected, limbs of hard wood or saplings. The main structure of the house was of yellow pine, but the outer trimmings were mainly of such rustic material as the railing of the porch. The front door was open, giving the visitor a fairly good view of the interior. The front room was large and fairly well furnished with light inexpensive furniture, grass rugs and an assortment of nondescript, "catch-as-catch-can," but not unattractive, art upon the walls. Langford, who was not a sleepy schemer, was able to get a good view of the room before any one appeared to answer his knock. It was a woman who appeared, a sharp featured, well-dressed matron with a challenging eye. Perhaps no stranger, or person out of the exclusive circle that she assumed to represent ever approached her without being met with the ocular demand, "Who are you?" Pierce Langford recognized this demand at once. If he had been of less indolent character this unscrupulous attorney might have made a brilliant success as a criminal lawyer in a metropolis. The fact that he was content with the limitations of a practice in a city of 3,500 inhabitants, Fairberry, his home town, was of itself indicative of his indolence. And yet, when he took a case, he manifested gifts of shrewdness that would have made many another lawyer of much greater practice jealous. Attorney Langford's shrewdness and indolence were alternately intermittent. When the nerve centers of his shrewdness were stimulated his indolence lapsed and he was very much on the alert. The present was one of those instances. He knew something, by reputation, of the woman who confronted him. He had had indirect dealing with her before, but he had never met her. However, he was certain that she would recognize his name. "Is this Mrs. Graham?" he inquired, although he scarcely needed to ask the question. "It is," she replied with evidently habitual precision. "My name is Langford--Pierce Langford," he announced, and then waited for the effect of this limited information. The woman started. It was a startled start. The challenge of her countenance wavered; the precision of her manner became an attitude of caution. "Not--not Pierce Langford of--of--?" she began. The man smiled on one side of his mouth. "The very one, none other," he answered cunningly. "Not to be in the least obscure, I am from the pretty, quiet and somewhat sequestered city of Fairberry. You know the place, I believe." "I've never been there and hope I shall never have occasion to go to your diminutive metropolis," she returned rather savagely. "No?" the visitor commented with a rising inflection for rhetorical effect. "By the way, may I come in?" "Certainly," Mrs. Graham answered recovering quickly from a partial lapse of mindfulness of the situation. The woman turned and led the way into the house and the visitor followed. Mrs. Graham directed the lawyer to a reed rockingchair and herself sat down on another reed-rest of the armchair variety. The woman by this time had recovered something of her former challenging attitude and inquired: "Well, Mr. Langford, what is the meaning of this visit?" "Very much meaning, Mrs. Graham," was the reply; "and of very much significance to you, I suspect. I come here well primed with information which I am sure will cause you to welcome me as you perhaps would welcome nobody else in the world." Mrs. Graham leaned forward eagerly, expectantly, apprehensively. "You come as a friend, I assume," she said. "Have you any reason to doubt it?" the man inquired. "If it were otherwise, I must necessarily come as a traitor. I hope you will not entertain any such opinion of me as that. As long as you treat me fairly, you'll find me absolutely on the square for you and your interests." "I hope so," returned the woman in a tone of voice that could hardly be said to convey any significance other than the dictionary meaning of the words. "But let's get down to business. What is this information that you come here primed with? Has it to do with the old subject?" "Certainly, very intimately, and with nothing else." "In what way?" Mrs. Graham asked with more eagerness than she intended to disclose. "Well, there are some spies in this neck of the woods." "Spies!" the woman exclaimed, betraying still more of the eagerness she was still struggling against. "Yes spies. That's exactly what they call themselves." "Who are they?--how do you know they are here to spy on me?" "I overheard their plans. I got wind in a roundabout way, as a result of talk on the part of Mrs. Hutchins' servants, that there was something doing, with Twin Lakes as a central point of interest. I suspected at once that your interests were involved; so I stole slyly, Willie Hawkshaw-like, up to their rendezvous one night and listened to some of them as they discussed their plans and--" "Some of them," Mrs. Graham interrupted. "How many are there?" "Oh, a whole troup of them." "That's a funny story," the woman commented dubiously, searching the face of her visitor for an explanation of his, to her, queer statements. "Not at all so funny when you hear it in detail," Langford returned quietly. "Well hurry up with the details," the impatient Mrs. Graham demanded. "There's no need of being in a hurry," the lawyer said with provoking calmness. "Business is business, you see, and full confidences should never be exchanged in a situation of this kind until a contract is drawn up, signed, sealed, witnessed, and recorded. In other words, I ought to have an understanding and a retainer before I go any farther." Mrs. Graham had no reason to doubt that this was coming sooner or later, but she winced nevertheless when it came. CHAPTER XV. LANGFORD GETS A CHECK. "I hope you realize, Mr. Langford, that we are not exactly made of money," Mrs. Graham remarked tentatively by way of meeting the demand which she read between his words. "Moreover, we were under heavy expenses during the last year and you got a good deal of what we paid out." "Not so very much," Langford corrected, from his point of view. "You must remember that I was working for you through another man and he handled the pay roll, on which he and I were the only payees, and naturally he took what he didn't absolutely have to give to me." "Well, how much do you want for this service?" the woman inquired. "I ought to have at least $25 a day and my expenses," the lawyer answered. "Absolutely out of the question. That's several times the amount of our income from the source you are interested in. And a considerable part of that has to go for the boy's clothing, board and education." "That is one of the important points to which I am coming," Langford interrupted. "I come to inform you that Mrs. Hutchins is very much interested in how the boy is being clothed and fed and educated, and also how he is being treated, and she has decided to find those things out." "It's a case of her old suspicions being revived?" Mrs. Graham asked. "I suppose so; anyway, she's mighty suspicious." "Who's been peddling stories to her?" "That's something I didn't find out." "Don't you think a $25-a-day man ought to find out?" "Perhaps; and perhaps I could have discovered that very thing if I had thought it wise to spend the time on it. After the mischief was done, it seemed hardly worth while to expend any effort to find the mischief maker. I decided it was best to get after the mischief itself and stop it." "I suppose you're right," assented Mrs. Graham. "But it really would be a lot of satisfaction to know who the traitor is." "This is no time to waste any of your efforts on revenge. That may come later, not now. But how about my fee?" "You ask too much." "I don't agree with you. That is a very small fee, compared with what some attorneys get. Why, I know lawyers who never take a case under $100 a day." "That's in the big cities, where they are under heavy expenses--costly offices and office help." "Where do you get your information?" "Oh, I have traveled and lived," the woman replied with emphasis on the last word. "And I know there are plenty of judges who get only $10 a day, some less. Now, what do you think of that? Do you think you ought to get more than a judge?" "Oh, fudge on the judges," Langford exclaimed in affected disgust. "No big lawyer will take one of those political jobs. There are lots of big lawyers making $50,000 or $100,000 a year, and there are few judges getting more than $10,000." "Well, I can't pay more than $10 a day, and I can't pay that very long. We're under heavy expenses here and in Baltimore." "You ought to economize, Mrs. Graham," Langford advised. "Remember, this special income can't last forever. The boy is past 10 years old now, and if nobody takes it away from you earlier, it will stop when he is 21." "Take it away!" Mrs. Graham exclaimed in a startled manner, indicating that her apprehension had not carried her imagination as far as this. "Sure--why not?" the lawyer returned. "What do you think all this talk about spies has been leading up to?--a Christmas present? If Mrs. Hutchins is suspicious enough to send a lot of spies here to get the goods on you, don't you think she has some notion of taking some sort of drastic action?" "What kind of 'goods' does she expect to get on me?" the woman inquired. "Can't you guess?" "I can't imagine, dream, or suspect." "Just hurry things along to an agreement tween you and me, and I'll tell you." "I'll give you $10 a day and reasonable expenses. That doesn't include your board; only your carfare and such incidentals when you're away from home. That is all conditioned, of course, on your proving to my satisfaction that you have the information you say you have. There's no use of my fighting for this income if I have to pay it all out without getting my benefit from it." "I'll try not to be so hard on you as all that," Langford reassured the woman. "I accept your offer, although it's the minimum I would consider. I suppose you are prepared to give me a check today?" "Yes, I can give you something--your expenses thus far and maybe a little besides. Now hurry up and tell your story." "I can do it in a few words. Mrs. Hutchins has sent a dozen or more girls up here to find out how you treat the youngster and if he is well fed, clothed and educated. She's received word from some source to the contrary and is planning to take him away if she discovers that her suspicions are true. These spies are all Camp Fire Girls who were camping on her farm. One of them is her niece. The proof of my statement that they are here to spy on you is in their plan to camp near your cottage and cultivate an intimate acquaintance with your family, particularly your two daughters. Two of them were up here looking over the lay of the ground; maybe they're here yet. Undoubtedly you'll see something of them tomorrow or the next day." Mrs. Graham's eyes flashed dangerously. Langford saw the menace in her look and manner. "As I am now in your employ as counsel," he said, "I'll begin giving advice at once. Cut out this hate business. It's your worst enemy. Just be all smiles and dimples and give them the sweetest con game welcome imaginable. Pretend to be delighted to meet the bunch of Camp Fire Girls. Tell them you had long held their organization in the highest esteem. Take your two daughters into your full confidence. Tell them they must play their part, too, and play it well. They must be eager to become Camp Fire Girls and seek to be chummy with the spies. "And as for the boy, in whom they are specially interested, you must treat him as if you regard him the dearest little darling on earth." (Mrs. Graham's face soured at this suggestion.) "No, none of that, or you'll spoil the whole game. Mrs. Hutching means business, and all she needs to do is to prove a few acts of cruelty and neglect, and any court in the land will give her speedy custody of the child, in view of the provisions of his father's will, which, you know, are very exacting of you and very friendly toward Mrs. Hutchins and her late husband. By the way where are the child and the other members of your family?" "My husband is in Baltimore working at his regular employment," Mrs. Graham answered. "I expect him here next week; his vacation begins then. My son, James, Jr., went up the lakes this morning with some friends of his. Addie, my oldest daughter, went to Twin Lakes to do some shopping, and the other girl, Olga, is in the next room with Glen." "By the way, Mrs. Graham, how well is the boy supplied with clothing?" Langford inquired. "He has some good suits," Mrs. Graham replied slowly as if going over Glen's wardrobe piece by piece, in her mind. "Dress him up in his best and get some more for special occasions. You might be working on some article of clothing for him also. That would indicate strongly that you are interested in his welfare. "Now, if you don't mind, I will take my check and go. I'll be back again, but don't think it advisable to come often. I have prepared a short telephone cipher code by which we can carry on a commonplace conversation over the wire and let each other know if all is well or if trouble is brewing or has already broken. Here is a copy of it." Mrs. Graham wrote the lawyer a check for $35, and he arose to depart. "Remember," he said as he stood facing the woman schemer at the doorway; "the success of this little plan of ours rests in the ability of yourself and other members of the family to play the most spontaneously genteel game the cleverest persons ever planned. If you fall down on this, undoubtedly you'll lose your handsome side-issue income of $3,500 a year." Then he went out, cranked his rented automobile, and drove away. CHAPTER XVI. LANGFORD CHECKS UP. The twelve girls in the boat landed and proceeded with Katherine and Hazel up the steps to the top of the Point, where a conference was held. The two advance scouts reported developments in detail, much to the interest and delight of the other girls. The progress made thus far was so encouraging that everybody showed a disposition of impatience at the first sign of inactivity. "We must go right back and get permission from Mr. Ferris to locate our camp somewhere near the Graham home," said Katherine. "We ought to get our tents pitched just as soon as possible, and we mustn't run any risk of not being able to find Mr. Ferris today." "Don't you think it would help to allay their suspicions if we all remained here a while and looked around as if interested in the scenery just as tourists?" Azalia Atwood suggested. "No, I don't," Katherine replied quickly. "Either that man Langford suspects us or he doesn't. If he suspects us, he has grounds for his suspicion, and any such attempt to throw him off the track would result in failure. I think we had better assume that he knows what we are up to and act accordingly, without appearing to admit it." "But won't they try to cover up the evidence that we are after?" Julietta Hyde reasoned. "Of course they will," Katherine answered. "That will be one of the most interesting features of this adventure," said Helen Nash, who already had a reputation wider than the Camp Fire circle for natural shrewdness. "When they begin to do that, we'll have some great fun." "Can't you point out from the lake the place or places where you think it would be well for us to locate our camp?" Miss Ladd inquired, addressing Hazel and Katherine. "You can get a pretty good view of it right from here," Hazel replied. "It's right up the shore between those two cottages which are about the same distance up from the water and have similar paths and flights of steps running down to their boat landings. Between those two places is a stretch of timberland that doesn't seem to be used by anybody in particular. We didn't explore it because we didn't have time, but it surely must contain some good camping places. We saw several small open spots near the road that could be used if nothing better is found. We must make a thorough inspection, of course, before we select a site, but that won't take long and can be done when we bring our outfit up here." "We ought to take a run in the boat along the shore and see if we can't find a good landing place," Katherine suggested. "Wouldn't it be delightful if we could find a suitable place on the side of that hill and overlooking the lake? Let's take enough time for that." "It's a good idea," said Miss Ladd warmly. "Let's do that at once and then run back to Twin Lakes. But remember, girls, don't say anything about our mission on the boat. The boatman would be sure to start some gossip that probably would reach the ears of the very persons we want to keep in the dark as much as possible." They were soon back in the large canopied motorboat, and Miss Ladd gave instructions to the pilot. The latter cranked his engine, took his place at the wheel, and backed the vessel away from the landing. A few moments later the "Big Twin," as the owner facetiously named the boat to distinguish it from a smaller one which he called the "Little Twin," was dashing along the wooded hill-shore which extended nearly a mile to the north from Stony Point. They obtained a good view of the section of the shore just north of the Graham cottage and picked out several spots which appeared from the distance viewed to be very good camping sites. Then the prow of the boat was turned to the south and they cut along at full speed toward Twin Lakes. The run was quickly made, and Katherine and Hazel hastened at once to the Ferris real estate office and presented their petition to Mr. Ferris in person. The latter was much interested when he learned that a Fire of Camp Fire Girls desired permission to pitch their tents on land of which he was the local agent, and still more interested when informed that they were students at Hiawatha Institute whose reputation was well known to him. He gave them a pen-and-ink drawing of the vicinity, indicating the approximate lines of the lands owned or leased by cottagers then in possession, and granted them permission, free of charge, to locate their camp at any place they desired so long as they did not encroach on the rights of others. An hour later the squint-eyed man whose activities have already created much of interest in this narrative entered the office of Mr. Ferris and inquired: "Are you agent for that land along the lake just north of Stony Point?" "I am," the real estate man replied. "Do you allow campers to pitch their tents on the land for a week or two at a time?" "I don't object if they are all right. I always require some sort of credentials. I wouldn't allow strangers to squat there without giving me some kind of notice. I granted permission to a bunch of Camp Fire Girls today to pitch their tents there." "Is that so? Where are they going to locate?" "Just beyond the Graham cottage, if you know where that is." "That is where some friends of mine would like to camp," said Langford in an affected tone of disappointment. "I don't think I'd care to grant any more permits in that vicinity," Mr. Ferris announced rather meditatively. "I feel rather a personal interest in the girls and don't want any strangers to pitch a camp too near them. Your friends might, perhaps, locate half a mile farther up the shore." "I'll tell them what you say," Langford said as he left the office. Five minutes later he was in a telephone booth calling for No. 123-M. A woman answered the ring. "Is this Mrs. Graham?" he inquired. "Yes," was the reply. "This is Langford. I just called to inform you that the parties we were talking about have obtained permission to camp near your cottage. You'll probably see something of them tomorrow." "Thank you." "And I'll be at your place tomorrow afternoon between 3 and 4 o'clock." "I'll expect you." That ended the conversation. CHAPTER XVII. A DAY OF HARD WORK. That evening Miss Ladd received the letter that Mrs. Hutchins had announced in her telegram addressed to the Guardian on the train, would follow that communication. She did not discuss the matter with any of the girls, but quietly passed it around until all had read it. In her letter Mrs. Hutchins stated little that had not been read between the lines of the telegram, although her views and comments on the circumstances were interesting. She had seen Pierce Langford arrive at the station just as the train was pulling in, buy a ticket and board the train just as it was pulling out. Curiosity, stirred perhaps by the recollection that this man had recently represented interests hostile to the mission of the Thirteen Camp Fire Girls and their Guardian, and might still represent those interests, caused her to inquire of the agent for what point Mr. Langford had purchased his ticket. The reply was "Twin Lakes." That was sufficient. The woman asked for a telegram pad and wrote a few lines. Then she gave the message to the operator with these directions: "I want that to catch Miss Ladd in the limited as soon as possible. Keep it going from station to station until it is delivered. Have the operator who succeeds in getting the message into Miss Ladd's hands wire back 'delivered' as soon as she receives it." On the day following the advance excursion and inspection of the camping prospects at Stony Point, the "Big Twin" was engaged again to convey the Camp Fire Girls to the prospective camping place. On this occasion the tents and other paraphernalia were taken aboard and conveyed to the scene of the proposed camp. The boat skirted along the shore and a careful examination was made to discover landing places that might provide access from the lake to such camping sites as might later be found. Several good landing places were found. The one they selected tentatively as a mooring for the boat was a large flat-rock projection a few hundred yards north of the Graham pier. A comparatively level shore margin extended back nearly a hundred feet from this rock to the point, where the wooded incline began. The boatman and a boy of eighteen who had been engaged to assist in handling the heavier paraphernalia, remained in the boat while the girls started off in pairs to explore the nearby territory for the most advantageous and available site. They came together again half an hour later and compared notes. The result was that the report made by Marion Stanlock and Harriet Newcomb proved the most interesting. They had found a pretty nook half way up the side of the hill shore and sheltered by a bluff on the inland side and trees and bushes at either end, so that no storm short of a hurricane could seriously damage a well-constructed camp in this place. The area was considerable, quite sufficient for the pitching of the complement of tents of the Fire. After all the girls had inspected this proposed site in a body, a unanimous vote was taken in favor of its adoption. This being their decision, they returned without delay to the boat and the work of carrying their camping outfit a distance of some three hundred yards was begun. The pilot and the boy assistant took the heavier luggage while the girls carried the lighter articles and supplies. In this manner everything was transported to the camp site in about an hour. The pilot and the boy then assisted in the work of putting up the tents, and after this was finished they were paid and dismissed. Everything went along smoothly while all this was being done. Not another person appeared in sight during this period, except the occupants of several boats that motored by. The Graham cottage was about a quarter of a mile to the south and farther up on the hill, but the screen of dense foliage shut it off from view at the girls' camp. All the rest of the day was required to put the camp into good housekeeper's condition. The light folding cots had to be set up and got ready for sleeping, the kitchen tent also required much domestic art and ingenuity for the most convenient and practical arrangement, and a fireplace for cooking had to be built with rocks brought up principally from the water's edge. So eager were they to finish all this work that they did not stop to prepare much of a luncheon. They ate hurriedly-prepared sandwiches, olives, pickles, salmon, and cake, and drank lemonade, picnic style, and kept at their camp preparation "between bites," as it were. In the evening, however, they had a good Camp Fire Girls' supper prepared by Hazel Edwards, Julietta Hyde and the Guardian. Then they sat around their fire and chatted, principally about the beauty of the scenery on every hand. But they were tired girls and needed no urging to seek rest on their cots as the sun sunk behind the hills on the opposite side of the lake. The move "bedward" was almost simultaneous and the drift toward slumberland not far behind. They had one complete day undisturbed with anything of a mysterious or startling nature, and it was quite a relief to find it possible to seek a night's repose after eight or nine hours of diligent work without being confronted with apprehensions of some impending danger or possible defeat of their plans. CHAPTER XVIII. PLANNING. Next morning the girls all awoke bright and early, thoroughly refreshed by their night's rest. A breakfast of bacon, flapjacks and maple syrup, bread and butter and chocolate invigorated them for a new day of camp life in a new place. Their program was already pretty well mapped out, being practically the same as that followed while in camp in Fern Hollow near Fairberry. They still did some work on certain lines arranged under the honor lists of the craft, but were giving particular attention to knitting and sewing for the Red Cross, which they aided in an auxiliary capacity. The program regularly followed by the girls required three hours of routine work each day. This they usually performed between the hours of 7 and 10 or 8 and 11, depending upon the time of their getting up and the speed with which they disposed of the early morning incidentals. On this morning, in spite of the fact that they had gone to bed thoroughly tired as a result of the exertions of the preceding day, the girls arose shortly after 6 o'clock and by 7:30 all were engaged in various record-making occupations, including the washing of the breakfast dishes and the making of the beds and the general tidying-up of the camp. After the routine had been attended to, the girls took a hike for the purpose of exploring the country to the north of their camp. This exploration extended about two miles along the shore, their route being generally the automobile road that skirted the lake at varying distances of from a few rods to a quarter of a mile from the water's edge, depending upon the configuration of the shore line. During much of this hike, Katherine, Hazel and Miss Ladd walked together and discussed plans for creating a condition of affairs that might be expected to produce results in harmony with the purpose of their mission. They were all at sea at first, but after a short and fruitless discussion of what appeared to be next to nothing, Katherine made a random suggestion which quickly threw a more hopeful light on affairs. "It seems to me that we've got to do something that will attract attention," she said. "We'll have to do some sensational, or at least lively, stunts so that everybody will know we are here and will want to know who we are." "That's the very idea," Miss Ladd said eagerly. Katherine was a little startled at this reception of her suggestion. When she spoke, she was merely groping for an idea. But Miss Ladd's approval woke her up to a realization that she had unwittingly hit the nail on the head. "Yes," she said, picking up the thread of a real idea as she proceeded; "we have got to attract attention. That's the only way we can get the people in whom we are most interested to show an interest in us." "What shall we do?" Hazel inquired. "Map out a spectacular program of some sort," Katherine replied. "We might build a big bonfire, for one thing, on the shore tonight and go through some of our gym exercises, including folk dances." "Good," said Hazel. "Let's start off with that. And tomorrow we can have some games that will make it necessary for us to run all over the country--hare and hounds, for instance." "We ought to find a good safe swimming place near our camp, too," Katherine said. "Let's look for one this afternoon," Miss Ladd suggested. "How will we test it?" Hazel inquired. "That's easy," the Guardian replied. "We'll use poles to try the depth and then one of us will swim out with one end of a rope attached to her and the other end in the hands of two of the girls ready to haul in if she needs assistance. In that way we will be able to locate a good swimming place and not run any risk of anybody's being drowned." "We've got a good starter, anyway," Katherine remarked in a tone of satisfaction. "By the time we've taken care of those items something more of the same character ought to occur to us. Yes, that's the very way to interest the Grahams in our presence and open the way for an acquaintance." The three now separated and mingled with the other girls who were some distance ahead or behind, and communicated the new plan to all of them. It was received with general approval and was the main topic of conversation until they all returned to the camp for luncheon. CHAPTER XIX. WATCHED. After luncheon, the girls, with two sharp hatchets among them, began a search through the timber for some long, slim saplings. After a half hour's search they were in possession of three straight cottonwood poles, ten or twelve feet long, and with these in their possession, they began an examination of the water-depth along the shore for a safe and suitable bathing place. They might have used their fishing rods for this purpose, but these were not serviceable, as they were of extremely light material and, moreover, were hardly long enough for this purpose. The saplings proved to be excellent "feelers" and the work progressed rapidly from the start. About 200 yards north of their camp was a sandy beach which extended along the shore a considerable distance. It was here that the girls made their first under-water exploration. They tied a rough stone near one end of each of the poles to increase its specific gravity and then proceeded to "feel" for depth along the water's edge. Careful examination with these poles failed to disclose a sudden drop from the gradual downward slope of the beach into the water, so that there appeared to be no treacherous places near the shore. Satisfied in this respect, they now arranged for a further test. Azalia Atwood, who was an excellent swimmer, returned to the camp, donned a bathing suit, and then rejoined the other girls, bringing with her a long rope of the clothesline variety. One end of this was looped around her waist, and Marion Stanlock had an opportunity to exhibit her skill at tying a bowline. While two of the girls held the rope and played it out, Azalia advanced into the water, stepping ahead carefully in order to avoid a surprise of any sort resulting from some hidden danger under the surface of the lake. To some, all this caution might seem foolish, inasmuch as Azalia swam well, but one rule of, Flamingo Camp Fire prohibited even the best swimmers from venturing into water more than arm-pit deep unless they were at a beach provided with expert life-saving facilities. The purpose of Azalia's exploration was to wade over as large an area of lake bottom as possible and establish a certainty that it was free from deep step-offs, "bottomless" pockets and treacherous undertow. Soon it became evident that she had a bigger undertaking before her than she had reckoned on, for the bed of the lake sloped very gradually at this point, and Katherine Crane and Estelle Adler volunteered to assist her. "All right," said Azalia, welcoming the suggestion. "Go and put on your bathing suits and bring a few more hanks of rope. Better bring all there is there, for we probably can use it." Katherine and Estelle hastened back to camp and in a short time returned, clad in their bathing suits and carrying several hundred feet of rope. In a few minutes they too were in the water and taking part in the exploration, protected against treacherous conditions as Azalia was protected. In half an hour they had explored and pronounced safe as large a bathing place as their supply of rope would "fence in" and then began the "fencing" process. They cut several stout stakes six feet long and took them to the water's edge. Then the three girls in bathing suits assumed their new duty as water pile-drivers. They took one of the stakes at a time to a point along the proposed boundary line of the bathing place, also a heavy mallet that had been brought along for this purpose. A wooden mallet, by the way, was much more serviceable than a hatchet for such work, inasmuch as, if dropped, it would not sink, and moreover, it could be wielded with much less danger of injury to any of those working together in the water. The first stake was taken to the northwest corner of the proposed inclosure. Katherine, who carried the mallet, gave it to Estelle and then climbed to a sitting posture on the latter's shoulders. Then Azalia stood the stake on its sharpened end and Katherine took hold of it with one hand and began to drive down on the upper end with the mallet, which Estelle handed back to her. It was hard work for several reasons--hard for Estelle to maintain a steady and firm posture under the moving weight, hard for Katherine to wield the mallet with unerring strokes, hard to force the sharpened point into the well-packed bed of the lake. Katherine's right arm became very tired before she had driven the stake deep enough to insure a reasonable degree of firmness. While this task was being performed, the girls were still protected against the danger of being swept into deeper water by the ropes looped around their waists and held at the other ends by some of the girls on the sandy beach. After this stake had been set firmly into the river bed, the girls returned to the shore and got another. This they took to another position about the same distance from the beach as the first one and drove it into the hardened loam under the water. The same process was continued until six such stakes had been driven. Then they took up the work of extending rope from stake to stake and completing the inclosure. The sags were supported by buoys of light wood tied to the rope, the two extreme ends of which were attached to stakes driven into the shore close to the water. "There, that is what I call a pretty good job," declared Miss Ladd gazing with proud satisfaction upon the result of more than three hours' steady work. "Whenever you girls come out here to go bathing, you will be well warranted in assuming that you have earned your plunge." All the girls by this time had their bathing suits on, but most of them were too tired to remain in the water any longer; so, by common consent, all adjourned to the camp to rest until suppertime. "Well, it appears that our activities have not yet aroused any special interest in the Graham household," Hazel Edwards observed as they began their march back toward the sheltered group of tents. "I'm not so certain of that," Miss Ladd replied. "Why not?" Katherine inquired, while several of the girls who were near looked curiously at the Guardian. "Because I believe I have seen evidences of interest." "You have!" exclaimed two or three unguardedly. "Now, girls, you are forgetting yourselves," said Miss Ladd warningly. "Remember that the first requisite of skill in your work here is caution. The reason I didn't say anything to you about what I saw is that I was afraid some of you might betray your interest in the fact that we were being watched. I saw two girls half hidden in a clump of bushes up near the top of the hill. I am sure they were watching us. They were there at least half an hour." CHAPTER XX. THE MISSILE. Five of the members of the Camp Fire were present when Miss Ladd made this startling announcement that they had been watched secretly for a considerable time while roping off the limits of their swimming place. The other girls had taken the lead back to the camp and were a considerable distance ahead. "Are they watching us yet?" Azalia asked. "I think not," the Guardian replied. "I haven't seen any sign of them during the last twenty minutes." "How do you know they are girls?" Katherine inquired. "That's quite a distance to recognize ages." "Oh, they may be old women, but I'll take a chance on a guess that they are not. The millinery I caught a peep at looked too chic for a grandmother. I've got pretty good long-distance eyes, I'll have you know," Miss Ladd concluded smartly. There was no little excitement among the other girls when this bit of news was communicated to them. But they had had good experience-training along the lines of self-control, and just a hint of the unwisdom of loud and extravagant remarks put them on their guard. Some of the girls proposed that the plan of building a bonfire in the evening be given up and nobody objected to this suggestion. All the girls felt more like resting under the shade of a tree than doing anything else, and those who had performed the more arduous tasks in the work of the afternoon were "too tired to eat supper," as one of them expressed it. So nobody felt like hunting through the timber for a big supply of firewood. The atmosphere had become very warm in the afternoon, but the girls hardly noticed this condition until their work in the water was finished and they returned to the camp. After they had rested a while some of the girls read books and magazines, but little was done before supper. After supper some of the girls, who felt more vigorous than those who had performed the more exhausting labor of the afternoon, revived the idea of a bonfire and were soon at work gathering a supply of wood. They busied themselves at this until nearly dusk and then called the other girls down to the water's edge, where on a large rocky ledge arrangements for the fire had been made. All of the girls congratulated themselves now on the revival of the bonfire idea, for the mosquitos had become so numerous that comfort was no longer possible without some agency to drive them away. A bonfire was just the thing, although it would make the closely surrounding atmosphere uncomfortably warm. Even the girls who had performed the hardest tasks in the "fencing in" of their swimming place were by this time considerably rested and enjoyed watching the fire seize the wood and then leap up into the air as if for bigger prey. "Let's sing," proposed Harriet Newcomb after the fire had grown into a roaring, crackling blaze, throwing a brilliant glow far out onto the water. "What shall it be?" asked Ethel Zimmerman. "Burn Fire, Burn," Hazel Edwards proposed. "Marion, you start it," Miss Ladd suggested, for Marion Stanlock was the "star" soprano of the Fire. In a moment the well-trained voices of fourteen Camp Fire Girls were sending the clear operatic strains of a special adaptation of the fire chant of the Camp Fire ritual. The music had been composed and arranged by Marion Stanlock and Helen Nash a few months previously, and diligent practice had qualified the members of the Camp Fire to render the production impressively. This song was succeeded by a chorus-rendering of a similar adaptation of the Fire Maker's Song. Then followed an impromptu program of miscellaneous songs, interspersed here and there with such musical expressions of patriotism as "America," "Star Spangled Banner," and "Over There," in evidence of a mindfulness of the part of the United States in the great international struggle for democracy. Meanwhile dusk gathered heavier and heavier, the stars came out, and still the fire blazed up brightly and the girls continued to sing songs and tell stories and drink in the vigor and inspiration of the scene. At last, however, the Guardian announced that it was 9 o'clock, which was Flamingo's curfew, and there was a general move to extinguish the fire, which by this time had been allowed to burn low. Suddenly all were startled by an astonishing occurrence. A heavy object, probably a stone as large as a man's fist, fell in the heap of embers, scattering sparks and burning sticks in all directions. There was a chorus of screams, and a frantic examination, by the girls, of one another's clothes to see if any of them were afire. CHAPTER XXI. "SH!" "Who in the world do you suppose did that?" Hazel Edwards exclaimed, as she hastily examined her own clothes and then quickly struck out a spark that clung to the skirt of Azalia Atwood. "Quick, girls," cried Miss Ladd; "did any of you do that?" There was a chorus of indignant denials. No room for doubt remained now that the missile had been hurled by someone outside the semicircle near the bonfire. All eyes were turned back toward the timber a short distance away, but not a sign of a human being could they see in that direction. "If we'd been on the other side of the bonfire, we'd have got that shower of sparks right in our faces and all over us," Katherine Crane said indignantly. "We ought to find out who threw that rock, or whatever it was," Ethel Zimerman declared. "It must be a very dangerous person, who ought to be taken care of." "If that sort of thing is repeated many times, some of us probably will have to be taken care of," observed Julietta Hyde. "Listen!" Miss Ladd interrupted, and the occasion of her interruption did not call for explanation. All heard it. A moment later it was repeated. "Wohelo!" "No Camp Fire Girl ever made such a noise as that," said Helen Nash disdainfully. "It sounds like a man's voice," Azalia Atwood remarked. "I'll bet a Liberty Bond that it is a man," ventured Ruth Hazelton. "Have you a Liberty Bond?" asked Helen. "I'm paying for one out of my allowance," Ruth replied. Just then the "noise" was repeated, a hoarse hollow vocalization of the Camp Fire Watchword. This time it seemed to be farther away. "The person who gave that call threw the missile into our bonfire," said Miss Ladd in a tone of conviction. "If he bothers us any more we'll find out who he is." The girls now turned their attention again to the fire. Several pails of water were carried from the lake and dashed into the embers until not a spark remained. Then they returned to their tents and to bed, although apprehensive of further disturbance before morning. But they heard nothing more of the intruder that night. Shortly after sunup, the girls arose, put on their bathing suits, and went down to the beach for a before-breakfast plunge. Marie Crismore and Violet Munday reached the water's edge first, and presently they were giving utterance to such unusual expressions, indicative seemingly of anything but pleasure that the other girls hastened down to see what was the matter. There was no need of explanation. The evidence was before them. The stakes that had been driven into the bed of the lake to hold the rope intended to indicate the safety limit had been pulled out and thrown upon the shore. The rope itself had disappeared. "There surely are some malicious mischief makers in this vicinity," Helen Nash observed. "I suppose the person who did that was the one who threw a stone into our bonfire and hooted our watchword so hideously." "What shall we do?" Violet Munday questioned. "We can't let this sort of thing go on indefinitely." "We must complain to the authorities," Ernestine Johanson suggested. "Do you suppose they would do anything?" Estelle Adler asked. "I understand it's very hard to get these country officials busy on anything except a murder or a robbery." "Then we must organize a series of relief watches and take the law into our own hands," Katherine proposed. "Spoken like a true soldier," commented Miss Ladd approvingly. "I was going to suggest something of the same sort, although not quite so much like anarchy." "Where do you suppose they hid that rope?" Marion Stanlock inquired. "Somebody probably needed a clothesline." "Here come some people who may be able to throw some light on the situation," said Marion. All looked up and saw two girls apparently in their "upper teens," dressed more suitably for an afternoon tea than a rustic outing. The latter were descending the wooded hill-shore, and had just emerged from a thick arboreal growth into a comparatively clear area a hundred yards away. "Sh!" Katherine warned quickly. "Be careful what you say or do. Those are the Graham girls." CHAPTER XXII. THE GRAHAM GIRLS CALL. "They're early risers; we must say that much for them," observed Katherine in a low voice. "We must give them credit for not lying in bed until 10 o'clock and, and----" "And for dressing for an afternoon party before breakfast," Helen Nash concluded. "Isn't it funny!" Hazel Edwards said with a suppressed titter. "I wonder if they are going in bathing." "Keep still, girls," Miss Ladd interposed. "They're getting pretty near. Let's not pay too much attention to them. Let them seek our acquaintance, not we theirs. The advantage will be on our side then." At this suggestion of the Guardian, the girls turned their attention again to the conditions about their bathing beach. A moment later Katherine made a discovery that centered all interest in unaffected earnest upon the latest depredation of their enemy, or enemies. With a stick she fished out one end of a small rope and was soon hauling away at what appeared to be the "clothes line" they had used to indicate the safety limits of their bathing place. "Well, conditions are not as bad as they might be," said Miss Ladd, as she took hold to assist at hauling the line out of the water. "We have the stakes and the rope and can put them back into place." "Would you mind telling us what has happened?" These words drew the attention of the Camp Fire Girls away from the object discovered in the water and to the speaker, who was one of the older of the urbanely clad summer resorters from the Graham cottage. "Someone has been guilty of some very malicious mischief," Miss Ladd replied. "We had roped in a bathing place after examining it and finding it safe for those who are not good swimmers, and you see what has been done with our work. The stakes were pulled up and the rope hidden in the water. Fortunately we have just discovered the rope." "Isn't that mean!" said the younger girl, whom the campers surmised correctly to be Olga Graham. "Mean is no name for it," the other Graham girl declared vengefully. "Haven't you any idea who did it?" "None that is very tangible," Miss Ladd replied. "There was a mysterious prowler near our camp last evening, but we didn't catch sight of him. He threw a heavy stone into our bonfire and knocked the sparks and embers in every direction, but he kept himself hidden. A little later we heard a hideous call in the timbers, which we were pretty sure was intended to frighten us." "That's strange," commented the older of the visitors. "Maybe it's the ghost," suggested Olga with a faint smile. "Ghost!" repeated several of the Camp Fire Girls in unison. "I was just joking," the younger Graham girl explained hurriedly. "Why did you suggest a ghost even as a joke?" inquired Katherine. The utterance of the word ghost, together with the probability that there was a neighborhood story behind it, forced upon her imagination an irrational explanation of the strange occurrences of the last evening. "Oh, I didn't mean anything by it," Olga reassured, but her words seemed to come with a slightly forced unnaturalness. "But there has been some talk about a ghost around here, you know." "Did anybody ever see it?" asked Hazel Edwards. "Not that I know of," avowed Olga. "Of course, I don't believe in such things, but, then, you never can tell. It might be a half-witted person, and I'm sure I don't know which I'd rather meet after dark--a ghost or a crazy man." "Is there a crazy man running loose around here?" Ernestine Johanson inquired with a shudder. "There must be," Olga declared with a suggestion of awe in her voice. "If it isn't a ghost--and I don't believe in such things--it must be somebody escaped from a lunatic asylum." "I saw something mysterious moving through the woods near our cottage one night," Addie Graham interposed at this point. "Nobody else in the family would believe me when I told them about it. It looked like a man in a long white robe and long hair and a long white beard. It was moonlight and I was looking out of my bedroom window. Suddenly this strange being appeared near the edge of the timber. He was looking toward the house, and I suppose he saw me, for he picked up a stone and threw it at the window where I stood. It fell a few feet short of its mark, and then the ghost or the insane man--call him what you please--turned and ran away." "My sister told us about that next morning, and we all laughed at her," said Olga, continuing the account. "I told her to go out and find the stone, and she went out and picked one up just about where she said the stone that was thrown at her fell." "Were there any other stones near there?" Marion Stanlock inquired. "We looked around specially to find out if there were any others near, but didn't find any," Olga answered. "Addie--that's my sister--had the laugh on us all after that." "Do you live in the cottage over there?" Ethel Zimmerman inquired, pointing toward Graham summer residence. "Yes," Addie replied. "Our name is Graham. We were very much interested when we learned that a company of Camp Fire Girls were camping near us." "Don't you girls camp out any?" Katherine asked with the view of possibly bringing out an explanation of the Graham girls' attire, which seemed suited more for promenading along a metropolitan boulevard than for any other purpose. "Oh, dear no," Olga answered somewhat deprecatingly. "We'd like to well enough, you know, but we're in society so much that we just don't have time." Katherine wanted to ask the Graham girls if they were going to a stylish reception before breakfast, but restrained the impulse. Both Katherine and Hazel recognized Addie as the girl whom, on their first trip to Stony Point, they had seen handle roughly the little boy they believed to be Glen Irving, the grandnephew of Mrs. Hutchins' late husband in whose interests they made the present trip of inspection. Whether or not she recognized among the campers the two girls to whom she had behaved so rudely on that occasion did not appear from her manner, which was all sweetness now. She continued her social discourse thus: "I really wish society did not demand so much of our time, and I'm sure my sister feels the same way about it. There's nothing we'd like better than to become Camp Fire Girls and live close to nature, you know, just the way you girls live. Truly it must be delightful. But when you become an integral figure in society (she really said integral), you are regarded as indispensable, and society won't let go of you." None of the Camp Fire Girls attempted to reply to this speech. Their plan was to bring about an appearance of friendship between them and the Grahams in order that they might associate with the family that had custody of the little boy in whose interests they were working. Any attempt on their part, they felt, to discuss "society" from the point of view of the Graham girls must result in a betrayal of their utter lack of sympathy with this "social indispensability" of such helpless society victims. "We'd like, however, to do something for you in your unfortunate situation," Addie Graham continued with a gush of seeming friendliness. "I'm sure my brother James--he's 16 years old--would be glad to assist you in any way he can. I'm going to send him down here, if you say the word, to help you extend that rope around your swimming place. He's a very handy boy, and it would be much better for you to let him do the work than to perform such a laborious task yourselves." "Thank you ever so much," returned Miss Ladd with a warmth that seemed to indicate acceptance of the offer. The truth was that anything which tended to increase friendly relations between them and the Grahams was acceptable. "I'll send him around today," the older Graham girl promised. "We must hurry back now for breakfast. We were just out for an early morning constitutional, you know." "Come and see us any time you wish," Miss Ladd urged. "You'll always be welcome. We haven't made the acquaintance of anybody around here yet. Come over and help us eat one of our constitutional luncheons, or suppers. We have real picnics every day, the jolliest kind of times--except when the ghost walks. Maybe you can help us catch the ghost, also." "Maybe we can," said Addie. "Well, good-by. You girls come and see us, too." "Thank you," was the acknowledgment uttered by several of the members of Flamingo Camp Fire as the two Misses Graham stepped primly in their French-heel shoes over the uneven ground and returned homeward along a diagonal course up the side of the hill-shore of Twin One. CHAPTER XXIII. "HIGH C." All the members of Flamingo Camp Fire gathered close together on the sandy beach after the departure of the two Graham girls and held a low-toned discussion of the situation. "There was only one thing missing this morning," Hazel Edwards observed. "That was the perfume. I suppose they didn't have time to spill it on in proper proportions." "I wonder why they came down here at this time of day?" said Harriet Newcomb. "There must be something in the air." "I bet they never got up this early before unless their house was afire," Ethel Zimmerman ventured. "Do you suppose they wanted to be on hand to witness our discomfiture when we discovered what had been done to our swimming place?" Azalia Atwood asked. "That would imply that they knew who did it and may even have been a party to the plot," Miss Ladd reasoned. "And why not?" Azalia returned. "They don't look to me, for a moment, to be above it." "I feel like a miserable hypocrite," Katherine declared with a sarcastic smile. "I'm not used to extending warm expressions of friendship to people for whom I haven't any use and asking them to call and see me." "Remember you're a spy now," said Helen Nash slyly. "When engaged in a praiseworthy spy work, always remember your mother and the pantry and the fist in the jam, if you have any doubt as to the worthiness of your occupation." "Enough said," Katherine announced, "I'm convinced. The jam is well spiced and I smell it already. I shall expect to find it on somebody's fist." The girls did not forego their morning plunge because of the removal of the "safety line," but were careful to keep well within the approximate limit which they remembered fairly well. After about fifteen minutes in the water they returned to the camp and donned their khaki middies; then they had breakfast. The breakfast dishes had not long been washed and put away when another caller arrived at the camp. Although not unheralded, the appearance of this new arrival was a surprise to all the girls, for they had not rested much importance upon the promise of Addie Graham to send her brother to them to offer his assistance in repairing the damage done by some mischief-maker in the night before. The young male scion of the Graham family appeared so suddenly before the eyes of the girl campers that some of them afterward expressed the suspicion that he walked timidly on his tiptoes all the way from his home to the camp. Indeed all the members of Flamingo Fire have today a decided impression that the sound of his voice was the first notice they had of his approach. Whether this impression be a true one or not, that voice was enough to compel memory of it ahead of anything else. It was the most effeminately high-pitched voice the girls had ever heard. "Excuse me, young ladies, but my name is James Graham, Jr.," squeaked the treble clef. There was a general start throughout the camp. Most of the girls were seated upon the grassy plot within the crescent arrangement of the tents and engaged in their forenoon routine, and several of them actually dropped their craft work into their laps so great was their surprise. Ethel Zimmerman uttered a little cry of astonishment in almost the same key as the announcement of the newcomer. The latter was almost as effeminate in appearance as in voice. First, he was very much overgrown and fleshy. He probably weighed 150 pounds. His face was round and very pale, and his eyes were not over-endowed with expression. He wore a "peaches-and-cream" two-piece suit and a panama fedora and carried a delicate bamboo cane. "My two thoughtful sisters info'med me that you young ladies were in need of the assistance of a man, and I volunteered to offer my aid," continued young Master Graham. "Oh dear me," replied Katherine; "it would be a shame to put you to so much trouble. We thank you ever so much for your offer, but we'd much rather retain the friendship of your folks by urging you not to insist. If you really must be so good as you suggest, you might go back and send your hostler or chauffeur, but tell him to bring a pair of rubber boots that reach to his ears." This rather enigmatical answer puzzled the not very quick-witted James, Jr., and his chin dropped. "You see, we want a pile-driver out in the lake to sink some posts into the submarine earth," Katherine continued. "But, by the way, come to think of it, you might help us wonderfully if you have a rowboat and would lend it to us for an hour or two." "Sure I've got a boat," replied the "would-(not)-be ladies' aid," as one of the girls afterward dubbed him. The tone of relief with which he now spoke was unmistakable. "I'll go and row it right over to you." "We won't want it until about 11 o'clock," said Miss Ladd. "If you need it between now and then you'd better wait." "Oh we won't want it all day," James, Jr., returned reassuringly. "I'll bring it right away." "I hope he doesn't tip his boat over on his 'high C'," Hazel Edwards said generously, as the caller disappeared in the timber. "He might be drowned in the billows of his own voice." "That's his name--High C," declared Estelle Adler enthusiastically. "I refuse to recognize him by any other name. Dear me, girls, did you ever in all your born days hear such a voice?" "No," cried several in chorus. "He's just the dearest thing I ever saw," declared Ernestine Johanson, making a face as sour as the reputation of a crabapple. At this moment the discussion of "High C" was dropped as suddenly as "it" had appeared upon the scene. Another arrival claimed the interest of the girls. It was a little boy about ten years old, clad in steel-gray Palm Beach knickerbockers and golf cap, but not at all happy in appearance. He was a good looking youth, but there was no sprightly cheerfulness in his countenance. He seemed nervous and on the alert. "My goodness!" exclaimed Hazel Edwards; "that's Glen Irving, the little boy we----" Katherine, who was seated close to Hazel, cut the latter's utterance short by clapping her hand over the speaker's mouth. CHAPTER XXIV. THE RUNAWAY. The boy was excited. Evidently he was laboring under anything but normal conditions. He had appeared very suddenly around the north end of the bluff which sheltered the camp on the east. "High C" or "Jimmie Junior," as the girls from now on referred to young Graham, had left the camp around the south extremity of the bluff. The youth in Palm Beach knickerbockers fairly rushed from the thicket north of the camp and directly toward the girls, all of whom jumped to their feet in astonishment. The newcomer did not slacken his pace, but ran up to the group of startled campers as if seeking their protection from a "Bogy Man." And as he stopped in the midst of the group which circled around him almost as excited as he, the little fellow looked back as if expecting to behold some frightful looking object bearing down upon him. "I ran away," were his first words; "so--so they couldn't beat me." "Who wanted to beat you?" inquired Miss Ladd sympathetically, leaning over and taking him gently by the hand. "Mom--an' Ad.--an' Olg.--an' Jim--they all hit me," he replied, his eyes flashing with anger. "Mom locked me in a room, but I opened a window an' clum out." "Did they beat you today?" Hazel Edwards questioned. "No," replied the youth with a puzzled look; "they don't want you to know they whipped me. They stopped it after you came and after a man came and told 'em not to." "Who is the man?" Hazel asked. "I don't know. I heard his name, but I forgot." "Was it Langford?" "Yes, that's it--Langford. He told 'em all to be good as pie to me while you was here. They thought I was asleep, but I was just pretendin'." "Did Mr. Langford say why they must be good to you while we were here?" asked Katherine. "I guess he did," the boy replied slowly. "He said somebody'd take me away and Mom 'u'd lose a lot o' money." "That's just what we thought," Hazel declared. "What else did you overhear?" Katherine inquired. "They're goin' to be awful nice and awful mean." "Awful nice and awful mean," Katherine repeated. "That's interesting. What do you mean by that?" "They're goin' to be awful nice to your face, but mean on the sly." "Have they done anything mean yet?" Miss Ladd interposed, having in mind the depredations of the night before. "I don't know," the boy answered. "They were talkin' about doing somethin' last night, and the man and Jim went out together." "You don't know what they proposed to do?" "No--just somethin', anything they could." "What is your name, little boy?" Hazel asked. "Glen" was the answer. "Glen what?" "Glen Graham." "Isn't it Glen Irving?" The boy looked doubtfully at his interrogator. "I don't know," he replied slowly. "I guess not." "Didn't you ever hear the name Irving before?" The boy's face brightened up suddenly. "That was my papa's name," he said eagerly. "Now, I want to ask you an important question," said Miss Ladd impressively. "Try your best to tell us all you can, and don't tell any of the Grahams you were down here talking to us. We won't forget you. If they beat you any more come, and tell us if you can get away. We'll have the police after them. But be sure to keep this to yourself. Now, here's the question I want you to answer: Did anybody outside of the Graham family ever see them beat you?" "Sure," Glen replied quickly. "Byron Scott did. So did Mrs. Pruitt and Guy Davis and Mark Taylor." "Where do they live?" was Miss Ladd's next question. "Byron lives here, so does Mrs. Pruitt. Guy and Mark live in Baltimore." "Do they live near the Graham's home in Baltimore?" "Yes, right in the same block. Mark lives next door." "Good. Now, Glen, we are going to take you back to Mrs. Graham. We haven't any right to keep you here, but if they beat you any more, we will complain to the police and take you away never to come back to them." "Oh, I wish you would," exclaimed the little fellow, throwing his arms around the neck of the Guardian who had seated herself on the grass before him. "I don't want them to scare you with a ghost." "Scare us with a ghost!" Miss Ladd repeated in astonishment. "What do you mean by that?" "They said----" the boy began, but his explanation was interrupted in a manner so confusing that the group of Camp Fire Girls might easily have wondered if the world were suddenly assuming all the absurdities of a clownish paradise in order to be consistent with what was now taking place. Addie Graham, the girl of ultra-style and perfume who had behaved so rudely to little Glen when she discovered the runaway with Katherine and Hazel in the woods, suddenly dashed into the deeply interested group of Camp Fire inquisitors, seized the boy in her arms, kissed him with apparent passionate fondness, and addressed him with a gush of endearment that must have brought tears to the eyes of an unsophisticated listener. CHAPTER XXV. A LITTLE SCRAPPER. "Oh, you dear little brother, you dear darling child," almost sobbed Addie as she seized Glen Irving in her arms and began to shower kisses on his unwilling face. The boy shrunk away, or into as small a compass as he was able, to escape from the "affectionate attack." Plainly it was anything but pleasing to him. The "attack," however, did not cease in response to his protest. Addie held onto her captive with all her strength, at the same time attempting to soothe his wrath or fear, or both, with as many kisses as she could force in between the boy's belligerent arms. Glen, conscious of the presence of friends who, he believed, would go to any extreme to assist him, fought as he had never fought before, desperately, viciously. He used his fists and fingernails to good purpose and pulled Addie's hair until it presented a ludicrous appearance of disarrangement. Realizing that the boy's actions might prove harmful to his cause if this affair should ever be contested in the courts, Miss Ladd decided to take a hand and do what she could to pacify the young heir who had suddenly been transformed into a veritable wildcat. She had no doubt that there was good cause in his past experience for the development of such character in him, but expediency demanded that it be checked at once. "Here, let me take him," Miss Ladd urged as she laid her hands on his shoulders and attempted to draw him away. A few gentle words and an exhibition of a kind persuasiveness of manner brought success. She drew the lad back some distance and tried to reason with him, whereupon he burst into convulsive sobbing. His sobs were not a new expression of an outburst of passion. Miss Ladd was certain of this. Little Glen was weeping not because anger "opened the floodgates of his soul," but because of some picture of dread in his past experience which he feared would be repeated in the future. But Addie Graham was not equal to the occasion. The veneer of gentleness that she had put on could not withstand the deep-seated spitefulness of her nature, and as she observed a severe scratch on one hand and felt the disarrangement of her hair, she yielded impulsively to vengefulness of spirit that was boiling within her and exclaimed: "The miserable little pest! Just wait till I get you home, Glen Graham, and I'll----" She stopped right there, much to the disappointment of the eagerly listening Camp Fire Girls, who fully expected her to open an avenue to the very evidence for which they were looking. "Why!" she continued, with a desperate effort to control her temper. "I never knew him to act that way before. He's usually such a--such a--sweet dispositioned little dear. I don't know what to make of it. He took me completely by surprise. I don't understand it--I don't know what to make of it--I can't understand the little--the little--d-dear." "It is strange, very strange," Miss Ladd agreed, purposing, for policy's sake, to help the girl out of her predicament. "Come to sister, Glennie dear," Addie continued, after she had succeeded in rearranging her hair and restoring her hat to its normal position on her head. "Don't you know sister loves you just lots? Why did you run away? Come back home and sister will give you some candy, just lots of it. Come on, now, that's a good little boy." "I don't want your candy and you ain't my sister, and I won't go back. You'll beat me, and mom'll beat me and everybody else'll beat me. Don't let her take me back, please don't," Glen concluded, turning his face pleadingly toward Miss Ladd. "Oh, you must go back, Glen," the Guardian replied, reproachfully. "That's your home, don't you know? Where in the world will you go if you don't go back home? Think of it--no place in the world to go, no place in the world." There was a tone of awe in the young woman's voice that impressed the boy. He cooled down considerably and looked meditatively at his monitor. "They'll beat me," he protested earnestly. "They'll tie me to a bed post and strap me." "Why, how perfectly terrible!" Addie exclaimed. "I never heard of such a thing. I can't understand such remarks." "I'll tell you what we'll do," Katherine suggested reassuringly. "We'll all go back to the house with you and fix everything up nice. They won't beat you, I'm sure. Come on, Miss Graham, we'll help you, if you don't think we're intruding." Addie did not know how to reply and did not attempt to. She started toward home and the Camp Fire Girls followed her, Miss Ladd leading the battling runaway by the hand. Glen was considerably bewildered and apparently submissive during the journey homeward. He said little, and when he spoke, it was only a short reply to something said to him. At the door of the cottage, they were met by Mrs. Graham, to whom Addie introduced them. None of the girls were well impressed by the woman's appearance or manner. She affected the same ungenuine interest and affection for Glen that had characterized Addie's manner toward him. But they managed to bring about a condition more or less reassuring to the boy and left him, with secret misgivings, in the custody of the family which they held more than ever under suspicion. "We've got to do some real spy work now," said Miss Ladd after they had reached their camp again. "We've got to find out what is going on in that house when those people have no suspicion that they are being watched." CHAPTER XXVI. AMMUNITION AND CATAPULTS. The thirteen Camp Fire Girls and their Guardian are hardly to be censured because they did little more work of a routine nature that day. One could hardly expect them to fix their minds upon any "even tenor" occupation while the thrills of recent developments supplied so much stimulus for discussion of future prospect. They were careful in these discussions not to leave open any possibility of their being overheard. Their conversations were always held in low tones and in places where it would be difficult for any of the members of the Graham family to find positions of concealment near enough to overhear what was being said. One thing decided upon was in line with Miss Ladd's declaration that they must find out "what was going on in the Graham house," having reference, of course, to the treatment received there by little Glen in view of his violent protest against being returned to the care and custody of the people whom he charged with acts of cruelty toward himself. A scouting expedition was planned for the evening, the "official scouts" of the Fire--Katherine and Hazel--being delegated to this work. Katherine proposed that two others be selected to assist them, and Miss Ladd suggested that they choose their assistants themselves. "We'll think it over and pick them before suppertime," said Katherine after conferring with Hazel. The result was that before sundown Azalia Atwood and Ernestine Johanson had been added to the spy squad. Their selection came as a result of general discussions of the work in prospect, in the course of which both Azalia and Ernestine made several suggestions that were regarded as clever and helpful for the scouting plans. Shortly after the girls returned from the Graham cottage to their camp, "Jimmie Junior" of the "treble cleff voice" appeared with the announcement that he had brought his boat to the Camp Fire landing and moored it by tying the painter to a projecting rock. They thanked him and proceeded at once with the task of restoring the safety-guard line to their bathing place. All put on their bathing suits and went down to the beach. With the aid of the boat their work was much easier than it had been the first time. It is no easy performance for one person to sit on the shoulders of another and wield a mallet on the upper end of a stake held by a third person in water arm-pit deep. If you doubt this assertion, just try it. Well, this difficult feat was unnecessary this time. The stakes, rope, and mallet were put into the boat, and three of the girls got in and rowed out to the point where the southwest stake had been driven before. Then two of them plunged overboard and, while one of these steadied the boat and the other held the stake in position, the girl in the boat drove it firmly into the sand-clay bed of the lake. This operation was repeated until the supports of the buoy-line were all restored. Then the rope was stretched from stake to stake and wooden buoys attached as before. The work was speedily performed and then the girls all had a good swim. When they returned to their camp, it was lunch time and the "gastronomic committee," as Harriet, the "walking dictionary," had dubbed the commissary department, got busy. During the meal, which they ate on a "newspaper tablecloth," picnic-style, the subject of organized self-protection against further depredations was discussed. "I believe we ought to establish a relief watch system to be kept up all night every night as long as there seems to be any danger of our being molested by prowlers like those who paid us a visit last night," Estelle announced. "What would we do if we caught anybody at any mischief?" asked Azalia. "We'd sail right into 'em and give 'em Hail Columbia," declared Hazel like a vigilance committee chairman. "Yes, we'd pull their hair," said Marie Crismore. "And scratch their eyes out," Ernestine chimed in. "And boo-shoo 'em away," added Julietta Hyde. "I'm positively ashamed of you for talking that way," Miss Ladd interposed. "You're laughing at yourselves because you are girls. Now, you ought not to do that, even in fun. How many of you can do some real boys' stunts just as well as the boys can?" "I can swim half a mile," announced Hazel. "I can do a fly-away from the horizontal bar," declared Violet Munday. "I can run a hundred-yard dash in thirteen seconds," said Ernestine; "and that's better than lots of boys can do it." "I can throw a ball like a boy," said Helen Nash. "So can I"--this from Marion Stanlock. "Oh, several of us can do that," Katherine declared. "We've played ball with the boys. But now you're getting close to what I was driving at. We'll proceed to gather a supply of ammunition." "Ammunition!" several exclaimed. "Surely," Katherine replied. "We'll get it down on the beach." "Oh, I get you," said Estelle. "You mean----" "Rocks," cried Marie, getting the word in ahead of Estelle. "That's it," Katherine admitted. "We'll shower rocks at anybody that makes us any more trouble." "Very ingenious," Miss Ladd said approvingly. "If those persons who visited us last night come again, they'll get a warm reception." "And a hard one," Marion supplemented. "I have another idea," Helen announced, and everybody turned attention to her. "I have some heavy rubber bands in my grip. I always carry them because they come in very handy sometimes." "What can you do with them?" Estelle asked. "What do you think?" Helen returned. "I know," cried Ethel Zimmerman. "Make catapults with them." "Good!" several of the girls exclaimed. "The boys call them slingshots," said the Guardian. "How do you make a slingshot?" Julietta inquired. "I know," Marion announced. "You cut a forked stick, like the letter 'Y.' Then you tie two rubber bands to it, one to each fork. Between the other ends of the bands you tie a little sack, or shallow pocket, made of leather or strong cloth. You put a stone in this pocket and pull it back, stretching the rubber bands, take aim, and let it fly." "You must have had experience making those things," Katherine suggested. "No, I never made one," Marion replied: "but I've watched my cousin make them and shoot them, too. He was very skillful at it." "Can you shoot a catapult?" Katherine inquired. "I think I can," Marion answered. "Good," said Katherine. "We'll make several, and those who can't throw stones can use slingshots." That was a very busy afternoon for this warlike group of girls. While the luncheon dishes were being washed and put away, Katherine and Hazel rowed the boat back to the Graham landing, thanked "Jimmie Junior" for its use, accepted with solemn countenances his "high-C" "You're welcome," and returned to their camp. Then the work of manufacturing arms and ammunition, in anticipation of another midnight invasion, began. CHAPTER XXVII. THE GHOST. Before the "preparedness program" of the afternoon was started, Miss Ladd addressed the group of Camp Fire Girls thus, speaking in low tone, of course, in order that she might not be overheard by any eavesdropper who might be in hiding in the vicinity: "Now, we want to do this thing right. How many of you feel that you can throw a stone a considerable distance and accurately?" Katherine, Helen, Marion and Violet held up their hands. "How many of you would like to use catapults?" was the Guardian's next question. The hands of Harriet, Marie, Ethel, and Ruth went up promptly. A moment later Estelle and Ernestine also put up theirs. "I believe I could learn how," said Estelle. "We don't want too much demonstration around here this afternoon," Miss Ladd warned. "Everything must proceed quietly and as if nothing unusual were taking place. How many rubber bands have you, Helen?" "Oh, a dozen or twenty," the latter replied. "Well, we'll proceed to cut half a dozen Y-forks and make them into catapults. We'll start out at once. Hazel, you get a hatchet, and, Marie, you get a saw; the rest of you get your combination knives." In a few minutes they were in the thick of the timber, searching the small trees and saplings for Y-forks to serve as catapult handles. In half an hour they returned with a dozen of varying degree of symmetry and excellence. Then the work of assembling the parts of these miniature engines of war began. Some of the girls exhibited a good deal of mechanical skill, while others made moves and suggestions so awkward as to occasion much laughter. "Well, anyway," said Marie after she had been merrily criticised for sewing up the "mouth" of a "pocket" so narrowly that a stone could hardly fly out of it; "there are lots of boys who would make a worse job sewing on a button. Don't you remember last winter at a button-sewing contest, Paul Wetzler cast the thread over and over and over the side of the button--and he didn't know any better." "That's a very convenient way to dodge a joke on you, Marie," said Violet. "But just because boys don't know anything is no reason why we shouldn't." "Whew! some slam at me," Marie exclaimed. "I'm very properly squelched." After half a dozen catapults had been made, the girls practiced slinging stones for an hour and several of them developed considerable skill. In this way it was determined who should have the preference in the use of these weapons. Then at the suggestion of Miss Ladd, a dozen slings were made to be tied about the waist for carrying a supply of stones, some the size of an egg, for throwing with the hand and pebbles for use in the catapults. After these were completed, the girls went down to the beach and gathered a plentiful supply and took them back to the camp. Then a score or two of these stones were deposited in the slings, and the latter were put in convenient places in the tents on short notice. The catapults also were turned over to those of the girls who proved most capable of using them skillfully. The last item of preparations on the program of the day consisted of completing plans for a succession of night watch reliefs. As Katherine, Hazel, Azalia, and Ernestine were assigned to special scout duty immediately after dusk, they were excused from assignment on any of the reliefs. This left ten girls among whom the watches might be divided, which was done in the following manner: The eight sleeping hours from 9 P. M. to 5 A. M. were divided into five watches of equal length and assignments were made thus: First watch: Marion Stanlock and Helen Nash. Second watch: Ruth Hazelton and Ethel Zimmerman. Third watch: Violet Munday and Harriet Newcomb. Fourth watch: Julietta Hyde and Marie Crismore. Fifth watch: Estelle Adler and the Guardian, Miss Ladd. Nothing further of particular interest took place during the rest of the day, except that shortly before suppertime Addie and Olga Graham, both dressed "fit to kill," called at the camp and thanked the girls for their assistance in getting "their brother" back home. "Is he all right now?" Hazel inquired with genuine concern. "Yes, he's fine," Addie replied. "You see he has spells of that kind every now and then, and we don't know what to make of it. But today's was the worst spell he ever had." "Don't you do anything for him?" Hazel asked. "What can we do?" Addie returned. "He isn't sick. I'm afraid it's just a little distemper. There is absolutely no reason for it." Miss Ladd asked the Graham girls to remain at the camp for supper, but they "begged to be excused on account of a pressing social engagement." After darkness had fallen as heavily as could be expected on a clear, though moonless night, the four scouts set out through the timber toward the Graham cottage. All of them carried flashlights and clubs which might easily have been mistaken in the dark for mere walking sticks. The clubs were for protection against dogs or any other living being which might exhibit hostility toward them. Katherine and Hazel had also two of the rubber-band catapults, as they had exhibited no little skill, for novices, in the use of them. The other girls built a small fire near the tents, to keep the mosquitos away, and sat around it chatting and waited for the scouts to return. Miss Ladd insisted, as soon as dusk began to gather, that they bring out their "ammunition" from the tents and keep it close at hand for immediate use if anything should happen to require it. And something did happen, something of quite unexpected and startling character. The scouts had been gone about half an hour and the night had settled down to a blanket of darkness on the earth, a sprinkle of starlight in the sky, the croaking of frogs, the songs of katydids and the occasional ripple of water on the lake shore. A poet might have breathed a sigh of delightful awe. Well, the girls were pleasureably impressed with scene and the sounds, if they were not exactly delighted, and the awe was coming. It came without warning and was before them very suddenly. It was in the form of a man in a long, white robe, long white hair and whiskers, the latter reaching almost to his waist. He stalked, stiffly, unemotionally out of the darkness south of the camp and across the open space within thirty feet of the fire, where sat the startled, chill-thrilled group of girls, speechless with something akin to fear and momentarily powerless to shake off the spell that held them as rigid as statues. CHAPTER XXVIII. A BUMP ON THE HEAD. Suddenly Helen Nash's memory served her so well that she regained control of her wits with a shock. Here is what she remembered: "I don't want them to scare you with a ghost"--these words uttered by little Glen just before his warning speech was interrupted by the appearance of Addie Graham at the girls' camp. That recollection was enough for Helen. There was nothing tenuous, elusively subtle, or impenetrably mysterious any longer about the ghostly apparition. Little Glen had something very clear and definite in his mind when he made that remark. Her muscles having relaxed from their rigid strain of superstitious suspense, Helen reached for the "ammunition sling" that she had placed beside her and drew therefrom one of the catapults they had made in the afternoon, also a pebble about the size of a marble, and fitted the latter in the pocket of the weapon. Then she drew back the pocket and the pebble, stretching the rubber bands as far as she could extend them, and took careful aim. Helen had practiced with this weapon a good deal in the last two or three hours and acquired considerable proficiency for so short a period of experience. Moreover, she was skilled in amateur archery and could pull a bow with a strong right arm. This experience, together with a general systematic athletic training at school, rendered her particularly well adapted for her present undertaking. The other girls, under the spell of awe-fascination which had seized and held Helen before it was broken by a sudden jog of her memory, knew nothing of what was going on in their midst until they heard the snap of the rubber bands. And doubtless it would have taken them considerable time to fathom it had the pebble-shooter's aim not proved to be remarkably good. It struck the "ghost" on the head. Of course even Helen could not follow the pebble through the air with her eyes, nor could she see where it struck, but other unmistakable evidence informed her as to the trueness of her aim and the effect of the blow. A sharp thud informed her that she had hit something of substantial resistance, and the next bit of evidence broke the spell for the other girls with a realization of what had taken place. The "ghost" wavered and seemed about to topple over, at the same time emitting a groan of pain which proved him to be thoroughly human. Helen was frightened, but there was a new kind of awe in this fright. All suggestion of superstition had left her and in its place was the dread that she might have killed a man. The latter dread, however, was soon dispelled. The "ghost" did not fall. He staggered, it is true--evidently the pain of the blow had stunned him considerably; but he managed to put speed into his pace, although the evidence of his suffering was even greater after he began to run. In a minute he disappeared in the darkness of the timber. "My! that was a good shot, Helen," Ethel Zimmerman exclaimed. "And he will surely wear some lump on his head for some time to come." "I was afraid I pulled too hard," Helen replied with a sigh of relief; "and, believe me, I'd rather be scared by a ghost several times over than with the prospect of having a murder record." "Who is he?--have you any idea?" Violet asked. "Can't you guess?" Helen answered. "Isn't he someone connected with the Graham family?" "What was he trying to do--scare us?" Julietta inquired, addressing the question as much to herself as to anybody else. "I should imagine something of the kind, although he may be the crazy man the Graham girls spoke about," said Helen. "I don't believe there is any such person," Miss Ladd volunteered at this point. "Then why did they suggest such an idea?" Violet questioned. "I don't know, unless it was to frighten us," the Guardian replied. "Frighten us away from here," Harriet supplemented. "Exactly," said Helen. "That's my theory of the affair. Don't you remember what Glen Irving said just before Addie Graham put in her appearance and cut short our interview with the boy?" "He said something about ghosts," Harriet recalled. "Not about ghosts, but _a_ ghost," Helen corrected. "It made quite an impression on me. Didn't any of you wonder what he meant?" "I did," announced Violet; "and I remember exactly what he said. It was this: 'I don't want them to scare you with a ghost.'" "Those were the very words," Helen declared. "Now do you get the connection between that remark and what just took place? Glen had heard them talking over their plans, isn't it all very clear?" "At least it is very interesting," commented Miss Ladd. "Since you have got so near a solution of this affair, perhaps you'll go a step farther and tell your interested audience who that ghost was," Ruth Hazelton suggested. "Oh, no, I wouldn't be so rash as that," Helen responded; "but if I were going to write to Mrs. Hutchins tonight, I would suggest to her that, if Mr. Pierce Langford should return to Fairberry in the next week or two, she might have somebody examine his head for a bump." "A phrenological bump?" inquired Harriet, the "walking dictionary." There was a general laugh. "Not a phrenological bump," Helen answered. CHAPTER XXIX. A CRUEL WOMAN. Katherine, Hazel, Ernestine and Azalia found it no easy task to pick their way through the dark timber more than half a mile to the Graham cottage. Several times, finding themselves hopelessly entangled in a thicket, or stumbling over disagreeably uneven ground, and fearful of losing their way, they made use of their flash lights until able to continue their journey satisfactorily. But after they caught their first glimpse of the light in the Graham cottage, they made no further use of the flash lights. Guided by the illuminated windows and their memory of the surroundings, they made their way over the intervening space until within a hundred feet of the house, where they halted and looked and listened for about fifteen minutes. First, they wished to make sure that there was no dog on the place. They were reasonably certain that the Grahams kept no watchdog, as several of the girls had been careful to check up in this regard when passing near or calling at the cottage. But as additional precaution, they made a careful inspection from a safe distance on this scouting expedition before venturing close to the house. The night was clear and warm, but no moon was shining. There was a stillness in the air which alone might have been expected to cause a dog to howl for very lonesomeness. Even while the four scouts were waiting for evidence of a canine guard at the Graham place, far away in the distance there came a mournful howl from a mournful hound in a farmyard. The sound was repeated several times, and although there were two or three echoing responses from as many neighboring sources, none came from a kinship kennel of the Graham premises. At last Katherine and Hazel decided that it was safe to advance nearer to the house. Leaving Azalia and Ernestine at the edge of the timber to watch for any condition or circumstance that might prove unfriendly to their venture, the two leaders advanced across the clearing. As they neared the building, a sound, which they had not heard before reached their ears and drove from their minds all thought or fear of a watchdog. The sound was like the plaintive cry of a child and seemed to be muffled as if coming through two or three thick walls. There were two windows on the side of the house nearest the advancing girl scouts. Through the drawn shade of one of these came the rays of incandescent bulbs which lighted the room. The other window was dark. The advance of Katherine and Hazel was guided now by the seeming source of the muffled cry. As they started for the house, their initial impulse was to direct their steps toward the lighted window. But as they approached the building, almost unconsciously they veered gradually to the right until they found themselves standing close to the unlighted window at the rear. Without a doubt the muffled sounds came from this part of the cottage. A whispered conversation between the girls resulted in the following procedure: Hazel stood guard at a distance of ten or fifteen feet while Katherine stood close to the window, almost pressing her ear against the glass in order the better to hear the sounds that interested them. For two or three minutes the listener continued in this attitude; then she went to where Hazel stood and the latter advanced to the window and did likewise. She also tried the sash to see if it was locked, succeeding in raising it slightly, so that the sounds within reached her ear more distinctly. Several minutes later both of these girls returned to the edge of the clearing and rejoined their two companions stationed there. A low-voiced consultation was held, at the close of which Hazel said: "Well, all this means that we'll have to return to the cottage and stay there until we find out something more. Let's see what we can discover in the front of the house." She and Katherine accordingly went back and directed their inspection as Hazel had suggested. The shade trees did not cover the lower pane to the full limit and they were able to look in and get a fairly good view of the room. Mrs. Graham and "Jimmie Junior" apparently were the only members of the family at home, if we may disregard as one of the family, little Glen, who undoubtedly was the author of the muffled sobs. Mrs. Graham was reading a fashion magazine and her son was playing solitaire at a card table. Almost the first view acquainted the girls with the fact that the woman was much disconcerted over something, and it soon became evident that the cause of this nervousness was the sound of weeping that reached her through the closed door of an adjoining room. Presently she arose, with a hard look on her face and determined manner, and moved in the direction from which the offending noise came. Katherine and Hazel did not take the additional precaution this time of alternating as watcher and guard. They stood together at the window, and as they saw Mrs. Graham open the door they moved quickly to the window next toward the rear. By the time they reached it, this room also was lighted. Fortunately a similar condition existed here also with reference to the width of the window shade and they were able to get a fairly good view of this apartment. Mrs. Graham evidently was disposed to lose no time and to leave ground for no misunderstanding as to her purpose. She threw open a second door, this time a closet door, and the girls beheld a sight that fairly made their blood boil. There sat little Glen on a chair with a rope wound around his body, arms, and legs, securing him so firmly to the article of furniture on which he was seated that he could scarcely move a muscle. His face was wet with tears and a picture of suffering. For the first time the watchers observed that the woman had a leather strap in her hand, and they were still further horrified when they saw her swing it cruelly against the bare legs of the quivering child. Once, twice she struck the boy. Hazel and Katherine could hardly contain their indignation. Indeed it is not at all to be doubted that they would have attempted to interfere on the spot if an interruption had not come from another source before the third blow could fall. There was a disturbance in the front of the house. Somebody had entered and was talking in a loud voice. Mrs. Graham let her arm fall without dealing the third blow for which she had raised it as a man entered the room in anything but mild and pleasant manner. "What are you doing, Mrs. Graham?" he demanded. "What did I tell you about this conduct of yours? Do you realize that you are bringing things to a climax where I'll wash my hands of the whole affair?" The speaker was Pierce Langford. CHAPTER XXX. THE GIRLS WIN. Mrs. Graham looked uncomfortable--not ashamed or abashed. Doubtless the conflict within her was between the cruelty of her nature and the fear of financial reverses in consequence of that cruelty. She did not answer the rebuke of her confederate attorney. The latter drew a knife from his pocket and in a moment was severing the rope that bound the child to the chair. After he had released the boy, who looked gratefully toward him as a protector, the man threw cold water on little Glen's natural feeling of confidence toward him by saying: "Now, mind you, Mrs. Graham, my interference is not moved by any sentiment of sympathy for the kid. I merely want to inform you that things are coming to such a pass that I may be forced to drop out of this game purely as a move of self-salvation. For instance, it appears very unwise to make any further attempts to frighten that bunch of girls. They simply don't scare. See that?" Langford indicated the object of his question by taking off his hat, which he had neglected to remove when he entered the house, and caressing gently with two or three fingers a badly swollen wound on the side of his head almost directly over his right ear. Mrs. Graham looked at it curiously, not sympathetically. "Where did you get that?" she inquired. "Those girls did it, or one of them, I presume. I thought my make-up would paralyze them, but instead they nearly paralyzed me. I think they fired some rocks at me, for something of that description struck my head, and you see the result. "I drove my machine into the timber a little farther up the road and put on my ghost outfit. Then I walked through the woods to the girls' camp and stalked past them. You would have thought my appearance was enough to freeze their veins and arteries. Well, they pretty nearly put mine in cold storage for eternity. Now, what do you know about 'first aid to the injured?' Will you get some cold water and alcohol or liniment? I'm going to have a fierce swelling. I don't suppose I can keep it down much now, but I'm going to have an awful headache and I'd like to prevent that as much as possible. Let the kid go to bed, and do something for me." Glen took advantage of this suggestion and went into another room. Mrs. Graham and the lawyer returned to the living room. Katherine and Hazel watched them for about twenty minutes, but heard little more conversation. Then Langford left the house and Mrs. Graham and her son prepared to retire. As it appeared that they would be able to get no further information of interest to them at the Graham cottage that night, Katherine and Hazel and the other two girls who waited at the edge of the clearing returned to their camp and reported the success of their expedition. * * * * * Early next day, Miss Ladd, Katherine, and Hazel went by boat to Twin Lakes and appeared before a magistrate and swore out a warrant for the arrest of Mrs. Graham on a charge of cruel and inhuman treatment of a child in her custody. Before leaving Fairberry she had been given authority to take this move if in her judgment such emergency action were advisable. She also asked that Glen Irving be removed from the custody of the Grahams. Then Miss Ladd sent a telegram to Mrs. Hutchins asking her to "come at once." Mrs. Hutchins arrived at Twin Lakes next day. Meanwhile Mrs. Graham was arrested and the boy was taken temporarily as a ward of the court. When she was confronted with the charges against her and the evidence of the two Camp Fire Girls who had witnessed one instance of outrageous cruelty, her cold resistance was broken and she promised to accede to Mrs. Hutchins demands if the prosecution were dropped. This seemed to be the best settlement of the whole affair, and it was accepted. By order of court Glen was turned over to Mrs. Hutchins who assumed the obligation of his care and custody. Mrs. Hutchins remained with the girls a week at their camp at Stony Point, and then all returned to Fairberry, where the tents were pitched again in the broad and scenic ravine known as Fern Hollow. Here they camped again for another week, summarized, tabulated, and classified the achievements of the last few weeks, conferred honors, and finally adjourned to their several homes, there to remain until the autumn opening of school. But the adventures of the year for this Camp Fire were not complete. More of equally stirring character were in store for three of the girls, and those who would follow these events should read the volume entitled: CAMP FIRE GIRLS ON A HIKE; or, LOST IN THE GREAT NORTHERN WOODS. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- MOTOR BOAT BOYS SERIES By LOUIS ARUNDEL 1. The Motor Club's Cruise Down the Mississippi; or The Dash for Dixie. 2. The Motor Club on the St. Lawrence River; or Adventures Among the Thousand Islands. 3. The Motor Club on the Great Lakes; or Exploring the Mystic Isle of Mackinac. 4. Motor Boat Boys Among the Florida Keys; or The Struggle for the Leadership. 5. Motor Boat Boys Down the Coast; or Through Storm and Stress. 6. Motor Boat Boy's River Chase; or Six Chums Afloat or Ashore. 7. Motor Boat Boys Down the Danube; or Four Chums Abroad ----------------------------------------------------------------------- MOTOR MAID SERIES By KATHERINE STOKES 1. Motor Maids' School Days 2. Motor Maids by Palm and Pine 3. Motor Maids Across the Continent 4. Motor Maids by Rose, Shamrock and Thistle. 5. Motor Maids in Fair Japan 6. Motor Maids at Sunrise Camp For sale by all booksellers or sent postpaid on receipt of 75c. M. A. DONOHUE & COMPANY 701-733 S. DEARBORN STREET CHICAGO ----------------------------------------------------------------------- THE EDWARD S. ELLIS SERIES STORIES OF THE AMERICAN INDIAN; MYSTERY, ROMANCE AND ADVENTURE Every red blooded American Boy and Girl will be greatly pleased with these books. They are written by the master writer of such books, Edward S. Ellis. There is mystery, charm and excitement in each volume. All the following titles can be procured at the same place this book was procured, or they will be sent postpaid for 25c per copy or 5 for $1.00. Astray in the Forest River and Forest Lost in the Rockies Bear Cavern The Lost River Boy Hunters in Kentucky The Daughter of the Chieftain Captured by the Indians Princess of the Woods Wolf Ear: The Indian Read every one of the above Titles You will enjoy them M. A. DONOHUE & COMPANY Manufacturers and Publishers Since 1861 701-733 SOUTH DEARBORN STREET CHICAGO ----------------------------------------------------------------------- THE AEROPLANE SERIES By JOHN LUTHER LANGWORTHY 1. The Aeroplane Boys; or, The Young Pilots First Air Voyage 2. The Aeroplane Boys on the Wing; or, Aeroplane Chums in the Tropics 3. The Aeroplane Boys Among the Clouds; or, Young Aviators in a Wreck 4. The Aeroplane Boys' Flights; or, A Hydroplane Round-up 5. The Aeroplane Boys on a Cattle Ranch THE GIRL AVIATOR SERIES By MARGARET BURNHAM Just the type of books that delight and fascinate the wide awake Girls of the present day who are between the ages of eight and fourteen years. The great author of these books regards them as the best products of her pen. Printed from large clear type on a superior quality of paper; attractive multi-color jacket wrapper around each book. Bound in cloth. 1. The Girl Aviators and the Phantom Airship 2. The Girl Aviators on Golden Wings 3. The Girl Aviators' Sky Cruise 4. The Girl Aviators' Motor Butterfly. For sale by all booksellers or sent postpaid on receipt of 75c. M. A. DONOHUE & COMPANY 701-733 S. DEARBORN STREET CHICAGO ----------------------------------------------------------------------- [Transcriber's Note: At least four variations of the title of the book are present in the text: book cover: "Camp-Fire Girls at Twin Lake frontispiece: "Campfire Girls at Twin Lake" title page: "Campfire Girls at Twin Lakes" main text heading: "Camp Fire Girls at Twin Lakes" Distinct original spellings have been retained.] 
22938	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 22938-h.htm or 22938-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/2/9/3/22938/22938-h/22938-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/2/9/3/22938/22938-h.zip) [Illustration: Cover artwork] THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS IN THE OUTSIDE WORLD by MARGARET VANDERCOOK Author of "The Ranch Girls" Series, "The Red Cross Girls" Series, etc. Illustrated [Frontispiece: "Esther Crippen, that is the loveliest song in the world!"] Philadelphia The John C. Winston Co. Publishers Copyright 1914, by The John C. Winston Company CONTENTS I. "DO YOU REMEMBER ME?" II. BETTY'S KNIGHT III. HER PENSION IV. TEMPTATION V. THE WAY OF THE WILFUL VI. ESTHER'S ROOM VII. THE THREAT VIII. PREPARATIONS FOB THE HOLIDAYS IX. THE CASTLE OF LIFE X. THE RECOGNITION XI. SUNRISE CABIN AGAIN XII. "LIFE'S LITTLE IRONIES" XIII. THE INVALIDS XIV. "WHICH COMES LIKE A BENEDICTION" XV. SECRETS XVI. THE LAW OF THE FIRE XVII. A FIGURE IN THE NIGHT XVIII. UNCERTAINTY XIX. AN UNSPOKEN POSSIBILITY XX. THE BEGINNING OF LIGHT XXI. BETTY FINDS OUT XXII. SUNRISE CABIN XXIII. FAREWELLS ILLUSTRATIONS "ESTHER CRIPPEN, THAT IS THE LOVELIEST SONG IN THE WORLD!" . . . . . . _Frontispiece_ "THERE ISN'T ANYTHING MUCH TO TELL" THE PROFESSOR HAD TO WIPE HIS GLASSES "I WON'T INTERFERE WITH YOUR DESTINATION" The Camp Fire Girls in the Outside World CHAPTER I "DO YOU REMEMBER ME?" Walking slowly down a broad stairway, a girl carried three old silver candlesticks in her hands. And although the hallway was in semi-darkness, the candles had not yet been lighted. It was a cold November afternoon and the great house was chill and silent. Entering the drawing room, she placed the candles upon the mantelpiece. Her breath was like a small gray cloud before her; and her dress, too, was the color of the mist and soft and clinging. "Work, health and love," she murmured quietly, striking a match and watching the candles flicker and flare until finally they burned with a steady glow. "If one has these three things in life as I have, what else is worth worrying over?" Then the sigh that came in answer to her own question almost extinguished the candle flames. "There are bills and boarders of course--too many of the first and at present none of the second," she added with a kind of whimsical smile. "But, oh dear, what a trying Thanksgiving day this has been, when even the Camp Fire ideals won't comfort me! Dick 'way off in Germany, Polly and Esther studying in New York and me face to face with my failure to save the old house. It is not worth while pretending; the house must be sold and mother and I shall have to find some other place to live. In the morning I will go and tell Judge Maynard that I give up." Sadly Betty Ashton glanced about the familiar room. The portraits of her New England ancestors appeared to gaze coldly and reproachfully down upon her. They had not been of the stuff of which failures are made. Her grand piano was closed and dusty, the window blinds were partly pulled down, and although a fire was laid in the grate, it was not burning. Dust, cold and an unaccustomed atmosphere of neglect enveloped everything. With a lifting of her head and a tightening of her lips that gave her face a new expression, the girl suddenly pulled open a table drawer and began fiercely to polish the top of the piano while she talked. "There is no reason why I should allow this place to look so dismal just because things have gone wrong with my efforts to keep boarders and continue my work at school. As no one is coming to see me I can't afford a fire, but I'll open the piano and place Esther's song, 'The Soul's Desire,' on the music rack, just as though she were at home to sing it for me. Dick's dull old books shall lie here on the table where he used to leave them, near this red rose that John Everett brought me this morning. Somehow the rose makes me think of Polly. It is so radiant. How curious that certain persons suggest certain colors! Now Polly is often pale as a ghost, and yet red always makes me recall her." A few moments afterwards and Betty moved toward the front window and stood there staring out into the street, too deep in thought to be actually conscious of what she was doing. She had changed in the past six months of struggle with poverty and work beyond her strength. There were shadows under her gray eyes and worried lines about the corners of her mouth. Instead of being slim as formerly, she was undeniably so thin that even the folds of her delicate crepe dress could not wholly disguise it. It was not that Mrs. Ashton and Betty had spent this lonely day in their old home, because their former friends had neglected them. Indeed, they had had invitations to Thanksgiving dinners from half a dozen sources. But Mrs. Ashton had not been well in several months and was today too ill for her daughter to leave her. The two women were now entirely alone in the house. One by one their boarders had deserted them, and the previous week they had even felt compelled to give up the old cook, who had been in the service of the Ashton family for twenty years. At first Betty saw nothing to attract her attention in the street outside--not a single passer-by. It was odd how quiet and cold the world seemed with her mother asleep in one of the far-away rooms upstairs and other persons evidently too much interested in indoor amusements to care for wandering through the dull town. In another instant, however, the girl's attention was caught by the appearance of a figure which seemed to spring up suddenly out of nowhere and to stand gazing intently toward the Ashton house. It was almost dark, and yet Betty could distinguish a young man, roughly dressed, wearing no overcoat, with his coat collar turned up and a cap pulled down over his eyes. Without being frightened, she was curious and interested. Why should the man behave so queerly? He now walked past the house and then turned and came back, not once but several times. Evidently he had not observed the girl at the window. At last however he gave up, and Betty believed that she saw him disappear behind the closed cottage of the O'Neills. No longer entertained, she prepared to leave the drawing room. It was too chilly to remain there any longer. Moreover, studying the familiar objects she had loved so long only made the thought of their surrender more painful. Betty once more faced her three candles. "Be strong as the fagots are sturdy; Be pure in your deepest desire; Be true to the truth that is in you;" "And--follow the law of the fire," she repeated with a catch in her breath. Then with greater strength and resolution in her face she blew out two of the candles, and picking up the third, started on her way upstairs. The next moment there came a quick, muffled ring at the front door bell. The girl hesitated; yet there was no one else in the house to answer the bell, and only a friend, she thought, could come at this hour. Shading her light from the wind with one hand she pulled open the door with the other, already smiling with pleasure at the idea of thus ending her loneliness. Close against the door she discovered the young man whom she had seen only a few moments before in the street. He did not speak nor move immediately. "What do you wish?" Betty demanded a trifle impatiently. The fellow had both fists rammed deep into his pockets and had not the courtesy to remove his hat. With a slight sense of uneasiness, Betty thought of closing the door. The unexpected visitor kept edging closer toward her and was apparently fumbling for something in his coat. "Please tell me what it is you want at once," the girl repeated almost angrily. "This is Mrs. Ashton's house if you are looking for it. My mother and I are entirely alone." Having made this speech Betty instantly recognized its stupidity and regretted it. However the young man had at last succeeded in removing a small oblong package from his pocket, which he silently thrust toward her. On the wrapper in big letters, such as a child might have written, the girl was able to decipher her own name. But while she was puzzling over it, and before she could thank the messenger, he had hurried off. Betty set her candle down on the lowest of the front steps and kneeling before it rapidly undid her parcel. Inside the paper she discovered a crudely hand-carved wooden box, and opening the lid, a blank sheet of folded white paper. She shook the paper. Had some one sent her a Thanksgiving present or was she being made the victim of a joke? But from between the blank sheets something slowly fluttered to her feet. And picking it up with a little cry of surprise Betty saw a crisp new ten dollar bill. Immediately her cheeks turned scarlet and her eyes filled with indignant tears. Only by an effort of will could the tears be kept from falling. Did any one of her friends consider her so poverty-stricken that it was necessary to send her money in this anonymous fashion? Scarcely waiting to think, Betty rushed out of the house and down the old paved brick walk out into the street. For there might be a bare chance that the messenger was not yet out of sight. Sure enough, there he was still loitering on the corner about half a block away. Bareheaded, and in her thin dress, with the money in her hand, the girl ran forward. And actually as she reached the young man, she caught him fast by the sleeve. "Please, you must tell me who sent me this money or else take it back at once and say that though I am very much obliged I cannot receive a gift delivered in this secret fashion." The two young people were standing near an electric light so that they could now see each other plainly. Betty observed a tall, overgrown boy with thin, straight features and clear hazel eyes, and now that his hat was removed, a mass of curly dark hair, which had been vainly smoothed down. "I can't take the money back, since it belongs to you," the young man answered awkwardly. Inside her Betty heard a small voice whispering: "If it only really did!" For the ten dollars would buy Christmas presents for her mother, for Polly and Esther and others of her friends. Nevertheless she shook her head. "The money cannot be mine and so you must return it." Then finding that her insistence was failing to have any effect, she dropped the money on the ground at the young fellow's feet and walked away. "But, Miss Ashton," the stranger's voice argued, "please believe me when I say that this money is yours. Oh, of course I don't mean this special ten dollar bill; for yours was spent nearly a year ago. But at least the money represents the same amount." Betty paused and again faced the speaker. There was sincerity in his tone--a determined appeal. But what on earth could he be talking about? He looked perfectly rational, although his statement was so extraordinary. "You don't recognize me and I am truly glad," the young man went on. "But can't you recall once having befriended a fellow when instead you ought to have sent him to jail? He did not deserve your kindness then. He was actually trying to steal from you the money which you afterwards gave him of your own free will. But he has tried since to be honest." He ceased abruptly. For Betty's eyes were shining and she was thrusting her little cold hand into his big one. "You're not!" she exclaimed. "Yes I am," the boy returned. "Anthony Graham, Nan's brother?" Betty laughed happily. "Then please give me back the money I refused. I did not understand that you were returning the loan. Of course I understand how you feel about it. And do come back and into the house with me. I so want you to tell me all about yourself. I hope you have had splendid luck." The young man's shabby appearance did not suggest sudden riches. Nevertheless he smiled. For more than ever did Betty Ashton appear to him like the Princess of his dreams. Only once before had he met her face to face. And yet the vision had never left him. He could still see the picture of a girl moving toward him, her face filled with shame--for him--and her eyes downcast; and thrusting into his clenched fist, which had so lately been raised to injure her, the money which had given him the desired opportunity for getting away from his old associations and beginning again. Enter her home and tell her of his struggle! Anthony felt far more like kneeling in the dust at her feet. Yet being a boy he could only blush and stammer without words to voice his gratitude. Betty was beginning to shiver. "Please come, I am so lonely," she urged. "I have had the horridest kind of a Thanksgiving day. Only a little while ago I was having a hard time trying to remember the things that I have to be thankful for." CHAPTER II BETTY'S KNIGHT The drawing room fire was soon crackling. "It is so nice to feel I have the privilege of lighting it; I have been dying to for the past hour, but didn't think I could afford it without company," Betty confided, blowing at the flames. "Do please get some chairs and let us draw up quite close. It is so much pleasanter to talk that way." Yet Anthony Graham only stared without moving. To think of a Princess speaking of not being able to afford so inexpensive a luxury as a fire. Suddenly the young man longed to be able immediately to chop down an entire forest of trees and lay it as a thank offering before her. Of course his sister Nan had written him of Mr. Ashton's death and of the change in the family fortunes, but to associate real poverty with his conception of Betty was impossible. Glancing uneasily about the great room it was good to see how beautiful it still looked, how perfect a setting for its young mistress. So at least they were able to keep their handsome home. To the young man Betty Ashton now appeared more beautiful than his former impression of her. For on the day of their original meeting she had worn a fur coat and a cap covering her hair and a portion of her face. But now the three Camp Fire candles were once more burning, forming a kind of shining background for the girl's figure. Her hair was a deep red brown, with bronze tones, the colors in the autumn woods. There was no longer any sign of pallor or weariness in her cheeks, for pleasure and excitement had reawakened the old Betty. "Do sit down," she urged again. "I want to hear all about you." Then, coming to his senses, Anthony managed to drag two comfortable chairs before the blaze. "There isn't anything much to tell," he began shyly. "Only after you gave me that money I just started walking farther and farther away from Woodford. Why, it seemed to me that I didn't ever want to stop, for that would give me a chance to realize what I had done. And I didn't stop, either, until I was too dead tired to go on. But by that time I had come to another town and it must have been pretty late, because the main street was empty. I was passing along close to the wall of a building when I saw that an office door had been left open. It was pretty cold, so I peeped in. The room was dark and there was nobody about, so creeping inside I lay down on the floor and went to sleep." The boy stopped, but his listener was leaning forward with her hands clasped and her lips parted with eagerness. [Illustration: "There isn't anything much to tell"] "Do go on and tell me every detail. It sounds just like a story," she entreated. "When I woke up it was daylight and I found that I had landed in a dusty, untidy place, littered with old books and papers," he continued. "A small stove in the corner was choked up with ashes. I can't tell exactly why, but the first thing I did that morning was to scrape out those ashes, and then I found some sticks and coals and built a fresh fire." Anthony flashed a glance at Betty out of his shy, almost frightened blue eyes. "I guess I was feeling kind of well disposed toward fires just then, camp fires anyhow. Then I was thinking that I would like to pay for my night's lodging in some way. I fell to brushing out the room, so that when the young man came down later he would find his office cleaned up. Seemed like all of a sudden, after what had happened between you and me, that I wanted to work and pay my own way. I had never before been anything but a loafer." "But you couldn't have known that the office belonged to a young man unless you waited there until after he came in!" Betty exclaimed. Anthony laughed. "Oh, yes, I waited all right and I have been in that same office more or less ever since, until I came home to Woodford the day before yesterday. Of course I meant to clear out as soon as I had finished, but while I was working I heard a quiet chuckle behind me, and swinging around, there stood Mr. Andrews!" "But who was or is this Mr. Andrews?" Betty asked impatiently, too interested to be particularly polite. "My next best friend, after you," the young fellow answered. "Why, I think I can remember even now his very first words to me: 'Hello,' he said, 'why are you doing me such a good turn?' 'Because you have just done me one. I slept all night in your office,' I answered. He didn't seem surprised and I thought that rather funny. But afterwards I learned that he had been a poor boy himself and had slept in all sorts of queer places. He is still poor enough, goodness knows, but he has graduated in law and set up an office. He will succeed some day, sure as faith. You can bet on him." Betty bit her lips, her eyes dancing with amusement and curiosity. Actually her visitor was becoming so much in earnest over his friend that he was forgetting to be afraid of her. "But what about you and your success?" she demanded. The young man flushed, moving uncomfortably in his chair, as though yearning to get away from his questioner, and yet not knowing exactly how. "Success, _my_ success? I haven't yet used that word in connection with myself. I have just managed to keep on working, that's about all. Mr. Andrews let me continue sleeping in his office after I told him my story and cleaning it to pay for my lodging. Then by getting up early enough I arranged to take care of a few others for money and to run errands now and then. I read in between times." "Read? Read what?" Betty inquired inexorably, half smiling and half frowning at her own persistence. For somehow in their half hour's talk together she had seen something in Anthony Graham that made her guess that the young man had worked harder and dreamed better in this past year than he was willing to acknowledge to her. But Anthony got up from his chair and began deliberately backing toward the door. He seemed suddenly to have became more awkward and self-conscious. "I read the law books, as there wasn't anything else to read. And I was determined to get more education so that in the future Nan need not be ashamed of me. Afterwards I went to night school and----" "So you have made up your mind to be a lawyer yourself some day." Betty sighed with satisfaction. How very like a book his confession sounded! She wanted to get more information from her visitor and yet at the same time longed to rush upstairs and commence a letter to Polly O'Neill at once. Wouldn't Polly be interested? For she had predicted on the day of their first meeting that the young man would either turn out to be absolutely no good, or else (and here Betty blushed, recalling the prophecy) "Remain your faithful knight to the end of the chapter." "But why did you come back to Woodford if this Mr. Andrews was befriending you and giving you a chance?" she inquired, fearing that her illusion might now be shattered. The young man did not reply at once. And he scowled until Betty had an uncomfortable recollection of the expression which she had seen on his face the day of his attack upon Polly and her. Then after moving a few steps nearer the fire so that he and the girl were once more facing each other, Betty could see that his scowl had been due to embarrassment and not anger. "You are awfully good to be willing to listen to so long a tale of a ne'er-do-well," he returned. "I came back to Woodford because I was determined to make good in my own town. A fellow that can't trust himself in the face of temptations isn't worth being trusted. I'm going back to Mr. Andrews later, perhaps, but this winter I am to stick right here in Woodford and live down my bad name if I can. Judge Maynard says he will give me the same kind of a chance that Mr. Andrews did, if I am worth it. And I shall be able to see Nan and the others now and then. It didn't seem fair for me to be leaving all the family troubles to a girl." Involuntarily Betty clapped her hands. She had not intended to express her emotion openly, but so pleased was she with Anthony's reply that she couldn't help it. The next moment she felt a little ashamed of her enthusiasm. "Oh, Nan is equal to almost anything; we consider her the greatest success in our Camp Fire club," Betty protested. "Nan is studying domestic science at the High School and intends teaching it some day, so she will make you awfully comfortable at home." The young man put out his hand. "Good-bye," he said. "I never dreamed I would be brave enough to ask you to shake hands with me for a good many years yet. But since you have been kind enough----" "To ask you ten thousand questions," Betty laughed, rising and putting out both hands with a friendly gesture, and then moving toward the door with her caller. "I am not going to be able to live at home, however," Anthony concluded. "It is too far to our little place to get into town early enough for my work and to be here in the evenings for the night school. I've got to find a room somewhere. I oughtn't to kick because nobody seems crazy to let me stay in their house. I did leave a pretty poor reputation behind me around here and I've got to _show_ people first that I mean to behave differently. I guess I'll strike better luck later." Although Betty was extremely sympathetic, she did not answer at once. For a sudden surprising understanding had come to her. How difficult it must be for any one to have to go about telling his acquaintances of his reformation before having the chance to prove it. Then an almost appealing expression crept into her face, making her cheeks flush hotly and her lashes droop. Her old friends would have recognized the look. For it was the one that she most often wore when she desired to do another person a kindness and feared she might not be allowed. "Couldn't you, won't you come here and have a room with us?" she asked unexpectedly. "We have such heaps of rooms in this old house and now mother and I are here alone, we really would like to have you for protection. And if you don't like to accept with just my invitation, will you come in again tomorrow or next day? I am sure mother will wish to ask you too." Anthony Graham had had rather a rough time always. He had a peculiar disposition, and all his life probably liked only a few people very deeply. His wasted youth--nearly twenty years of idling rather than study or work--and his mixed parentage--the Italian peasant mother and his New England father--would make his struggle in the world a long and an uphill one even if he should finally succeed. Among the first things he meant to learn was not to show his emotions too easily, to hide his feelings whenever he could, so that he might learn to take without apparent flinching the hard knocks that life was sure to send. He had been preparing himself for the unkindnesses. Now at Betty's words he felt a lump forming in his throat and had a terrified moment of believing that he was about to cry like a girl. For could it be possible that any human being could so forgive one's sins as almost to forget them? Yet here was Betty Ashton asking him to stay in her home to protect her mother and herself when his only other meeting had been his effort to rob her. Anthony set his teeth. "I can't live in so grand a house as this. I couldn't afford it," he replied huskily. It was on the tip of Betty's tongue to protest that she had never dreamed of Anthony's paying anything. For Betty Ashton, whatever the degree of her poverty, could never fail in generosity, since generosity is a matter not of the pocketbook but of the spirit. However, all of a sudden she appreciated that the young man had quite as much right to his self-respect as she had to hers. "Even the little will be a help to mother and me," she returned more humbly than any one else had ever before heard her speak. "But perhaps I could be useful. Maybe you haven't so many servants as you once had----" Anthony stopped, for Betty's expression had changed so completely. Of course she had already repented of her offer. "We have no servants and you could help a great deal," she answered. And then without any pretense of concealing them, she let two tears slide down her face. "It is only that I had forgotten for the moment that we are not going to be able to stay in our house much longer. We can't afford to keep it for ourselves and I haven't been a success with having boarders. Still it may be some time before we can rent or sell it, and if you will stay here until then----" Betty winced, for her visitor had this time clasped her hand until the pressure of its hard surface hurt. "You know it would be the greatest thing that ever happened for me to be allowed to stay here a week," he added. And Betty laughed. "Then stay." As she opened the front door another visitor stood waiting on the outside. He was almost as unexpected as Anthony Graham. For it was Herr Crippen, the German music professor and Esther's father. "What on earth could he want?" Betty thought irritably. She was beginning to feel anxious to get upstairs to her mother again. For in spite of the fact that she now believed that she had a real affection for Esther, she had never been able to recover from her first prejudice for this shabby, hesitating man. Then his manner toward her was always so apologetic. Why on earth should it be? She was always perfectly polite to him. What a queer combination of Thanksgiving visitors she was having! "Gnädiges Fräulein," he began. And Betty ushered him into the drawing room. For perhaps he was bringing her news of Esther. CHAPTER III HER PENSION "Good luck never rains but it pours, as well as bad luck, mother," Betty Ashton said one morning nearly a week later. She had just put down a big tray of breakfast on a small table before Mrs. Ashton and now seated herself on the opposite side. Mrs. Ashton sighed. "If your good luck storm has any reference to us, Betty dear, I am sure I don't get your point of view. For if anything but misfortune has followed our footsteps since your father's death I am sure I should like to hear what it is." And Mrs. Ashton shivered, drawing her light woolen shawl closer about her shoulders. There are some persons in this world whom troubles brace. After the first shock of a sorrow or calamity has passed they stand reinforced with new strength and new courage. These are the world's successful people. For after a while, ill luck, finding that it can never down a really valiant spirit, grows weary and leaves it alone. Then the good things have their turn--health, better and more admiring friends, fame, money, love. Whatever the struggle has been made for, if it has been sufficiently brave and persistent, the reward is sure. But there are other men and women, or girls and boys, for age makes no difference, who go down like wilted flowers in the teeth of the first storm. And on them life is apt to trample, misfortunes to pile up. Mrs. Ashton was one of these women. She had made things doubly hard for Betty and Dick. Indeed, except for his sister, Richard Ashton would never have had the strength of purpose to sail for Germany to complete his medical studies. He would simply have surrendered and commenced his practice of medicine in Woodford without being properly equipped for perhaps the greatest of all the professions--the struggle to conquer disease. Yet somehow Betty had had a clearer vision than can be expected of most girls of her age. In a vague way she had understood that it is oftentimes wiser to make a present sacrifice for some greater future gain. So she had persuaded Dick to use the little money that he had for his work, assuring him that she and her mother could get on perfectly well together at home. And with half a dozen summer boarders at the time of his leaving, it did look to Dick as though her confidence was not misplaced. Now in answer to her mother's speech Betty said nothing at first. So that several tears sliding down Mrs. Ashton's cheeks watered her hot buttered toast. "I am sure I never expected to live to see this day, my dear, when you would have to cook your own breakfast and mine before you could leave for school," she murmured. "Why, I never thought that you would have to turn over your hand even to look after yourself. Until you developed that Camp Fire enthusiasm you had not been taught a single useful thing. After all, perhaps it might have been better for you if I had never been your mother, if----" Betty laughed teasingly. "My dear Mrs. Ashton, you talk as if you could have avoided that affliction! You could not very well have helped being my mother, could you? You did not deliberately choose me out from a lot of girls. Because if you did, I should have very little respect for your good judgment. Think, if you might have selected either Polly or Esther! Why, then you would be sure to be rich again some day. For one of them would act so marvelously that she would be able to cast laurels at your feet, while the other would sing you back to fortune. But as it is, you will just have to put up with poor me until Dick gets his chance. Now do eat your breakfast while I relate the details of our good luck storm. In the first place, we are not going to have to give up our beloved house. At least not yet, and perhaps never if our German-American Pension plan turns out satisfactorily." Betty drank a swallow of coffee, hardly appreciating what she was doing, so deep was her absorption in their affairs. "Honestly, mother, I should never have dreamed of being so interested in this plan of Rose's and Miss McMurtry's for us, if it had not been for Dick's letters. But if German ladies can keep successful pensions, why not Americans? Remember what a funny lot of people Dick has described--the fat widow with the two musical daughters. I hope one of them won't set her cap for Dick, he loves music so dearly. Then you know the young boy student who was nearly starving when Dick rescued him, and the old Baron who wears a wig, and the half dozen others? But no matter how queer and funny they may be, they can be no more so than our pensioners. There is Miss McMurtry herself and Anthony Graham, and Dr. Barton moving into town to have an office in our old library. I wonder sometimes if he and Rose are still friends. They had a disagreement once out at the cabin and she just speaks to him since." Then Betty Ashton hesitated and devoted herself to finishing her breakfast. "I am sure I don't understand why you fail to mention Herr Crippen, child, who is to have a room here with us and teach his pupils in our big drawing room. I am glad he has been so successful with his music pupils that he is able to give Esther the advantage of studying in New York. I wish you did not have such a ridiculous prejudice against him. Indeed, my dear, I have a very strong reason for insisting that you be kind to him. He is Esther's father and----" Mrs. Ashton spoke more firmly than was usual with her. But Betty shrugged her shoulders imperceptibly. "Oh, of course I am glad enough to have the Professor here and I have never said I did not like him. But I am specially happy that Edith Norton's family has moved away so she is to have a room with us. I am kind of lonely without Polly and Esther, and somehow Edith,"----Betty broke off abruptly. Not even to her mother did she feel like mentioning the fact that Edith did not seem to be turning out quite so well as the other Sunrise Camp Fire girls. With a hurried movement she next picked up the breakfast tray, exclaiming: "Thank heavens we are not going to have to give our lodgers anything but their rooms and that Martha is coming back to do our cooking and the cleaning. Good old soul to offer to do it without pay. She said that she could not bear living anywhere except with us and that she had enough of father's money stored away in bank not to need any more. But we could not have had her work without pay." Betty kissed her mother lightly on the forehead. "If any one else turns up today and wishes a room, just refer them to me. I'm afraid I won't leave us a bed to sleep in. I am getting so anxious to surprise Dick by really earning a lot of money." "Well, don't rent the back room that Esther used to have, Betty. You may move into it yourself some day if you like, but I would rather not have a stranger occupy it. I----" "What on earth is queer about that room?" Betty interrupted. "I have not time to listen now, but you _must_ tell me. You talk as though it were a kind of Bluebeard's Chamber of Horrors. Yet I don't suppose you would put me in it if I were likely to have my head cut off in consequence. Good-bye, dear." And Betty fled out into the hall, realizing that it must be almost school time. The door of Esther's old room happened by accident to be standing open, and still holding on to her tray, Betty paused before it for a few moments. She was not thinking of a possible mystery or secret in connection with the room, only wondering if Esther and Polly were to be at home for the Christmas holidays. They both wanted to come, she thought. But Esther was not sure of being able to afford it and Polly was uncertain of whether she wished to stay in her stepfather's house at a time when her stepbrother, Frank Wharton, whom she disliked so much, should also be at home for his holidays. The girl's face was a little wistful. She so longed to see both her friends. Without them and without Dick, this first Christmas under such changed conditions at home might be rather trying. "Oh!" Betty exclaimed a trifle indignantly, with her arm shaking so that the dishes in her hands rattled dangerously. "What in the world are you doing in the house at this hour, Anthony Graham? You frightened me nearly to death, turning up at my elbow in such an unexpected fashion. I thought you had been gone hours!" Anthony put down his coal scuttle and took hold of Betty's tray. "I have been away, but I came back for a moment because your mother wished me to do something for her as soon as I had the spare time." His tone was so surly that Betty smiled. Anthony had been brought up with such a different class of people that he was unable to understand sarcasm or pretense of any kind. Whatever one said he accepted in exactly the words in which it was spoken. And Betty and her friends had always been accustomed to joking with one another, to saying one thing, often meaning another. Anthony should have had the sense to realize that she was not really cross, that her indignation was partly assumed. Therefore she did not intend taking the trouble to set him right in the present instance. "I'll carry the dishes down myself. I have plenty of time," she protested coldly. But Anthony only held the more firmly to the tray, with his face crimsoning. The truth was that he had been appreciating in the past few days a truth of which the girl herself was as yet unconscious. Betty's manner toward him had noticeably changed. In the excitement of their Thanksgiving day meeting and his romantic return of the money which she had completely forgotten, she had shown far more interest and friendliness than she now did. On that occasion Betty had overlooked the young fellow's roughness, his lack of education and family advantages. Really Anthony had never been taught even the common civilities of life and had to trust to a kind of instinct, even in knowing when to take off his hat, when to shake hands, how to enter or leave a room. And he understood keenly enough his own limitations. Yet the change in Betty's attitude had hurt him, even though he acknowledged to himself his failure to deserve even her original kindness. She was still kind enough of course in the things which she thought counted. She was cordial about his having his room in the house with her mother and herself and most careful of thanking him for any assistance which he rendered them. Yet the difference was there. For neither in heart nor mind had Betty yet grown big enough to feel real comradeship with a boy so beneath her in social position and opportunities. Nevertheless she did not mean to be ungracious and something in the carriage of the young man's head as he moved off down the hall suggested that he was either hurt or angry, although exactly why Betty could not understand. "Don't go for a second, Anthony," she called after him. "I wanted to tell you that you are living in a house with a haunted chamber. At least I don't know whether this room is exactly haunted, but there is something queer about it that my mother and brother have never confided to me. Perhaps I shall move in and find out for myself what it is. I will if there is a chance of my friends, Esther Crippen and Polly O'Neill, coming home for the holidays. For it is so big that we could stay in it together. And perhaps Mrs. O'Neill will let Polly come here and visit me for a little while. Both the girls are doing wonderful things in New York City. And I am afraid if they don't come home pretty soon they will both have outgrown me. It is so horrid to be a perfectly ordinary person." As Betty moved off, the expression on her companion's face did not suggest that he thought of her as entirely ordinary. CHAPTER IV TEMPTATION "You are perfectly absurd and I haven't the faintest intention of confiding in any one of you." And Polly O'Neill, with her cheeks flaming, rushed away from a group of girls and into her own bedroom, closing the door and locking it behind her. This winter at boarding school in New York City had not been in the least what she had anticipated. Perhaps the character of the school she and her mother had chosen had been unfortunate. Yet they had selected it with the greatest care and it was expensive beyond Polly's wildest dreams. For, apart from her own small inheritance, her stepfather, Mr. Wharton, had insisted on being allowed to contribute to her support, and not to appear too ungracious both to her mother and to him, his offer had been accepted. Yet Polly did not consider herself any greater success in thus masquerading as a rich girl than she had been as a poor one. Was she never to be satisfied? Her school companions were all wealthy and few of them had any ideas beyond clothes and society. To them Polly had seemed a kind of curiosity. She was so impetuous, so brilliant, so full of a thousand moods. Betty Ashton had once said that to know Polly O'Neill was a liberal education, and yet in order to know her one ought to have had a liberal education beforehand. Today during the recreation hour at "Miss Elkins' Finishing School," which was Polly's present abode, there had been a sudden discussion of plans for the future. And Polly, partly because she was in a contradictory mood and partly because she really wished it to be known, had boldly announced herself as poor as a church mouse with no chance of not starving to death in the future unless she could learn to make her own living. And this had started the onslaught of questions from which she had just torn herself away. For Polly had absolutely determined not to confide in any one of her new companions her ambition to go upon the stage. They would not understand and would only be stupid and inquisitive. Why, had they not worried her nearly to death simply because of her acquaintance with Miss Margaret Adams? For one day the great actress had driven up to the school and taken Polly for a drive. And ever afterwards the other girls were determined to find out how and when she had met her and what she was like in every smallest particular, until Polly was nearly frantic. Now in her own room, which was a small one, but belonged to her alone, the girl dashed cold water on her face until she began to feel her temper cooling down. Then with a book in her lap she planted herself in a low chair. The book was a collection of Camp Fire songs which Sylvia Wharton had given her. And although Polly could not sing, the poetry and inspiration of them was so lovely that she felt they might be a consoling influence. Nevertheless Polly did not commence reading at once. Instead, her thin shoulders drooped forward pathetically, and putting one elbow on her knee she rested her pointed chin in her hand. For she was unhappy without any real reason in the world. Polly O'Neill was one of the sensitive and emotional persons who must always be more or less miserable in the wrong environment. She did not like being at boarding school and yet she did not wish to return to Woodford to live in her stepfather's house in circumstances so different from those of her old life. Besides, had not Miss Adams advised that she spend several years away from Woodford in order to see more of the outside world and its myriad types of men and women? She could not ask to be allowed to come back home now, after the fight she had made to leave. Moreover, she was learning many things that might be useful to her as an actress. Miss Adams herself had said so. There was no fault with the opportunities for study at Miss Elkins', only with the interest of the girls. She herself was working hard at French and German and physical culture and was having some special private teaching in elocution by a master recommended by Miss Adams. No, Polly did not intend to give up. Only she was trying to decide whether or not to return to Woodford for the Christmas holidays. She was longing to see her mother and Mollie and Betty Ashton. Yet Frank Wharton would be at home and she and Frank had quarreled all the time that they had been in the house together during the past summer. And her mother and Mollie were so wrapped up in one another and in the splendid new home and in Mr. Wharton! Polly felt herself almost an outsider when she thought of the days when they had lived in their own little cottage just opposite the Princess. Then, at the thought of Betty Ashton, the slightly hard look in Polly's Irish blue eyes faded. Of the Princess' understanding and affection she could always feel sure. And what a brave fight she was making! Every letter from her mother or Mollie or from any one of their old Camp Fire circle had something admiring to say of her. And yet she and Mollie had always thought of their Princess as only a spoiled darling, beautiful and meant only for cherishing. Ah well, the Princess was really an aristocrat in the old meaning of the word. She had never been in the least like these New York girls, caring for money for its own sake and feeling superior to other people just because of her money. Betty had birth and beauty and brains. Suddenly Polly dashed the tears from her eyes and with a smile jumped to her feet, dropping her Camp Fire book. There was no use sitting there and thinking of all the virtues that her Princess possessed that began with "b." This was Friday afternoon and she was free to do what she liked. Esther was living in a boarding house not far away, and she had not seen her in two weeks. And in all the world there was nothing Esther liked to talk about so much as Betty. Besides, if Esther were going home for the holidays, why, Polly felt that she would rather like to have some one persuade her into making her own decision. Is it good or evil fortune that makes one so readily influenced by outside conditions? The December afternoon was cold and brilliant; and in few places is the climate of early winter so stimulating as in New York City. Esther was not at home, and for a few minutes her visitor felt disappointed. But the streets were so beautiful and alluring and there were so many people out! It was true that Polly had received permission only to call upon her friend, but what wrong could there be in her taking a walk? She had only to keep straight along Broadway and there could be no possible chance of getting lost. Polly was not in the least timid or unable to take care of herself. She was a girl from a small town, and yet no one could have imagined that she had not been a New Yorker all her life, except for her quick and eager interest in the sights about her. No one noticed or molested Polly in the least. It was only that in her usual unthinking fashion she flung herself into the way of temptation. Farther down Broadway than she had ever been before, Polly stopped for a moment to look more closely at a group of girls. Most of them were several years older than herself. They were standing close together near a closed door, and yet only occasionally did one of them make a remark to the other; for apparently they were strangers to one another. At first the girls themselves attracted Polly's attention because the larger number appeared so nervous and anxious. More than half of them had their faces rouged and powdered and were fashionably dressed, yet even when they smiled their expressions were uneasy. They interested the country girl immensely. In order not to seem rude or inquisitive she pretended to wish to gaze into a shop window near them. Then, as they continued waiting and showed no sign of what they were waiting for, Polly O'Neill's curiosity overcame her good manners. Another girl had separated herself from the group and was standing within two feet of Polly, also pretending to stare into the same window. Polly edged closer to her. The young woman must have been nearly twenty-five. She had been pretty once, yet already her face was haggard and she had circles under her big brown eyes. Unexpectedly Polly smiled at her, and there was always something almost irresistible in Polly's smile. "Could you, would you mind telling me why so many girls are standing here in this one particular spot?" she inquired. "It is a cold day when one is still. And yet I have been here almost ten minutes and no one has even started to move away." "We are waiting to try to get jobs," the older girl answered listlessly. "And we have come sooner than we were told because each one of us hoped to get ahead of the other." "Jobs?" Polly repeated stupidly. "What kind of work is it that you are looking for?" "Oh, theatrical jobs," the young woman explained. "It's coming on to be Christmas time and the managers are putting on extras for the holidays." She turned away from her questioner, believing that she had heard a faint noise at the door near which they were lingering. A quick tug at her coat attracted her attention again. "Can any one apply for a position who wants it?" Polly queried. Her eyes were shining, her cheeks were crimson and her breath coming in kind of broken gasps as though she were frightened. But the magic door had opened at last and the older woman had no time to waste. "Oh, yes, any one can apply," she returned with a kind of hardness. And then she failed to observe that the girl she had been talking with was following close behind her. Polly herself hardly realized what she was doing. Once more she had yielded to that old wretched habit of hers, of acting first and then thinking afterwards. Like a flash of lightning it had but this instant occurred to her that more than anything she would like to see inside a theatrical manager's office. It would be like placing the tips of one's toes on the promised land. Of course, Polly knew perfectly well that she was being reckless, only she would not allow herself time to consider this point of view. She would simply slip in with these other girls and pretend that she would like a position should she be forced into it. As she had had no experience, there could be no possibility of her getting an engagement. Ten minutes afterwards she would slip out again and return to school. With a dozen or more other girls, Polly was the next moment ushered into a room that was quite dark and had only a few chairs in it. There they were told to wait until the manager could be free to speak to them. So Polly crowded herself into the farthest, darkest corner and immediately her heart began to thump and her knees to shake, while she wished herself a thousand miles away. What would her mother say to this latest of her escapades; and Mollie and Betty? What would Miss Adams, for that matter, think of her? She was an actress herself; but of course Polly never imagined that she had started her career in any such humble fashion. Coming partially to her senses, Polly started hurriedly toward the closed door. There was no reason in the world for her remaining in this room unless she wished it. But just as she turned the knob the manager entered from the hall. And Polly's curiosity got the better of her again. She would stay just half a minute longer and see what happened. CHAPTER V THE WAY OF THE WILFUL When Polly O'Neill came out into the street again, she did not know whether she was walking on the sidewalk, in the air, or at the bottom of the sea. But because of a certain thrilling excitement she felt that she must have wings and because of a heavy weight inside her that she must be in the depth of the sea. For Polly had just signed an engagement to act for two weeks in a Christmas pantomime. It sounds incredible. And it was possibly as unwise and headstrong a thing as a girl could well do. And yet Polly had originally no actual intention or desire to do wrong. Simply she had yielded to a sudden impulse, to an intense curiosity. But now things were different; for Polly was realizing her wilfulness completely, and instead of repenting and turning back to confess her folly, was every moment trying to plan by what method her purpose could be accomplished. Not for anything in the world would her mother give her consent to her experiment. And that in itself should have been a sufficient argument against it. Yet Polly explained to herself that, after all, there could not be any great harm in doing what she so much wished, provided that she made confession afterwards. She was almost eighteen, and thousands of girls in New York City were earning their living, who were years younger than she. Perhaps it might even do her good to find out what this stage life really was like--whether it was as fascinating as she dreamed, or all tinsel as most grown people were so fond of telling her. No, the question that was uppermost with Polly O'Neill was not in connection with her decision. It was how her decision might best be carried out. Fortunately she had been writing that she did not believe that she would come home for the Christmas holidays. She did wish to see her mother and Mollie and Betty, of course, and had almost given way to this longing only an hour before. But now, had not fate itself intervened, flinging her into the path of her desire? And Polly was Irish and had always declared that she believed in the leadings of fate, even when her mother and sister had insisted that fate and her own wish were too often confused in her mind. Had she not hidden herself in the corner when the theatrical manager entered the room, with every intention of running away as soon as she could escape unobserved? And then had he not suddenly swooped down upon her, selecting her from the dozens of other applicants? Polly was not exactly sure of what had happened, except that the man had said that she looked the part of the character he was after. The fact that she had confessed having had no stage experience had not even deterred him. The new play was to be chiefly for young people and the manager particularly required youthful actors and actresses. The play to be produced was the dramatization of a wonderful old Bohemian fairy story, which Polly remembered to have read years before, called "The Castle of Life." The story is that of a little boy, Grazioso, brought up by his grandmother, whom he loves better than all else in the world. Then one day he sees that the grandmother is growing old and fears that she must soon leave him. And so he sets out to find "The Castle of Life" in order once more to bring back youth to the old woman. The play follows his adventures on the road to the castle, and includes his meeting with two fairies--the Fairy of the Woods and the Fairy of the Water. Polly was to impersonate the wood spirit. Her appearance did suggest the character, though naturally she could not appreciate this fact. But there was always something a bit eerie and fantastic about her, something not exactly of the everyday world--her high cheekbones and thin, emotional face with its scarlet lips and intense expression faintly foreshadowing an unusual future. But Polly at the present moment was not feeling in the least unusual, only rather more self-willed and more calculating. Never could she recall having deliberately deceived any one before in her entire life. And yet to accomplish her present purpose there was no other way than the way of deception. No one in Woodford must guess at her reason for remaining in New York during the holidays, nor must Miss Elkins have any possible cause for suspicion. Of course she could not stay on at boarding school. That idea was utterly ridiculous. She would never be allowed to go out for a single evening alone. Already her right to liberty had been considerably overreached by this walk of hers down town. And what she had done during the walk! The offender smiled rather wickedly at the thought of the consternation and excitement that the discovery of her act would create. Home she would go to Woodford then to stay indefinitely! But Polly did not mean to be found out, She meant to have her little taste of emancipation and then go back into routine again, until she was old enough for a larger freedom. So for this reason, although she should have returned to school an hour before, she continued walking slowly, devising and rejecting a dozen plans. It was going to be tremendously difficult to accomplish her purpose. But this she had foreseen five minutes after she had promised to accept the theatrical manager's offer. However she would "find a way." She remembered how often the Princess had said that she had more talent than "Sentimental Tommy" in this particular direction. She reached Miss Elkins' school and received five minutes' scolding from that lady, in the meekest spirit, still without having any idea of what she could possibly do to accomplish her design. All evening she talked so little and her attention was so concentrated upon the lesson which she appeared to be studying, that her school companions left her entirely alone. Polly's passion for studying had always been regarded as an eccentricity. But now since she had announced on that afternoon that she had her own living to make there was possibly some excuse for her industry. Nevertheless the girls felt more convinced than ever that she was not in the least like any of the rest of them and, although rather fascinating and unusual, not a person whom one would care to know intimately. The difference in her manner and expression that night attracted the attention of one of the teachers--the girl's face was so tense and white, her blue eyes showed such dark shadows beneath them. It was owing to this teacher's advice that Polly was allowed to leave the study hall an hour earlier than usual and go to her own room and to bed. She was not feeling particularly well. Her head did ache and her conscience troubled her the least little bit, notwithstanding she had not the faintest intention of surrender. With hot cheeks and cold hands she lay still for a long time until the noises of the other girls retiring had quieted down and the big house was silent. Then Polly suddenly sat up in bed. A moment later she had crawled out on the floor and lighted a candle by her writing desk. The electric lights had been turned off for the night. But even in the pitch darkness Polly would still have composed her letter. For an idea had at last come to her. And if only she could get just one person to accede to it her way would be plain. The one person might be difficult. Polly was perfectly aware of this, but then she had great faith in her own powers of persuasion. CHAPTER VI ESTHER'S ROOM Just above the small alcohol lamp the teakettle was beginning to sing. On a table near-by were teacups and saucers, with one plate of sandwiches covered over with a small napkin, and another of cookies. Several times a tall girl glanced at the clock and then walked across the room to take the kettle off the stove, only to place it back again the next instant. Then at last she seated herself by an open piano. There was very little furniture in the room except the piano, a small cot and the table. Yet it had an atmosphere of home and comfort, such as some persons are able to give to a tent in a desert. And standing in a row at the back of the same tea table were three candles in ten-cent-store glass candlesticks, waiting to be lighted. The afternoon was a dismal one, with occasional flurries of snow; so that when the proper time came for the candle-lighting, the flames would not be ungrateful. But in order to make the waiting seem less long the girl was evidently trying to distract her attention by practicing her music. Several times she sang over the scales. And then, dissatisfied with her own work, repeated them until finally her voice rose with unusual resonance and power. Then, after another slight pause, she drifted almost unconsciously into the words of a song: "Burn, fire, burn! Flicker, flicker, flame! Whose hand above this blaze is lifted Shall be with magic touch engifted, To warm the hearts of lonely mortals Who stand without their open portals. The torch shall draw them to the fire Higher, higher By desire. Whoso shall stand by this hearthstone, Flame-fanned, Shall never, never stand alone; Whose house is dark and bare and cold, Whose house is cold, This is his own. Flicker, flicker, flicker, flame; Burn, fire burn!" She had not heard the door open softly nor even noticed the figure that crept softly into the small room. But now a pair of gloved hands were clasped eagerly together and an enthusiastic voice said: "Esther Crippen, that is the loveliest song in all the world and you are the loveliest singer of it! How glad I am to have arrived at just this moment! Why, your little room makes me feel that it is a _real_ refuge from all that is dark and bare and cold. And you surely are with the 'magic touch engifted to warm the hearts of lonely mortals' with that beautiful voice of yours." And Polly O'Neill, putting one hand on each of Esther's cheeks, kissed her with unexpected ardor. It made Esther flush and tremble slightly as she rose to greet her long-desired guest. Any compliment made Esther shy and one from Polly more than from another person. For although each girl admired the other's talents and character, they had never understood each other especially well. Esther always seemed to Polly far too sober and almost too unselfish and self-effacing, while Polly to the quieter girl had all the brilliance and unreliability of a will-o'-the-wisp. Before coming to New York for the winter their intimacy had been due largely to their mutual devotion to Betty; but now, both lonely and both in a new environment, they had been greatly drawn together. Polly's occasional visits had been one of Esther's few sources of pleasure outside her work. "How charming you are looking, Polly," Esther began, taking off her guest's dark coat and hat, and seeing her emerge in a crimson woolen dress, which made a bright spot of color in the shabby room. Polly, you must remember, was only pretty on occasions; but this afternoon was certainly one of her good-looking days. The cold had made her pale cheeks flame and given a softer glow to her eyes. "I am simply ravenous, Esther, and dying for your delicious tea," Polly next remarked, following her hostess to the tea table and taking her seat, while Esther poured out the boiling water. "It is a kind of a homesick day and I have been wishing that we were going to have a meeting of our old Sunrise Hill Camp Fire circle. What wouldn't you give for a glimpse of the Princess this afternoon?" Esther's lips twitched as she lighted her three candles. "Almost anything I possess," she returned. "But you are going to see her pretty soon? You are going back to Woodford for Christmas?" Polly tried to hide her own nervousness in putting this simple question. With her eyes shining over the edge of her cup she continued slowly drinking her tea, so that the rest of her face could not be seen. But Esther was not paying her any special attention. Quietly she shook her head. "No, Polly, I am not going home. I am so sorry, for I wanted to dreadfully. But my music lessons are so expensive that father does not feel he can afford to let me come. I haven't yet had the courage to write and break the news to the Princess. She is fond of me, don't you think so, Polly? She will be sorry that I can't be with her for the holidays? Of course I know she does not care for me as she does for you. I shall never expect that. But it does mean so much to me to feel sure of her affection." Polly frowned in a slightly puzzled fashion. Esther's adoration even of her beloved Betty seemed a little unnatural. Why should one girl care so much about the attitude of another one? She loved Betty herself, of course, and Betty loved her. Yet she doubted very much if either one worried over the emotions of the other. "Oh, yes, Esther," Polly returned a trifle impatiently. "Of course Betty is devoted to you. Why shouldn't she be? Really, I do think you would let her almost trample upon you if she liked. Only Betty never would like to hurt any one, thank heaven! But I am glad to hear you are not going home for the Christmas holidays, because I am not going either." There was nothing so remarkable in this statement that it should make Polly turn white and then red again. But fortunately the three Camp Fire candles, "Work, Health and Love," were now flickering so that the elder girl could not get a clear vision of the other's face. But instead of appearing pleased over this news Esther seemed disappointed. "I am so sorry, for Betty's sake," she returned. "She wouldn't mind my not being with her so much if she only might have you." Polly shrugged her thin shoulders in a fashion she had when vexed. "O Esther, I think you might have been polite enough to say that you would be glad to have me in town if you were to be here--particularly when I came to ask you if I might spend the holidays with you." "Spend the holidays with me?" Esther repeated in rather a stupid fashion. Naturally she was puzzled as to just why a girl in Polly's position should elect to spend her Christmas vacation in a cheap New York boarding house with another girl for whom she had no special sentiment. "Why in the world do you want to remain in the city with me?" she asked again, too honest to pretend that pleasure was her first sentiment until she got a more definite understanding of the situation. But Polly was now making no effort to devote her attention either to eating or drinking. Instead she had rested both elbows on the table and was looking at her companion with the half-pleading, half-commanding expression that both Mollie and Betty knew so well. "Promise not to say anything until I have finished?" she began coaxingly. "For you see it is to explain why I want to stay with you that made me write to ask you to make this engagement with me for this afternoon." CHAPTER VII THE THREAT "Then you refuse to help me or to keep my secret?" Polly O'Neill protested indignantly. "Really, Esther, I never knew any one with such a gift for considering herself her sister's keeper. We belong to the same Camp Fire Club. And if that means anything I thought it was loyalty and service toward one another. "'As fagots are brought from the forest Firmly held by the sinews which bind them, So cleave to these others, your sisters, Wherever, whenever you find them.'" Esther had walked across the room and had her back turned during this recitation. But now she moved around, facing her visitor until it was Polly's eyes that dropped before her own. The older girl had always the dignity that comes from truth and sincerity. "Don't be absurd, Polly," she said, speaking quietly, but with no lack of decision. "You know as well as I do that loyalty has nothing to do with aiding one another to do what one does not believe to be right. I don't want to preach. Yet don't you think perhaps _you_ are breaking a part of our Camp Fire law? 'Be Trustworthy. This law teaches us not to undertake enterprises rashly.'" "Oh, please hush, Esther," Polly insisted. "There is no use in our quarreling, and we are sure to if you go on preaching like that. I told you what I have made up my mind to do. If you don't wish to help me, that of course is your affair. All I have the right to demand is, that what I told you in the strictest confidence you repeat to no one else." She picked up her coat and began slowly buttoning it, waiting for Esther's reply, which did not come at once. "I don't know whether I can promise you even that," the older girl answered finally. Her face was white and she moved her hands in the old nervous fashion that Betty had almost broken her of. "I don't suppose you can understand, Polly, what an almost dangerous thing you are about to undertake. And without your mother knowing it! O Polly, please don't! Why, if anything should happen to you what would she say to me or Molly and Betty, if knowing your intention I did not warn them?" Polly was like a hot flame in her anger. In her life Esther scarcely remembered ever having seen any one in such intense yet quiet passion. All the blue seemed to have gone out of her visitor's eyes until they were almost black. Her lips were drawn and although she tried to control her voice, it quivered like a too-tightly-drawn violin string. "Esther," she said, "I shall not leave this room until I have your solemn promise. Perhaps you don't know anything about the standards of conduct between people of birth and breeding. You were brought up in an orphan asylum and had no mother. Whether you disapprove of me or not makes no difference. I am not objecting to your disapproval. I can perfectly understand that. But what I absolutely will not endure is for you to tell my secret because it happens to strike your conscience that that is the right thing to do. My secret belongs to me as absolutely as my clothes or any of my other possessions do. And because you chance not to approve of it or of them is no reason why you should steal them from me and give them away to other people." Again Esther was silent and her eyes filled with tears. What was the use of arguing with Polly when she was in this mood? Yet there were so many things that she could honestly say. And one of them, that if she had had the good fortune to have a mother, she at least would not have tried to deceive her as Polly was doing. However Esther was not sure that the latter part of her companion's argument was not true. Had she the right to betray Polly's confidence, even though she might consider it for her good? For Polly had begun her revelation by insisting that what she told be kept in the strictest secrecy, and she had listened with that understanding. Unfortunately Esther's failure to reply did not strike her visitor as indicating a change in her point of view. Polly flung herself angrily down into a chair, as though intent upon beginning a siege. She was trying in a measure to control her temper, realizing how ashamed she usually felt after the flare of it was past. Still she did honorably consider that Esther's attitude in the present situation was the wrong one. Perhaps she was being disobedient, wilful, wicked even. Yet she had made up her mind to take the consequences (at least the consequences that she was now able to foresee). And she had no idea of being frustrated in her purpose by an outside person, whose assistance she had been foolish enough to ask. No, some way must be devised that would force Esther into silence. Polly glanced desperately about the small room. There was a big photograph of the Princess, smiling at her from the wall, the Princess at her loveliest, with her exquisitely refined features, her delicate, high-bred air. She turned away from it rather quickly to look again at her companion. Goodness, what a contrast there still was between the two girls! They had believed that Esther was improving a little in her appearance. Yet just now worry and uncertainty made her seem plainer even than usual. And she had on an ugly but thoroughly useful chocolate-colored dress that Betty would have made her throw into the fire at once. "Betty, it was always Betty with Esther Crippen!" If only she could reach Esther in some way through their friend. This was an ugly thought of Polly's. She was ashamed of it and yet felt herself driven to using almost any means toward attaining her end. "Look here, Esther Crippen," she began, breaking the silence first. "I wonder if it has ever occurred to you that you may some day have a secret in your life (or you may have one already for all that I know), which you want more than anything to keep hidden from people. Say you particularly wished Betty never to find it out. Well, suppose I discovered your secret, suppose I knew about it right now, would you want me to tell Betty everything that I had found out just because I decided that it would be the right thing to do?" Polly happened to be staring into her own lap as she delivered this speech, feeling none too proud of it and having to trust to her imagination as she went along. Now, however, she glanced up into the face of the other girl, who was standing near her. Then with an exclamation of regret, almost of fear, Polly jumped to her feet. "Good heavens! Esther, what is the matter with you? Are you ill, do you feel like you were going to faint? If you are sick why on earth haven't you told me before? We could talk over this business of mine any time." And Polly, forgetting her anger, put her arm reassuringly about her former friend, fairly leading her to a chair. Esther continued staring at her, with a deathly white face, evidently trying to speak, but not able. Then suddenly the girl collapsed and dropping her head on her arm began to cry. She was ordinarily self-restrained; and being brought up in an orphan asylum among people who took no interest in her emotions she had learned unusual self-control. Probably only three or four persons had ever seen her give way like this before in her life. So she did not cry easily, but in a kind of shaken, broken fashion that brought a remorseful Polly on the floor at her feet. "What on earth have I said that has hurt you so, Esther?" she begged. "I know I am a wretched little beast who does or say 'most anything sometimes in order to get my own way. But of course I don't know any secret of yours and if I did I should never tell. I only like to threaten things because I'm cross. You see I don't believe in telling secrets." This was a Polly-like way of apologizing and yet driving in her own claim at the same time. If only at this moment Esther had had the Princess' understanding of Polly O'Neill's character, most certainly she would have laughed. But Esther could not pull herself together so quickly. A few moments later, however, she put her hands on Polly's shoulders and in the face of all that had just happened, kissed her. "No, Polly," she said, "I know that if ever you should make up your mind that there was something, which I thought best should never be known, you would never tell it, even if I betray your secret now. Perhaps we don't agree about some things. But you could never be revengeful. I am sure I don't know what I ought to do. Of course you have the right to choose for yourself. I--I wish you wouldn't do what you have decided upon. But if I don't tell and yet don't let you stay here with me, what on earth would you do about this theatrical scheme?" "Why, go to some other boarding house for two weeks," Polly replied calmly. "I am sure that is exactly what you are doing, boarding in New York and going on with your work. Of course your work happens to be studying music at present, but you have already sung at two church concerts and----" This time Esther did laugh. "Well, church concerts are hardly to be compared with the stage, Polly. And please look in your mirror and remember that I am I and you are you. But of course you realize that if you will go on with this whim of yours, I am not going to let you live in any place by yourself. You would be sure to get ill or something dreadful might happen. No, I shall beg you every minute till the time comes, not to do what you must know would worry your mother. But if you still persist, why, you are coming right here to stay with me and I shall be your shadow every moment until you go back to school." Polly jumped up hastily. "What an impolite suggestion for a hostess!" she murmured, pretending that the seriousness of the situation was now entirely past. "Go back to school? Dear me, that is what I must do this very minute! Good-bye." And kissing Esther hastily on the hair, Polly seized her hat and fled out the door. Yet halfway down the long stairs the girl hesitated and stopped for an instant as if intending to return. "Perhaps I ought to give up and be good for once," she whispered to herself. "It won't be fair, and mother and Mollie and Betty may be angry with Esther for not telling. Even if I have the right to get into trouble myself, I haven't the right to drag in other people. But, oh dear! what fun it will be! And with Esther for my duenna, things are sure to turn out all right." On the lowest steps Polly passed a small boy hobbling up toward Esther's room. He was evidently a boy from the streets, as he was shabbily dressed and carried half a dozen papers under his arm. But there was a hungry, eager look in his face that Polly remembered having seen sometimes in Esther's in those early days of her first coming to Mrs. Ashton's home. So straightway she guessed that the boy was some child, whom Esther had discovered, with a talent and love for music and that she was giving him lessons in her leisure moments. CHAPTER VIII PREPARATIONS FOR THE HOLIDAYS "But if you won't come, Betty dear, I shan't wish to give the party," Meg Everett announced in a disappointed fashion. "With Polly and Esther not to be here, there are so few of our old Camp Fire circle anyhow. And you see I only wanted to have our club and a few of John's young men friends. The idea is that we girls are to cook the entire dinner and then just talk or dance or play games afterwards. It is not to be anything like a _real_ party." Betty smiled. She and Meg and Mollie O'Neill were taking a winter tramp through the woods in the direction of the Sunrise Cabin, which had been closed for the past six months. "I should dearly love to come, Meg," Betty confessed. "There is no use in my pretending that I shouldn't feel desperately lonely with the thought of your having such a good time without me. But mother----" Mollie gave her arm an affectionate squeeze. "There, Betty Ashton, that is just exactly what I knew you would say. So I talked the whole matter over with your mother myself first. And she declares that there isn't any reason why you should not accept Meg's invitation. She is quite sure that your father would never have wished you not to be as happy as possible. You have had trouble enough, goodness knows! And then the extra disappointment of Polly's and Esther's remaining in New York! I am glad enough Meg is going to give a party, and I hope there will be dozens of delightful things that Polly O'Neill will miss. What on earth do you suppose has possessed her to want to stay on with Esther?" And Mollie sighed. The three months without her sister may have passed by in greater peacefulness than with her, but then Polly always added a zest and flavor to existence. And this was the longest time that the two girls had ever been separated. "Oh, I don't know. She must have had some very good reason," Betty returned. "Polly wrote me that she had, and now we must not believe that she did not love us as much as ever. She wasn't able to explain the particulars just at present; but if we only trust her and forgive her some day we will understand." Mollie frowned. With a much quieter and more amiable temperament than her twin, yet nearly eighteen years of intimate living with her had given her a pretty clear comprehension of her sister's character. Privately Mollie was puzzled over Polly's behavior and a good deal worried. It was not like Polly to have conceived so sudden a devotion to Esther as to be unwilling to leave her for two weeks. And her claim that she might not be particularly happy at home because of her stepbrother's presence was not convincing. For Betty Ashton had invited Polly to be her guest. No, Polly certainly had some special design in staying on in New York. Of this Mollie was completely convinced. But what the purpose was, neither from her own imaginings nor from any hint dropped by her sister's letters, could she get the slightest clue. The three girls had come to a narrow path through the woods, and for a little while were compelled to walk in single file. For a few moments they were silent, each one busy with her own thoughts, Mollie happening to be in the middle. "I believe I'll ask Billy what he thinks," she remarked suddenly aloud. And then she bit her lips, blushing until the very tips of her ears grew warm. For Meg and Betty were both laughing in the most ridiculous way. "Is it as bad as that, Mollie?" Meg teased. "Ask Billy what he thinks on one or all subjects, dear?" Betty queried. To both of which questions Mollie naturally deigned no reply. She and Billy Webster were extremely good friends. Indeed, they seemed always to have been since the day of their first meeting, when she had bound up his injured head. And this winter, with Polly away and Betty so busy and Meg wrapped up in keeping house and Sylvia spending all her spare hours in studying with Dr. Barton when not at school, she had enjoyed the walks and talks with the young man perhaps more than usual. But it was not because of their intimacy that she had considered putting this problem of Polly's failure to return home before him. Her reason was that in their long conversations about her sister, Billy had always seemed not only to be interested in Polly but able to understand her disposition peculiarly well. So it was stupid for her two friends to have taken her foolish exclamation as meaning anything personal. The next ten minutes Betty and Meg had rather a difficult time in making peace; for Mollie had not a strong sense of humor--a fact which both girls should have remembered. But because she was always so gentle and kind herself, no one of her friends could bear the idea of hurting her feelings under any circumstances. However while Betty was in the midst of apologizing, Billy Webster himself came swinging along the same path from the opposite direction. He had his gun over his shoulder and half a dozen birds in his hand. "Who is it taking my name in vain?" he demanded of Betty. And Mollie had a dreadful moment of fearing that Betty might betray what they had been talking about. However, as nothing of the kind happened, ten minutes later Meg and Betty were walking ahead deep in conversation about the party, while Mollie and Billy strolled after them only a few feet behind. The young man had been on his way into Woodford to divide the product of his day's hunting between Mrs. Ashton and Mrs. O'Neill. Now, hearing that the girls were on a pilgrimage to Sunrise Cabin, he had been invited to accompany them. "No, it won't be like a meeting of our Camp Fire Club, Meg," Betty argued thoughtfully, after having satisfied herself by a glance over her shoulder that Mollie and Billy were too absorbed in each other to take any notice of them. "I have been coming to our Camp Fire Club meetings all winter and because I am in mourning made no difference. But with John inviting his friends to your entertainment, why, I can't make up my mind yet, dear, whether I have the courage to come." Betty spoke bravely, but Meg slipped her arm across her friend's shoulder, holding her fast. The two girls were closer friends now that Polly and Esther were both away and Meg understood that sometimes Betty did not feel so cheerful as she pretended. "John won't ask more than just one other fellow to keep him company, if we can have you with us in no other way," Meg conceded. "You see, Betty, John is only to be at home for a few days. As this is his senior year at college he wants to so some special work during the holidays. But he likes you so much better than any of the other girls in Woodford, that I am quite sure----" But Betty had stuffed her fingers in her ears and was refusing to listen. "It is bad enough to have you girls spoil me because I am in trouble, but when it comes to telling fibs I won't hear you. Of course you know, Meg Everett, that I am not going to let you spoil everybody's pleasure on my account," she answered. Feeling the victory already won, Meg laughed. "John is only to invite Billy Webster and Frank Wharton and Ralph Bowles and three or four of his Boy Scout camp. By the way, Betty, one of the things I particularly wished to talk to you about is this: Shall we ask Anthony Graham? He seems rather uncouth and the other fellows won't have anything to do with him. But he is Nan's brother and she is so splendid I should hate to hurt her feelings." Betty shook her head. "Anthony isn't the kind of person to invite though, Meg," she replied without a moment's hesitation. "Of course he is trying to pull up and keep straight and I feel that we should do all we can to help him. But inviting him to our parties and treating him as if he were exactly our equal!" Betty's chin went up in the air and her face betrayed such a delicate, high-bred disdain that apparently Anthony's fate was immediately settled. The little party had now reached the familiar pine woods and there, only a few yards ahead, stood their deserted cabin. The totem pole raised its gaunt head to greet them, still decorated with the history of their year in the woods together. But the doors and windows of the cabin were barred with heavy planks. Nowhere was there a sign of life. "Let's go back home at once, please, now that we have seen that everything is all right," Mollie begged a moment later. "It always gives me the blues dreadfully to see Sunrise Cabin closed up and to know that perhaps no one of us shall ever live there again. I never dreamed when we said good-bye to it last spring that we would not come out here often for club meetings and parties." "Parties?" Meg repeated. Then she continued standing perfectly still and silent for several moments, although the others were moving about laughing and talking. "Parties!" she exclaimed again, speaking in such a loud tone that her companions turned to stare at her in surprise. "Betty Ashton, Mollie O'Neill and Billy Webster, if you and some of the others will help us, why can't we have our dinner party here at the cabin? We are not planning to have it until New Year, so there will be plenty of time to make arrangements." However, Meg could get no further with her suggestion, for Betty and Mollie had both flung their arms about her and Betty exclaimed: "It will almost make me have a happy holiday time, Meg dearest, and I can never bear to refuse your invitation if we are to be together at Sunrise Cabin once again." CHAPTER IX THE CASTLE OF LIFE It seemed to Esther Crippen that she had been sitting in the wings of the theater every evening for half her lifetime, although it had been only a week since Polly's initial appearance as the Fairy of the Woods in the dramatization of the ancient legend "The Castle of Life." At first she had spent every moment after Polly's departure from the dressing room in peering out from some inconspicuous corner at whatever action was taking place upon the stage. Now, however, the play and even the actors themselves had become a comparatively old story. Her interest centered itself chiefly in Polly--in Polly and the odd human characters that she saw everywhere about her. Indeed, except for her nervousness and care of her friend, this week had been almost as absorbing to Esther Crippen as to the other girl. For after the first two nights she had lost her fear that Polly might make an absolute failure of her part, and also the impression that either of them might be insulted or unkindly treated by the men and women about them. People had been rough perhaps, but thoroughly business-like. And if Polly were told to hurry, or to move on, or corrected for some mistake in her work, it was all done in so impersonal a fashion that both girls had learned valuable lessons from the experience. Esther had been amazed at the spirit in which Polly had accepted the discipline and hard work. Perhaps, after all, she had been making a mountain out of a mole hill and this disobedience on Polly's part, wrong though it certainly was, might not result in anything so disastrous as she had at first feared. And there was no doubt that Polly was achieving a real success, one that surprised her and every one else. Her part was only a small one, with but few words to speak; otherwise she could never have managed it with no previous experience and so little time for rehearsing. Nevertheless she had made one of those sudden yet conspicuous triumphs that are so frequent in stage life. Sometimes it may happen with a girl playing the part of a maid, sometimes with a man who has not half a dozen sentences to recite. It is the quality in the acting that counts. And the manager in choosing Polly for the special rôle he had desired had chosen wisely. For it was not so much the girl's method of playing that had won sympathy and applause, as her manner and appearance. And curiously enough, though Polly was frightened the first night of the performance, she was not so much so as on that evening of the Camp Fire play the previous year, before an audience of friends. Polly felt herself at the heart of her first great adventure. The play itself, the other actors and actresses, the strangeness of her surroundings, all occupied her to the forgetting of her own individuality. It seemed as though she were only living out a kind of dream. Nothing was real, nothing was actual about her. The audience did not terrify her, nor the lights, nor the darkness, nor the queer smell of dust and paint and artificiality, that is a necessary part of the background of stage life. Perhaps the girl had found her element. For there is for each one of us a place in this world, some niche into which one really fits. And though this place may seem crowded, or ugly, or undesirable to other people, if it should be our own, it holds a feeling of comfort and of possession that no other spot can. But Polly had not been thinking of niches or elements or anything of the kind either tonight or during the week past. All of her being was too deeply absorbed in the interest of the play and the actors and her own little part. At the present moment she was in hiding behind a piece of scenery, eagerly awaiting the cue for her own entrance; yet she was as keenly intent upon each detail of the acting taking place upon the stage as if tonight it were a first experience. The players happened to be the two persons who had been kindest and most helpful to her in the company. And one of them one was the brown-eyed girl whose lead she had followed on the day of her own engagement. Polly had been glad to make the discovery later that this same girl had been engaged to play the part of Grazioso's grandmother in "The Castle of Life." The other actor was the star, a young man of about twenty-six or seven, who was impersonating Grazioso, the hero of the fairy story. The stage was in semi-darkness, while the grandmother related to the boy the tale of her first meeting with the fairies. A small, shabby room revealed a low fire burning in the grate. In an armchair sat the old woman, while her grandson lay on the floor at her feet with his head resting upon his hand. "There are two fairies," said the grandmother, "two great fairies--the Fairy of the Water and the Fairy of the Woods. Ten years ago I had gone out at daybreak to catch the crabs asleep in the sand, when I saw a halcyon flying gently towards the shore. The halcyon is a sacred bird, so I never stirred for fear I should scare it away. And at the same time from a cleft in the mountain I saw a beautiful green adder appear and come gliding along the sands toward the bird. When they were near each other the adder twined itself around the neck of the halcyon as if it were embracing it tenderly. Then I saw a great black cat, who could be nothing else than a magician, hiding itself behind a rock close to me. And scarcely had the halcyon and adder embraced than the cat sprang on the innocent pair. This was my time to act. I seized him in spite of his struggles and with the knife I used for opening oysters I cut off the monster's head, paws and tail. And as soon as I had thrown the creature's body into the sea, before me stood two beautiful ladies, one with a crown of white feathers and the other with a scarf made of snake's skins. They were, as I have told you, the Fairy of the Water and the Fairy of the Woods." With these words, Polly moved a few steps nearer the place set for her entrance. On the opposite side she could see the other girl who impersonated the water fairy, also ready to make her entrance. Tonight was New Year's eve and the house was unusually crowded. But the grandmother was continuing her speech. "Enchanted by a wicked Jinn, they were obliged to remain bird and snake until some hand should restore them to liberty. To me they owed freedom and power. 'Ask what thou wilt,' they said, 'and thy wishes shall be fulfilled." "I thought how I was old and had too hard a life to wish for it over again. But the day would come when nothing would be too good for thee, my child." The old woman leaned over, stroking her grandson's dark hair. "The Fairy of the Woods gave me a scale from the snake's skin and the Fairy of the Water a small white feather from her crown. They are hidden in a box under some rags. Open the box and thou wilt find the scale and the feather." The boy then crossed the stage and a moment later handed the box to the old woman, who appeared too ill to leave her chair. After bending over and listening to her instructions, he stepped forward nearer the footlights. There in the center of the room was a bowl of water in which he placed the feather and the scale. "Wish for thyself anything thou desirest, fortune, greatness, wit, power," murmurs the old woman. "But embrace me first, as I feel that I am dying." But Grazioso did not approach either to embrace or ask the old woman's blessing. "I wish my grandmother to live forever!" he cried. "Appear, Fairy of the Woods. Appear, Fairy of the Water!" And now in perfect silence Polly O'Neill made her entrance. She moved very slowly forward, so slim and young and tall, with such big, dark-blue eyes, and such slender, elfish grace that she did not look like a real flesh-and-blood girl. The audience stirred, and a little breath of appreciation moved through it, which Polly was almost learning to expect. She wore her own black hair unbound and hanging loose below her shoulders. It was made blacker by the wreath of leaves that encircled her head. She was dressed in an olive-green gown of some soft, clinging material and a scarf of snake's skin was fastened over her shoulder. The Fairy of the Water followed Polly. Her gown was white with a blue scarf, and she was small and blonde. She was a pretty girl, but somehow there was no suggestion of the fairy about her. One could see the same type of girl any time, standing behind a counter in a shop, or dancing at a party of young people. Polly's grace and her ardent, unconventional temperament made it easy to understand why the attention should be focused upon her during this single scene. Besides, she had one long speech to deliver. This was the moment when the girl felt her only real nervousness. For always there was the uncertainty as to whether her voice would be strong and full enough to be heard throughout the theater. Tonight and for the first time she hesitated for a second. Yet no one noticed it, except the actors near her and Esther, who had crept forth, for a closer view in spite of the stage regulations. "Have you forgotten your lines, child?" the leading man whispered so quietly that no one could overhear. But Polly only smiled, with a faint shake of her graceful head. "Here we are, my child," she began the next instant, speaking in clear, girlish tones that showed nothing of indecision or embarrassment. "We have heard what you said and your wish does you credit. We can prolong your grandmother's life for some time. But to make her live forever you must find The Castle of Life." "Madam," replied Grazioso, "I will start at once." "It is four long days' journey from here," the Fairy of the Woods continued. "If you can accomplish each of these four days' journey without turning out of your road and if, on arriving at the castle, you can answer the three questions that an invisible voice will ask you, you will receive there all that you desire. For there the fountain of immortality will be found." Then slowly the great stage curtain descended. And this was the end of Polly's part in the performance, though one more ordeal was to follow. And though she welcomed this, Polly also dreaded it more than anything else. Always a curtain call came at the close of this scene, when she and the Fairy of the Water, each holding a hand of Grazioso's, must step forth to the footlights and for an instant face the audience, smiling their thanks for the applause. But Polly had never been able to summon a smile, for at this moment she had always become self-conscious. The glamour and the excitement of the theater suddenly deserted her and she felt not like a fairy or anything fantastic, but only like Polly O'Neill, a very untrained and frightened girl who was deceiving her family and friends to have this first taste of stage life, and who might suffer almost any kind of consequences: imprisonment in some boarding school, Polly feared, where she might never again be allowed any liberty or an equal imprisonment in Woodford, with no mention of the theater made in her presence as long as she lived. For Polly could not determine to what lengths her mother's anger and disapproval of her conduct might lead her. And she did mean to make her confession and face the results as soon as her two weeks' engagement was over. Therefore tonight she kept an even tighter clasp on Grazioso's hand than usual, her knees were shaking so absurdly. And all the faces in the audience were swimming before her, as though they had no features but eyes. Then suddenly the girl grew rigid with surprise, uncertainty and fear. In the second row just under the footlights she had discovered a face that was strangely familiar. And yet could it be possible that this person of all others should be here in New York City and in the theater tonight, instead of in the village of Woodford? CHAPTER X THE RECOGNITION Esther was not waiting in the accustomed place where Polly had previously found her when she came off the stage. On her way to the dressing room she shivered a little, missing the coat that her friend was in the habit of wrapping about her shoulders. The night was extremely cold and the back of a theater is nearly always breezy. Polly hurried faster than usual to her room--a small dark one at the end of a passage-way. But even here there was no sign of Esther. What could have become of her? She was not apt to be talking with any of the members of the company; for both girls had decided that it was wiser to make themselves as inconspicuous as possible. Well, she must do her best to get out of her fairy costume and back into sensible garments by her own efforts. Esther would be coming along in a few moments. She could not stand idle with her teeth fairly chattering and those ridiculous little chills chasing themselves all over her. Wouldn't it be too absurd to take cold at this particular time and so make a failure of her adventure? For she would thus heap all the family disapproval and punishment upon her own head and incur the righteous indignation of everybody in the company by having to resign her part. Would any one ever have imagined that a garment could be so difficult to unfasten as this one she was now incased in? For of course the stiffness and shakiness of Polly's fingers came from the zero temperature in her dressing room and not in the least from the momentary fright she had received from her supposed recognition of a face in the audience. Undoubtedly she had been mistaken. Yet why should she have chosen to believe that she saw about the most unlikely person of her acquaintance? A guilty conscience should have conjured up some ghost who had more right to be present. Polly finally did succeed in getting into her street clothes without assistance; and though five, ten minutes passed, Esther did not appear in the dressing room. Nor was she anywhere in the hall, since Polly had several times thrust her head out the door to look for her. Polly was a little uneasy, though assuredly nothing serious could have happened to Esther. Esther had been very good to her during these past days, so staunch and loyal, never reproaching her or arguing once she had become convinced that Polly's mind was made up, and taking such wonderful care of her, guarding her so closely! If ever there came a time when her mother, or Mollie, or Betty should attempt to blame Esther for her part in this escapade, Polly had determined that they should understand the situation in its true light. And some day she might be able to return Esther's allegiance and devotion. For always the opportunity to serve a friend will come if one is sufficiently on the lookout for it. The moment that she left her dressing room Polly ran directly into Esther, who was hurrying toward her. "Oh, Polly dear," she said, "I hope you haven't been worried, though I have been uneasy enough about you. Do come back into your room for a moment. There is something I want to tell you that no one else must hear." Esther looked so excited and nervous that Polly slipped an arm comfortingly about her. "Don't mind if anybody has said anything rude or been horrid, please," she whispered. "You know we promised each other not to take the disagreeable things seriously." "Oh no, it is nothing like that. It is about you," the older girl explained. Polly smiled. "The disagreeable things usually are about me." She looked so absurdly young and wilful and charming that Esther felt herself suddenly willing to champion her cause against any opposition. Of course Polly had done wrong, but the mistake had been made and to frustrate her ambition now could do no possible good. "I don't think you understand, Polly; you can't of course. But Billy Webster was in the audience just now and recognized you. He says that Mollie was afraid there was something the matter and----" "Billy Webster's opinions are not of the least interest to me. Do let's hurry home, Esther. It is almost ten o'clock and though we can take the street car straight to your door, we have never been out this late before." "But Billy says he _must_ see you. He is waiting outside. He says he means to tell your mother and Mollie what you are doing unless you promise to return home tomorrow. He says that if you won't promise he may telegraph them tonight, so your mother can come and get you tomorrow. I think you had better see him." Suddenly Polly flung her arms about her friend's neck and began crying like a disappointed child. One never could count on Polly's doing what might be expected of her. She had had the boldness of defy opposition and to act successfully for a week on the professional stage; yet now when she most needed her nerve she was breaking down completely. "I always have hated that Billy Webster," she sobbed, "from the first moment I saw him. What possible reason or right can he have to come spying on me in this fashion? If he tells mother what I am doing now and does not give me a chance to confess, she will never forgive me. Neither will Mollie nor Betty nor any of the people I care about. Rose and Miss McMurtry will never speak to me. I shall be turned out of our Camp Fire Club. Of course I know I deserve it. But that Billy Webster should be the person to bring about my punishment is too much! Besides, I can't give up my part now. Surely, Esther, you can see that. Acting a week longer won't hurt me any more and----" "I think we had better see Mr. Webster, anyhow, dear," Esther insisted quietly. "Perhaps we can persuade him not to tell, or else to give you the first opportunity." Hastily Polly dried her eyes. She looked very white and frail as they went out of the room together. In a secluded corner not far from the stage door they found Billy Webster waiting for them. His face was pale under his country tan. His blue eyes, that sometimes were charmingly humorous, showed no sign of humor now. If ever there was so youthful a figure of a stern and upright judge, he might well have stood for the model. Polly struggled bravely to maintain her dignity. "What is your decision, Miss O'Neill?" he inquired, without wasting any time by an enforced greeting. "I presume Miss Crippen has told you what I have made up my mind to do." Amiability was one of Esther's dominant traits of character; yet she would have liked to shake Billy Webster until his teeth chattered or suppress him in almost any way. After all, what right had he to take this lofty tone with Polly? He was not a member of her family, not even her friend. Just because he had known all of them in their Camp Fire days in the woods and was devoted to Mrs. Wharton and to Mollie was not a sufficient excuse. Therefore Polly's unexpected meekness of manner and tone was the more surprising--and dangerous. "How did you happen to come to New York and to the theater, Billy?" she queried, ignoring his use of the "Miss." Frequently in times past they had called each other by their first names, when good feeling happened to be existing between them. Instantly Billy looked a little more on the defensive. "I--I had to come to New York on business," he explained sullenly. "And Mollie had been telling me that she was kind of uneasy about you and that she felt there must be some reason you wouldn't give why you did not wish to come home for the holidays." "So you undertook to play detective and find out?" Polly announced in the cool, even tones that made Billy hot with anger and a sense of injustice. He was perfectly sure that he was right in his attitude toward her. She had been disobedient and audacious beyond his wildest conception, even of her. And yet she had a skilful fashion of making the other fellow appear in the wrong. "I told Mollie that I would call on you and Esther," he returned, relapsing into his old-time familiarity. "You see, I told her that I was sure things were quite all right, but I wanted to convince her too. I didn't think you would mind seeing me. I thought you might even be glad to hear about your Woodford friends. So as Mollie gave me your address, I went out to your house at about eight o'clock. The maid told me that you had gone to the theater, told me which one. Of course I just supposed that you had gone to see a show. And that was pretty bad for two young girls! But when I got here and the curtain went up and you came out!--why, Polly, I just couldn't believe it at first, and then I got to thinking of how your mother and Mollie would feel and what might happen!" And Billy's voice shook in a very human and attractive fashion. Instantly Polly's hand was laid coaxingly on the young man's coat sleeve. "But, Billy, seeing as now I have been and gone and done it already, why, think of me in any way that you please. Only don't tell on me for another week. The play is to last only through the holidays. And I promise on my word of honor to come home as soon as it is over and to tell mother every single thing." "Word of honor?" Billy repeated slightingly. And of course, though Polly deserved her punishment his inflection was both rude and cruel. Up to this moment the little party of three persons had been entirely uninterrupted. Now Esther heard some one coming quickly toward them. And turning instantly she understood the impression that this scene might make. The man was the leading actor of the company, Richard Hunt, who in a quiet way had shown an interest and an attitude of protection toward Polly. Now observing a strange young man, and Polly's evident agitation, it was but natural that he should suppose that some one was trying to annoy her. Esther flung herself into the breach. Not for anything must a scene be permitted to take place! And she could guess at Billy Webster's scornful disregard of a man who was an actor. Billy was a country fellow with little experience of life, and broad-mindedness was not a conspicuous trait of his character. Esther never knew just exactly how she managed it, but in another moment she had confided the entire story of Polly's audacity to Mr. Hunt, Billy Webster's place in it, and his present intention of bringing retribution upon them. She knew there was but little time for her story; for Mr. Hunt might be compelled to leave them on receiving his curtain call at any moment. In a very surprising and good-humored fashion however he seemed to understand the situation at once. "I had an idea that Miss O'Neill was new to this business," he said; "or you would both have realized that it is not wise for a girl so young as she is to come to the theater without her mother or some much older woman to look after her. But I believe I can appreciate everybody's point of view in this matter. So why wouldn't it be well to have Miss O'Neill telegraph her mother herself and ask that she come down to New York tomorrow. She could say there was nothing serious, so as not to frighten her. And then of course they could talk things over together and decide what was best without any interference." But before any answer could follow his suggestion a bell sounded and the older man was obliged to hurry away. Esther breathed a sigh of relief. "Dear me, why had not one of us thought of this way out?" she asked. "Surely, Billy, you can't object to allowing Mrs. Wharton to be the judge in this matter?" Billy nodded. "Of course that is the best plan." "And you, Polly?" Polly had begun to cry again. "I want to see my mother right this minute," she confessed. And then, slipping out of the stage door, she left Esther and Billy to follow immediately after her and in silence to escort her safely home. CHAPTER XI SUNRISE CABIN AGAIN It was New Year's night. Sunrise Cabin was no longer an empty and deserted place, but golden lights shone through the windows, making a circle of brightness outside the door. From the inside came the sound of voices and laughter and music and the clatter of dishes. Slowly a figure approached the door. It was after seven o'clock and a sharply cold evening with a heavy snow on the ground, so there could be small comfort in loitering. Yet when the figure reached its evident destination, instead of knocking or making an effort to enter, it hesitated, stopped, turned and walked away for a few steps and then came back again. The second time, however, summoning a sudden courage, the arm shot forth, and there was a single rap on the door. The rap was so imperative that in spite of the rival noises inside, the door opened quickly. Then the newcomer entered and for another moment stood hesitating in even greater bewilderment. The great room seemed to be twinkling with a hundred bayberry candles, sending forth a delicious woodland fragrance. The walls were covered with pine branches and the big fireplace was piled as high with burning fagots and pine cones as safety permitted. A long table standing in the center of the room was beautifully and yet oddly decorated, and upon it dinner was just about to be served. Resting in the middle of its uncovered surface were three short and slender pine logs of the same general height and size and crossed at the top, while swinging from this trident was a brightly polished copper kettle, piled high tonight with every kind of fruit and with giant clusters of white and purple grapes suspended over its sides. Encircling the centerpiece, made not of real wood of course but of paper bonbons, were three groups of logs representing the insignia of the three orders of the Camp Fire, the wood-gatherer's logs having no flame, the fire-maker's a small one, while the torch-bearer's flame of twisted colored paper seemed to glow as though it were in truth of fire. The mats on the table were embroidered in various Camp Fire emblems--a bundle of seven fagots, a single pine tree, or a disk representing the sun. And at either end of the long table three candles had lately been lighted, while standing up around it at their appointed places were about twenty guests, the girls dressed in their ceremonial costumes, the young men as Boy Scouts. The effect of the entire scene was so brilliant and so unusual that there was small wonder that the latest comer was overwhelmed. He fumbled awkwardly with his hat, cleared his throat, his face so crimsoning with embarrassment that actual tears were forced out of his eyes. And then just as the young man was praying that the earth might open and swallow him up, a girl came forward from the indeterminate mass of persons, who appeared to be swimming in a mist before him, and held out her hand. "I am so glad to see you, Mr. Graham. Nan and I were beginning to be afraid you would not be able to come," she said cordially. "But you are just in time, as we are only sitting down to the table this very minute." And Meg Everett then led her final guest down what seemed to him a mile's length of table, placing him between two persons, whom at the moment he did not suppose that he had ever seen. And before he could quite recover his senses there was an unexpected burst of music and then a cheer that filled every inch of the cabin space. "Wo-he-lo for aye, Wo-he-lo for aye, Wo-he-lo, Wo-he-lo, Wo-he-lo for aye! Wo-he-lo for work, Wo-he-lo for health, Wo-he-lo, Wo-he-lo, Wo-he-lo for Love." And then with laughter Meg Everett's New Year dinner guests took their places at the table and in the pause Anthony Graham had a chance to pull himself together. To his relief he found that Miss McMurtry was seated on his left side, and at least they were acquaintances. For Miss McMurtry had also come to live in the old Ashton house and often passed the young man on the stairs, nodding good-night or good-morning. Then he had put up some book-shelves for her in her room and moved the furniture to her satisfaction. So, perhaps the Camp Fire party might not be so wretchedly uncomfortable with one person near with whom he might exchange an occasional word. For just what the young man's emotions were this evening, no one except a person placed in a similar position could understand. Perfectly well did he appreciate that Meg had asked him to her dinner only because of her loyalty and affection for his sister, Nan, as a member of her same Camp Fire Club. The brothers of the other girls had been invited, Jim Meade, Frank Wharton and, of course, John Everett, besides others of his friends. So to have left him out might have been to hurt Nan's feelings. His sister was both proud and sensitive over his efforts to make a better position for himself in the village. Yet should he have taken advantage of Meg's kindness and accepted her invitation? Anthony was by no means certain. This same question had been keeping him awake for several nights and even after having written his hostess that she might expect him to appear he had delayed his approach until the last minute. Assuredly the other young men would not enjoy his presence. They might be coldly polite, but nothing more could be expected. For no one could be more conscious than Anthony was at this time in his life of the difference between him and other men of his age, who had the advantages of birth and education. Actually he could feel the grime of his own hands as he clutched them nervously together under the table. Not all the scrubbing of the past hour could altogether rid them of the soot and dust that came of making fires and sweeping office floors. And his clothes, although brushed until they were spotless, were worn almost threadbare in places. The very shirt that Nan had washed and ironed for him, had had to have the frayed ends trimmed away from the wrist-bands. Anthony glanced across the table. There were Nan's dark eyes smiling at him bravely. She did not look in the least ashamed of him. And as for Nan herself why, she was as pretty a Camp Fire girl as any one at the table. Wearing their Council Fire costumes, each girl decorated only with the honor beads which she had won by her own efforts, the poorer maids and the rich ones were equally attractive. For there were none of the differences in toilet which any other kind of entertainment might have revealed. But Nan was not only smiling at her brother, she was nodding at him and trying to attract his attention. Evidently she wished him to glance away from Miss McMurtry to his companion on the other side. And Anthony finally did manage to turn shyly half way around. Then with a sudden feeling almost of happiness he discovered that Betty Ashton was on his right. She did not happen to be looking toward him at the moment, but was talking to John Everett with more animation than he had ever before seen her show. Betty had no knowledge of Anthony's having been invited to Meg's Camp Fire dinner. His invitation had not come so soon perhaps as the others had received theirs, and afterwards for several days he had had no opportunity for conversation with her. For of course living in Betty's house gave him no right to any pretense of friendship with her. Yet the moments were passing and she must by this time have become conscious of his presence. Miss McMurtry had called him by name several times and no human being could be entirely oblivious of a person so near, unless under some peculiar stress of emotion. Anthony felt his former nervousness leaving him. He was no longer blushing; his face had become white and a little stern. So that when Betty finally turned to speak to the young man she had a curious impression that his face was unfamiliar, it wore so different an expression from any that she had ever seen on it before. Betty had been conscious of Anthony's presence from the instant of his taking his place beside her and in failing to recognize him had not deliberately intended being rude or unkind. At first she had been amazed and a little chagrined by his presence, for after what she had said to Meg she had not dreamed of the young man's being included among the guests. Yet this was Meg's entertainment and not hers, and of course she had no right to feel or show offense. Only she and John Everett happened to be having such an interesting talk at the moment of Anthony's appearance, and assuredly John shared her conviction about the newcomer! One could be kind to the young fellow of course, without admitting him within the intimate circle of friendship. And Betty Ashton, although she would never have confessed it, had always been greatly influenced by John Everett's opinions and personality. He was such a big blond giant, older and handsomer and more a man of the world than any other college fellow in Woodford. She was flattered, too, because he had never failed on his return for holidays to show her more attention than any other girl in the village. He might have other friendships outside of his own home; of this she could know nothing, but at the present time this thought only made him the more agreeable. Therefore it was annoying that she might be expected to waste a part of her evening on a young fellow for whom she felt no personal interest, only good will. Betty herself was not conscious of the condescension in her attitude, but why did she find it so difficult to begin a conversation with the newcomer or even to greet him? Anthony should at least understand that it was exceedingly ill mannered of him to keep staring down into his plate when he must have become aware that she was now ready to talk with him. But what should she say first? Having failed to notice a person's existence for some time makes an ordinary "Good evening" appear a bit ridiculous. "How do you do, Mr. Graham?" Betty began half shyly, putting more cordiality into her manner than usual in an effort to atone for her former lack of courtesy. Then for the briefest space Anthony glanced up at her quietly, his grave eyes studying hers, until Betty felt her own eyelids flutter and was grateful for the length of her dark lashes which swept like a cloud before her vision. For actually she was blushing in the most absurd and guilty fashion, as though she had done something for which she should feel ashamed. "Good evening," Anthony returned, and during the rest of the dinner party he never voluntarily addressed a single remark to her. Betty need not have been afraid that he might interfere with her opportunity for conversation with John Everett. For although Anthony answered politely any questions that she put to him and listened to whatever she wished to say, the greater part of his time he devoted to talking with Miss McMurtry and to pursuing his own train of thought. For if the young man had originally been doubtful as to whether it was wise for him to accept Meg Everett's invitation, he was glad now with all his heart. Just what this evening was giving him he had needed. Glancing up and down the table, his own resolution was thereby strengthened. If there had been moments when he had wavered, when it had seemed easier to slip back into his old way of life and to enjoy the companions who were always ready to join hands, he could hereafter recall this experience and Betty's treatment of him, as well as the sight of the other young men guests. Some day there should be another reckoning. These fellows were largely what their fathers had made them; they had birth, schooling, the influences of cultured homes. But out in the big world a man's own grit and will and ability to keep on working in the face of every difficulty counted in the long run. Anthony clenched his teeth, feeling his backbone actually stiffen with the strength of his resolution. Then he had the humor and good sense to laugh at himself and to begin taking more pleasure in his surroundings. Here were all the Camp Fire girls whom his sister had talked and written so much about, excepting the two whose absence the others were lamenting, Polly and Esther. Here also was the German professor, who had lately moved into the Ashton house, sitting on the further side of Miss McMurtry and certainly absorbing all of her attention that he possibly dared. But Anthony did not mind; he had a kind of fellow feeling for Herr Crippen, who was poor and evidently not of much interest or importance in the Lady Betty's estimation. There at the farther end of the table must be Miss Rose Dyer, the Camp Fire Guardian whom Nan cared for so deeply, and she certainly was quite as pretty as his sister had said. So why should young Dr. Barton be staring at her so severely? Miss Dyer was only laughing and talking idly with Frank Wharton; and every now and then she turned to smile and speak to the little girl who sat close beside her. This must be Faith, the youngest of the Sunrise girls, whose mother had lately died and who was now living with Miss Dyer. Anthony smiled unexpectedly, so that Betty, who happened to be glancing toward him at the moment, was vexed over his ability to amuse himself. He had only just guessed why Dr. Barton found it necessary to regard Miss Dyer so sternly. Anthony felt that he would like to make friends with this young men. He was evidently somewhat narrow and puritanical, but already had offered to assist him with any of his studies should he need help. And Anthony meant to take advantage of his offer and to interest him if he could; for Dr. Barton was just the kind of a friend he would like to know intimately in these early days of his struggle. Dinner was finally over, and, stupidly enough, as the guests began leaving the table Anthony Graham felt his own shyness and awkwardness returning. They were intending to dance for the rest of the evening, and dancing was another of the graces that had been left out of his education. However, he could find himself an inconspicuous corner somewhere, and it would be good enough fun to look on. CHAPTER XII "LIFE'S LITTLE IRONIES" "Mollie O'Neill, if you don't tell me what you and Billy Webster have been whispering about all evening and why you look so worried, I don't think I can bear it a moment longer," Betty Ashton insisted, having at last found her friend alone for a moment, while the other girls and men were clearing the living room for the dance. "There isn't anything to tell. At least there really is, but I have not been told just what," Mollie sighed in return. "Then of course it's Polly?" Mollie nodded. "Early this morning before any of us were awake a telegram arrived from Polly begging mother to come to New York at once. Polly said she wasn't ill and there was nothing for us to worry over, but just the same Sylvia and I have been worried nearly to death all day. For mother got off within a few hours. Then late this evening Billy Webster appears in Woodford after his visit in New York. And though he tells me that he saw Polly and Esther and has confessed that he knows why Polly telegraphed for mother, he won't give me the least satisfaction about anything. Can you make any suggestion, Betty dear? What difficulty do you suppose Polly has gotten into this time? For certainly it is Polly and not Esther; Esther would never be absurd." Mollie lowered her voice as several of their friends were approaching. "Please don't speak of this, Betty. Mother left word that we were not to mention it outside the family until she learned exactly what was the matter. But of course she said that I might tell you." Before Betty could reply John Everett had invited her to dance. But slowly she shook her head. "I can't, John. I know you will think it foolish; perhaps it is. Of course I have come to Meg's party and enjoyed it very much. And yet, well, somehow I don't feel quite like dancing. You understand, don't you?" John acquiesced. He was disappointed, and yet felt himself able to understand almost anything that Betty wished him to, when she looked at him with that appealing light in her gray eyes and that rose flush in her cheeks. "Never mind," he returned; "I'll find seats for us somewhere, where we can manage to talk and yet watch the others." Betty smiled. It was agreeable to be so sought after, and yet under the circumstances quite out of the question. "You will please find me a place where I can watch, but not with you. This is your party, remember. Meg will expect you and every man to do his duty," she replied. So after a little further discussion Betty found herself seated upon a kind of miniature throne, which John had made for her by piling some sofa cushions upon an old divan. Behind her was a background of cedar and pine branches decorating the walls and just above her head flickered the lights of candles from a pair of brass sconces. Betty wore her red brown hair parted in the middle and in two heavy braids, one falling over each shoulder, while around her forehead was a blue and silver band with the three white feathers, the insignia of her title of "Princess" in their Camp Fire Club. Her dress was cut a little low in the throat and about it were strung seven chains of honor beads. For a little while at least she might have found interest in watching the others dance had she not been worried about Polly. She was uneasy and it was stupid to have been given this opportunity to think; for thinking could do no possible good. Whatever mischief Polly had gotten into was sure to be beyond one's wildest imagination. It would be much more agreeable if she might have some one to talk with her and so distract her attention. And there was one other guest beside herself who was not dancing. Betty flushed uncomfortably. It must appear strange to the others to see Anthony sitting only a short distance away from her and yet paying no more attention to her presence than if they were upon opposite sides of the world. Once or twice Betty looked graciously toward the young man, intending to smile an invitation to him to sit near her, should he show the inclination. For possibly he was too much embarrassed to make the first move. She must remember that he had had no one to teach him good manners and that he was always both shy and awkward in her presence. However, at present he seemed totally unaware of her existence and not in the least requiring entertainment. For he was watching the dancers with such profound concentration that apparently his entire attention was absorbed by them. The girl had an unusually good opportunity for studying the young man's face. She had not noticed until tonight how thin he was and how clear and finely cut his features. There was no trace of his Italian mother left, save in his black hair and in the curious glow which his skin showed underneath its pallor. His nose was big--too big, Betty thought--and his lips closed and firm. He had a kind of hungry look. Hungry for what? the girl wondered. Then she had a sudden feeling of compunction. Anthony might sometimes even be hungry for food, he worked so hard, made so little money and was so busy by day and night. Before tonight she might have helped him without his knowing or even caring, if he had guessed her purpose. But after tonight? Well, Betty felt reasonably sure that she and Anthony could never be upon exactly the same footing again. For somehow she had hurt him more than she had intended, not realizing that any one could be at once so humble and so proud. And as she had made one of those mistakes that one can never apologize for, there was no point in dwelling on it any longer. Only she did regret by this time that deep down in her heart there must still linger her old narrow attitude toward money and good birth. She was poor enough herself now, and yet in her case, as in so many others, had it not made her feel all the more pride in the distinction of her family? Assuredly she had often whispered to herself that poverty did not matter when one bore a distinguished name. Betty smothered a sigh and a yawn. It was tiresome to be sitting there thinking and reproaching herself when the others were having such a good time. How splendidly Billy Webster and Mollie danced together! He was so strong and dictatorial, so certain of his own judgment and opinions. And Mollie so gentle and yielding! She smiled over her foolish romancing, and yet there was no use pretending that they would not make a suitable match should things turn out that way. Mollie and Polly might possibly never be exactly what they had been to each other in the past, and Mrs. Wharton had re-married, and Sylvia would soon be going away to study nursing. But some one was passing close by and trying to attract her attention. Betty waved her hand, but when she had gone frowned a little anxiously. Edith Norton was dancing with the friend whom she had persuaded Meg to ask to her Camp Fire dinner, although none of the rest of the girls liked him. He was a good deal older than their other young men acquaintances and a stranger to most of them, having only come to Woodford in the past six months and opened a drug store. But he had been entirely devoted to Edith since, and of course as she was nearly twenty she should know her own mind. Notwithstanding, Betty felt uneasy and uncomfortable. They had been hearing things not to Frederick Howard's credit in the village, and Edith had always been unlike the rest of their Sunrise Camp Fire girls. She was vainer and more frivolous and dreadfully tired of working in a millinery shop in Woodford. This much she had confided to Betty after coming to live in the Ashton house. And both Rose Dyer and Miss McMurtry were afraid that Edith might for this reason accept the first opportunity that apparently offered to make life easier for her. So they had asked Betty to use her influence whenever it was possible. Betty it was who had first brought Edith into their club, and Edith had always cared for her and admired her more than any other of her associates. Betty stirred restlessly. Would she never be able to get away from serious thoughts tonight? But the next instant she had jumped to her feet with a quickly smothered cry and stood with her hands clasped tightly over her eyes. For all around her, in her hair falling down upon her shoulders and about her face were glittering sparks of heat and light. They were scorching her; already she could smell the odor of her burning hair. One movement the girl made to protect her head, then in a flash her hands were covering her eyes again. She wanted to run, and yet some subconscious idea restrained her. Running would only make the flames leap faster and higher. And surely in an instant some one must come to her assistance; for her own low cry had been echoed by a dozen other voices. Then Betty felt herself roughly seized and dragged stumbling away from her former position, while a sudden, smothering darkness destroyed her breath and vision; and none too tender hands seemed to be pressing down the top of her head. Another moment and she was pulling feebly at the scorched coat enveloping her. "Please take it off. I am all right now. The fire must be out, and I'm stifling," she pleaded. But about her there followed another firm closing in of the heavy material. And then the darkness lifted, showing Anthony Graham standing close beside her in his shabby shirt sleeves, holding his ruined coat in his hands. In a terrified group near by was every other human being in the room, excepting Jim Meade and Frank Wharton, who were pulling down the burning pine and cedar branches from the wall and stamping out the last sparks of fire caused by the overturning of one of the candles. "What happened to me? Am I much burned?" Betty asked, trying to smile and yet feeling her lips quiver tremulously. "Won't somebody please take me home?" Now she dared not put up her hands toward her pretty hair, for it was enough to try and bear the pain that seemed to be covering her head and shoulders like a blanket of fire. Surely the faces before her must look whiter and more terror-stricken than her own. Mollie and Faith were both crying. Betty wondered just why. And Anthony Graham was staring at her with such a strange expression. She wanted to thank him, to say that she was sorry and grateful at the same time, but could not recall exactly what had happened. Then that funny Herr Crippen was shaking all over and saying "Mein liebes Kind," just as though it were Esther who had been hurt. At last, however, Rose Dyer and Dr. Barton, each with an arm about her, were leading her across the length of that interminable and now pitch-black room with a floor that seemed to be rising before her eyes like the waves of the sea. And afterwards, she did not know just when, the cold night air brought back to her a returning consciousness, but with the consciousness came an even greater sense of pain. Never in after years could Betty Ashton wholly forget the drive home that followed. Rose Dyer and Miss McMurtry sat on either side of her, sometimes talking, sometimes quiet, and now and then gently touching her bandaged hands. Occasionally Dr. Barton asked her a question, to which she replied as calmly and intelligently as possible. Otherwise she made no movement that she could help and no sound. Anthony Graham drove silently and grimly forward at the utmost speed that the two livery-stable horses could attain. And although to Betty the journey seemed to last half a lifetime, in reality it had seldom been accomplished in so short a time. CHAPTER XIII THE INVALIDS Sylvia Wharton wearing a trained nurse's costume tiptoed into a darkened room. Instantly the figure upon the bed turned and sighed. "I don't see why she does not come to me, if she is no worse than you say she is," the voice said. "Really, Sylvia, I think it would be better for you or some one to tell me the truth." Sylvia hesitated. "She isn't so well, Betty dear. Perhaps Dr. Barton may be angry with me, as he distinctly said that you were not to be worried. But as you are worrying anyhow, possibly talking things over with me may make you feel better. It has all been most unfortunate, Polly's being ill here in your house when you were enduring so much yourself. But it all comes of mother's and everybody's yielding to whatever Polly O'Neill wishes." Sylvia sat down upon the side of the bed, taking one of Betty's hands in hers. Ten days had passed since the accident at the cabin and the burns on Betty's hands had almost entirely healed, but over her eyes and the upper part of her face was a linen covering, so that it was still impossible to guess the extent of her injury. She was apt to be quieter, however, Sylvia had found out, when she could feel some one touching her. And now the news of Polly for the time being kept her interested. "You see, mother's first mistake was in not bringing Polly straight back home as soon as she found out what she was doing in New York. Polly had a slight cold then and it kept getting worse each night. But of course Polly pretended that it amounted to nothing and that the stars would fall unless she finished her engagement. So finish it she did, and then hearing of your accident toward the last, as mother and Esther had kept the news a secret from her for some time, why come here she would instead of immediately going home. She wanted to help nurse and amuse you and you had said that you wanted her with you. And then of course Polly was embarrassed over meeting father and Frank. And father was angry at her disobedience and her frightening mother and Mollie. However, that cold of hers has kept on getting worse and she will have to stay in bed now for a few days anyhow. For I won't let Polly O'Neill have her own way this time." A faint smile showed itself on Betty's lips which Sylvia stooped low enough to see. And then in spite of her own stolid and supposedly cold temperament, the younger girl's expression changed. For it meant a good deal for any one to have succeeded in making Betty Ashton smile in these last few days. "But you're fonder of Polly than you are of the rest of us, even Mollie, Sylvia, and you let her lead you around," Betty argued. Sylvia's flaxen head was resolutely shaken. She no longer wore her hair in two tight pigtails, but in almost as closely bound braids wound in a circle about her face. Her complexion was still colorless and her eyes nondescript, but Sylvia's square chin and her resolute expression often made persons take a second look at her. It was seldom that one saw so much character in so young a girl. "Yes, I am fond of Polly," she agreed, "but you are mistaken if you think I let her influence me. Some one has to take Polly O'Neill sensibly for her own sake." And Sylvia just in time stifled a sigh. For of course her stepsister was in a more serious condition than she had confessed to the other girl. It was well enough to call the illness a bad cold--it was that, but possibly something worse, bronchitis, pneumonia--Dr. Barton had not yet given it a name. She was only to be kept quiet and watched. Later on he would know better what to say. Her constitution was not strong. Some telepathic message, however, must have passed from one friend to the other, for at this instant Betty sat up suddenly with more energy than she had yet shown. "If anything dreadful happens to Polly, I shall never forgive Esther as long as I live. It is all very well for Polly and your mother to insist that Esther was not in any possible way responsible. Mollie and I both feel differently. Esther should have told----" By the fashion in which Sylvia Wharton arose and walked away from the bed, Betty realized how intensely their opinions disagreed, although the younger girl moved quietly, with no anger or flurry and made no reply. "Here are some more roses, Betty, that John Everett sent you. Shall I put them near enough your bed to have you enjoy their fragrance?" Sylvia asked. "John seems to be buying up all the flowers near Dartmouth. I told Meg that you would rather he did not send so many. But she says she can't stop him. For somehow John feels kind of responsible for your getting hurt, as he arranged for you to sit under those particular candles. Then he did not notice when you first called for help and let Anthony Graham rescue you. Meg is downstairs now with your mother. Would you like to see her?" Betty shook her head. "Please don't let Meg know, but I don't feel like talking, somehow. The girls are so sweet and sympathetic. And I try to be brave, but until I know----" With magically quick footsteps the younger girl had again crossed the room and her firm arms were soon about her friend's shoulders. "You are going to be all right, dear. Dr. Barton is almost sure of it and I am quite. There won't be any scars that will last and your eyes--why, you protected them marvelously, and they only need resting. You are too beautiful, Betty dear, to have anything happen that could in any way mar you. I can't, I won't believe it." And somehow Sylvia was one of those people in whose judgment and faith one must always find healing. Betty said nothing more, only put out her hand with an appealing gesture and caught hold of Sylvia's dress. "I don't want to talk or to see people, and I'm tired of being read to. What is there for me to do, Sylvia child, to make the hours pass?" Rather desperately the younger girl looked about the great, sunshiny room. It was not Betty's old blue room, but the room once used as a store-room and afterwards occupied by Esther, into which Betty had moved a short while before her accident. Imagination was not Sylvia Wharton's strong point. She was an excellent nurse, quiet, firm and patient and always to be relied upon. But what to do to make Betty Ashton stop thinking of what might await her at the end of her weeks of suffering must have taxed a far more fertile brain than Sylvia's. However, the suggestion did not have to come from her; for at this instant there was a knock at the door, so gentle that it was difficult to be sure that it really was a knock. Outside stood the German professor with his violin under his arm. And he looked so utterly wretched and uneasy that Sylvia wondered how he could feel so great an emotion over Betty, although the entire village seemed to be worrying as though in reality she had been their own "Princess." No one could talk of anything else until her condition became finally known; but Herr Crippen was a newcomer and Betty had never cared for him. "Would the little _Fräulein_ like it that I should play for her?" he now asked gently. And Sylvia turned to the girl on the bed. At first Betty had shaken her head, but now she evidently changed her mind. "You are very kind. I think I should enjoy it," she answered. And a few moments afterwards Sylvia stole away. So there was no one in the room to notice how frequently Herr Crippen had to wipe his glasses as he looked down upon the girl of whose face he could see nothing now save the delicately rounded chin and full red lips. [Illustration: The professor had to wipe his glasses] Then without worrying her he began to play: in the beginning not Beethoven nor Mozart, nor any of the classic music he most loved, but the Camp Fire songs, which he had lately arranged for the violin because of his interest in the Sunrise Hill Camp Fire girls, and which he was playing for the first time before an audience. And Betty listened silently, not voicing her surprise. The song of "The Soul's Desire," what memories it brought back of Esther and their first meeting in this room! No wonder that Esther had so great talent with such a queer, gifted father. Betty wondered idly what the mother could have been like. She was an American and beautiful, so much she remembered having been told. Then ceasing to think of Esther she began thinking of herself. Could she ever again even try to follow the Law of the Camp Fire, which had meant so much to her in the past few years, if this dreadful tragedy which hovered over her, sleeping or waking, should be not just a terrible fear, but a living fact. Should she be scarred from her accident, or worse fear, should her eyes be affected by the scorching heat of the flames? Softly under her breath, even while listening with all her soul to the music, Betty repeated the Camp Fire Law. "Seek Beauty?" Could she find it, having lost her own? Then she remembered that the beauty which the Camp Fire taught was not only a physical beauty, but the greater kind which is of the spirit as well as of the flesh. "Give Service?" Well, perhaps some day in ways she could not now imagine, she might be able to return a small measure of the service that her friends had been so generously bestowing upon her. "Pursue Knowledge, Be Trustworthy." No misfortune need separate a girl from these ideals. "Hold on to Health." This might mean a harder fight than she had ever yet had to make before, but Betty felt a new courage faintly struggling within her. "Glorify Work." That was not an impossible demand of her as a Torch Bearer among her group of Camp Fire girls. It was the last of the seven points of their great law that she dreaded to face at this moment, here in the darkness alone. "Be Happy." Could she ever again be happy even for a day or an hour? And yet the law said: "If we have pain, to hide it, if others have sorrow, be quick to relieve it." But what the rest of the law read she could not now recall. For Herr Crippen was beginning to play one of the most exquisite pieces of music that can ever be rendered on the violin, Schubert's Serenade. "Last night the nightingale woke me, Last night when all was still It sang in the golden moonlight" Betty wondered why the music should sound so strangely far away, as though she were dreaming and it were coming to her somewhere out of the land of dreams. Another moment and Betty was sound asleep. Nevertheless the Professor, with his eyes still upon her, played softly on, played until Mrs. Ashton noiselessly entered the room. Then he ceased and the man and woman, standing one on either side of Betty's bed, looked at each other with expressions it would be difficult to translate. For each face held a certain amount of pleading and of defiance. "She is like her mother; _nicht wahr_?" the Professor murmured, and then withdrew. Afterwards for several moments Mrs. Ashton's eyes never ceased regarding the curls of Betty's red brown hair, that lay outside on her pillow. Her long braids had been cut off and latterly she had been wearing a little blue silk cap, which had now slipped off on account of her restlessness. Mrs. Ashton, glancing in a mirror at her own faded flaxen hair, sighed. Then, seating herself in a chair near by she waited in absolute patience and quietness, until suddenly from a movement upon the bed she guessed that Betty was waking. And actually her child's lips were smiling upon her not only bravely but cheerfully, as though her sleep had brought both comfort and faith. "Sit close by me, mother," Betty said, "and don't let any one else come in for a long time. You know I have been trying to get you to tell me the history of this old room for ages and now this is such a splendid comfy chance. I am just exactly in the mood for hearing a long, thrilling story." CHAPTER XIV "WHICH COMES LIKE A BENEDICTION" "Tell me exactly what you think, Dr. Barton, please, and don't try to deceive me," Betty Ashton pleaded. "I want to be told the truth at once before mother or any one else joins us. Always I shall be grateful to Rose for suggesting that you come here to me alone and when no one was expecting you, so that there need be no unnecessary suspense." Betty Ashton was seated in a low rocking chair one morning a few days later, with Dr. Barton standing near and carefully unwrapping the bandages from about her head. The room was not brightly lighted, neither was it dark, for a single blind had been drawn up at the window on the opposite side of the room. Dr. Barton's face showed lines of anxiety and sympathy. Indeed, Rose Dyer could hardly have been persuaded to believe how nervous and shaken he appeared and how, instead of his usual look of hardness and austerity, he was now as tender and gentle as a woman. "But my dear Betty," he returned in a more cheerful voice than his expression indicated, "what I say to you about yourself is by no means the last word. My opinion, you must remember, is of blessedly little importance. If there are any scars left by my treatment of your burns, there are hundreds of wonderful big doctors who can perform miracles for you. And then time is the eternal healer." "Yes, I know," the girl answered, "but just the same, please hurry and let me know what you yourself honestly think. At least, I shall be able to tell myself whether my eyes are injured, as soon as you let me try them in a bright light." For a fraction of a moment Dr. Barton delayed his work. "Won't you allow me to call your mother, or Miss Dyer or Miss McMurtry? Miss Dyer is in the house. I happen to have seen her. And it may be better, in case you do not feel yourself, to have some one else here to care for you. There is Sylvia. Actually I believe she has been of as much use to you and Polly O'Neill as your professional nurses." At this instant, although she had set her lips so close together that only a pale line showed, Betty's chin quivered, and although her hands gripped the sides of her chair so hard that her arms ached, her shoulders shook. If only Dr. Barton would cease his perfectly futile efforts to distract her attention. Could any human being think of another subject or person at a time like this? And Dr. Barton did recognize the clumsiness of his own efforts, only his conversation was partly intended to conceal his own anxiety. "Don't I hear some one coming along the hall? Are you sure you locked the door?" Betty queried uneasily. Dr. Barton did not reply. At this instant, although the linen covering still concealed his patient's eyes, he had removed the upper bandages, so that now her forehead was plainly revealed to his view. And Betty Ashton's forehead had always been singularly beautiful in the past, low and broad with the hair growing in a soft fringe about it and coming down into a peak in the center. Now, however, across her forehead there showed a long crimson line, almost like the mark from the blow of a whip. Dr. Barton examined it closely, touched it gently with the tips of his fingers and then cleared his throat and attempted to speak. But apparently the needed words would not come. On either side the ugly scar the girl's skin was white and fine as delicate silk and on top of her head, which had been protected by her heavy hair, the burns had almost completely healed. "It is all right, Miss Betty," Dr. Barton said in a curiously husky voice. "You are better than I even dared hope. There is a scar now, but I can promise you that it will be only a faint line in the future, or else will disappear altogether. The very fact that the trouble has concentrated into the one scar shows that the healing has taken place all about it." Betty's own hands slipped the final covering from about her eyes. Then for a moment her heart seemed absolutely to have stopped beating. For the room swam around her in a kind of disordered dimness. She could see nothing clearly. In a panic she sprang to her feet, when Dr. Barton took a firm hold on her shaking shoulders. "Be quiet, child. Pull yourself together for just a minute. You are frightened now, you know. In another moment things will clear up and grow more distinct." And even before he had finished speaking Betty realized this to be the blessed truth. There in the far end of the big room stood her bed and, on a table near, a bunch of John's pink roses. She could even see their bright color vividly. In another direction was her dressing table and about it hung the photographs of Rose, of Miss McMurtry, of the eleven Camp Fire girls. Dropping back into her chair Betty, covering her face with her hands, began to sob. And she cried on without any effort at self-control until she was limp and exhausted, although all the while her heart was saying its own special hymn of thanksgiving. And young Dr. Barton kept patting her upon the shoulder and urging her not to cry, because now there was nothing to cry about, until Betty would like to have laughed if the tears had not been bringing her a greater relief. How like a man not to understand that she could now permit herself the indulgence of tears, when for the past two weeks she had not dared, fearing that once having given way there would be no end. "Would you mind leaving me for a few minutes and trying to find mother?" Betty at last managed to ask. She wanted to be alone. But a few seconds after the doctor's disappearance, Betty got up and with trembling knees managed to cross her room, feeling dreadfully weak and exhausted from the long suspense. For she wished to look into a mirror with no one watching. And as Betty Ashton got the first glimpse of herself, although vanity had never been one of her weaknesses, she honestly believed that she never had seen any one look so tragically ugly before in her entire life. She hardly recognized herself. Her face was white and thin, almost bloodless except for the scar upon her forehead. Then her hair had been cut off, and though in some places the curls still remained heavy and thick, in others she looked like a badly shorn lamb. And this time the tears crowding Betty's eyes were not of relief but of wounded vanity. "I never saw any one so hideous in my life," she remarked aloud. "And I am truly sorry for the people who must have the misfortune of looking at me." Betty was wearing an Empire blue dressing gown and slippers and stockings of the same color. Her eyes were dark gray and misty with shadows under them. She looked ill, of course, and unlike her usual self, and yet it would be difficult for any misfortune to have made Betty Ashton actually ugly. For beauty is one of the most difficult things in the world to define and one of the easiest to see--a possession that is at once tangible and intangible. And Betty possessed the gift in a remarkable degree. Therefore she did not look unattractive to the eyes of the young man who was now staring at her in astonishment, fear and delight, from her own open doorway, which Dr. Barton, on leaving the room, had neglected to close. "I am sorry. Oh, I am so glad!" Anthony Graham murmured. "I was passing your room; I didn't mean to intrude. But nothing matters now you are well again and looking like yourself. It's so wonderful, so splendid, so----" And the young man, who was ordinarily quiet and reserved, fairly stammered with the rush of his own words. Betty walked shyly toward him with her eyes still filled with tears. "Oh, I am dreadful to look at, but I must not complain," she answered wistfully. "A Camp Fire girl ought to have learned some lessons in bravery and endurance. Please let's don't talk about me. I want to thank you, for if it had not been for you, I might have--I can't bear to think even now what might have happened to me." "Then don't," the young man returned brusquely, but Betty did not this time misunderstand his manner. "I did not do anything. I ought to have gotten to you sooner. I have been hating myself ever since for the time I took to reach you. After all you had done for me in the past!" The next moment the girl put her hand into the boy's hard, work-roughened one. "Ask Nan to tell the others for me. And remember that no matter what has happened or may happen in the future, I shall always feel myself in your debt, not you in mine." CHAPTER XV SECRETS It was sundown. The big Ashton house, although so filled with people, was oddly quiet. Betty Ashton slipped out of her own room into the hall and hurried along the empty corridor. Once only she stopped and smiled, partly from amusement and partly from satisfaction. Herr Crippen's door was half open and so was Miss McMurtry's and the Professor was playing on his violin. Such sentimental love ditties! The air throbbed with German love songs. And Betty had a mischievous desire to stick her head into Miss McMurtry's room and see if she was engaged in some maiden-like occupation, such as marking school papers or reading the _Woodford Gazette_. Or was she sitting, as she should be, with her hands idly folded in her lap and her heart and mind absorbed in the music? Never had Betty given up her idea that a romance was in the making between their first Camp Fire guardian and Esther's father. And often since their coming to live in her house had she not seen slight but convincing evidences? Why should Donna so often appear with a single white rose pinned to her dress or take to playing the same tunes on the piano that the Professor played on his violin, particularly when she was an exceedingly poor pianist? Nevertheless it was not awe of her teacher and guardian that kept Betty from investigating the state of her emotions at this moment; neither was it any fear of antagonism between them, for since Esther's departure to study in New York, Miss McMurtry apparently felt more affection for Betty than for any of the other Camp Fire girls. No, it was simply because she had a very definite purpose which she wished to accomplish without interruption or opposition. The next instant and she had paused outside a closed door and stood listening tensely. There were no noises inside, no voices, nor the stir of any person moving about. Betty put her hand on the knob and opened it silently. Instantly there was a little cry and Betty and Polly O'Neill were in each other's arms. "Betty, you darling," Polly gasped, "turn on every light in this room and let me stare and stare at you. There isn't anything in the world the matter with you. You are as lovely as you ever were. Oh, I have been so frightened! I have not believed what anybody told me, and it seemed it must be a part of my punishment that you had been injured. It is absurd of me, I suppose, but I have had a kind of feeling that perhaps if I had been at Meg's party I should have been with you at the time so that it couldn't have happened." "Foolish Polly! But when was Polly anything but foolish?" the other girl returned, taking off her cap and pushing back her hair. "You see I am a sight, dear, but it does not matter a great deal. I am kind of getting used to myself these last few days. So I didn't see any reason why, since you are better and I am perfectly well, we could not be together. Even if it does give you a kind of a shock to look at me, you'll get over it, won't you?" In reply Polly had one of her rather rare outbursts of affection. She was never so demonstrative as the other girls. Her devotions had ways of expressing themselves in an occasional compliment tendered perhaps in some whimsical, back-handed fashion, or in a fleeting caress, which came and was gone like the touch of a butterfly's wing. Now, however, she took her friend's face between her two hands and kissed her quietly, almost solemnly upon the line of her injury. "Never say a thing like that to me again as long as you live, Betty Ashton. Perhaps I haven't as much affection as other people. Mother and Mollie are both insisting it lately. Still I know that----but how silly we are to talk of it! You are not changed. Of course I am sorry that your hair had to be cut off, but it will grow out again and the scar will disappear. I wish I could get rid of my"--Polly hesitated--"blemishes so easily," she finished. Betty looked puzzled. "What do you mean? Sylvia says you are very much better and that there is no reason why you should not get up. She declares that it is only that you won't and that she does not intend nursing you or letting any one else take care of you after a few days, unless you do what Dr. Barton tells you. Sylvia is a dreadfully firm person. She was quite angry with me when I said that I did not believe you were well and that I was quite strong enough now to take care of you and you should not get out of bed until you had entirely recovered." "But I have entirely recovered and I am well and somehow I can't manage to deceive Sylvia Wharton no matter how hard I try," Polly announced in a half-amused and half-annoyed manner. "Then why are you trying to?" Betty naturally queried. Of course one never actually expected to understand Polly O'Neill's whims, but now and then one of them appeared a trifle more mysterious than the others. "If you are still tired and feel you prefer to remain in bed, that is a sure sign you are not strong enough to get up, and Dr. Barton and Sylvia ought to realize it," she continued, still on the defensive. But Polly only smiled at her. "But, dear, I don't prefer to remain in bed. I am so deadly bored with it that as soon as I am left alone I get up and dance in the middle of the floor just to have a little relief. Can't you and mother and Mollie understand (I don't believe any one does except Sylvia) that I don't want to get up because I don't want to have to face the music?" Still the other girl looked puzzled. "Can't you see that as long as I have been able to be sick nobody has dared to say very much to me about my escapade in New York? Oh, of course I know what they think and mother did manage to say a good deal before we came home; still, there is a great deal more retribution awaiting me. In the first place, I shall have to go home to the Wharton house. I realize it has been dreadful, my being sick here, but I am everlastingly grateful to you and your mother. Mr. Wharton won't say anything much; he really is very kind to me; but naturally I know what he thinks. And then when Frank Wharton is there it will be so much worse. You see, Frank and I quarreled once, because I thought he was rude to mother. And of course he considers my disobedience worse than his rudeness. And as he is perfectly right, I can't imagine how I shall answer him back the next time we argue." As Polly talked she had risen into a sitting posture in bed and was now leaning her chin on her hand in a characteristic attitude and quite unconscious of the amusing side to her argument until Betty laughed. Polly had on a scarlet flannel dressing sacque and her hair was tied with scarlet ribbons. And indeed her cheeks were almost equally vivid in color. "But there isn't anything funny about my punishment, Betty dear. And the worst of it is that I know I deserve all of it and more and shan't ever have the right to complain. Mother declares that she does not expect to allow me to leave Woodford again until I am twenty-one, since she has no more faith in me. And then, and then--" Polly's entire face now changed expression--"has any one told you that my behavior is to be openly discussed at the next meeting of our Camp Fire Club? Perhaps I won't be allowed to be a member any longer." Instantly Betty jumped up from her kneeling position by the bed and commenced walking up and down the length of the room, saying nothing at first, but with her lips set in obstinate lines. "But it isn't the custom of Camp Fire clubs to act as both judge and jury, is it, Polly?" she inquired. "At least, I have never heard of any other club's undertaking such a task. We are allowed, I know, to be fairly free in what we do in our individual clubs, but somehow this action seems unkind and dangerous. For if once we begin criticising one another's faults or mistakes, after a while there won't be any club. Right now Edith Norton is behaving very foolishly, I think, but I wouldn't dream of even discussing her with you or any one of the girls. I----" Betty paused to get her breath, her indignation and opposition to Polly's information overwhelming her. But Polly held out both hands, entreating her to sit beside her again. "You are mistaken. I did not explain the circumstances to you as I should have. It is all my idea and my plan to have the girls consider my misconduct and find out how they feel about me," Polly explained quietly. "I spoke of it first to Rose and then to Miss McMurtry and at first they thought in a measure as you do. But I don't agree with you. You remember that our honor beads come to us for obedience and service to our Camp Fire laws. Why should not disobedience make us unworthy to wear them? In the old days if an Indian offended against the laws of his tribe he was made to suffer the penalty. And I don't want you girls to keep me in our club just because you are sorry for me and are too kind to be just. Mollie has told me how horrified Meg and Eleanor and Nan are, and of course Rose and Donna have not pretended to hide their disapproval, even during their consolation visits to me as an invalid. But you will forgive me, won't you, Betty?" Polly ended with more penitence than she had yet shown to any one save her mother. "Of course I forgive you. But if you had not gotten well I should never have forgiven Esther," the other girl answered. Two fingers were laid quickly across Betty Ashton's lips. "Don't be unfair and absurd," Polly protested; "for some day you may be sorry if you don't understand just how big and generous Esther Crippen is. It isn't only that she would sacrifice her own desires for other people's, but that she actually has. I would not be surprised if Esther did not have some secret or other." And Polly stopped suddenly, biting her tongue. Not for worlds would she even in the slightest fashion betray a suspicion or inference of her own concerning the friend who had been so loyal and devoted to her. Fortunately Betty was too intent upon her own thoughts to have heard her. "I have to go back to my own room now, but you are not to worry, Polly mine, not about anything. In the first place, you are not to go home very soon. I have talked to your mother and mine and persuaded them that I need to have you stay on here with me. I do need you, Polly. It is queer, but I want you to come and sleep in the old back room with me. I have gotten nervous being in there by myself. There is a mystery about the room greater than I have dreamed. I have only been joking half the time when I have spoken of it. But the other day I got mother to the point where there was no possible excuse for her not explaining the entire reason for her attitude and Dick's toward the place, when suddenly she broke down and left me. We might amuse ourselves while we are invalids discovering whether or not it is haunted. Only I don't exactly wish to make the discovery alone." CHAPTER XVI THE LAW OF THE FIRE Mollie O'Neill walked slowly toward the Ashton house one afternoon not long afterwards at about four o'clock, looking unusually serious and uncomfortable. She was wearing a long coat buttoned up to her chin and coming down to the bottom of her dress, and was carrying a big book. "Mollie, there isn't anything the matter? Neither Betty nor Polly is worse again?" Billy Webster inquired, unexpectedly striding across from the opposite side of the street and not stopping to offer his greeting before beginning his questioning. Mollie shook her head, although her face still retained so solemn an expression that the young man was plainly alarmed. Ordinarily Mollie's blue eyes were as untroubled as blue lakes and her forehead and mouth as free from the lines of care or even annoyance. Billy Webster put the book under his arm and continued walking along beside her. "If there is anything that troubles you, Mollie, and you believe that I can help you, please don't ever fail to call on me," he suggested in the gentle tones that he seemed ever to reserve for this girl alone. "I know that Polly is dreadfully angry over my interference in New York, but so long as you and your mother thought I did right and were grateful to me, I don't care how Polly feels--at least, I don't care a great deal. And I believe I should behave in exactly the same way if I had it all to do over again." Shyly and yet with an admiration that she did not attempt to conceal Mollie glanced up at her companion. Billy was always so determined, so sure of his own ideas of right and wrong, that once having made a decision or taken a step, he never appeared to regret it afterwards. And this attitude under the present circumstances was a consolation to Mollie. For oftentimes since Polly's return and while enduring her reproaches, she had experienced twinges of conscience for having concerned an outsider in their family affairs, though somehow Billy did not seem like an outsider. Polly had insisted that she had been most unwise in asking him to look up Esther and herself immediately upon his arrival in New York. How much better had she waited and let Polly make her confession to their mother later, thus saving all of them excitement and strain! However, since Billy was still convinced that he would do the same thing over again in a similar position, Mollie felt her own uncertainty vanish. "No, there isn't anything you can help about this afternoon," she replied. "I am only going to a monthly meeting of our Council Fire. The girls told me that if I liked I need not come, yet it seems almost cowardly to stay away. For you see Polly has insisted that we talk over her conduct and decide whether or not we wish her to remain a member of our club. Or at least whether some of her honor beads should be taken from her and her rank reduced. There is a good deal of difference of opinion. For some of the girls are convinced that once our honor beads are lawfully won, nothing and no one has the right to take them from us; while others feel that breaking the law of the Camp Fire should render one unworthy of a high position in the Council and that even though one is not asked to resign, at least one should be relegated to the ranks again. But of course all this is a secret and must never be spoken of except in our club." "Like an officer stripped of his epaulettes," Billy murmured. And afterwards: "See here, Mollie, if this is a club secret then you ought not to have told me and I ought not to have listened. For it is pretty rough on Polly. But I promise not to mention it and will try to forget. We must not make her any more down upon me than she is already." The young man and girl had now come to the Ashton front gate, and as they stopped, Billy gave the book to Mollie and could not forbear patting her encouragingly upon the coat sleeve. She looked so gentle and worried. Polly always seemed to be getting her into hot water without really intending that Mollie should be made to suffer. "It will turn out all right, I am sure," he insisted in a convincing tone. "Your sister will always have too many friends to let things go much against her in this world." Mollie found that the other girls had already assembled in the Ashton drawing room and, as she was late, the camp fire had been laid and lighted, following the same ceremony as if it had taken place outdoors. The members were all present excepting Polly, who had declined coming down to make her own defense, and Esther, who was still at work in New York. The two Field girls, Juliet and Beatrice, completed the original number, as they were both in Woodford for the winter attending the High School. Rose Dyer, with Faith's hand tight in hers, appeared uneasy and distressed. In her rôle of Camp Fire Guardian she was not assured of the wisdom of their proceedings and could find no precedent for it among other Camp Fire clubs. However, Miss McMurtry had consented to join their meeting and, as she had been the original and was now the head Guardian of all the clubs in Woodford, the responsibility might honestly be shared with her. For the first time since her accident Betty Ashton was able to attend a gathering of the Council Fire; and although she was the center of the greater part of the attention and affection in the room, Betty appeared as nervous and worried as Mollie O'Neill. To both of the girls this open discussion of one of their club member's misdeeds was abhorrent. And that the accused should be their adored but often misguided Polly made the situation the more tragic and distasteful. Although she was not yet in a position to be positive, Betty felt reasonably convinced that Edith Norton was at the bottom of this formal judgment of Polly. So skilfully and quietly had the older girl gone to work that both Rose Dyer and Miss McMurtry were under the impression that the original suggestion had come from the culprit herself. Yet the truth was that Edith Norton had a smaller nature than any other member of the Sunrise Hill Camp Fire Club and she and Polly had never been real friends since the night long ago of the Indian "Maiden's Feast," when Edith thinking to fix the guilt of a theft upon Nan Graham, had wakened Polly to a sudden sense of her own responsibility. And it was following a visit of condolence to Polly's sick room by Edith that swift as a flash Polly had announced herself as willing and ready to have her conduct considered by the club council. For it afterwards appeared that Edith had casually mentioned that the other girls had been talking among themselves of this question of Polly's fitness or unfitness to continue a "Torch Bearer" in the club. So with her usual recklessness and impulsiveness she had insisted that her offense be openly considered and that she receive whatever punishment might be considered just. Never had she planned denying her misdeed nor taking refuge behind her friends' affection. Therefore both Betty and Mollie had been entreated, even ordered, to listen quietly to whatever might be said of her behavior and without protest. And Mollie had agreed. Betty had reserved the right to use her own discretion and had no intention of not making herself felt when the moment arrived. After the regular business of the meeting had been concluded a marked silence followed, the girls hardly daring even to glance toward one another. Rose Dyer coughed nervously, yet as she had been chosen to set Polly's case plainly before the other girls and to ask for their frank opinions of what action, if any, the Sunrise Hill Club desired to take, her responsibility must not be evaded. Of course all of the girls had previously heard the entire story, but perhaps in a more or less highly colored fashion. And particularly Polly O'Neill insisted that Esther Crippen's part in her action be explained. For Esther must not be held in any way accountable, as both Betty and Mollie had been inclined to feel. When Rose had finished a simple statement of the facts of the case and had asked to hear from the other club members, no one answered. Betty kept her eyes severely fastened upon Edith Norton's face. Surely Edith must be aware of her knowledge of certain facts that were as much to her discredit as Polly's disobedience. Of course nothing could induce her to make capital of this knowledge, since Betty Ashton's interpretation of Camp Fire loyalty was of a different kind from Edith Norton's, as the older girl was one day to find out. Nevertheless there was nothing to prevent Betty from using her influence with the hope that Edith might be discouraged from making any suggestion that would start the tide of feeling rolling against the culprit. This Council Meeting might be a greater test of the entire Camp Fire organization than any one of the girls realized. Possibly it had been a mistake to allow the fitness or unfitness of a fellow member to be openly discussed; especially when the girl was Polly O'Neill, for Polly was a powerful influence always and the club might easily split upon a criticism of her. Whatever should happen, however, Betty Ashton intended using every effort to keep the Sunrise Hill Camp together, saving Polly also if she could. In spite of her friend's restraining glance, Edith apparently failed to regard her, for instead she glanced insinuatingly toward Eleanor Meade and Meg Everett. Both these girls had expressed themselves as deeply shocked and grieved over Polly's behavior, though neither of them appeared to be ready to make any statement of their views on this occasion. It was one thing to express an informal opinion of another girl's action, but quite another to make a formal accusation against her in the club where they had lived and worked and grown together in bonds almost closer than family ones. Next Edith studied Sylvia Wharton's expression. Day and night had Sylvia nursed Polly with infinite patience, and yet she had made no effort to conceal her disapproval of her stepsister's conduct and Sylvia might always be relied upon for an honest and straightforward statement of her opinion. Yet Sylvia's face at the present moment was as empty as though she had never had an idea in her life. Just why this continuing silence should make the original Sunrise Hill Camp Fire guardian smile, no one understood. However, the Lady of the Hill knew very well why and was feeling strangely relieved. For had she not permitted a dangerous test of the Camp Fire spirit to be tried and were the girls not responding just as she had hoped and believed they would? Surely during these past two years they had been developing a real understanding of comradeship, the ability to stick together, to keep step. And girls and women had for so many centuries been accused of the inability to do this. "I think that no one of us holds Esther Crippen in any way responsible for Polly O'Neill's action or for continuing to keep her family in ignorance of what she was doing," Edith finally began in a rather weak voice, seeing that no one else showed any sign of speaking. "It is one of the things that I think she is most to be blamed for, since it is hardly fair to bring another club member into a difficulty on account of her feeling of personal loyalty." Betty frowned. There was so much of truth in Edith's speech that it could hardly fail to carry a certain amount of conviction. But before any one could reply, Sylvia Wharton got up from the floor, where she had been sitting in Camp Fire fashion, and crossing the room, stood before the flames, facing the circle of girls with her hands clasped in front of her and her lips shut tight together. Her usually sallow skin was a good deal flushed. "I am going to make a motion to this club," she announced, "but before I do I want to say something, and everybody knows how hard it is for me to talk. I can do things sometimes, but I can't say them. Just now Edith Norton used the word, 'loyalty.' I am glad she did, because it is just what I want to speak of--because it seems to me that loyalty is the very foundation stone of all our Camp Fires. Of course Polly has broken a part of our law. She has failed to be trustworthy, but I am not going into that, since each one of you can have your own opinion of her behavior and would have it anyway no matter what I said. But the whole point is, won't every single girl in the Sunrise Hill Camp Fire Club possibly break some of the rules some day? As we are only human, I think we are pretty sure to. So I move that we say nothing more about Polly. Perhaps others of us have done things nearly as bad or will do them. But more important and what I would so much like to persuade you to feel about as I feel is this:"--and Sylvia's plain face worked with the strength of an emotion which few people had ever seen her display before--"I want us to promise ourselves and one another that no matter what any fellow member of the Sunrise Hill Camp Fire Club ever does, or what mistake she may make, or even what sin she may commit, that no one of us will ever turn her back upon her or fail to do anything and everything in our power to help her and to make things happy and comfortable again. I wish I could talk like Betty and Polly, but you do understand what I mean," Sylvia concluded with tears compounded of embarrassment and earnestness standing in her light blue eyes. "Hear, hear!" whispered Miss McMurtry a little uncertainly. Rose Dyer clapped her hands softly together. The sound gave the necessary suggestion to the other girls, and poor Sylvia crept back to her place in the circle in a storm of applause. It was the simplest method by which the girls could reveal their deeper emotions. A few moments afterward Sylvia's proposal was put into the form of a regular motion and carried without a dissenting voice. CHAPTER XVII A FIGURE IN THE NIGHT "Polly," a muffled voice murmured in so low a tone that the sound was scarcely audible. Then a cold hand was slid beneath the bed clothes, clasping a warm, relaxed one and pressing it with sudden intensity. "Betty, did you call me?" Polly O'Neill inquired, turning over sleepily and trying to pierce the darkness so as to get a view of her companion. Now that she was coming to her senses, she could feel Betty's body straining close up against her own and her lips almost touching her ear. It was between two and three o'clock in the morning and the two friends had been sleeping together in Betty Ashton's old-fashioned four-post bed, hung with blue curtains that opened only for a space of several feet in the center of the two sides. The room was dark and cold, for there was no light burning and the sky outside held the blackness that often precedes the dawn. A window was open, letting in sudden gusts of freezing air. "You aren't ill, are you?" Polly was about to ask when the other girl's fingers closed over her mouth. "Don't speak and don't stir," Betty whispered, still in almost noiseless tones. "Just listen for a moment. Try and not be frightened, but do you think you can hear any one moving about in this room?" For the first instant Polly felt a decided inclination to laugh. What an absurd suggestion Betty was making! She must have been asleep and dreamed something that had frightened her. It was rather to be expected, however, after the shock of her accident at the cabin. Therefore it would be best to gratify her fancy; and Polly set herself to listening dutifully. Then Polly herself started, only to feel once more the other girl's restraining clasp. But the sound she had heard was only the banging of the blind against the window. Nevertheless with the quick Irish sensitiveness to impressions, to subtle suggestions, she was beginning to have a terrifying consciousness of some other person in their bedroom than herself and Betty. And yet she had so far heard nothing, seen nothing. "Look through the opening in the curtain toward the farthest end of the room--there by the big closet door," Betty whispered. "Be perfectly still, for I am quite sure that the figure has passed entirely around the room twice as though it were groping for something. I can't see, I can only hear it, and once I felt sure that a hand touched our bed." Shadowy, terrifyingly silent, an indistinct outline was discernible along the opposite wall and a hand moving slowly up and down it as if searching for something. Could it be for the door of the closet only a few feet away? Both girls for the moment were too frightened or too surprised to stir or to call out. The idea of jumping suddenly from the bed and running toward the intruder had occurred to Betty, who was the more widely awake, although she had confessed to herself that she was neither brave nor foolish enough to do it. For the figure was too mysterious, too uncertain, and whether man or woman, boy or girl, she had no conception. Why, it was only the fact of the hand which proved that it was even human! Then both girls lay rigid once more, with not a muscle moving, scarcely believing that they breathed. For the form was again flitting down the length of the room, possibly toward their bed. The next second and it had passed through Betty's evidently unlatched door and vanished noiselessly into the hall. Polly was sleeping on the outside of the bed, so it was she who first leaped upon the floor, turning on the electric light until the room was brilliantly illuminated. "You are not to stir until I can go along with you," Betty protested, following her immediately. And then both girls lost a moment of time in putting on their dressing gowns, for the night was bitterly cold. "Shall we call somebody first?" Polly inquired, all at once in the lighted room feeling uncertain as to whether the experience through which they had lately passed had been a real one. Nothing in their room was changed in the least since their going to bed. There were Betty's clothes on one chair and her own upon another. There was the book she had been reading left open upon the desk, and Betty's unfinished letter to Esther. Had they both gone suddenly mad? But Betty had lighted a candle; so Polly followed until they were able to light the gas in the second story hall. There was no one about. All the other bedroom doors were safely closed and the Professor was apparently snoring hoarsely. "Shall we call your mother or wake up anybody?" Polly questioned. But Betty shook her head. She looked pale, and her eyes were uncomfortably mystified. Otherwise she appeared perfectly self-controlled. "No, let us not call anybody and not mention our alarm until morning. If our visitor was a burglar, he knows that we are aware of his presence and so won't try any more performances tonight. And if it wasn't a burglar, but a ghost, why, there is no use frightening mother to death and we will only get laughed at by the others. It seems queer to me for either a ghost or a burglar to come into a house so filled with people. If you don't mind, Polly, let us just go on back to bed and leave the light burning for our consolation. We had both better try to sleep." Sleep, however, after their few moments of terror and in the face of the enigma of their unexplained visitor, was impossible. Also the light in the bedroom did not induce slumber, although both girls found it agreeable. Their door leading out into the corridor was now securely latched, notwithstanding that Betty was not in the habit of locking it. "Betty," Polly asked after a few moments of silence, when the two friends were back again in bed with their arms clasped close about each other, "the closet there at the end of your room--is it one where either you or your mother keep your clothes?" "No," the other girl repeated thoughtfully. "I had not thought of that. But it only makes things queerer than ever. For the closet is a particularly large one and has always been stored with rubbish. It has an old trunk in it and some pictures and boxes. I don't think there is anything of value, though I don't know exactly what is in the trunk, or the boxes either for that matter. I have often meant to clear the place out, but I have never needed the space and mother pokes around in it sometimes. It is ridiculous to suppose that a burglar would take an interest in old trash, when there are so many other valuable things about. Besides, suppose there should happen to be a few treasures in one of the boxes or the trunk, nobody could know about it when I don't. Oh dear, I wish it were morning!" Betty sighed deeply, tumbling about restlessly in a fashion that made her a very undesirable bed companion. And yet Polly, who was ordinarily nervous from the slightest movement, made no protest. And she said nothing more for some time, although it was self-evident that she was not growing sleepy. Her rather oddly shaped blue eyes had a far-away, almost uncanny light in them, that somehow added to Betty's discomfort. "Look here, Polly O'Neill," she protested, giving her arm an affectionate squeeze, "please don't be wishing a ghost upon us. I know you have always believed in Irish fairies and elves and hobgoblins and the like, and used to fuss with poor Mollie and me outrageously because we couldn't or wouldn't see them. But tonight--Oh, well, even Irish ghosts don't come strolling into one's bedroom. They at least have the courtesy to stay in churchyards and in haunted ruins." "Yes, but isn't this the haunted room of this house, Betty?" Polly inquired in a faintly teasing voice, which yet held a note of serious questioning in it. And immediately Betty's face grew white and frightened, far more so than at any moment before during their adventure, so that the other girl was instantly regretful of her speech. "Polly O'Neill," two firm hands next took hold on Polly's thin shoulders, turning her deliberately over in bed so that she was forced to face her questioner, "ever since I can remember there has been some mystery or other connected with this old room. Of course it is not haunted. I suppose sensible people don't believe in ghosts, though I don't see why not believing makes them fail to exist. But the room may have had a tragedy of some kind take place in it, something that both mother and Dick find it painful to mention or recall. I told you that mother would not explain her feeling to me when I insisted upon knowing. However, I don't think my family has the right to keep a secret from me. I am nearly grown now and no longer the kind of girl I used to be. So see here, Polly. Look me directly in the eyes. Oftentimes outsiders hear things first. Have you ever heard of a sorrow or accident, or even something worse, that may have occurred in this house or even in this room when I was too little a girl to understand or remember it? You must tell me the truth." Polly shook her head, devoutly thankful at the moment for her own lack of information. With Betty's beautiful, honest gray eyes searching her own, with her lips trembling and her cheeks flushed with the fervor of her desire, her friend would have found deceiving her extremely difficult. Yet it was more agreeable to change the subject of their talk, even though it continued upon dangerous grounds. "No, Betty, I was not thinking of ghosts nor of the fact that you have always been absurdly curious about the mystery of this room. I was thinking of something altogether different--of a thief, in fact--and I was wondering whether you would be angry or hurt or both if I mention something to you?" Polly returned. Betty kissed her friend's thin cheek, wishing at the same instant that it would grow more rounded, now that Polly was presumably well. "You don't usually mind making me angry, dear," she smiled. "And I don't see why if you have a possible theory of a burglar that I should be hurt. Do you think the figure we saw was a man's or a woman's?" "I don't know," the other girl replied. "What I have been wondering is just this: Has any one in this house ever come into this room with your mother when she was rummaging in that old closet, to help her move the furniture or lift things about?" For a moment Betty frowned and then her face flamed crimson. "You are not fair, Polly. You never have approved of his living here or my being kind to him. And you have said half a dozen times that there was no special point in my being particularly grateful to him, since any one of our friends would have done just what he did, had they been equally near me. But then of course that does not alter the fact. Now just because _he_ has been in here to assist mother does not prove anything, does not even make it fair to be suspicious." Polly shrugged her shoulders. "I knew you would be angry, so I am sorry I spoke. But you see our first meeting in the woods with the young man when your safety box was almost stolen from you was a little unfortunate. But I don't say that I suspect any one, either, and I have no intention of not being fair. However, I do intend to keep on the lookout. Now kiss me good morning, for I am going to turn out the light. The gray dawn seems at last to be breaking and perhaps we may both get a little sleep before breakfast time." CHAPTER XVIII UNCERTAINTY In spite of their own entire conviction the story told the next day by Polly and Betty to the various members of the Ashton household was received with little credulity. Even Mrs. Ashton was inclined to be skeptical after finding that nothing in the big house had been stolen or even disarranged. There was no window that had been pried open and no door left unlocked. Then why, even if the robber had entered the house by some mysterious process of his own, had he gone away again empty-handed? There were many pieces of valuable silver in the lower part of the establishment, pictures, even single ornaments that could be sold for fair sums of money. Therefore why climb to the second story and enter the girls' room first? Although Betty and Polly were too deeply offended by the suggestion to allow it to be freely discussed, Miss McMurtry's idea that they had had a kind of sympathetic nightmare, or at least a mutual hallucination, was the most commonly accepted theory. It was an extremely annoying point of view to both the girls, of course, but as they had nothing to disprove it, they were obliged after several futile arguments to let the matter rest. Naturally their Camp Fire friends were delightfully thrilled by the anecdote, but as it was always received either with open or carefully concealed disbelief, after a few days neither Polly nor Betty cared to speak of it except to each other. There was one person, however, who, whether or not he believed the truth of their story, at least accepted it with extreme seriousness. And it was to him that Polly O'Neill made a determined effort to be the first narrator of their experience. Anthony Graham was in the habit of getting up earlier than any one else in the Ashton house and had of course disappeared hours before either of the girls awakened the morning after their nearly sleepless night. However, he was accustomed to returning to his small room in the third story at about half-past five o'clock every afternoon, when his work for the day was over, in order to change his clothes for the evening. So at about this time Polly found it convenient to be in the hallway leading to his room and to be there alone. As he walked toward her unconscious of her presence, in spite of her prejudice against him she could not fail to see how much the young man had improved. He was hardly recognizable as the boy with whom they had had the encounter in the woods a little more than a year before. He was shabby enough and as lean as a young animal that has had too much exercise and too little food. His face was serious, almost sad; nevertheless Polly had no intention of not pursuing her investigation. She had seated herself on a narrow window ledge and was presumably peering out at the trees in the garden. As he caught sight of her the young man started with a perfectly natural surprise. For although Polly had been in the same house with him now for a number of weeks, they had not seen each other more than half a dozen times and had only talked together once when Betty had made a point of introducing them as though they had never met before. Perhaps some recollection of their original coming together was in Anthony's memory, for he blushed a kind of dull brick red, when Polly, turning deliberately from her window seat, said: "Mr. Graham, I wonder if you would mind giving me a minute of your time. There is something I wish to tell you." "Certainly," he answered and then stood fingering his hat in the same awkward fashion that he had employed in his Thanksgiving visit to Betty, yet regarding the girl herself with a totally different sensation. For instinctively Anthony Graham recognized that Polly O'Neill was or might become his enemy. Not that she would do him any wrong, but that if ever he was able to set out to accomplish the desire of his heart, the weight of her influence and feeling would be against him. And he did not underestimate the compelling power of a nature like Polly's. She was wayward, high tempered, sometimes appearing unreliable and almost unloving. Yet this last fact was never true of her. It was only that her personality was of the kind that can want but one thing at a time with all the passion and force of which it is capable. And pursuing this desire, she might seem to forget her other impulses. Polly, however, never did put aside her few really vital affections. She and Betty Ashton might quarrel, might continue to disagree as they had so often done in the past; yet Betty's welfare and happiness would always be of intense concern to her friend. More because of the quality of her imagination than from any single witnessed fact, Polly had lately suspected that Anthony might learn to care more for her friend than would be comfortable for anybody concerned in the affair. And undoubtedly the young man had once been a thief if intention counted. Therefore he might be a thief again, and in any case probably needed to be forewarned of a number of things. "There was a burglar in our room last night," Polly began, wasting no time in preliminaries, but keeping her blue eyes fixed so directly upon Anthony's that they were like blue flames. Even before he could reply the young man wondered how there could be people who thought this girl beautiful or even pretty. It was true that at times her eyes were strangely magnetic, that her hair was always black with that peculiar almost dead luster, and her lips like two fine scarlet lines. Yet she was always too thin, her chin too pointed and her cheekbones too high to touch any of his ideals of beauty. "I--I am sorry. That is--what _do you mean_?" the young fellow stammered stupidly. And all at once the scowl gathered upon his face that Betty Ashton had once misunderstood. It was a black, ugly look, and in this case certainly was inspired by the impression that because of his former misdeed, Polly might now be suspecting him of another. And she left him no room for doubt. "Oh, I am not exactly accusing you," she remarked coolly, "for I presume that would hardly be fair. But I am not going to pretend that I feel as much confidence in you as I do in the people against whom I know nothing. I can't. Perhaps I may some day when you have made good, but it is a little too soon to expect it of me, as I am not an idealist like some girls. So last night, though we did not have any reason to suspect that the person who entered our room and then stole out again without our ever really seeing him or her had anything to do with you, I must confess I did think of you. Because, though it is just as well not to talk about it, there is no question but that the intruder was already living in this house. No one came in from the outside. So you see it is like this: I don't begin to say that it was you, but I am going to be on the watch and it is just as fair to warn you openly as to suspect you in secret. Then there is another thing. Personally I don't believe we had a ghostly visitant, as Betty is inclined to think because of the mystery of that particular room. So suppose we take it for granted that you had nothing to do with our experience, then will you help Betty and me to find out who or what it was? We do not want to create too much disturbance over it." Just how many varying emotions had passed through Anthony Graham's mind during Polly's amazing speech, it would be difficult to express. He was bitterly angry of course, deeply wounded and resentful, and yet he could not but have a certain respect for the girl's outspokenness, for her kind of brutal courage. Certainly he was given notice not to repeat his offense, if offense he had committed. And as proof of his own innocence it might be as wise for him to discover the real offender. Anthony kept a hold on himself by a fine effort of self-control. The truth was that he and Polly O'Neill were not altogether unlike in disposition, and he had a temper and a will to match with hers. Notwithstanding, he appreciated that this was not the occasion for revealing weakness. Therefore he merely bowed with such quiet courtesy that Polly was secretly astonished. "You are unfair in suspecting me of having violated Mrs. Ashton's confidence simply because I once tried to commit a theft. Though of course I know that most people would feel just as you do. Does Betty--does Miss Ashton----" he inquired. Polly frowned. "No," she responded curtly. "Then will you tell her, please, that you have confided what has happened to me and that I will do my best to ferret out the mystery." And Anthony walked past and into his own room, closing the door noiselessly behind him. With a shrug of her thin shoulders Polly stood for another moment regarding the shut door. "I am sorry to say it, but he has behaved a great deal better than I expected," she thought to herself with a smile at her own expense. CHAPTER XIX AN UNSPOKEN POSSIBILITY The two friends were walking home from school together about ten days later. They had both stayed until almost dusk engaged in different pursuits. Betty was doing some extra studying with Miss McMurtry, as she had missed so much time and science was always her weakest point; while Polly had been having an hour's quiet talk with her former elocution teacher, Miss Adams. Probably she was the one person in Woodford, excepting Betty, who sympathized in the least with Polly in her escapade. Or if she did not exactly sympathize with her, she was sorry for the retribution that she had brought upon herself. For Mrs. Wharton had decreed that her daughter was not to leave Woodford again and was not even to be permitted to study anything in the village with the view of its being useful to her later in a stage career. The subject was to be entirely tabooed until Polly reached twenty-one, when if she were of the same mind, she might choose her own future. Of course to an impatient nature three years and a few months over seemed like an eternity, and except for Betty's sympathy and her frequent talks with Miss Adams and the latter's accounts of her great cousin, Margaret Adams, Polly believed existence would have been unendurable. She was in such a state of excitement now over something which Miss Adams had been recently telling her, that at first she hardly heard what Betty was trying to say. "I have her permission to tell you, Polly dear, because she wishes to have your advice, as you have more imagination about getting out of difficulties than the rest of us; but you have to promise first never to mention it to anybody, not to a single other member of the Camp Fire Club or to Rose or even Donna." Polly laughed, putting her arm lightly across Betty Ashton's shoulder. "What are you talking about, child?" she demanded. "I don't particularly like that suggestion of my talent for getting out of scrapes; but if the scrape has anything to do with Betty Ashton, then all my talent is at her disposal, of course." "But it has nothing to do with me, at least not in the way you mean," the other girl replied, too much in earnest to be amused even for the moment. "It has to do with a girl whom you have never liked very much and she has never liked you. But she has been my friend and I do care for her. And moreover she is a member of our Sunrise Hill Camp Fire Club and we promised to live up to Sylvia's motion." "Edith Norton?" Polly queried. "She must be in trouble if she is willing to confide in me." But Betty's expression suddenly silenced her. Always Betty Ashton had been the most popular among her special group of Camp Fire girls. At first chiefly for her beauty, her wealth, the prominent position of her family and for her own generosity and charm. More recently, however, since the girl had met her own disasters so courageously, a new element had come into her influence and the affection she inspired. It was a quality that Polly with all her cleverness would never create, one of steadfastness under fire. Perhaps it was one of the last characteristics that one might have looked for in the early days of the Princess. And yet it will always be found in truly aristocratic natures. When life is flowing smoothly, when the days go by with no special demands made upon them, these persons may have many little weaknesses. Yet when the special occasion arises theirs is the faithfulness and fortitude. So while Betty had neither the sound judgment of Sylvia Wharton nor the brilliant fancy of Polly, it was to her that the other girls usually made their first appeal in any dilemma or distress. At this moment if they had not been together on the street Polly would have liked to embrace her. The cold air had brought Betty's color back; she still wore the little lace cap under her old fur hat, but the edging made a lovely frame for her face, and her hair was already growing so that the curls showed underneath, like a baby's. "Yes, it is Edith," Betty answered seriously. "And she is in a difficulty that you could never have imagined of one of our Camp Fire girls. You know she has been going a good deal with that man whom none of us like until she thinks she is really in love with him. And it seems that Edith believes that he does not care a great deal about her. So she, poor thing, has been trying her best to make him care. She has bought herself a lot of clothes that she cannot afford, for you know she gets such a small salary at the shop where she works." "Is that all?" Polly demanded. "It is awfully foolish of her, of course, to be so extravagant, but it isn't such a dreadful crime. And as I suppose she has charged what she got, she can just save up and pay back her bills by degrees." Betty shook her head. "Don't be a goose, dear. Edith can't charge things in Woodford. She hasn't any credit in the shops like your mother and mine have. She is only a poor girl working for her own support, with her family not living here and with no position when they were. No, you see she borrowed the money from the woman she was working for without telling her. She meant to pay it back of course, only, only----" "You mean she stole it from her?" Polly exclaimed in a hushed tone. This was a good deal worse than anything which she had anticipated. She had always considered Edith Norton foolish and vain; but then surely the Camp Fire had helped her, had given her the ideals and the training that she had never learned at home. Betty was crying so bitterly and so openly that Polly felt she must comfort her friend first before criticising or attempting to suggest a solution to the other girl's problem. "But, dear, if you wish Edith's trouble kept a secret, you must not weep over her, just as you get home," she protested. "Don't you know that everybody in the house will be demanding to know what the matter is at once, and the Professor can hardly be kept from weeping with you? I can't think of anything to suggest to Edith except that she confess what she has done and ask Madame to let her return the money by working for it." "I told her that, but she did not believe that she would be forgiven," Betty explained. "Oh, if I only had just a little of the money I used to throw away! I don't mind being poor so much myself, Polly; it is when I so want to do for other people." "You don't have to tell me that, Princess," her friend replied quietly. "But, dear, this time I am glad you have not the money. Because you know it would not be right for you just to give Edith the money and have her give it back without any one's knowing. At least, I don't quite think so. And yet I am awfully sorry that Edith and I should both in our different ways have broken our Camp Fire law. And I will do anything I can think of to help her. Do you know, dear, how long she has been in this difficulty? "Oh, I think about two weeks," Betty answered. "But she only confided in me yesterday. It seems that she has tried several ways of getting the money and has attempted to borrow it. She thought maybe I could lend it to her, and I may be able to later on, only I would have to tell mother some reason why I needed twenty-five dollars all of a sudden from our small supply." "No, you must not. Maybe I may be able to help. Or we may persuade Edith to confess. I believe she will when she thinks more about our old Camp Fire teachings. Anyhow, as we are at home now, let us wait and talk it all over again tonight after we get to bed. It is then, of course, that I do my most brilliant thinking." So with this in mind, obliterating all other thoughts at their hour of retiring, for the first evening since their fright ten days before, neither Polly nor Betty remembered the locking of their outside door upon getting into bed. And this time it was Polly O'Neill who was aroused first a short while after midnight by the slow turning of their doorknob and then the sense of an almost noiseless figure entering their bedroom. Immediately she awoke Betty by suddenly calling her name aloud, and at the same instant sprang out of bed, again touching the electric button and flooding the room with revealing light. CHAPTER XX THE BEGINNING OF LIGHT "Why, why!" exclaimed Polly in surprise and consternation, standing perfectly still with her hand upraised toward the light, too puzzled to let it drop down at her side. But with a little, warning cry Betty had called to her and almost at the same moment was across the room, with her arms about a tall, slight figure. "Mother, mother," she whispered quietly, "wake up. You have gotten up out of your bed and wandered into Polly's and my room. And you have frightened us nearly to death! Dear me, you have not walked in your sleep for years, have you?" At Betty's first words following the stream of light, Mrs. Ashton had opened her eyes with returning consciousness until now she appeared almost entirely wide awake. And an expression both of fear and annoyance crossed her face. "You poor children, so I am your ghost and your burglar," she declared, "and I believed it was you who were having nightmares! I am awfully sorry. Betty knows I used to have this unfortunate habit of strolling about the house in my sleep long ago. But I am quite sure that I have not done it for several years now. The truth is I have not yet gotten over the nervous shock of Betty's being brought home to me and my not knowing how seriously she was injured for such a time; it seemed an eternity." Betty had thrown a shawl over her mother's shoulders, as she was clad only in her night-dress, and she and Polly slipped into their dressing gowns. "Wasn't it odd, though, mother, your coming in here both times? I wonder if you had me on your mind and wanted to see how I was. But you did not seem to. You kept groping your way toward that old closet as though you wished to rummage about in it. But do come and let me take you back to bed now, and I will stay with you so you will behave yourself and give Polly a chance to rest." For quite five minutes after the two had gone, Polly lay awake. There were really so many things to consider, because, of course, when one has too active an imagination it is apt to lead one into trouble. First, she must apologize to Anthony Graham for her totally unfounded suspicion of him. And then, thank Heaven, she had not breathed the suggestion aloud! Yet just for a moment she had wondered if Edith Norton could have--but it was not true and of course never could have been. Then a third idea. What could be hidden away in that old closet of so great value or interest that Mrs. Ashton turned toward it in her sleeping hours, when her subconscious mind must be directing her footsteps? No wonder that Betty was puzzled and annoyed over the secrets of the old room. Naturally as a visitor in the Ashton home it would be exceedingly bad manners, if nothing worse, for her to try to find out anything that her hostess wished to keep concealed. Yet just as Polly lost her train of thought she remembered wishing that Betty might make the discovery for herself, since most certainly then she would confide in her. The next day being Friday, Polly went to her own home to spend the week-end. And quite by accident she and Mollie came in together for a few moments on Sunday afternoon and went directly to Betty's room without letting her know of their approach. As they knocked and had no answer, Polly, feeling entirely at home, pushed the door open. "Betty, child, don't you want to see us?" she demanded. "I know I promised to give you a rest until Monday, but Mollie and I could not bear to spend a whole Sunday afternoon without you." And at this, Betty Ashton appeared from the darkness of the big closet at the farthest end of her bedroom. She wore a lavender cashmere frock with a broad velvet belt and a lace cap with lavender ribbons. But the cap was much awry, so that her hair was tumbled carelessly over her forehead, even showing the slight scar underneath, which usually she was so careful to hide, and her cheeks were a good deal flushed. There was no doubt that she was greatly interested or excited over something. "Mollie and Polly, I am glad," she avowed. "I was just needing some one to talk to and to ask questions of most dreadfully. Mother has gone out driving this afternoon, and as I was alone it occurred to me it might be fun to rummage about in this old closet and see whether it really concealed any treasures. After our belief that a burglar was trying to enter it, I thought it might be just as well for me to find out what it contained." "Does your mother know?" Polly inquired, and could hardly have explained to herself just why she asked the question. "No. I did not think of investigating it before she left. But of course she won't care. Why should she? The boxes have nothing in them but old books and rubbish. But this trunk--I can't quite understand about some of the things I have found in it. Maybe you can help me guess." And before either of the other girls knew what she intended doing, Betty was dragging the shaky trunk out of the closet into the greater brightness of the room, Mollie rushing to her assistance as soon as possible. Yet for some reason unknown to herself, Polly hesitated. She did not even move forward when Betty and Mollie dropped down on their knees before it, although she did observe that the trunk was locked, but that the hinges at the back had rusted and fallen off, so that Betty had gotten into it in that way. Evidently the things at the top had already been taken out inside the closet, for Betty was now reaching down toward the bottom and bringing out what looked like a trousseau of baby clothes--her own or Dick's, they could not yet tell which. The little dresses were yellow and fragile with age; the long blue coat had faded; most of the little shoes and flannels had been worn. "I wish you would not look through those things until your mother gets back, Betty," Polly said rather irritably. But both her sister and friend glanced up at her in surprise. "What is the possible harm? Mother couldn't mind. There is certainly no reason why I should not look at my own clothes or at Dick's. It's queer I never happen to have seen them before." "Did your mother never have any other children, Betty?" Mollie inquired, and the other girl shook her head. Polly had come over now and was standing near them by the edge of the trunk and looking down inside it. Of course what Betty was doing must seem to her perfectly right or else she would never have thought of doing it; yet Polly could not help feeling a certain distaste for the whole proceeding. Old possessions were always kind of uncanny and uncomfortable to her temperament; they held too poignant a suggestion of death, of the passing of time and of almost forgotten memories. Betty and Mollie had a differently romantic point of view. And to both of them, being essentially feminine, the delicate, exquisite baby apparel made a strongly sentimental appeal. Suddenly, with a little cry of surprise and amusement, Betty picked up a small frock which must have been made for a child of about a year old, that was curiously different from the others. While they had been of sheer lawns and expensive laces, this was a perfectly straight-up-and-down garment of coarse check gingham of the cheapest kind and attached to it were a pair of rough little shoes. "I wonder how in the world these ever got in here or why mother has preserved them so carefully. She has a perfect horror of cheap things," Betty began in a half-puzzled and half-humorous fashion, holding the poor little baby dress up to the light and giving it a shake. Stooping, Mollie picked up something that must have fallen from one of the shoes. It was an old tintype picture of a comparatively young man with a baby in his arms and a little girl pressing close up against his knee. Mollie was looking at it with a slightly bewildered expression when Polly came up and glanced over her shoulder. And instantly Polly's face grew white; however, it was a trick of hers when anything surprised or annoyed her. And at the moment she had a strong impulse to take the picture from Mollie's hands and tear it into a hundred pieces before Betty Ashton should have a chance to see it. Notwithstanding, Betty had already joined them and was apparently as much perplexed as Mollie. She took the photograph nearer to the window. "I declare this looks like Esther when she was a little girl and Professor Crippen. I believe he did tell me there was another child that somebody had adopted and who did not know he was her father. I suppose Esther must have asked mother to take care of these things for her. It is queer that she never thought of speaking of them to me. I must write her I have seen them, for I should not wish her to feel I had been prying," Betty finished, going back to the trunk and putting the little things carefully away. The weight that had gathered pressingly in the neighborhood of Polly's heart in the past thirty seconds now lifted. "Yes, and do close up that tiresome trunk at once Betty Ashton, or I am going home," Polly scolded. "It bores me dreadfully to have you and Mollie poking in there when we might be talking." But Betty paid no heed to her, for she had found another photograph of a different character. It was a picture of another baby, a beautiful miniature so delicately tinted that the colors were almost like life. And the child's face was very like Mrs. Ashton's, the same flaxen hair and light blue eyes. And it bore no possible resemblance either to Richard Ashton or to Betty. However, there was no reason to consider its being either one of them, for it was plainly marked on the back, "Phyllis Ashton," and then had the date of the birth. Betty offered no comment and expressed no wonder, although she let both her friends look at the picture, still holding it in her own hands. "But I thought you said your mother had only two children, you and Dick," Mollie declared, and Polly would have liked to shake her. "Yes, I did think so until now," the third girl replied. And placing her picture back in the trunk, she closed the lid, still leaving the trunk in the center of the room, in spite of the fact that both her friends insisted on helping her with it into the closet. Then Betty began making tea on her alcohol lamp and talking of other things; only Polly could see that her mind was not in the least upon what she was saying, but that she was thinking of something else every possible second. Whether to go or to stay with her friend was Polly's present indecision. However, she and Molly remained until Mrs. Ashton had returned from her drive and Betty went into her mother's room to assist in taking off her wraps. CHAPTER XXI BETTY FINDS OUT It was Monday afternoon and the March weather held an alluring suggestion of spring. Running along the street with her red coat scarcely fastened and her hat at a totally wrong angle upon her head, Polly O'Neill showed no concern for exterior conditions. Finding the Ashton front door unlocked she entered without stopping to ring the bell, and made straight, not for Betty's, but for Mrs. Ashton's bedroom. She found her lying upon the bed, though at her visitor's entrance she sat up, appearing quite ill. "O Mrs. Ashton, why didn't Betty come to school today? Where is she? Has anything happened? I was dreadfully worried when I found she was not at any of her classes, and then when I asked Miss McMurtry whether anything was the matter, she was so queer and mysterious. And when I said I was going to leave school and come here at once, she said that I had better not, that Betty had specially asked to be alone and that even you had not seen her this morning. Donna behaved just as though she knew something about my beloved Betty that I don't. And it is not fair. I am sure Betty would wish me to know. Where is she?" "Sit down, Polly," Mrs. Ashton returned, getting up from the bed and taking a seat opposite. "I don't know where Betty is just now and I am very uneasy and very unhappy about her. The poor child has had so many things happen in the past year, after being spoiled in every possible way up till then. She was in her own room most of the morning, but about two hours ago sent word to me that she was going out and that I was not to be alarmed if she did not return for some little time. I might as well tell you our secret, dear. I suppose there is no way now to keep people from knowing it eventually and perhaps we have been unkind and unwise in concealing it from Betty so long. I wonder if you have ever dreamed that Betty is Esther Crippen's sister?" Polly gasped. No, she had not dreamed it. If the suspicion had ever entered her mind, she had put it from her as a self-evident absurdity. Her beautiful, exquisite Princess and Esther and Herr Crippen! It was an impossible association of ideas and of people. "But it can't be true, Mrs. Ashton," she argued almost angrily, feeling that the room was whirling about and that she was almost ill from the surprise and shock. And if this was her sensation, what could Betty's have been! "Think how lovely Betty is and how utterly unlike either of them. Besides, why have we never known and how did you happen to do it?" Polly dropped her face in her two hands. She so very seldom cried that the effort always hurt her. "It is a tragic story, dear, and one we have never liked to talk about for all our sakes," Mrs. Ashton replied, showing more self-control than Polly had ever seen her display before. "Very many years ago I had a baby named Phyllis. Betty tells me that you too saw her picture in the old trunk. Well, Dick was a little boy of about seven, and by some dreadful accident found a loaded pistol in his father's desk and came running into the big back room with it, which in those days was the baby's nursery. You can imagine what happened without my telling you. Dick was a child, and yet the horror of it has altered his entire nature and life. He has always been serious and over-conscientious, always anxious to devote his life to the service of other people as a reparation for a tragedy which was never in the least his fault. It was therefore as much for Dick's sake as for mine that Mr. Ashton persuaded us to adopt a baby in Phyllis' place. So we drove out to the asylum together one day, with our minds not made up and there--there we found our adored Betty. Herr Crippen had just left his two children to be cared for, and Betty was only a baby. But she was the most exquisite little thing you can imagine, the same lovely auburn hair and big serious gray eyes. Dick adored her from the moment that she put her arms about his neck and would not let go when the time came for us to return home. We have always loved her since, Polly, as well as if she had been our own baby--better I almost think. You know what she is, so there is little use for me to say it--'Our Princess', dear. I have always loved your name and the other girls' for her." "But Herr Crippen and Esther--they are so plain, and except for their gifts, why, compared to Betty they seem so--so ordinary," Polly protested. "But you must remember that there was a mother, too, and that Herr Crippen has said she was an American and very lovely. I believe her family would have nothing more to do with her because she married a German musician. And then, you see, child, Betty has had many advantages that Esther has not had. It was because Dick and I began slowly to realize that perhaps we had been cruel to Esther in depriving her of her little sister that we finally asked her to come here and live as a kind of companion to Betty. It was a long-delayed kindness and yet Esther has very nobly repaid us; for it seems that when Herr Crippen returned and claimed Esther as his daughter, Esther learned then of Betty's relation to them and it was she who insisted that her father make no sign, realizing how entirely Betty's devotion was given to Dick and Mr. Ashton and to me, even to this old home, which has been her pride for so long." "Poor, poor little Princess! It will almost break her heart," Polly murmured. But although Mrs. Ashton wiped a few tears from her eyes, she shook her head. "Some day you will find out that hearts are harder to break than you now believe. I would almost have given my life to have spared Betty this knowledge, and yet some day she must realize that we love her as we have always done and that love is the only thing that greatly counts, after all. There is no reason why Betty should feel any shame in her relation to Herr Crippen; he has been unfortunate, but there is nothing else against him. And Esther is a remarkable girl." "Yes, I know. But what made Betty suspect? How did she find all this out?" Polly queried. "Betty told me of her discoveries in the old trunk and asked me a number of questions. I was confused; I am not in the least sure how I answered them. Anyhow, she became suspicious and went to Herr Crippen and then to Miss McMurtry, who, it seems, was in Esther's and her father's confidence. They gave the child no satisfaction, but only made her the more uneasy and distressed, until finally Betty remembered the sealed envelope which Mr. Ashton had always made her keep in her box of valuable papers. Possibly she has told you that the envelope was only to be opened when she should come to some crisis in her life and need advice or information. Betty opened the envelope and it contained the papers proving her legal adoption by us and her right in the equal division of whatever property either Mr. Ashton or I might have. Now, Polly, that is all," Mrs. Ashton concluded. "But I feel that if Betty does not soon come to me and put her arms about me and call me 'mother' as she always has, that I shan't be able to bear things either. Won't you find her and bring her here to me?" And Polly, glad to be away to battle with her own emotions, kissed her older friend and vanished. But Betty was not in her room, and as there seemed to be no clue to work upon, it was difficult to decide just where she should begin the search. CHAPTER XXII SUNRISE CABIN Betty was not with any one of their acquaintances, for Polly telephoned everybody they knew before leaving the Ashton house. Then a possibility suddenly dawning upon her, she hurried forth, feeling that anything was better than remaining longer indoors. All of the Sunrise Hill Camp Fire girls were in the habit of taking frequent walks to their forsaken log cabin. And as Betty wished to be alone and especially needed the strength and consolation that its happy memories could give her, probably she had gone out there. Under most circumstances Polly would have respected her friend's desire for solitude, but Betty must already have been at the cabin for some time by herself and the dusk would soon come down upon her and she would be hurt and lonely, with all her familiar world fallen about her feet. No one else must learn of her pilgrimage, since Betty might forgive her presence and yet could not rally to meet the astonishment and sympathy of any other of her friends. So Polly told several impatient fibs to the persons who insisted upon learning where she intended going, before she was able to get outside of Woodford and into the blessed solitude of the country lanes. The air was colder by this time and light flurries of snow kept blinding her eyes as she hurried along. However, she had not so forgotten her training in woodcraft as not to recognize signs of Betty's having preceded her along almost the same route; for here and there, where the earth had thawed in the midday warmth, there were impressions of the Princess' shoes. And she even picked up a small crushed handkerchief which had been dropped by the way. Therefore in spite of her depression over Mrs. Ashton's information, Polly was beginning to get a kind of hold upon herself. For it was her place, if she possibly could manage it, to persuade Betty that, after all, life was not so utterly changed by yesterday's discovery. If Mrs. Ashton and Dick were not her own mother and brother, they themselves knew no difference. And there would be no change in her friends' affections. Then, she had gained Esther as a sister, Esther who was so big in her nature, so unselfish and fine. No wonder she had always seemed to care for Betty with a devotion no one of them could explain. And how hard it must have been loving her as she did to have made no claim upon her. "Hello, Miss Polly," an unexpected voice cried out, and to Polly's utter vexation she beheld Billy Webster coming toward her from the path that led through his father's woods. She bowed coldly, hoping that her coldness might be her salvation, since she did not wish to waste time in conversation with him, nor to explain why she was in such a hurry to go on with her walk. But Billy was apparently not influenced by Polly's present attitude, being too accustomed to her moods. "May I walk along with you?" he inquired politely enough. "I was just out for exercise, with no special place in mind where I wished to go, and I should ever so much rather have you as a companion." It was on the tip of Polly's tongue to exclaim, "But I would so much rather not have you!" However, she suddenly recalled having promised Mollie to be as polite to Billy as she could and not to bear malice any longer. So she merely shook her head. "I am sorry, but I am in a great hurry," she explained. "For you see I came out with a very special place in mind to which I wish to go immediately." Billy laughed, rather a big, splendid, open-hearted laugh. Polly was amusing, in no matter what temper she might happen to be. "But I won't interfere with your destination and I certainly can manage to walk as fast as you can," he announced calmly, keeping close to the girl's side, although her rapid walking had developed almost into a run, and she was nearly out of breath. [Illustration: "I won't interfere with your destination"] Well, if she could not outwalk him and could not manage to get rid of him in any other way, Polly decided that she would at least keep perfectly silent until he had the sense to go away of his own accord. It was still some distance before she could reach the cabin. However, as Billy was doing a great deal of talking, he appeared not to be aware of her unusual silence. "Look here, Miss Polly, I have been thinking of something for a long time--several months, in fact," he declared. "And I have about come to the conclusion that maybe I was pretty domineering in the way in which I behaved to you in New York. Of course I still consider that acting business a dreadful thing for you to have done which might have brought consequences that you could not imagine. But I ought to have tried to persuade you to stop or to write your mother, and not to have bullied you. I want you to believe, though, that it was because I like you so much that I went all to pieces over the idea of anything happening to you--your getting ill or somebody being rude to you. Great Scott! but I am glad that you have given up that foolish idea of going upon the stage and have settled down quietly in Woodford!" Polly turned a pair of astonished blue eyes upon her companion, who happened at the moment to be gazing up toward the sky where the snow clouds were growing heavier. "You are very kind to be interested in my welfare, I am sure," she replied, trying her best not to let sarcastic tones creep into her voice. "And of course I realized that your friendship for Mollie and mother made you feel that you had the right to express your opinion very frankly to me. But you are mistaken if you believe that I have given up my foolish notion of going upon the stage. Of course I appreciate now that I was wrong in betraying mother's trust and in trying that experiment in acting without her consent. So I have accepted my punishment and made my bargain. But just the same, when I am twenty-one, I mean to try again with all my strength and power and to keep on trying until I ultimately succeed." Billy Webster closed his lips with a look of peculiar obstinacy. "Three years is a long time," he answered, "and you might as well know that though I am fond of Mollie and always will be, it is you I really care about. Oh yes, I realize that there are hours when I almost hate you, but that is because you dislike me and because I can't get you to do what I wish. Still, you might as well understand that I intend doing everything in my power for the next three years to make you stay in Woodford when the time is up and to make you stay because you love me." And then before Polly was able to get her breath or to stamp her foot or in any possible way to relieve her feelings, the young man had marched away through an opening at one side of the path, without even stopping once to glance back at her. It was out of the question then for Polly to decide whether she was the more angry, astonished or amused. Of course it was absurd for Billy Webster to conceive of having any emotion for her except one of disapproval. He was simply so obstinate and so sure of himself that he wanted to make her like him, because he knew that she almost hated him. And if it had not been for Mollie, she would have suffered no "almost" in her dislike. Really the confusion and protest that the young man's words had awakened in her mind, coming on top of the disclosure about Betty, made Polly feel as if she had suddenly taken leave of her senses. And as it is a rather good scheme when one is unable to think clearly, to give up thinking at all for the time being, the girl started running in the direction of the cabin, so fast that she had opportunity for no other impulse or impression except forcing herself to keep up the desired speed. By a camp fire, which Betty had built for herself, Polly discovered her friend sitting on a stool with her elbow in her lap and her head resting on her hand. She did not seem astonished or annoyed by her friend's entrance. When Polly came forward and kissed her she merely said, "I am glad you know, Polly. I hope you did not have a very cold walk. It was not snowing when I came out." Then she began piling more logs on her fire. Later the two girls had an intimate talk. "It is odd, Polly, but I don't feel as wretched as I should have expected I would," Betty explained, speaking as much to herself as to her companion. "I think perhaps it is intended for me to have my illusions shattered earlier in life than other people have them--I think possibly because I have been vainer and more foolish. At first I presume I used to have a kind of unconscious satisfaction in our having more money than other people and in being able to do almost anything for my friends that I wished. Then when the money went away I thought, well, perhaps money does not make so much difference if one has an old family and a name of which one may be proud. But in these last few hours, sitting here by myself I have begun to appreciate more fully what our Camp Fire organization is trying so hard to teach us. It is that all we girls are alike in the essential things, only that some of us have been given better opportunities and more friends. There is only one thing that really counts, I suppose, and that is not so much what other people do for us, as what we are able to do for ourselves, what kind of women we are able to grow into. So you see that though I believe I was struggling to save the old Ashton house because all my distinguished ancestors had been living there for generation after generation and I wanted to have babies of my own to inherit it some day, now I am even happier because perhaps I have saved it for Dick and mother by my plan and maybe it will repay them a little for all they have done for me." "I don't think the debt is on your side, dear," Polly returned loyally. But already Betty had risen from her stool and was looking around for her cloak and cap. "Let us hurry home now; we shall have a glorious walk!" she exclaimed. "I have been away from mother long enough and I do want to write to Esther. She has got to come to see me for a few days, or else I am going to her. Don't worry; I shall not forget the seven points of our Camp Fire star." CHAPTER XXIII FAREWELLS One morning in May two months later two girls were in the much-discussed back bedroom overlooking the Ashton garden. It was very much the same kind of cheerless day outdoors that it had been when they had first met each other after a lapse of many years. And then of course neither one knew of the closeness of the tie between them. However, at the present moment they were busily engaged in packing two steamer trunks that were standing open before them. "I never shall get all this stuff in if you don't come and help me, Esther," Betty protested in the spoiled fashion of an earlier time. And since Esther never would cease to believe that the whole world should be grateful to Betty for the honor of her presence in it, it is doubtful whether her methods of spoiling "The Princess" ever would be entirely given up. "Sit down, dear, or else run and see Polly and Mollie and Mrs. Wharton for a few moments. You are tired and I can finish putting the things in for you without any trouble. Poor Polly is kind of pathetic these days, I think; she is so desperate over our going away and leaving her behind, and then, though she tries her best not to show it, she is jealous of our being so much together. I am sorry for her, because it is pretty much the same way that I used to feel toward her. And of course I have tried to show her that no one can take her place with you; but she is so low-spirited and so unlike herself that there is no convincing her of anything agreeable." Betty had sunk into a low chair and was rocking thoughtfully back and forward knitting her brows. "Mother and I both consider that Mrs. Wharton is making a mistake in not allowing Polly to leave Woodford for three years; for she will probably grow so tired of it by that time that she will never want to come home again--that is, if she goes on the stage. When it was decided that we were to go abroad mother suggested to Mrs. Wharton that she let Polly come over and join us later. She thought it would be very much more apt to distract her attention than if she stayed on here with nothing else to dream about." "And what did Mrs. Wharton answer?" Esther queried, turning from her own trunk and beginning to straighten out the confusion in her sister's. "Oh, she wouldn't hear of it," Betty returned. "So sometimes I feel pretty selfish at being so happy over our sailing. But just think, we are going straight to Germany and dear old Dick! It seems a hundred years since he went away. How strangely things have turned out! Here are Miss McMurtry and my new father getting married, when I have been predicting that they would, with no one believing me, ever since that evening at the cabin. So they will be able to look after the house and let the people stay on in it just as if mother and I were here, and send us a check for the rent each month so that we will have enough to live upon. But better than anything, Esther dear, is the wonderful chance you will have for your music. You are going to study under one of the greatest teachers in the world and not because of what your own family believe about your talent, but because of what your teacher in New York wrote the Professor." It was not often that Betty was able to speak of Herr Crippen as father; Mr. Ashton had been her father too long, and she had cared for him too much to be willing to give the title to any one else. So "the Professor" and "Donna" were the names she ordinarily bestowed upon her new parents. "You must not expect too much of my singing, Betty," Esther replied in her same shy, nervous fashion. "And, for goodness sake! don't write your brother Dick that my voice has improved, or he will be disappointed." Betty laughed teasingly. "Oh, I have told him already that you were greater than Melba and Farrar rolled into one. But never mind, Esther, he will soon find out the real truth for himself. Isn't it too splendid how happy mother is over our plans! She has not been so like herself since father's death. And somehow instead of acting as if she had given me up to the Professor as a daughter, she behaves far more as if he had just presented her with you as well. I believe she feels it helps to make up to you, Esther, for the years of loneliness--her being able now to chaperon you, when you so much need to have your big chance." Esther was kneeling on the floor; but she turned her light blue eyes appealingly upon her sister and her lips quivered, revealing her one beautiful feature in the mobility of the lines of her mouth and in the whiteness of her teeth. "You must not expect too much of me, little sister, will you?" she pleaded. "You know I have only consented to father's making this big sacrifice for me so that we may all be abroad together, and you and Mrs. Ashton have the rest and change you so much need. And then, of course, I may be able to learn to sing well enough some day to earn the money to buy you a Paris frock and hat," she ended with an attempt at lightness. However, Betty was not deceived, and getting up from her rocking chair, she deliberately pushed Esther aside. "For goodness sake! let me finish packing my own trunk, Esther Crippen," she commanded. "Here I have been carefully trying to cultivate an angelic character ever since I became a Camp Fire girl, and in a few weeks of your spoiling you do away with the labor of years." Betty therefore was not looking up when some one tiptoed quietly into the room, and, before she became conscious of her presence, dropped a bunch of May blossoms under her eyes. "There are two automobiles waiting before your door at the present moment, children," Polly announced. "And John Everett suggested that I tell you to get into your coats and hats at once. He came home for the day; I've an idea he may have desired to say farewell to 'My Lady Betty,' but I was given no such information. What I was told to say was that he and Meg were giving an automobile ride in your honor and that we were to end up by having our lunch at the cabin. They have asked all the Camp Fire Club and some of John's friends, Billy Webster," and Polly's face expressed her chagrin. "John has even invited Anthony Graham, and the poor fellow has fixed himself up until he is positively shining with cleanliness, though I am afraid he will be cold in that shabby overcoat of his." While Polly was chattering, she was assisting Betty to slip into her new violet dress which had been made for the steamer crossing and happily was lying ready and spread out upon the bed. And the next instant she had pinned Esther's new blue _crêpe de chine_ blouse down in the back, hurried them both into their heavy coats and hats, and was ushering them out to their friends, who were impatiently awaiting their coming. No one of the little party forgot their May day together in the woods and at the Sunrise Hill cabin for a long time to come. And among the many kind things that were said to her in farewell, it was curious that the speech made by Anthony Graham should make the deepest impression upon Betty Ashton's mind. He had asked her come away from her other friends for a few moments, and they had walked to the edge of the group of pines not far from the foot of Sunrise Hill. It was almost sunset, for no one had thought of going home after the late luncheon was over. Betty glanced about her rather wistfully. This particular bit of country was dearer to her than any place in the world except her old home and yet she was leaving it for an unknown land, to be away she could not tell how long. "Miss Ashton," Anthony began, "there will probably be a good many changes in people and things before you come home again. And I am hoping with all my strength that of the greatest changes will have taken place in me. I mean that by that time you need not be ashamed of having befriended me. It is pretty hard sometimes to climb a hill along with other people when you have started so much nearer the bottom than they have. But I feel now that I have made at least a fair start. Judge Maynard told me yesterday that he believed I meant business and that he would teach me all the law he knew and that he would see that I wasn't far behind the fellows at the law schools when the time came for my examinations." Betty's face glowed with interest and enthusiasm and she gave her two hands to the young man with the same friendliness which she had used in his first call upon her. "I am so glad, so glad!" she answered. "But please don't speak of my feeling ashamed of you ever again. I know I was rather horrid to you once and that afterwards you saved my life, or what perhaps means more than one's life. Suppose we promise to repay our debts to each other in some entirely new way when we meet after my return." Betty made her idle speech with no special meaning attached to it. And although Anthony agreed in much the same manner, it was possibly fortunate that Betty did not observe his expression as he turned away and walked a few paces ahead of her, gazing up toward the summit of Sunrise Hill. The golden disk of the sun was at this instant resting upon it like the crown of the world. And to Anthony it seemed none too beautiful or too magnificent a gift to have laid at the feet of a gray-eyed Princess. Voices were heard calling to them from the cabin, and a short while after good-nights were said and Sunrise Cabin was once more left to solitude and memories. * * * * * * The next volume of the Camp Fire Girls' Series will be known as "The Camp Fire Girls Across the Seas." Several years will have intervened between it and the previous book and the girls will be introduced under very different influences and circumstances. Just how many of them will have crossed the seas and for what purposes, and how the old Camp Fire influence will still follow them, it is the plan of this story to reveal. 
20822	----	[Illustration: "Keep still, and you won't be hurt," commanded the man.] ----------------------------------------------------------------------- Camp Fire Girls Series, Volume V THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS ON THE MARCH or BESSIE KING'S TEST OF FRIENDSHIP by JANE L. STEWART The Saalfield Publishing Company Chicago AKRON, OHIO New York MADE IN U. S. A. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- Copyright, 1914 By The Saalfield Publishing Co. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS ON THE MARCH CHAPTER I AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR "Oh, what a glorious day!" cried Bessie King, the first of the members of the Manasquan Camp Fire Girls of America to emerge from the sleeping house of Camp Sunset, on Lake Dean, and to see the sun sparkling on the water of the lake. She was not long alone in her enjoyment of the scene, however. "Oh, it's lovely!" said Dolly Ransom, as, rubbing her eyes sleepily, since it was only a little after six, she joined her friend on the porch. "This is really the first time we've had a chance to see what the lake looks like. It's been covered with that dense smoke ever since we've been here." "Well, the smoke has nearly all gone, Dolly. The change in the wind not only helped to put out the fire, but it's driving the smoke away from us." "The smoke isn't all gone, though, Bessie. Look over there. It's still rising from the other end of the woods on the other side of the lake, but it isn't bothering us over here any more." "What a pity it is that we've got to go away just as the weather gives us a chance to enjoy it here! But then I guess we'll have a good time when we do go away, anyhow. We thought we weren't going to enjoy it here, but it hasn't been so bad, after all, has it?" "No, because it ended well, Bessie. But if those girls in the camp next door had had their way, we wouldn't have had a single pleasant thing to remember about staying here, would we?" "They've had their lesson, I think, Dolly. Perhaps they won't be so ready to look down on the Camp Fire Girls after this--and I'm sure they would be nice and friendly if we stayed." "I wouldn't want any of their friendliness. All I'd ask would be for them to let us alone. That's all I ever did want them to do, anyhow. If they had just minded their own affairs, there wouldn't have been any trouble." "Well, I feel sort of sorry for them, Dolly. When they finally got into real trouble they had to come to us for help, and if they are the sort of girls they seem to be, they couldn't have liked doing that very well." "You bet they didn't, Bessie! It was just the hardest thing they could have done. You see, the reason they were so mean to us is that they are awfully proud, and they think they're better than any other people." "Then what's the use of still being angry at them? I thought you weren't last night--not at Gladys Cooper, at least." "Why, I thought then that she was in danger because of what I'd done, and that made me feel bad. But you and I helped to get her back to their camp safely, so I feel as if we were square. I suppose I ought to be willing to forgive them for the way they acted, but I just can't seem to do it, Bessie." "Well, as long as we're going away from here to-day anyhow, it doesn't make much difference. We're not likely to see them again, are we?" "I don't know why not--those who live in the same town, anyhow. Marcia Bates and Gladys Cooper--the two who were lost on the mountain last night, you know--live very close to me at home." "You were always good friends with Gladys until you met her up here, weren't you?" "Oh, yes, good friends enough. I don't think we either of us cared particularly about the other. Each of us had a lot of friends we liked better, but we got along well enough." "Well, don't you think she just made a mistake, and then was afraid to admit it, and try to make up for it? I think lots of people are like that. They do something wrong, and then, just because it frightens them a little and they think it would be hard to set matters right, they make a bad thing much worse." "Oh, you can't make me feel charitable about them, and there's no use trying, Bessie! Let's try not to talk about them, for it makes me angry every time I think of the way they behaved. They were just plain snobs, that's all!" "I thought Gladys Cooper was pretty mean, after all the trouble we had taken last night to help her and her chum, but I do think the rest were sorry, and felt that they'd been all wrong. They really said so, if you remember." "Well, they ought to have been, certainly! What a lot of lazy girls they must be! Do look, Bessie. There isn't a sign of life over at their camp. I bet not one of them is up yet!" "You're a fine one to criticise anyone else for being lazy, Dolly Ransom! How long did it take me to wake you up this morning? And how many times have you nearly missed breakfast by going back to bed after you'd pretended to get up?" "Oh, well," said Dolly, defiantly, "it's just because I'm lazy myself and know what a fault it is that I'm the proper one to call other people down for it. It's always the one who knows all about some sin who can preach the best sermon against it, you know." "Turning preacher, Dolly?" asked Eleanor Mercer. Both the girls spun around and rushed toward her as soon as they heard her voice, and realized that she had stepped noiselessly out on the porch. They embraced her happily. She was Guardian of the Camp Fire, and no more popular Guardian could have been found in the whole State. "Dolly's got something more against the girls from Halsted Camp!" explained Bessie, with a peal of laughter. "She says they're lazy because they're not up yet, and I said she was a fine one to say anything about that! Don't you think so too, Miss Eleanor?" "Well, she's up early enough this morning, Bessie. But, well, I'm afraid you're right. Dolly's got a lot of good qualities, but getting up early in the morning unless someone pulls her out of bed and keeps her from climbing in again, isn't one of them." "What time are we going to start, Miss Eleanor?" asked Dolly, who felt that it was time to change the topic of conversation. Dolly was usually willing enough to talk about herself, but she preferred to choose the subject herself. "After we've had breakfast and cleaned things up here. It was very nice of the Worcesters to let us use their camp, and we must leave it looking just as nice as when we came." "Are they coming back here this summer?" "The Worcesters? No, I don't think so. I'm pretty sure, though, that they have invited some friends of theirs to use the camp next week and stay as long as they like." "I hope their friends will please the Halsted Camp crowd better than we did," said Dolly, sarcastically. "The Worcesters ought to be very careful only to let people come here who are a little better socially than those girls. Then they'd probably be satisfied." "Now, don't hold a grudge against all those girls, Dolly," said Eleanor, smiling. "Gladys Cooper was really the ringleader in all the trouble they tried to make for us, and you've had your revenge on her. On all of them, for that matter." "Oh, Miss Eleanor, if you could only have seen them when I threw that basket full of mice among them! I never saw such a scared lot of girls in my life!" "That was a pretty mean trick," said Eleanor. "I don't think what they did to bother us deserved such a revenge as that, even if I believed in revenge, anyhow. I don't because it usually hurts the people who get it more than the victims." Bessie looked at Dolly sharply, but, if she meant to say anything, Eleanor herself anticipated her remark. "Now come on, Dolly, own up!" she said. "Didn't you feel pretty bad when you heard Gladys and Marcia were lost in the woods last night? Didn't you think that it was because you'd got the best of the girls that they turned against Gladys, and so drove her into taking that foolish night walk in the woods?" "Oh, I did--I did!" cried Dolly. "And I told Bessie so last night, too. I never would have forgiven myself if anything really serious had happened to those two girls." "That's just it, Dolly. You may think that revenge is a joke, perhaps, as you meant yours to be, but you never can tell how far it's going, nor what the final effect is going to be." "I'm beginning to see that, Miss Mercer." "I know you are, Dolly. You were lucky--as lucky as Gladys and Marcia. You were particularly lucky, because, after all, it was your pluck in going into that cave, when you didn't know what sort of danger you might run into, that found them. So you had a salve for your conscience right then. But often and often it wouldn't have happened that way. You might very well have had to remember always that your revenge, though you thought it was such a trifling thing, had had a whole lot of pretty serious results." "Well, I really am beginning to feel a little sorry," admitted Dolly, "though Gladys acted just as if she was insulted because we found them. She said she and Marcia would have been all right in that cave if they'd stayed there until morning." "I think she'll have reason to change her mind," said Eleanor. "She'd have found herself pretty uncomfortable this morning with nothing to eat. And she's in for a bad cold, unless I'm mistaken, and it might very well have been pneumonia if they'd had to stay out all night." "She's a softy!" declared Dolly, scornfully. "I'll bet Bessie and I could have spent the night there and been all right, too, after it was all over." "You and Bessie are both unusually strong and healthy, Dolly. It may not be her fault that she's a softy, as you call her. The Camp Fire pays a whole lot of attention to health. That's why Health is one of the words that we use to make up Wo-he-lo. Work, and Health, and Love. Because you can't work properly, and love properly, unless you are healthy." "I suppose what happened to Gladys last night was one of the things you were talking about when you wanted us to be patient, wasn't it?" "What do you mean, Dolly?" "Why, when you said that pride went before a fall, and that she'd be sure to have something unpleasant happen if we only let her alone, and didn't try to get even ourselves?" "Well, it looks like it, doesn't it?" "I don't get much satisfaction out of seeing people punished that way, though," admitted Dolly, after a moment's thought. "It seems to me--well, listen, Miss Eleanor. Suppose someone did something awfully nice for me. It wouldn't be right, would it, for me just to say to myself, 'Oh, well, something nice will happen to her.' She might have some piece of good fortune, but I wouldn't have anything to do with it. I'd want to do something nice myself to show that I was grateful." "Of course you would," said Eleanor, who saw the point Dolly was trying to make and admired her power of working out a logical proposition. "Well, then, if that's true, why shouldn't it be true if someone does something hateful to me? I don't take any credit for the pleasant things that happen to people who are nice to me, so why should I feel satisfied because the hateful ones have some piece of bad luck that I didn't have anything to do with, either?" "That's a perfectly good argument as far as it goes, Dolly. But the trouble is that it doesn't go far enough. You've got a false step in it. Can't you see where she goes wrong, Bessie?" "I think I can, Miss Eleanor," said Bessie. "It's that we ought not to be glad when people are in trouble, even if they are mean to us, isn't it? But we are glad, and ought to be, when nice people have good luck. So the two cases aren't the same a bit, are they?" "Right!" said Eleanor, heartily. "Think that over a bit, Dolly. You'll see the point pretty soon and then maybe you'll understand the whole business better." Just then the girls whose turn it had been to prepare breakfast came to the door of the Living Camp, which contained the dining-room and the kitchen, and a blast on a horn announced that breakfast was ready. "Come on! We'll eat our next meal sitting around a camp fire in the woods, if that forest fire has left any woods where we're going," announced Eleanor. "So we want to make this meal a good one. No telling what sort of places we'll find on our tramp." "I bet it will be good fun, no matter what they're like," said Margery Burton, one of the other members of the Camp Fire. She was a Fire-Maker, the second rank of the Camp Fire. First are the Wood-Gatherers, to which Bessie and Dolly belonged; then the Fire-Makers, and finally, and next to the Guardian, whom they serve as assistants, the Torch-Bearers. Margery hoped soon to be made a Torch-Bearer, and had an ambition to become a Guardian herself as soon as Miss Eleanor and the local council of the National Camp Fire decided that she was qualified for the work. "Oh, you'd like any old thing just because you had to stand for it, Margery, whether it was any good or not," said Dolly. "Well, isn't that a good idea? Why, I even manage to get along with you, Dolly! Sometimes I like you quite well. And anyone who could stand for you!" Dolly laughed as loudly as the rest. She had been pretty thoroughly spoiled, but her association with the other girls in the Camp Fire had taught her to take a joke when it was aimed at her, unlike most people who are fond of making jokes at the expense of others, and of teasing them. She recognized that she had fairly invited Margery's sharp reply. "We'll have to hurry and get ready when breakfast is over," said Eleanor as they were finishing the meal. "You girls whose turn it is to wash up had better get through as quickly as you can. Then we'll all get the packs ready. We have to take the boat that leaves at half past nine for the other end of Lake Dean." "Why, there's someone coming! It's those girls from the other camp!" announced Dolly, suddenly. She had left the table, and was looking out of the window. And, sure enough, when the Camp Fire Girls went out on the porch in a minute, they saw advancing the private school girls, whose snobbishness had nearly ruined their stay at Camp Sunset. Marcia Bates, who had been rescued with her friend, Gladys Cooper, acted as spokesman for them. "We've come to tell you that we've all decided we were nasty and acted like horrid snobs," she said. "We have found out that you're nice girls--nicer than we are. And we're very grateful--of course I am, especially--for you helping us. And so we want you to accept these little presents we've brought for you." CHAPTER II TROUBLE SMOOTHED AWAY Probably none of the Camp Fire Girls had ever been so surprised in their lives as when they heard the object of this utterly unexpected visit. Marcia's eyes were rather blurred while she was speaking, and anyone could see that it was a hard task she had assumed. It is never easy to confess that one has been in the wrong, and it was particularly hard for these girls, whose whole campaign against the Camp Fire party had been based on pride and a false sense of their own superiority, which, of course, had existed only in their imaginations. For a moment no one seemed to know what to do or say. Strangely enough, it was Dolly, who had resented the previous attitude of the rich girls more than any of her companions, who found by instinct the true solution. She didn't say a word; she simply ran forward impulsively and threw her arms about Marcia's neck. Then, and not till then, as she kissed the friend with whom she had quarreled, did she find words. "You're an old dear, Marcia!" she cried. "I knew you wouldn't keep on hating us when you knew us better--and you'll forgive me, won't you, for playing that horrid trick with the mice?" Dolly had broken the ice, and in a moment the stiffness of the two groups of girls was gone, and they mingled, talking and laughing naturally. "I don't know what the presents you brought are--you haven't shown them to us yet," said Dolly, with a laugh. "But I'm sure they must be lovely, and as for accepting them, why, you just bet we will!" "You know," said Marcia a little apologetically, "there aren't any real stores up here, and we couldn't get what we would really have liked, but we just did the best we could. Girls, get those things out!" And then a dozen blankets were unrolled, beautifully woven Indian blankets, such as girls love to use for their dens, as couch covers and for hangings on the walls. Dolly exclaimed with delight as she saw hers. "Heavens! And you act as if they weren't perfectly lovely!" she cried. "Why, Marcia, how can you talk as if they weren't the prettiest things! If that's what you call just doing the best you can, I'm afraid to think of what you'd have got for us if you'd been able to pick out whatever you wanted. It would have been something so fine that we'd have been afraid to take it, I'm sure." "Well, we thought perhaps you'd find them useful if you're going on this tramp of yours," said Marcia, blushing with pleasure. "And I'm ever so glad you like them, if you really do, because I helped to pick them out. There's one for each of you, and then we've got a big Mackinaw jacket for Miss Mercer, so that she'd have something different." "I can't tell you how happy this makes me!" said Eleanor, swallowing a little hard, for she was evidently deeply touched. "I don't mean the presents, Marcia, though they're lovely, but the spirit in which you all bring them." "We--we wanted to show you we were sorry, and that we understood how mean we'd been," said Marcia. "Oh, my dear, do let's forget all that!" said Eleanor, heartily. "We don't want to remember anything unpleasant. Let's bury all that, and just have the memory that we're all good friends now, and that we'd never have been anything else if we'd only understood one another in the beginning as well as we do now. "That's the reason for most of the quarrels in this world; people don't understand one another, that's all. And when they do, it's just as it is with us--they wonder how they ever could have hated one another!" "Why, where's Gladys Cooper?" asked Dolly, suddenly. She had been looking around for the girl who had been chiefly responsible for all the trouble, and who had been, before this meeting, one of Dolly's friends in the city from which she and Marcia, as well as the Camp Fire Girls, came. And Gladys was missing. "She--why--she--she isn't feeling very well," stammered Marcia unhappily. But a look at Dolly's face convinced her that she might as well tell the truth. "I'm awfully sorry," she went on shamefacedly, "but Gladys was awfully silly." "You mean she hasn't forgiven us?" said Eleanor gently. "She's just stupid," flashed Marcia. "What has she got to forgive? She ought to be here, thanking Dolly and Bessie King for finding us, just as I am. And she's sulking in her room, instead!" "She'll change her mind, Marcia," said Eleanor, "just as the rest of you have done. I'm dreadfully sorry that she feels that way, because it must make her unhappy. But please don't be angry with her if you really want to please us. We're just as ready and just as anxious to be friends with her as with all the rest of you, and some time we will be, too. I'm sure of that." "We'll make her see what a fool she is!" said Marcia, hotly. "If she'd only come with us, she'd have seen it for herself. She said all the girls here would crow over us, and act as if we were backing down, and had done this because someone made us." Eleanor laughed heartily. "Well, that is a silly idea!" she said. "Just explain to her that we were just as pleased and as surprised to see you as we could be, Marcia. You didn't need to come here this way at all, and we know it perfectly well. You did it just because you are nice girls and wanted to be friendly, and we appreciate the way you've come a good deal more than we do the lovely presents, even." "Well, I hope we'll see you again," said Marcia. "If you're going on that half past nine boat we'll go back now, and let you pack, unless we can help you?" "No, you can't help us. We've really got very little to do. But don't go. Stay around, if you will, and we'll all talk and visit with you while we do what there is to be done." "I'm awfully sorry Gladys is cutting up so. It makes me feel ashamed, Dolly," said Marcia, when she and Dolly were alone. "But you know how she is. I think she's really just as sorry as the rest of us, but--" "But she's awfully proud, and she won't show it, Marcia. I know, for I'm that way myself, though I really do think I've been behaving myself a little better since I've belonged to the Camp Fire. I wish you'd join, Marcia." "Maybe I will, Dolly." "Oh, that would be fine! Shall I speak to Miss Eleanor? She'd be perfectly delighted, I know." "No, don't speak to her yet. I've got a plan, or some of us have, rather, but it's still a secret so I can't tell you anything about it. But maybe I'll have a great surprise for you the next time I see you." The time passed quickly and pleasantly, and all too soon Miss Eleanor had to give the word that it was time to start for the landing if they were to catch the little steamer that was to take them to the other end of the lake. "I tell you what! We'll all go with you as far as you go on the boat, and come back on her," said Marcia. "That will be good fun, won't it? I've got plenty of money for the fares, and those who haven't their money with them can pay me when we get back to camp." All the girls from Camp Halsted fell in with her suggestion, delighted by the idea of such an unplanned excursion. It was easy enough to arrange it, too, for the little steamer would be back on her return trip early in the afternoon, even though she did not make very good speed and had numerous stops to make, since Lake Dean's shores were lined with little settlements, where camps and cottages and hotels, had been built at convenient spots. "We've heard you singing a lot of songs we never heard before," said Marcia to Bessie, as they took their places on the boat. "Won't you teach us some of them? They were awfully pretty, we thought." "You must mean the Camp Fire songs," said Bessie, happily. "We'll be glad to teach them to you--and they're all easy to learn, too. I think Dolly's got an extra copy of one of the song books and I know she'll be glad to let you have it." And so, as soon as Bessie explained what Marcia wanted, the deck of the steamer was turned into an impromptu concert hall, and she made her journey to the strains of the favorite songs of the Camp Fire, the Wo-he-lo cheer with its lovely music being, of course, sung more often than any of the others. "We were wondering so much about that," said Marcia. "We could make out the word Wo-he-lo, but we couldn't understand it. It sounded like an Indian word, but the others didn't seem to fit in with that idea." "It's just made up from the first syllables of work and health and love, you see," said Eleanor. "We make up a lot of the words we use. A good many of the ceremonial names that the girls choose are made that way." "Then they have a real meaning, haven't they?" "Yes. You see, one of the things that we preach and try to teach in the Camp Fire is that things ought to be useful as well as beautiful. And it's very easy to be both." "But tell me about the Indian sound of Wo-he-lo. Was that just an accident, or was it chosen that way on purpose?" "Both, I think, Marcia. You see, the Indians in this country had a lot of good qualities that a great many people have forgotten or overlooked completely. Of course they were savages, in a way, but they had a civilization of their own, and a great many of their practices are particularly well adapted to this country." "Oh, I see! You don't want them to be forgotten." "That's just it. It's a good way to keep the memory of earlier times alive, and there seems to be something romantic and picturesque about the Indian names and the Indian things." "That's one of the things I like best that I've found out about the Camp Fire since you came to Camp Sunset. We used to think the Camp Fire meant being goody-goody and learning to sew and cook and all sorts of things like that. But you have a lot of fun and good times, too, don't you?" "Yes, and there really isn't anything goody-goody about us, Marcia. You'd soon find that out if you were with us." "Well, I'm very glad that so many people have been led to know the truth about us," said Eleanor, with a smile. "If everyone knew the truth about the Camp Fire, it would soon be as big and as influential as even the most enthusiastic of us hope it will be. And I'm sure that we'll grow very fast now, because when girls understand us they see that we simply help them to have the sort of good times they enjoy most. Having a good time is a pretty important thing in this life." "I--I rather thought you would think that we spent too much time just having a good time," said Marcia, plainly rather surprised by this statement. "I don't say anything about you girls in particular, because I don't know enough about you," replied Eleanor. "Of course, it's easy to get to be so bound up in enjoying yourself that you don't think of anything else. But people who do that soon get tired of just amusing themselves, so, as a rule, there's no great harm done. They get so that everything they do bores them, and they turn to something serious and useful, for a change." "But you just said having a good time was important--" "And I meant it," said Eleanor, with a smile. "Because it's just as bad to go to one extreme as to the other, and that's true in about everything. People who never work, but spend all their time playing aren't happy, as a rule, or healthy, either. And people who reverse that, and work all the time without ever playing, are in just about the same boat, only they're really worse off than the others, because it's harder for them to change." "I think I'm beginning to see what you mean, Miss Mercer." "Why, of course you are, Marcia! It's in the middle ground that the right answer lies. Work a little, and play a little, that's the way to get on and be happy. When you've worked hard, you need some sort of relaxation, and it's pretty important to know how to enjoy yourself, and have a good time." "And you certainly can have bully good times in the Camp Fire," said Dolly, enthusiastically. "I've never enjoyed myself half so much as I have since I've belonged. Why, we have bacon bats, and picnics, and all sorts of things that are the best fun you ever dreamed of, Marcia. Much nicer than those stiff old parties you and I used to go to all the time, when we always did the same things, and could tell before we went just what was going to happen." "And the regular camp fires, the ceremonial ones, Dolly," reminded Bessie. "Don't you think Marcia would enjoy that?" "Oh, I know she would! Couldn't I bring her to one some time?" Dolly asked Eleanor. "She'll be very welcome, any time," said Eleanor with a smile. "There's nothing secret about the Camp Fire meetings," she went on. "They're not a bit like high school and private school fraternities or sororities--whichever you call them." "Why, look where we are!" said Marcia suddenly. "We'll be at the dock pretty soon." "Why, so we will!" Eleanor said. "That's Cranford, sure enough, girls! We get off here, and begin our real tramp." "I wish we were going with you," said Marcia, with a sigh of regret. "But we can't, of course. Well, I told Dolly we might have a surprise for her pretty soon, and we will if I've got anything to say about it, too. This has been awfully jolly! I guess I know a lot more about your Camp Fire now than I ever expected to. And I've enjoyed hearing every word, too." Soon the little steamer was made fast to the dock, and the Camp Fire Girls streamed off, lining up on the dock. On the steamer the girls from Camp Halsted--all but Gladys Cooper, who had not made the trip--lined up, leaning over the rail. "We'll see them off as the boat goes right back again," said Eleanor. "And let's give them the Wo-he-lo cheer for good-bye, girls." So their voices rose on the quiet air as the steamer's whistle shrieked, and she began to pull out. "Good-bye! Good luck!" cried Marcia and all the Halsted girls. "And come back whenever you can! We'll have a mighty different sort of welcome for you next time!" "Good-bye! And thank you ever so much for the blankets!" called the Camp Fire Girls. CHAPTER III THE WORK OF THE FIRE At Cranford began the road which the Camp Fire Girls were to follow through Indian Notch, the gap between the two big mountains, Mount Grant and Mount Sherman. Then they were to travel easily toward the seashore, since the Manasquan Camp Fire, ever since it had been organized, had spent a certain length of time each summer by the sea. The Village of Cranford had been saved from the fire only by a shift of the wind. The woods to the west and the north had been burning briskly for several days, and every able-bodied man in the village had been out, day and night, with little food and less rest, trying to turn off the fire. In spite of all their efforts, however, they would have failed in their task if the change in the weather had not come to their aid. As a consequence, everyone in the village, naturally enough, was still talking about the fire. "It isn't often that a village in this part of the country has such a narrow escape," said Eleanor, looking around, "See, girls, you can see for yourselves how close they were to having to turn and run from the fire." "It looks as if some of the houses here had actually been on fire," said Dolly, as they passed into the outskirts of the village. "I expect they were. You see, the wind was very high just before the shift came, and it would carry sparks and blazing branches. It's been a very hot, dry summer, too, and so all the wooden houses were ready to catch fire. The paint was dry and blistered. They probably had to watch these houses very carefully, to be ready to put out a fire the minute it started." "It didn't look so bad from our side of the lake, though, did it?" "The smoke hid the things that were really dangerous from us, but here they could see all right. I'll bet that before another summer comes around they'll be in a position to laugh at a fire." "How do you mean? Is there anything they can do to protect themselves--before a fire starts, I mean?" "That's the time to protect themselves. When people wait until the fire has actually begun to burn, it's almost impossible for them to check it. It would have been this time, if the wind had blown for a few hours longer the way it was doing when the fire started." "But what can they do?" "They can have a cleared space between the town and the forest, for one thing, with a lot of brush growing there, if they want to keep that. Then, if a fire starts, they can set the brush afire, and make a back fire, so that the big fire will be checked by the little one. The fire has to have something to feed on, you see, and if it comes to a cleared space that's fairly wide, it can't get any further. "Oh, a cleared space like that doesn't mean that the village could go to sleep and feel safe! But it's a lot easier to fight the fire then. All the men in town could line up, with beaters and plenty of water, and as soon as sparks started a fire on their side of the clearing, they could put it out before it could get beyond control." "Oh, I see! And being able to see the fire as soon as it started, they wouldn't have half so much trouble fighting it as if they had to be after the really big blaze." "Yes. The fire problem in places like this seems very dreadful, but when the conditions are as good as they are here, with plenty of water, all that's needed is a little forethought. It's different in some of the lumber towns out west, because there the fires get such a terrific start that they would jump any sort of a clearing, and the only thing to do when a fire gets within a certain distance of a town is for the people who live in the town to run." Soon the road began to pass between desolate stretches of woods, where the fire had raged at its hottest. Here the ground on each side of the road was covered with smoking ashes, and blackened stumps stood up from the barren, burnt ground. "It looks like a big graveyard, with those stumps for headstones," said Dolly, with a shudder. "It is a little like that," said Eleanor, with a sigh. "But if you came here next year you wouldn't know the place. All that ash will fertilize the ground, and it will all be green. The stumps will still be there, but a great new growth will be beginning to push out. Of course it will be years and years before it's real forest again, but nature isn't dead, though it looks so. There's life underneath all that waste and desolation, and it will soon spring up again." "I hope we'll get out of this burned country soon," said Dolly. "I think it's as gloomy and depressing as it can be. I'd like to have seen this road before the fire--it must have been beautiful." "It certainly was, Dolly. And all this won't last for many miles. We really ought to stop pretty soon to eat our dinner. What do you say, girls? Would you like to wait, and press on until we come to a more cheerful spot, where the trees aren't all burnt!" "Yes, oh, yes!" cried Margery Burton. "I think that would be ever so much nicer! Suppose we are a little hungry before we get our dinner? We can stand that for once." "I think we'll enjoy our meal more. So we'll keep on, then, if the rest of you feel the same way." Not a voice dissented from that proposition, either. Dolly was not the only one who was saddened by the picture of desolation through which they were passing. The road, of course, was deep in dust and ashes, and the air, still filled with the smoke that rose from the smouldering woods, was heavy and pungent, so that eyes were watery, and there was a good deal of coughing and sneezing. "It's a lucky thing there weren't any houses along here, isn't it?" said Margery. "I don't see how they could possibly have been saved, do you, Miss Eleanor?" "There's no way that they could have saved them, unless, perhaps, by having a lot of city fire engines, and keeping them completely covered with water on all sides while the fire was burning. They call that a water blanket, but of course there's no way that they could manage that up here." "What do you suppose started this fire, Miss Eleanor?" "No one will ever know. Perhaps someone was walking in the woods, and threw a lighted cigar or cigarette in a pile of dry leaves. Perhaps some party of campers left their camp without being sure that their fire was out." "Just think of it--that all the trouble could be started by a little thing like that! It makes you realize what a good thing it is that we have to be careful never to leave a single spark behind when we're leaving a fire, doesn't it?" "Yes. It's a dreadful thing that people should be so careless with fire. Fire, and the heat we get from it, is responsible for the whole progress of the race. It was the discovery that fire could be used by man that was back of every invention that has ever been made." "That's why it's the symbol of the Camp Fire, isn't it?" "Yes. And in this country people ought to think more of fire than they do. We lose more by fire every year than any other country in the world, because we're so terribly careless." "What is that there, ahead of us, in the road?" asked Bessie, suddenly. They had just come to a bend in the road, and about a hundred yards away a group of people stood in the road. Eleanor looked grave. She shaded her eyes with her hand, and stared ahead of her. "Oh," she cried, "what a shame! I remember now. There was a farm house there! I'm afraid we were wrong when we spoke of there being no houses in the path of this fire!" They pressed on steadily, and, as they approached the group forlorn, distressed and unhappy, they saw that their fears were only too well grounded. The people in the road were staring, with drawn faces, at a scene of ruin and desolation that far outdid the burnt wastes beside the road, since what they were looking at represented human work and the toil of hands. The foundations of a farm house were plainly to be seen, the cellar filled with the charred wood of the house itself, and in what had evidently been the yard there were heaps of ashes that showed where the barns and other buildings had stood. In the road, staring dully at the girls as they came up, were two women and a boy about seventeen years old, as well as several young children. Eleanor looked at them pityingly, and then spoke to the older of the two women. "You seem to be in great trouble," she said. "Is this your house?" "It was!" said the woman, bitterly. "You can see what's left of it! What are you--picnickers? Be off with you! Don't come around here gloating over the misfortunes of hard working people!" "How can you think we'd do that?" said Eleanor, with tears in her eyes. "We can see that things look very bad for you. Have you any place to go--any home?" "You can see it!" said the woman, ungraciously. Eleanor looked at her and at the ruined farm for a minute very thoughtfully. Then she made up her mind. "Well, if you've got to start all over again," she said, "you are going to need a lot of help, and I don't see why we can't be the first to help you! Girls, we won't go any further now. We'll stay here and help these poor people to get started!" "What can people like you do to help us?" asked the woman, scornfully. "This isn't a joke--'t ain't like a quiltin' party!" "Just you watch us, and see if we can't help," said Eleanor, sturdily. "We're not as useless as we look, I can tell you that! And the first thing we're going to do is to cook a fine dinner, and you are all going to sit right down on the ground and help us eat it. You'll be glad of a meal you don't have to cook yourselves, I'm sure. Where is your well, or your spring for drinking water? Show us that, and we'll do the rest!" Only half convinced of Eleanor's really friendly intentions, the woman sullenly pointed out the well, and in a few moments Eleanor had set the girls to work. "The poor things!" she said to Margery, sympathetically. "What they need most of all is courage to pick up again, now that everything seems to have come to an end for them, and make a new start. And I can't imagine anything harder than that!" "Why, it's dreadful!" said Margery. "She seems to have lost all ambition--to be ready to let things go." "That's just the worst of it," said Eleanor. "And it's in making them see that there's still hope and cheer and good friendship in the world that we can help them most. I do think we can be of some practical use to them, too, but the main thing is to brace them up, and make them want to be busy helping themselves. It would be so easy for me to give them the money to start over again or I could get my friends to come in with me, and make up the money, if I couldn't do it all myself." "But they ought to do it for themselves, you mean?" "Yes. They'll really be ever so much better off in the long run if it's managed that way. Often and often, in the city, I've heard the people who work in the charity organizations tell about families that were quite ruined because they were helped too much." "I can see how that would be," said Margery. "They would get into the habit of thinking they couldn't do anything for themselves--that they could turn to someone else whenever they got into trouble." "Yes. You see these poor people are in the most awful sort of trouble now. They're discouraged and hopeless. Well, the thing to do is to make them understand that they can rise superior to their troubles, that they can build a new home on the ashes of their old one." "Oh, I think it will be splendid if we can help them to do that!" "They'll feel better, physically, as soon as they have had a good dinner, Margery. Often and often people don't think enough about that. It's when people feel worst that they ought to be fed best. It's impossible to be cheerful on an empty stomach. When people are well nourished their troubles never seem so great. They look on the bright side and they tell themselves that maybe things aren't as bad as they look." "How can we help them otherwise, though!" "Oh, we'll fix up a place where they can sleep to-night, for one thing. And we'll help them to start clearing away all the rubbish. They've got to have a new house, of course, and they can't even start work on that until all this wreckage is cleared away." "I wonder if they didn't save some of their animals--their cows and horses," said Bessie. "It seems to me they might have been able to do that." "I hope so, Bessie. But we'll find out when we have dinner. I didn't want to bother them with a lot of questions at first. Look, they seem to be a little brighter already." The children of the family were already much brighter. It was natural enough for them to respond more quickly than their elders to the stimulus of the presence of these kind and helpful strangers, and they were running around, talking to the girls who were preparing dinner, and trying to find some way in which they could help. And their mother began to forget herself and her troubles, and to watch them with brightening eyes. When she saw that the girls seemed to be fond of her children and to be anxious to make them happy, the maternal instinct in her responded, and was grateful. "Oh, we're going to be able to bring a lot of cheer and new happiness to these poor people," said Eleanor, confidently. "And it will be splendid, wont it, girls? Could anything be better fun than doing good this way? It's something we'll always be able to remember, and look back at happily. And the strange part of it is that, no matter how much we do for them, we'll be doing more for ourselves." "Isn't it fine that we've got those blankets?" said Dolly. "If we camp out here to-night they'll be very useful." "They certainly will. And we shall camp here, though not in tents. Later on this afternoon, we'll have to fix up some sort of shelter. But that will be easy. I'll show you how to do it when the time comes. Now we want to hurry with the dinner--that's the main thing, because I think everyone is hungry." CHAPTER IV GETTING A START Often people who have been visited by great misfortunes become soured and suspect the motives of even those who are trying to help them. Eleanor understood this trait of human nature very well, thanks to the fact that as a volunteer she had helped out the charity workers in her own city more than once. And as a consequence she did not at all resent the dark looks that were cast at her by the poor woman whose every glance brought home to her more sharply the disaster that the fire had brought. "We've got to be patient if we want to be really helpful," she explained to Dolly Ransom, who was disposed to resent the woman's unfriendly aspect. "But I don't see why she has to act as if we were trying to annoy her, Miss Eleanor!" "She doesn't mean that at all, Dolly. You've never known what it is to face the sort of trouble and anxiety she has had for the last few days. She'll soon change her mind about us when she sees that we are really trying to help. And there's another thing. Don't you think she's a little softer already?" "Oh, she is!" said Bessie, with shining eyes. "And I think I know why--" "So will Dolly--if she will look at her now. See, Dolly, she's looking at her children. And when she sees how nice the girls are to them, she is going to be grateful--far more grateful than for anything we did for her. Because, after all, it's probably her fear for her children, and of what this will mean to them, that is her greatest trouble." Dinner was soon ready, and when it was prepared, Eleanor called the homeless family together and made them sit down. "We haven't so very much," she said. "We intended to eat just this way, but we were going on a little way. Still, I think there's plenty of everything, and there's lots of milk for the children." "Why are you so good to us!" asked the woman, suddenly. It was her first admission that she appreciated what was being done, and Eleanor secretly hailed it as a prelude to real friendliness. "Why, you don't think anyone could see you in so much trouble and not stop to try to help you, do you?" she said. "Ain't noticed none of the neighbors comin' here to help," said the woman, sullenly. "I think they're simply forgetful," said Eleanor. "And you know this fire was pretty bad. They had a great fight to save Cranford from burning up." "Is that so?" said the woman, showing a little interest in the news. "My land, I didn't think the fire would get that far!" "They were fighting night and day for most of three days," said Eleanor. "And now they're pretty tired, and I have an idea they're making up for lost sleep and rest. But I'm sure you'll find some of them driving out this way pretty soon to see how you are getting on." "Well, they won't see much!" said the woman, with a despairing laugh. "We came back here, 'cause we thought some of the buildings might be saved. But there ain't a thing left exceptin' that one barn a little way over there. You can't see it from here. It's over the hill. We did save our cattle and a good many chickens and ducks. But all our crops is ruined--and how we are ever goin' to get through the winter I declare I can't tell!" "Have you a husband? And, by the way, hadn't you better tell me your name!" said Eleanor. "My husband's dead--been dead nearly two years," said the woman. "I'm Sarah Pratt. This here's my husband's sister, Ann." "Well, Mrs. Pratt, we'll have to see if we can't think of some way of making up for all this loss," said Eleanor, after she had told the woman her own name, and introduced the girls of the Camp Fire. "Why--just a minute, now! You have cows, haven't you! Plenty of them? Do they give good milk!" "Best there is," said the woman. "My husband, he was a crank for buyin' fine cattle. I used to tell him he was wastin' his money, but he would do it. Same way with the chickens." "Then you sold the milk, I suppose?" "Yes, ma'am, and we didn't get no more for it from the creamery than the farmers who had just the ornery cows." "Well, I've got an idea already. I'm going back to Cranford as soon as we've had dinner to see if it will work out. I suppose that's your son?" She looked with a smile at the awkward, embarrassed boy who had so little to say for himself. "Well, while the girls fix you up some shelters where you can sleep to-night, if you stay here, I'm going to ask you to let him drive me into Cranford. I want to do some telephoning--and I think I'll have good news for you when I come back." Strangely enough, Mrs. Pratt made no objection to this plan. Once she had begun to yield to the charm of Eleanor's manner, and to believe that the Camp Fire Girls meant really to help and were not merely stopping out of idle curiosity, she recovered her natural manner, which turned out to be sweet and cheerful enough, and she also began to look on things with brighter eyes. "Makes no difference whether you have good news or not, my dear," she said to Eleanor. "You've done us a sight of good already. Waked me up an' made me see that it's wrong to sit down and cry when it's a time to be up an' doin'." "Oh, you wouldn't have stayed in the dumps very long," said Eleanor, cheerfully. "Perhaps we got you started a little bit sooner, but I can see that you're not the sort to stay discouraged very long." Then, while a few of the girls, with the aid of the Pratt children, washed dishes and cleared up after the meal, Eleanor took aside Margery and some of the stronger girls, like Bessie and Dolly, to show them what she wanted done while she was away. "There's plenty of wood around here," she said. "A whole lot of the boards are only a little bit scorched, and some of them really aren't burned at all. Now, if you take those and lay them against the side of that steep bank there, near where the big barn stood, you'll have one side of a shelter. Then take saplings, and put them up about seven feet away from your boards." She held a sapling in place, to show what she meant. "Cut a fork in the top of each sapling, and dig holes so that they will stand up. Then lay strips of wood from the saplings to the tops of your boards, and cover the space you've got that way with branches. If you go about half a mile beyond here, you'll be able to get all the branches you want from spots where the fire hasn't burned at all." "Why, they'll be like the Indian lean-tos I've read about, won't they?" exclaimed Margery. "They're on that principle," said Eleanor. "Probably we could get along very well without laying any boards at all against that bank, but it might be damp, and there's no use in taking chances. And--" "Oh, Miss Eleanor," Dolly interrupted, "excuse me, but if it rained or there were water above, wouldn't it leak right down and run through from the top of the bank?" "That's a good idea, Dolly. I'll tell you how to avoid that. Dig a trench at the top of the bank, just as long as the shelter you have underneath, and the water will all be caught in that. And if you give the trench a little slope, one way or the other, or both ways from the centre, not much, just an inch in ten feet--the water will all be carried off." "Oh, yes!" said Dolly. "That would fix that up all right." "Get plenty of branches of evergreens for the floor, and we'll cover those with our rubber blankets," Eleanor went on. "Then we'll be snug and dry for to-night, anyhow, and for as long as the weather holds fine." "You mean it will be a place where the Pratts can sleep?" said Margery. "Of course, it would be all right in this weather, but do you think it will stay like this very long?" "Of course it won't, Margery, but I don't expect them to have to live this way all winter. If it serves to-night and to-morrow night I think it will be all that's needed. Now you understand just what is to be done, don't you? If you want to ask any questions, go ahead." "No. We understand, don't we, girls?" said Margery. "All right, then," said Eleanor. "Girls, Margery is Acting Guardian while I'm gone. You're all to do just as she tells you, and obey her just as if she were I. I see that Tom's got the buggy all harnessed up. It's lucky they were able to save their wagons and their horses, isn't it!" "What are you going to do in Cranford!" asked Dolly. "Won't you tell us, Miss Eleanor?" "No, I won't, Dolly," said Eleanor, laughing. "If I come back with good news--and I certainly hope I shall--you'll enjoy it all the more if it's a surprise, and if I don't succeed, why, no one will be disappointed except me." And then with a wave of her hand, she sprang into the waiting buggy and drove off with Tom Pratt holding the reins, and looking very proud of his pretty passenger. "Well, I don't know what it's all about, but we know just what we're supposed to do, girls," said Margery. "So let's get to work. Bessie, you and Dolly might start picking out the boards that aren't too badly burned." "All right," said Dolly. "Come on, Bessie!" "I'll pace off the distance to see how big a place we need to make," said Margery. "Mrs. Pratt, how far is it to a part of the woods that wasn't burned? Miss Mercer thought we could get some green branches there for bedding." "Not very far," said Mrs. Pratt, with a sigh. "That's what seemed so hard! When we drove along this morning we came quite suddenly to a patch along the road on both sides where the fire hadn't reached, and it made us ever so happy." "Oh, what a shame!" said Margery. "I suppose you thought you'd come to the end of the burned part?" "I hoped so--oh, how I did hope so!" said poor Mrs. Pratt. "But then, just before we came in sight of the place, we saw that the fire had changed its direction again, and then we knew that our place must have gone." "That's very strange, isn't it?" said Margery. "I wonder why the fire should spare some places and not others?" "It seems as if it were always that way in a big fire," said Mrs. Pratt. "I suppose there'd been some cutting around that patch of woods that wasn't burned. And only last year a man was going to buy the wood in that wood lot of ours on the other side of the road, and clear it. If he had, maybe the fire wouldn't ever have come near us, at all." "Well, we'll have to think about what did happen, not what we wish had happened, Mrs. Pratt," said Margery, cheerfully. "The thing to do now is to make the best of a bad business. I'm going to send four or five of the girls to get branches. Perhaps you'll let one of the children go along to show them the way?" "You go, Sally," said Mrs. Pratt to the oldest girl, a child of fourteen, who had been listening, wide-eyed, to the conversation. "Now, ain't there somethin' Ann an' I can do to help?" "Why, yes, there is, Mrs. Pratt. I think it's going to be dreadfully hot. Over there, where we unpacked our stores, you'll find a lot of lemons. I think if you'd make a couple of big pails full of lemonade we'd all enjoy them while we were working, and they'd make the work go faster, too." "The water won't be very cold," suggested Ann. "Pshaw, Ann! Why not use the ice?" said Mrs. Pratt, whose interest in small things had been wonderfully revived. "The ice-house wasn't burned. Do you go and get a pailful of ice, and we'll have plenty for the girls to drink. They surely will be hot and tired with all they're doing for us." "I'm sorry I ever said Mrs. Pratt wasn't nice," said Dolly to Bessie, when they happened to overhear this, and saw how Mrs. Pratt began hustling to get the lemonade ready. "I knew she'd be all right as soon as she began to be waked up a little," said Bessie. "This is more fun than one of our silly adventures, isn't it, Dolly? Because it's just as exciting, but there isn't the chance of things going wrong, and we're doing something to make other people happy." "You're certainly right about that, Bessie. And it makes you think of how much hard luck people have, and how easy it would be for people who are better off to help them, doesn't it?" "It _is_ easy, Dolly. You know, I think Miss Eleanor must help an awful lot of people. It seems to be the first thing she thinks of when she sees any trouble." "She makes one understand what Wo-he-lo really means," said Dolly. "She's often explained that work means service--doing things for other people, and not just working for yourself." "That's one of the things I like best about the Camp Fire," said Bessie, thoughtfully. "Everyone in it seems to be unselfish and to think about helping others, and yet there isn't someone to preach to you all the time--they just do it themselves, and make you see that it's the way to be really happy." "I wouldn't have believed that I could enjoy this sort of work if anyone had told me so a year ago. But I do. I haven't had such a good time since I can remember. Of course, I feel awfully sorry for the Pratts, but I'm glad that, if it had to happen to them, we came along in time to help them." They hadn't stopped working while they talked, and now they had brought as many boards as Margery wanted. "There are lots more boards, Margery," said Dolly. "Why shouldn't we make a sort of floor for the lean-to? If we put up a couple of planks for them to rest on, every so often, we could have a real floor, and then, even if the ground got damp, it would be dry inside." "Good idea! We'll do that," said Margery, who was busy herself, flying here, there, and everywhere to direct the work. "Go ahead!" And so, when the sound of wheels in the road heralded the return of Miss Eleanor in the buggy, the work was done, and the lean-to was completed, a rough-and-ready shelter that was practical in the extreme, though perhaps it was not ornamental. "Splendid!" cried Eleanor. "But I knew you girls would do well. And I've got the good news I hoped to bring, too!" CHAPTER V GOOD NEWS FROM TOWN Everyone rushed eagerly forward, and crowded around Miss Mercer as she descended from the buggy, smiling pleasantly at the bashful Tom Pratt, who did his best to help her in her descent. And not the least eager, by any means, was Tom Pratt's mother, whose early indifference to the interest of these good Samaritans in her misfortunes seemed utterly to have vanished. "Oh, these girls of yours!" cried Mrs. Pratt. "You've no idea of how much they've done--or how much they've heartened us all up, Miss Mercer! I don't believe there were ever so many kind, nice people brought together before!" Eleanor laughed, as if she were keeping a secret to herself. And her words, when she spoke, proved that that was indeed the case. "Just you wait till you know how many friends you really have around here, Mrs. Pratt!" she said. "Well, I told you I hoped to bring back good news, and I have, and if you'll all give me a chance, I'll tell you what it is." "You've found a place for all the Pratts to go!" said Dolly. "You've arranged something so that they won't have to stay here!" agreed Margery. "I don't know whether Mrs. Pratt would agree that that was such good news," she said. "Tell me, Mrs. Pratt--you are still fond of this place, aren't you?" "Indeed, and I am, Miss Mercer!" she said, choking back a sob. "When I first saw how it looked this morning, I thought I only wanted to go away and never see it again, if I only knew where to go. But I feel so different now. Why, all the time we've been working around here, it's made me think of how Tom--I mean my poor husband--and I came here when we were first married. Tom had the land, you see, and he'd built a little cabin for us with his own hands." "And all the farm grew from that?" "Yes. We worked hard, you see, and the children came, but we had a better place for each one to be born in, Miss Mercer--we really did! It was our place. We've earned it all, with the help from the place itself, and before the fire--" She broke down then, and for a moment she couldn't go on. "Of course you love it!" said Eleanor, heartily. "And I don't think it would be very good news for you to know that you had a chance to go somewhere else and make a fresh start, though I could have managed that for you." "I'd be grateful, though, Miss Mercer," said Mrs. Pratt. "I don't want you to think I wouldn't. It'll be a wrench, though--I'm not saying it wouldn't. When you've lived anywhere as long as I've lived here, and seen all the changes, and had your children born in it, and--" "I know--I know," interrupted Eleanor, sympathetically. "And I could see how much you loved the place. So I never had any idea at all of suggesting anything that would take you away." "Do you really think we can get a new start here?" asked Mrs. Pratt, looking up hopefully. "I don't only believe it, I know it, Mrs. Pratt," said Eleanor, enthusiastically. "And what's more, you're going to be happier and more prosperous than you ever were before the fire. Not just at first, perhaps, but you're going to see the way clear ahead, and it won't be long before you'll be doing so well that you'll be able to let my friend Tom here go to college." Mrs. Pratt's face fell. It seemed to her that Eleanor was promising too much. "I don't see how that could be," she said. "Why, his paw and I used to talk that over. We wanted him to have a fine education, but we didn't see how we could manage it, even when his paw was alive." "Well, you listen to me, and see if you don't think there's a good chance of it, anyhow," said Eleanor. "In the first place, none of the people in Cranford knew that you'd had all this trouble. It was just as I thought. Their own danger had been so great that they simply hadn't had time to think of anything else. They were shocked and sorry when I told them." "There's a lot of good, kind people there," said Mrs. Pratt, brightening again. "I'm sure I didn't think anything of their not having come out here to see how we were getting along." "Some of them would have been out in a day or two, even if I hadn't told them, Mrs. Pratt. As it is--but I think that part of my story had better wait. Tell me, you've been selling all your milk and cream to the big creamery that supplies the milkmen in the city, haven't you?" "Yes, and I guess that we can keep their trade, if we can get on our feet pretty soon so that they can get it regular again." "I've no doubt you could," said Eleanor, dryly. "They make so much money buying from you at cheap prices and selling at high prices that they wouldn't let the chance to keep on slip by in a hurry, I can tell you. But I've got a better idea than that." Mrs. Pratt looked puzzled, but Tom Pratt, who seemed to be in Eleanor's secret, only smiled and returned Eleanor's wise look. "When you make butter you salt it and keep it to use here, don't you?" Eleanor asked next. "Yes, ma'am, we do." "Well, if you made fresh, sweet butter, and didn't salt it at all, do you know that you could sell it to people in the city for fifty cents a pound?" Mrs. Pratt gasped. "Why, no one in the world ever paid that much for butter!" she said, amazed. "And, anyhow, butter without salt's no good." "Lots of people don't agree with you, and they're willing to pay pretty well to have their own way, too," she said, with a laugh. "In the city rich families think fresh butter is a great luxury, and they can't get enough of it that's really good. And it's the same way, all summer long, at Lake Dean. "The hotel there will take fifty pounds a week from you all summer long, as long as it's open, that is. And I have got orders for another fifty pounds a week from the people who own camps and cottages. And what's more, the manager of the hotel has another house, in Lakewood, in the winter time, and when he closes up the house at Cranford, he wants you to send him fifty pounds a week for that house, too." "Why, however did you manage to get all those orders?" asked Margery, amazed. "I telephoned to the manager of the hotel," said Eleanor. "And then I remembered the girls at Camp Halsted, and I called up Marcia Bates and told her the whole story, and what I wanted them to do. So she and two or three of the others went out in that fast motor boat of theirs and visited a lot of families around the lake, and when they told them about it, it was easy to get the orders." "Well, I never!" gasped Mrs. Pratt. "I wouldn't ever have thought of doin' anythin' like that, Miss Mercer, and folks around here seem to think I'm a pretty good business woman, too, since my husband died. Why, we can make more out of the butter than we ever did out of a whole season's crops, sellin' at such prices!" "You won't get fifty cents a pound from the hotel," said Eleanor. "That's because they'll take such a lot, and they'll pay you every week. So I told them they could have all they wanted for forty cents a pound. But, you see, at fifty pounds a week, that's twenty dollars a week, all the year round, and with the other fifty pounds you'll sell to private families, that will make forty-five dollars a week. And you haven't even started yet. You'll have lots more orders than you can fill." "I'm wonderin' right now, ma'am, how we'll be able to make a hundred pounds of butter a week." "I thought of that, too," said Eleanor, "and I bought half a dozen more cows for you, right there in Cranford. They're pretty good cows, and if they're well fed, and properly taken care of, they'll be just what you want." "But I haven't got the money to pay for them now, ma'am!" said Mrs. Pratt, dismayed. "Oh, I've paid for them," said Eleanor, "and you're going to pay me when you begin to get the profits from this new butter business. I'd be glad to give them to you, but you won't need anyone to give you things; you're going to be able to afford to pay for them yourself." Mrs. Pratt broke into tears. "That's the nicest thing you've said or done yet, Miss Mercer," she sobbed. "I just couldn't bear to take charity--" "Charity? You don't need it, you only need friendly help, Mrs. Pratt, and if I didn't give you that someone else would!" "And eggs! They'll be able to sell eggs, too, won't they!" said Dolly, jumping up and down in her excitement. "They certainly will! I was coming to that," said Eleanor. "You know, this new parcel post is just the thing for you, Mrs. Pratt! Just as soon as a letter I wrote is answered, you'll get a couple of cases of new boxes that are meant especially for mailing butter and eggs and things like that from farmers to people in the city. "You'll be able to sell eggs and butter cheaper than people in the city can buy things that are anything like as good from the stores, because you won't have to pay rent and lighting bills and all the other expensive things about a city store. I'm going to be your agent, and I do believe I'll make some extra pocket money, too, because I'm going to charge you a commission." Mrs. Pratt just laughed at that idea. "Well, you wait and see!" said Eleanor. "I'm glad to be able to help, Mrs. Pratt, but I know you'll feel better if you think I'm getting something out of it, and I'm going to. I think my running across you when you were in trouble is going to be a fine thing for both of us. Why, before you get done with us, you'll have to get more land, and a lot more cows and chickens, because we're going to make it the fashionable thing to buy eggs and butter from you!" Mrs. Pratt seemed to be overwhelmed, and Eleanor, in order to create a diversion, went over to inspect the lean-to. "It's just right," she said. "Having a floor made of those boards is a fine idea; I didn't think of that at all. Good for you, Margery!" "That was Dolly's idea, not mine," said Margery. "You were perfectly right, too. Well, it's getting a little late and I think it's time we were thinking about dinner. Margery, if you'll go over to the buggy you'll find quite a lot of things I bought in Cranford. We don't want to use up the stores we brought with us before we get away from here. And--here's a secret!" "What?" said Margery, leaning toward her and smiling. And Eleanor laughed as she whispered in Margery's ear. "There are going to be some extra people--at least seven or eight, and perhaps more--for dinner, so we want to have plenty, because I think they're going to be good and hungry when they sit down to eat!" "Oh, do tell me who they are," cried Margery, eagerly. "I never saw you act so mysteriously before!" "No, it's a surprise. But you'll enjoy it all the more when it comes for not knowing ahead of time. Don't breathe a word, except to those who help you cook if they ask too many questions." Dinner was soon under way, and those who were not called upon by Margery busied themselves about the lean-to, arranging blankets and making everything snug for the night. The busy hands of the Camp Fire Girls had done much to rid the place of its look of desolation, and now everything spoke of hope and renewed activity instead of despair and inaction. A healthier spirit prevailed, and now the Pratts, encouraged as to their future, were able to join heartily in the laughter and singing with which the Camp Fire Girls made the work seem like play. "Why, what's this?" cried Bessie, suddenly. She had gone toward the road, and now she came running back. "There are four or five big wagons, loaded with wood and shingles and all sorts of things like that coming in here from the road," she cried. "Whatever are they doing here?" "That's my second surprise," laughed Eleanor. "It's your neighbors from Cranford, Mrs. Pratt. Don't you recognize Jud Harkness driving the first team there?" "Hello, folks!" bellowed Jud, from his seat. "How be you, Mis' Pratt? Think we'd clean forgot you? We didn't know you was in such an all-fired lot of trouble, or we'd ha' been here before. We're come now, though, and we ain't goin' away till you've got a new house. Brought it with us, by heck!" He laughed as he descended, and stood before them, a huge, black-bearded man, but as gentle as a child. And soon everyone could see what he meant, for the wagons were loaded with timber, and one contained all the tools that would be needed. "There'll be twenty of us here to-morrow," he said, "and I guess we'll show you how to build a house! Won't be as grand as the hotel at Cranford, mebbe, but you can live in it, and we'll come out when we get the time and put on the finishing touches. To-night we'll clear away all this rubbish, and with sun-up in the morning we'll be at work." Eleanor's eyes shone as she turned to Mrs. Pratt. "Now you see what I meant when I told you there were plenty of good friends for you not far from here!" she cried. "As soon as I told Jud what trouble you were in he thought of this, and in half an hour he'd got promises from all the men to put in a day's work fixing up a new house for you." Mrs. Pratt seemed too dazed to speak. "But they can't finish a whole house in one day!" declared Margery. "They can't paint it, and put up wall paper and do everything, Margery," said Eleanor. "That's true enough. But they can do a whole lot. You're used to thinking of city buildings, and that's different. In the country one or two men usually build a house, and build it well, and when there are twenty or thirty, why, the work just flies, especially when they're doing the work for friendship, instead of because they're hired to do it. Oh, just you wait!" "Have you ever seen this before!" "I certainly have! And you're going to see sights to-morrow that will open your eyes, I can promise you. You know what it's like, Bessie, don't you? You've seen house raisings before?" "I certainly have," said Bessie. "And it's fine. Everyone helps and does the best he can, and it seems no time at all before it's all done." "Well, we'll do our share," said Eleanor. "The men will be hungry, and I've promised that we'll feed them." CHAPTER VI THE GOOD SAMARITANS "Well, I certainly have got a better opinion of country people than I ever used to have, Bessie," said Dolly Ransom. "After the way those people in Hedgeville treated you and Zara, I'd made up my mind that they were a nasty lot, and I was glad I'd always lived in the city." "Well, aren't you still glad of it, Dolly? I really do think you're better off in the city. There wouldn't be enough excitement about living in the country for you, I'm afraid." "Of course there wouldn't! But I think maybe I was sort of unfair to all country people because the crowd at Hedgeville was so mean to you. And I like the country well enough, for a little while. I couldn't bear living there all the time, though. I think that would drive me wild." "The trouble was that Zara and I didn't exactly belong, Dolly. They thought her father was doing something wrong because he was a foreigner and they couldn't understand his ways." "I suppose he didn't like them much, either, Bessie." "He didn't. He thought they were stupid. And, of course, in a way, they were. But not as stupid as he thought they were. He was used to entirely different things, and--oh, well, I suppose in some places what he did wouldn't have been talked about, even. "But in the country everyone knows the business of everyone else, and when there is a mystery no one is happy until it's solved. That's why Zara and her father got themselves so disliked. There was a mystery about them, and the people in Hedgeville just made up their minds that something was wrong." "I feel awfully sorry for Zara, Bessie. It must be dreadful for her to know that her father is in prison, and that they are saying that he was making bad money. You don't think he did, do you?" "I certainly do not! There's something very strange about that whole business, and Miss Eleanor's cousin, the lawyer, Mr. Jamieson, thinks so too. You know that Mr. Holmes is mighty interested in Zara and her father." "He tried to help to get Zara back to that Farmer Weeks who would have been her guardian if she hadn't come to join the Camp Fire, didn't he?" "Yes. You see, in the state where Hedgeville is, Farmer Weeks is her legal guardian, and he could make her work for him until she was twenty-one. He's an old miser, and as mean as he can be. But once she is out of that state, he can't touch her, and Mr. Jamieson has had Miss Eleanor appointed her guardian, and mine too, for that state. The state where Miss Eleanor and all of us live, I mean." "Well, Mr. Holmes is trying to get hold of you, too, isn't he?" "Yes, he is. You ought to know, Dolly, after the way he tried to get us both to go off with him in his automobile that day, and the way he set those gypsies on to kidnapping us. And that's the strangest thing of all." "Perhaps he wants to know something about Zara, and thinks you can tell him, or perhaps he's afraid you'll tell someone else something he doesn't want them to know." "Yes, it may be that. But that lawyer of his, Isaac Brack, who is so mean and crooked that no one in the city will have anything to do with him except the criminals, Mr. Jamieson says, told me once that unless I went with him I'd never find out the truth about my father and mother and what became of them." "Oh, Bessie, how exciting! You never told me that before. Have you told Mr. Jamieson?" "Yes, and he just looked at me queerly, and said nothing more about it." "Bessie, do you know what I think?" "No. I'm not a mind reader, Dolly!" "Well, I believe Mr. Jamieson knows more than he has told you yet, or that he guesses something, anyway. And he won't tell you what it is because he's afraid he may be wrong, and doesn't want to raise your hopes unless he's sure that you won't be disappointed." "I think that would be just like him, Dolly. He's been awfully good to me. I suppose it's because he thinks it will please Miss Eleanor, and he knows that she likes us, and wants to do things for us." "Oh, I know he likes you, too, Bessie. He certainly ought to, after the way you brought him help back there in Hamilton, when we were there for the trial of those gypsies who kidnapped us. If it hadn't been for you, there's no telling what that thief might have done to him." "Oh, anyone would have done the same thing, Dolly. It was for my sake that he was in trouble, and when I had a chance to help him, it was certainly the least that I could do. Don't you think so?" "Well, maybe that's so, but there aren't many girls who would have known how to do what you did or who would have had the pluck to do it, even if they did. I'm quite sure I wouldn't, and yet I'd have wanted to, just as much as anyone." "I wish I did know something about my father and mother, Dolly. You've no idea how much that worries me. Sometimes I feel as if I never would find out anything." "Oh, you mustn't get discouraged, Bessie. Try to be as cheerful as you are when it's someone else who is in trouble. You're the best little cheerer-up I know when I feel blue." "Oh, Dolly, I do try to be cheerful, but it's such a long time since they left me with the Hoovers!" "Well, there must be some perfectly good reason for it all, Bessie, I feel perfectly sure of that. They would never have gone off that way unless they had to." "Oh, it isn't that that bothers me. It's feeling that unless something dreadful had happened to them, I'd have heard of them long ago. And then, Maw Hoover and Jake Hoover were always picking at me about them. When I did something Maw Hoover didn't like, she'd say she didn't wonder, that she couldn't expect me to be any good, being the child of parents who'd gone off and left me on her hands that way." "That's all right for her to talk that way, but she didn't have you on her hands. She made you work like a slave, and never paid you for it at all. You certainly earned whatever they spent for keeping you, Miss Eleanor says so, and I'll take her word any time against Maw Hoover or anyone else." "I've sometimes thought it was pretty mean for me to run off the way I did, Dolly. If it hadn't been for Zara, I don't believe I'd have done it." "It's a good thing for Zara that you did. Poor Zara! They'd taken her father to jail, and she was going to have to stay with Farmer Weeks. She'd never have been able to get along without you, you know." "Well, that's one thing that makes me feel that perhaps it was right for me to go, Dolly. That, and the way Miss Eleanor spoke of it. She seemed to think it was the right thing for me to do, and she knows better than I do, I'm sure." "Certainly she does. And look here, Bessie! It's all coming out right, sometime, I know. I'm just sure of that! You'll find out all about your father and mother, and you'll see that there was some good reason for their not turning up before." "Oh, Dolly dear, I'm sure of that now! And it's just that that makes me feel so bad, sometimes. If something dreadful hadn't happened to them, they would have come for me long ago. At least they would have kept on sending the money for my board." "How do you know they didn't, Bessie? Didn't Maw Hoover get most of the letters on the farm?" "Yes, she did, Dolly. Paw Hoover couldn't read, so they all went to her, no matter to whom they were addressed." "Why, then," said Dolly, triumphantly, "maybe your father and mother were writing and sending the money all the time!" "But wouldn't she have told me so, Dolly?" "Suppose she just kept the money, and pretended she never got it at all, Bessie? I've heard of people doing even worse things than that when they wanted money. It's possible, isn't it, now? Come on, own up!" "I suppose it is," said Bessie, doubtfully. "Only it doesn't seem very probable. Maw Hoover was pretty mean to me, but I don't think she'd ever have done anything like that." "Well, I wouldn't put it above her! She treated you badly enough about other things, heaven knows!" "I'd hate to think she had done anything quite as mean as that, though, Dolly. I do think she had a pretty hard time herself, and I'm quite sure that if it hadn't been for Jake she wouldn't have been so mean to me." "Oh, I know just the sort he is. I've seen him, remember, Bessie! He's a regular spoiled mother's boy. I don't know why it is, but the boys whose mothers coddle them and act as if they were the best boys on earth always seem to be the meanest." "Yes, you did see him, Dolly. Still, Jake's very young, and he wouldn't be so bad, either, if he'd been punished for the things he did at home. As long as I was there, you see, they could blame everything that was done onto me. He did, at least, and Maw believed him." "Didn't his father ever see what a worthless scamp he was?" "Oh, how could he, Dolly? He was his own son, you see, and then there was Maw Hoover. She wouldn't let him believe anything against Jake, any more than she would believe it herself." "I'm sorry for Paw Hoover, Bessie. He seemed like a very nice old man." "He certainly was. Do you remember how he found me with you girls the day after Zara and I ran away? He could have told them where we were then, but he didn't do it. Instead of that, he was mighty nice to me, and he gave me ten dollars." "He said you'd earned it, Bessie, and he was certainly right about that. Why, in the city they can't get servants to do all the things you did, even when they're well paid, and you never were paid at all!" "Well, that doesn't make what he did any the less nice of him, Dolly. And I'll be grateful to him, because he might have made an awful lot of trouble." "Oh, I'll always like him for that, too. And I guess from what I saw of him, and all I've heard about his wife, that he doesn't have a very happy time at home, either. Maw Hoover must make him do just about what she wants, whether he thinks she's right or not." "She certainly does, Dolly, unless she's changed an awful lot since I was there." "Well, I suppose the point is that there really must be more people like him in the country than like his wife and Farmer Weeks. These people around here are certainly being as nice as they can be to the poor Pratts. Just think of their coming here to-morrow to build a new house for them!" "There are more nice, good-hearted people than bad ones all over, Dolly. That's true of every place, city or country." "But it seems to me we always hear more of the bad ones, and those who do nasty things, than we do of the others, in the newspapers." "I think that's because the things that the bad people do are more likely to be exciting and interesting, Dolly. You see, when people do nice things, it's just taken as a matter of course, because that's what they ought to do. And when they do something wicked, it gets everyone excited and makes a lot of talk. That's the reason for that." "Still, this work that the men from Cranford are going to do for the Pratts is interesting, Bessie. I think a whole lot of people would like to know about that, if there was any way of telling them." "Yes, that's so. This isn't an ordinary case, by any means. And I guess you'll find that we'll do plenty of talking about it. Miss Eleanor will, I know, because she thinks they ought to get credit for doing it." "So will Mrs. Pratt and the children, too. Oh, yes, I was wrong about it, Bessie. Lots of people will know about this, because the Pratts will always have the house to remind them of it, and people who go by, if they've heard of it, will remember the story when they see the place. I do wonder what sort of a house they will put up?" "It'll have to be very plain, of course. And it will look rough at first, because it won't be painted, and there won't be any plaster on the ceilings and there won't be any wall paper, either." "Oh, but that will be easy to fix later. They'll have a comfortable house for the winter, anyhow, I'm sure. And if they can make as much money out of selling butter and eggs as Miss Eleanor thinks, they'll soon be able to pay to have it fixed up nicely." "Dolly, I believe we'll be able to help, too. If those girls at Camp Halsted could go around and get so many orders just in an hour or so, why shouldn't we be able to do a lot of it when we get back to the city?" "Why, that's so, Bessie! I hadn't thought of that. My aunt would buy her butter and eggs there, I know. She's always saying that she can't get really fresh eggs in the city. And they are delicious. That was one of the things I liked best at Miss Eleanor's farm. The eggs there were delicious; not a bit like the musty ones we get at home, no matter how much we pay for them." "I think it's time we were going to bed ourselves, Dolly. This is going to be like camping out, isn't it?" "Yes, and we'll be just as comfortable as we would be in tents, too. The Boy Scouts use these lean-tos very often when they are in the woods, you know. They just build them up against the side of a tree." "I never saw one before, but they certainly are splendid, and they're awfully easy to make." "We'll have to get up very early in the morning, Bessie. I heard Miss Eleanor say so. So I guess it's a good idea to go to bed, just as you say." "Yes. The others are all going. We certainly are going to have a busy day to-morrow." "I don't see that we can do much, Bessie. I know I wouldn't be any good at building a house. I'd be more trouble than help, I'm afraid." "That's all you know about it! There are ever so many things we can do." "What, for instance?" "Well, we'll have to get the meals for the men, and you haven't any idea what a lot of men can eat when they're working hard! They have appetites just like wolves." "Well, I'll certainly do my best to see that they get enough. They'll have earned it. What else?" "They'll want people to hand them their tools, and run little errands for them. And if the weather is very hot, they'll be terribly thirsty, too, and we'll be able to keep busy seeing that they have plenty of cooling drinks. Oh, we'll be busy, all right! Come on, let's go to bed." CHAPTER VII THE HOUSE RAISING The sun was scarcely up in the morning when Eleanor turned out and aroused the girls. "We've got to get our own breakfast out of the way in a hurry, girls," she said, "When country people say early, they mean early--EARLY! And we want to have coffee and cakes ready for these good friends of ours when they do come. A good many of them will come from a long way off and I think they'll all be glad to have a little something extra before they start work. It won't hurt us a bit to think so, and act accordingly anyhow." So within half an hour the Pratts and the Camp Fire Girls had had their own breakfasts, the dishes were washed, and great pots of coffee were boiling on the fires that had been built. And, just as the fragrant aroma arose on the cool air, the first of the teams that brought the workers came in sight, with jovial Jud Harkness driving. "My, but that coffee smells good, Miss Mercer!" he roared. "Say, I'm not strong for all these city fixin's in the way of food. Plain home cookin' serves me well enough, but there's one thing where you sure do lay all over us, and that's in makin' coffee. Give me a mug of that, Mis' Pratt, an' I'll start work." And from the way in which the coffee and the cakes, the latter spread with good maple syrup from trees that grew near Cranford, began to disappear, it was soon evident that Eleanor had made no mistake, and that the breakfast that she had had prepared for the workers would by no means be wasted. "It does me good to see you men eat this way," she said, laughing. "That's one thing we don't do properly in the city--eat. We peck at a lot of things, instead of eating a few plain ones, and a lot of them. And I'll bet that you men will work all the harder for this extra breakfast." "Just you watch and see!" bellowed Jud. "I'm boss here to-day, ma'am, and I tell you I'm some nigger driver. Ain't I, boys?" But he accompanied the threat with a jovial wink, and it was easy to see that these men liked and respected him, and were only too willing to look up to him as a leader in the work of kindness in which they were about to engage. "I don't know why all you boys are so good to me, Jud," said Mrs. Pratt, brokenly. "I can't begin to find words to thank you, even." "Don't try, Mis' Pratt," said Jud, looking remarkably fierce, though he was winking back something that looked suspiciously like a tear. "I guess we ain't none of us forgot Tom Pratt--as good a friend as men ever had! Many's the time he's done kind things for all of us! I guess it'd be pretty poor work if some of his friends couldn't turn out to help his wife and kids when they're in trouble." "He knows what you're doing, I'm sure of that," she answered. "And God will reward you, Jud Harkness!" Heartily as the men ate, however, they spent little enough time at the task. Jud Harkness allowed them what he thought was a reasonable time, and then he arose, stretched his great arms, and roared out his commands. "Come on, now, all hands to work!" he bellowed. "We've got to get all this rubbish cleared out, then we'll have clean decks for building." And they fell to with a will. In a surprisingly short space of time the men who had plunged into the ruined foundations of the house had torn out the remaining beams and rafters, and had flung the heap of rubbish that filled the cellar on to the level ground. While some of the men did this, others piled the rubbish on to wagons, and it was carted away and dumped. The fire, however, had really lightened their task for them. "That fire was so hot and so fierce," said Eleanor, as she watched them working, "that there's less rubbish, than if the things had been only half burned." "I've seen fires in the city," said Margery, "or, at least, houses after a fire. And it really looked worse than this, because there'd be a whole lot of things that had started to burn. Then the firemen came along, to put out the fire, and, though the things weren't really any good, they had to be carted away." "Yes, but this fire made a clean sweep wherever it started at all. Ashes are easier to handle than sticks and half ruined pieces of furniture. As long as it had to come, I guess it's a good thing that it was such a hot blaze." The work of clearing away, therefore, which had to be done, of course, before any actual building could be begun, was soon accomplished. "We're going to build just the way Tom Pratt did," said Jud Harkness. He was the principal carpenter and builder of Lake Dean, and a master workman. Many of the camps and cottages on the lake had been built by him, and he was, therefore, accustomed to such work. "You mean you're going to put up a square house?" said Eleanor. "Yes, ma'am, just a square house, with a hall running right through from the front to the back, and an extension in the rear for a kitchen--just a shack, that will be. Two floors--two rooms on each side of the hall on each floor. That'll give them eight rooms to start with, beside the kitchen." "That'll be fine, and it will really be the easiest thing to do, too." "That's what we're figuring, ma'am. You see, it'll be just as it was when Tom Pratt first built here, except that he only put up one story at first. Then, as Mis' Pratt gets things going again, she can add to it, and if she don't get along as fast as she expects, why, we'll lend her a hand whenever she needs it." "How on earth could you get all the lumber you need ready so quickly? That's one thing I couldn't understand. The work is not so difficult to manage, of course. But the wood--that's what's been puzzling me." Jud grinned. "Well, the truth is, ma'am, I expect to have a little argument about that yet with a city chap that's building a house on the lake. I've got the job of putting it up for him, and if it hadn't been for this fire coming along, I'd have started work day before yesterday." "Oh, and this is the lumber for his house?" "You guessed it right, ma'am! He'll be wild, I do believe, because there's no telling when I'll get the next lot of lumber through." "You say the fire stopped you from going ahead with his house?" "Yes. You see all of us had to turn out when it got so near to Cranford. My house is safe, I do believe. I'm mighty scared of fire, ma'am, and I've always figured on having things fixed so's a fire would have a pretty hard time reaching my property. But of course I had to jump in to help my neighbors--wouldn't be much profit about having the only house left standing in town, would there?" Eleanor laughed. "I guess not!" she said. "But what a lucky thing for Mrs. Pratt that you happened to have just the sort of wood she needed!" "Oh, well, we'd have managed somehow. Of course, it makes it easier, but we'd have juggled things around some way, even if this chap's plans didn't fit her foundations. As it happens, though, they do. Old Tom Pratt had a mighty well-built house here." "Well, I'm quite sure that just as good a one is going up in its place." Jud Harkness watched the work of getting out the last of the rubbish. Then he went over to the cleared foundations, and in a moment he was putting up the first of the four corner posts, great beams that looked stout enough to hold up a far bigger house than the one they were to support. All morning the work went on merrily. As Eleanor had predicted, and Bessie, too, there was plenty for the girls to do. The sun grew hotter and hotter, and the men were glad of the cooling drinks that were so liberally provided for them. "This is fine!" said Jud Harkness, as he quaffed a great drink of lemonade, well iced. "My, but it's a pleasure to work when it's made so nice for you! I tell you, having these cool drinks here is worth an extra hour's work, morning and afternoon. And what's that--just the nails I want? I'll give you a job as helper, young woman!" That remark was addressed to Bessie, who flushed with pleasure at the thought that she was playing a part, however small, in the building of the house. And, indeed, the girls all did their part, and their help was royally welcomed by the men. Quickly the skeleton of the house took form, and by noon, when work was to be knocked off for an hour, the whole framework was up. "I simply wouldn't have believed it, if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes!" said Eleanor. "It's the most wonderful thing I ever saw!" "Oh, shucks!" said Jud, embarrassed by such, praise. "There's lots of us--I don't think we've done so awful well. But it does look kind of nice, don't it?" "It's going to be a beautiful house," said Mrs. Pratt. "And to think of what the place looked like yesterday! Well, Jud Harkness, I haven't any words to tell you what I really think, and that's all there is to it!" For an hour or more Margery and her helpers had been busy at the big fire. At Eleanor's suggestion two of the men had stopped work on the house long enough to put up a rough, long table with benches at the sides, and now the table was groaning with the fine dinner that Margery had prepared. "Good solid food--no fancy fixings!" Eleanor had decreed. "These men burn up a tremendous lot of energy in work, and we've got to give them good food to replace it. So we don't want a lot of trumpery things, such as we like!" She had enforced a literal obedience, too. There were great joints of corned beef, red and savory; pots of cabbage, and huge mounds of boiled potatoes. Pots of mustard were scattered along the table, and each man had a pitcher of fine, fresh milk, and a loaf of bread, with plenty of butter. And for dessert there was a luxury--the only fancy part of the meal. Eleanor had had a whispered conference with Tom Pratt early in the day, as the result of which he had hitched up and driven into Cranford, to return with two huge tubs of ice-cream. He had brought a couple of boxes of cigars, too, and when the meal was over, and the men were getting out their pipes, Eleanor had gone around among them. "Try one of these!" she had urged. "I know they're good--and I know that when men are working hard they enjoy a first-class smoke." The cigars made a great hit. "By Golly! There's nothing she don't think of, that Miss Mercer!" said Jud Harkness appreciatively, as he lit up, and sent great clouds of blue smoke in the air. "Boys, if we don't do a tiptop job on that house to finish it off this afternoon we ought to be hung for a lot of ungrateful skunks. Eh?" There was a deep-throated shout of approval for that sentiment, and, after a few minutes of rest, during which the cigars were enjoyed to the utmost, Jud rose and once more sounded the call to work. "I've heard men in the city say that after a heavy meal in the middle of the day, they couldn't work properly in the afternoon," said Eleanor, as she watched the men go about their work, each seeming to know his part exactly. "It doesn't seem to be so with these men, though, does it? I guess that in the city men who work in offices don't use their bodies enough--they don't get enough exercise, and they eat as much as if they did." "I love cooking for men who enjoy their food the way these do," said Margery happily. "They don't have to say it's good--they show they think so by the way they eat. It's fine to think that people really enjoy what you do. I don't care how hard I work if I think that." "Well, you certainly had an appreciative lot of eaters to-day, Margery." As the shadows lengthened and the sun began to go down toward the west the house rapidly assumed the look it would have when it was finished. A good deal of the work, of course, was roughly done. There was no smoothing off of rough edges, but all that could be done later. And then, as the end of the task drew near, so that the watchers on the ground could see what the finished house would be like, Mrs. Pratt, already overwhelmed by delight at the kindness of her neighbors, had a new surprise that pleased and touched her, if possible, even more than what had gone before. A new procession of wagons came into sight in the road, and this time each was driven by a woman. And what a motley collection of stuff they did bring, to be sure! Beds and mattresses, bedding, chairs, tables, a big cook stove for the kitchen, pots and pans, china and glass, knives and forks--everything that was needed for the house. "We just made a collection of all the things we could spare, Sarah Pratt," said sprightly little Mrs. Harkness, a contrast indeed to her huge husband, who could easily lift her with one hand, so small was she. "They ain't much on looks, but they're all whole and clean, and you can use them until you have a chance to stock up again. Now, don't you go trying to thank us--it's nothing to do!" "Nothing?" exclaimed Mrs. Pratt. "Sue Harkness, don't you dare say that! Why, it means that I'll have a real home to-night for my children--we'll be jest as comfortable as we were before the fire! I don't believe any woman ever had such good neighbors before!" Long before dark the house was finished, as far as it was to be finished that day. And, as soon as the men had done their work, their wives and the Camp Fire Girls descended on the new house with brooms and pails, and soon all the shavings and the traces of the work had been banished. Then all hands set to work arranging the furniture, and by the time supper was ready the house was completely furnished. "Well," said Eleanor, standing happily in the parlor, "this certainly does look homelike!" There was even an old parlor organ. Pictures were on the wall; a good rag carpet was on the floor, and, while the furniture was not new, and had seen plenty of hard service, it was still good enough to use. The Pratt home had certainly risen like a Phoenix from its ashes. And tired but happy, all those who had contributed to the good work sat down to a bountiful supper. CHAPTER VIII ON THE MARCH AGAIN After supper, when the others who had done the good work of rebuilding were ready to go, all the girls of the Camp Fire lined up in front of the new house and sped them on their way with a cheer and the singing of the Wo-he-lo cry. "Listen to that echo!" said Dolly, as their song was brought back to them. "I didn't notice that last night. Is it always that way?" "Always," said Tom Pratt. "Folks come here sometimes to yell and hear the echo shout back at them." "Good!" cried Eleanor. "That supplies a need I've been thinking of all day!" "What's that, Miss Mercer?" asked Mrs. Pratt. "Why, if you are going into the business of supplying eggs and butter to the summer folk at the lake and to others in the city, you'll need a name for your farm. Why not call it Echo Farm? That's a good name, and in your case it means something, you see." "Whatever you say, Miss Mercer! Though I'd never thought of having a name for the place before." "Lots of things are going to be different for you now, Mrs. Pratt. You're going to be a business woman, and to make a lot of money, you know. Yes, that will look well on your boxes. When I get back to the city I'll have a friend of mine make a drawing and put that name with it, to be put on your boxes, and on all the paper you will use for writing letters." "Dear me, it's going to be splendid, Miss Mercer! Why, that fire is going to turn out to be the best thing that ever happened to us, I'm sure!" "I think we can often turn our misfortunes into blessings if we take them the right way, Mrs. Pratt. The thing to do is always to try to look on the bright side, and, no matter how black things seem, to try to see if there isn't some way that we can turn everything to account." "Well, I would never have done it if you hadn't come along, Miss Mercer. You gave us all courage in the first place, and then you got Jud Harkness and all the others to come and help me this way." "Oh, they'd have done it themselves, as soon as they heard. I didn't suggest a thing--I just told them the news, and they thought of everything else all by themselves. The only thing I thought of was using your farm so that it would really pay you." "Now that you've told us how, it seems so easy that I wonder I never thought of it myself." "Well, lots and lots of farmers just waste their land and themselves, Mrs. Pratt. You're not the only one. My father has a farm, and in his section he's done his level best to make the regular farmers see that there are new ways of farming, just as there are new ways of doing everything else." "That's what my poor husband always said. He had all sorts of new-fangled ideas, as I used to call them. Maybe he was right, too. But he didn't have money enough to try them and see how they'd do, though we always made a good living off this place." "Well, the advantage of my idea is that you don't need much money to give it a trial, and if you don't succeed, you won't lose much." "I think we'd be pretty stupid if we didn't succeed, after the fine start you've given us, and the way you've told me what to do." "Well, I think so myself," said Eleanor, with a frank laugh. "And I know you're not stupid--not a bit of it! It's going to be hard work, but I'm sure you'll succeed. You'll be able to hire someone to do most of the work for you before long, I think, and then you'll have to have a rest, and come down to visit me in the city." "Well, well, I do hope so, Miss Mercer! I ain't been in the city since I don't know when. Tom--my husband--took me once, but that was years and years ago, and I expect there's been a lot of changes since then." "I'm going to keep an eye on you, Mrs. Pratt. And I feel as if I were a sort of partner in this business, so if you don't make as much money as I think you ought to, why, you'll hear from me. I can promise you that! Girls, we'll sleep in the lean-to to-night, and in the morning we'll be off, bright and early." "Oh," said Mrs. Pratt, "have you really got to go? And you'll not sleep out to-night! You'll take the house, and we'll be the ones to sleep outside." "Nonsense, Mrs. Pratt! Who should be the ones to sleep in this fine new house the first night but you? We love to sleep in the open air, really we do! It's no hardship, I can tell you." And, despite all of Mrs. Pratt's protests, it was so arranged. "I'll hate to go away from here--really I will!" said Dolly, to Bessie. "It's been perfectly fine, helping these people. And I feel as if we'd really done something." "Well, we certainly have, Dolly," said Bessie. "I do hope that butter and egg business will do well." "I _know_ it's going to do well," said Eleanor, who had overheard. "And one reason is that you girls are going to help. Now we must all get to sleep, or we'll never get started in the morning. I think we'll have to ride part of the way to the seashore in the train, after all. We don't want to be too late in getting there, you know." And in a few minutes silence reigned over the place. It was a picture of peace and content--a vast contrast to the scene of the previous night, when desolation and gloom seemed to dominate everything. Parting in the morning brought tears alike to the eyes of those who stayed behind and those who were going on. The experience of the last two days had brought the Pratts and the girls of the Camp Fire very close together, and the Pratt children--the younger ones at least--wept and refused to be comforted when they learned that their new friends were going away. "Cheer up," said Eleanor. "We'll see you again, you know. Maybe we'll all come up next summer. And we've had a good time, haven't we?" "We certainly have!" said Mrs. Pratt, and there was sincerity, as well as pleasure, in her tone. "I've often heard that good came out of evil, and joy out of sorrow, but I never had any such reason to believe it before this!" Before the final parting, Eleanor had shown Mrs. Pratt exactly what she meant about the new way in which the butter was to be made. "Of course, as your business grows, you will want to get better machinery," she had said. "That will make the work much easier, and you will be able to do it more quickly too, and with less help than if you stuck to the old-fashioned way." "I'm going to take your advice in everything about running this farm, Miss Mercer," Mrs. Pratt had replied. "You've certainly shown that you know what you're talking about so far." "Take a trip down to my father's farm some time, Mrs. Pratt, and they'll be glad to show you everything they have there, I know. My father is very anxious for all the farmers in his neighborhood to profit by any help they can get. The only trouble is that a good many of them seem to feel that he is interfering with them." "Well, if they're as stupid as that, it serves them right to keep on losing money, Miss Mercer." "But it's natural, after all. You see they've run their farms their own way all their lives, and it's the way they learned from their fathers. So it isn't very strange that they're apt to feel that they know more, from all that practice and experiment, than city people who are farming scientifically." "Does your father enjoy farming?" "He says he does--and it's a curious thing that he makes that farm pay its way, even allowing for a whole lot of things he does that aren't really necessary. That's what proves, you see, that his theories are right--they pay. "Of course, he could afford to lose money on it, and you can't make a whole lot of those farmers in our neighborhood believe that he doesn't. So now he is having the books of the farm fixed up so that any of the farmers around can see them, and find out for themselves how things are run." Tired as the girls of the Camp Fire had been the night before, they were wonderfully refreshed by their night's sleep. The weather was much more pleasant than it had been, and a brisk wind had driven off much of the smoke that still remained when they reached the Pratt farm as a reminder of the scourge of fire. So the conditions for walking were good, and Eleanor Mercer set a round, swinging pace as they started off. "I'll really be glad to get out of this burned district. It's awfully gloomy, isn't it, Bessie?" said Dolly. "Yes, especially when you realize what it means to the people who live in the path of the fire," answered Bessie. "Seeing the Pratts as they were when we came up has given me an altogether new idea of these forest fires." "Yes. That's what I mean. It's bad enough to see the forest ruined, but when you think of the houses, and all the other things that are burned, too, why, it seems particularly dreadful." "Tom Pratt told me that a whole lot of animals were caught in the fire, too--chipmunks, and squirrels, and deer. That seems dreadful." "Oh, what a shame! I should think they could manage to get away, Bessie. Don't you suppose they try?" "Oh, yes, but you see they can't reason the way human beings do, and a lot of these fires burn around in a circle, so that while they were running away from one part of the fire they might very easily be heading straight for another, and get caught right between two fires." Soon, however, they passed a section where the land had been cleared of trees for a space of nearly a mile, and, once they had travelled through it, they came to the deep green woods again, where no marring traces of the fire spoiled the beauty of their trip. "Ah, don't the woods smell good!" said Dolly. "So much nicer than that old smoky smell! I never smelt anything like that! It got so that everything I ate tasted of smoke. I'm certainly glad to get to where the fire didn't come." Now the ground began to rise, and before long they found themselves in the beginning of Indian Gap. The ground rose gradually, and when they stopped for their midday meal, in a wild part of the gap, none of the girls were feeling more than normally and healthfully tired. "Do many people come through here, Miss Eleanor?" asked Margery. "At certain times, yes. But, you see, the forest fires have probably made a lot of people who intended to take this trip change their minds. In a way it's a good thing, because we will be sure to find plenty of room at the Gap House. That's where we are to spend the night. Sometimes when there's a lot of travel, it's very crowded there, and uncomfortable." "Is it a regular hotel?" "No, it's just a place for people to sleep. It's where the trail starts up Mount Sherman, and it's the station of the railroad that runs to the top of the mountain, too, for people who are too lazy to climb. There's a gorgeous view there in the mornings, when the sun rises. You can see clear to the sea." "Oh, can't we stop and see that?" "We haven't time to climb the mountain. If you want to go up on the incline railway, though, we can manage it. You get up at three o'clock in the morning, and get to the top while it's still dark, so that you can see the very beginning of the sunrise." There was not a dissenting voice to the plan to make the trip, and it was decided to take the little extra time that would be required. "After all," said Eleanor, "we can get such an early start afterward that it won't take very much time. And to-morrow we'll finish our tramp through the gap, and stop at Windsor for the night. Then the next day we'll take the train straight through to the seashore. I think really we'll have more fun, and get more good out of it if we spend the time there than if we go through with our original plan of doing more walking before getting on the train." "Yes. We've lost quite a little time already, haven't we?" said Margery. "Two whole days at Lake Dean, and two days more staying with the Pratts," said Eleanor. "That's four days, and one can walk quite a long distance in four days if one sets one's mind and one's feet to it." "Well, we certainly couldn't help the delay," said Margery. "At Lake Dean the fire held us--and I wouldn't think very much of any crowd that could see the trouble those poor people were in and not stay to help them." They slept well in the early part of that night in the rough quarters at the Gap House, and, while it was still dark, they were routed out to catch the funicular railway on its first trip of the day up Mount Sherman. At first, when they were at the top of the mountain, there was nothing to be seen. But soon the sky in the east began to lighten and grow pink, then the fog that lay below them began to melt away, and, as the sun rose, they saw the full wonder of the spectacle. "I never saw anything so beautiful in all my life!" exclaimed Bessie with a sigh of delight. "See how it seems to gild everything as the light rises, Dolly!" "Yes, and you can see the sea, way off in the distance! How tiny all the towns and villages look from here! It's just like looking at a map, isn't it?" "Well, it was certainly worth getting up in the middle of the night to see it, Bessie. And I do love to sleep, too!" "I'd stay up all night to see this, any time. I never even dreamed of anything so lovely." "We were very fortunate," said Eleanor, with a smile. "I've been up here when the fog was so thick that you couldn't see a thing, and only knew the sun had risen because it got a little lighter. I've known it to be that way for a week at a time, and some people would stay, and come up here morning after morning, and be disappointed each time!" "That's awfully mean," said Dolly. "I suppose, though, if they had never seen it, they wouldn't mind so much, because they wouldn't know what they were missing." "They never seemed very happy about it, though," laughed Eleanor. "Well, it's time to go down again, and be off for Windsor. And then to-morrow morning we'll be off for the seashore. We're to camp there, right on the beach, instead of living in a house. That will be much better, I think." CHAPTER IX A STARTLING DISCOVERY "Bessie, why are you looking so glum?" asked Dolly, as they started on the last part of their walk, taking the Windsor road. "Am I? I didn't realize I was, Dolly. But--well, I suppose it's because I'm rather sorry we're leaving the mountains." "I think the seashore is every bit as nice as the mountains. There are ever so many things to do, and I know you'll like Plum Beach, where we're going. It's the dandiest place--" "It couldn't be as nice as this, Dolly." "Oh, that seems funny to me, Bessie. I've always loved the seashore, ever since I can remember. And, of course, since I've learned to swim, I've enjoyed it even more than I used to." "You can't swim much in the sea, can you? Isn't the surf too heavy?" "The surf's good fun, even if you don't do any swimming in it, Bessie. It picks you up and throws you around, and it's splendid sport. But down at Plum Beach you can have either still water or surf. You see, there's a beach and a big cove--and on that beach the water is perfectly calm, unless there's a tremendous storm, and we're not likely to run into one of those." "How is that, Dolly? I thought there was always surf at the seashore." "There's a sand bar outside the cove, and it's grown so that it really makes another beach, outside. And on that there is real surf. So we can have whichever sort of bathing we like best, or both kinds on the same day, if we want." "Maybe I'll like it better when I see it, then. Because I do love to swim, and I don't believe I'd enjoy just letting the surf bang me around." "Why, Bessie, you say you may like it better when you see it? Haven't you ever been to the seashore?" "I certainly never have, Dolly! You seem to forget that I've spent all the time I can remember in Hedgeville." "I do forget it, all the time. And do you know why? It's because you seem to know such an awful lot about other places and things you never saw there. I suppose they made you read books." "Made me! That was one of the things Maw Hoover used to get mad at me for doing. Whenever she saw me reading a book it seemed to make her mad, and she'd say I was loafing, and find something for me to do, even if I'd hurried through all the chores I had so that I could get at the book sooner." "Then you used to like to read?" "Oh, yes, I always did. The Sunday School had a sort of library, and I used to be able to get books from there. I love to read, and you would, too, Dolly, if you only knew how much fun you have out of books." Dolly made a face. "Not the sort of books my Aunt Mabel wants me to read," she said decidedly. "Stupid old things they are! It's just like going to school all over again. I get enough studying at school, thanks!" "But you like to know about people and places you've never seen, don't you!" "Yes, but all the books I've ever seen that tell you about things like that are just like geographies. They give you a lot of things you have to remember, and there's no fun to that." "You haven't read the right sort of books, that's all that's the matter with you, Dolly. I tell you what--when we get back to the city, we '11 get hold of some good books, and take turns reading them aloud to one another. I think that would be good fun." "Well, maybe if they taught me as much as you seem to know about places you've never seen I wouldn't mind reading them. Anyhow, books or no books, you're going' to love the seashore. Oh, it is such a delightful place--Plum Beach." "Tell me about it, Dolly." "Well, in the first place, it isn't a regular seaside place at all. I mean there aren't any hotels and boardwalks and things like that. It's about ten miles from Bay City, and there they do have everything like that. But Plum Beach is just wild, the way it always has been. And I don't see why, because it's the best beach I ever saw--ever so much finer than at Bay City." "I'll like the beach." "Yes, I know you will. And because it's sort of wild and desolate, and off by itself that way, you can have the best time there you ever dreamed of. Last year we put on our bathing suits when we got up, and kept them on all day. You go in the water, you see, and then, if you lie down on the beach for half an hour, you're dry. The sun shines right down on the sand, and it's as warm as it can be." "I suppose that's why you like it so much--because you don't have the trouble of dressing and undressing." "It's one reason," said Dolly, who never pretended about anything, and was perfectly willing to admit that she was lazy. "But it's nice to have the beach to yourselves, too, the way we do. You see, when we get there we'll find tents all set up and ready for us." "Is there any fishing?" Dolly smacked her lips. "You bet there is!" she said. "Best sea bass you ever tasted, and about all you can catch, too! And it tastes delicious, because the fish down there get cooked almost as soon as they're caught. And there are lobsters and crabs--and it's good fun to go crabbing. Then at low tide we dig for clams, and they're good, too--I'll bet you never dreamed how good a clam could be!" "How about the other things--milk, and eggs, and all those!" "Oh, that's easy! There are a lot of farms a little way inland, and we get all sorts of fine things from them." "I wonder if Mr. Holmes will try to play any tricks on us down there, Dolly. He has about everywhere we've been since Zara and I joined the Camp Fire Girls, you know." "I'm hoping he won't find out, Bessie. That would be fine. I certainly would like to know why he is so anxious to get hold of you and Zara. I bet it's money, and that there's some secret about you." "Money? Why, he's got more than he can spend now! Even if there is a secret, I don't see how money can have anything to do with it." "Well, you remember this, Bessie: the more money people have, the more they seem to want. They're never content. It's the people who only have a little who seem to be happy, and willing to get along with what they have. How about your old Farmer Weeks?" "That's so, Dolly. He certainly was that way. He had more money than anyone in Hedgeville or anywhere near it, and yet he was the stingiest, closest fisted old man in town." "There you are!" "Still I think Mr. Holmes must be a whole lot richer than Farmer Weeks, or than all the other people in Hedgeville put together. And it doesn't seem as if there was any money he could make out of Zara or me that would tempt him to do what he's done." "Do you know what I've noticed most, Bessie, about the way he's gone to work?" "No. What?" "The way he has spent money. He's acted as if he didn't care a bit how much it cost him, if only he got what he wanted. And people in the city never spend money unless they expect to get it back." "Who's the detective now! You called me one a little while ago, but it seems to me that you're doing pretty well in that line yourself." "Oh, it's all right to laugh, but, just the same, I'll bet that when we get at the bottom of all this mystery, we'll find that the chief reason Mr. Holmes was in it was that he wanted to get hold of some information that would make it easy for him to get a whole lot more than it cost him." "Well, maybe you're right, Dolly. But I'd certainly like to know just what he has got up his sleeve." "I think he'll be careful for a little while now, Bessie. He never knew that Miss Eleanor had that letter he'd written to the gypsy. And it must have damaged him a lot to have as much come out about that as did." "I expect a lot of people who heard it didn't believe it." "Even if that's so, I guess there were plenty who did believe it, and who think now that Mr. Holmes is a pretty good man to leave alone. You see, that proved absolutely that he had really hired that gypsy to carry you off, and that is a pretty mean thing to do. And people must know by this time that if there was any legal way of getting you and Zara away from the Camp Fire and Miss Mercer, he would do it." "But he didn't get into any trouble for doing it, Dolly." "He's got so much money that he could hire lawyers to get him out of almost any scrape he got in, Bessie. That's the trouble. Those people at Hamilton were afraid of him. They know how rich he is, and they didn't want to take any chance of making him angry at them." "Yes, that's just it. And I'm afraid he's got so much money that a whole lot of people who would say what they really thought if they weren't afraid of him, are on his side. You see, he says that I'm a runaway, just because I didn't stay any longer with the Hoovers. And probably he can make a whole lot of people think that I was very ungrateful, and that he is quite right in trying to get me back into the same state as Hedgeville." "They'd better talk to Miss Eleanor, if he makes them think that. They'll soon find out which is right and which is wrong in that business. And if she doesn't tell them, I guess Mr. Jamieson will--and he'd be glad of the chance, too!" "Let's not worry about him, anyhow. I hope he won't find out where we are, too. We haven't seen or heard anything of him since we went back to Long Lake from Hamilton, so I don't see why there isn't a good chance of his letting us alone for a while now." They reached Windsor, the little town at the other end of Indian Gap, late in the afternoon, having cooked their midday meal in the gap. "I know the people in a big boarding-house here," said Eleanor, "and we'll be very comfortable. In the morning we'll take an early train, so that we can get to Plum Beach before it's too late to get comfortably settled. I've sent word on ahead to have the tents ready for us, but, even so, there will be a good many things to do." "There always are," sighed Dolly. "That's the one thing I don't like about camping out." "I expect really, if you only knew the truth, Dolly, it's the one thing you like best of all," smiled Eleanor. "That's one of the great differences between being at home, where everything is done for you, and camping out, where you have to look after yourself." "Well, I don't like work, anyhow, and I don't believe I ever shall, Miss Eleanor, no matter what it's called. Some of it isn't as bad as some other kinds, that's all." Eleanor laughed to herself, because she knew Dolly well enough not to take such declarations too seriously. "I've got some work for you to-night," she said. "I want you and Bessie to go to a meeting of the girls that belong to one of the churches here, and tell them about the Camp Fire. They found out we were coming, and they would like to know if they can't start a Camp Fire of their own. "And I think they'll get a better idea of things, and be less timid and shy about asking questions if two of you girls go than if I try to explain. I will come in later, after they've had a chance to talk to you two, but by that time they ought to have a pretty clear idea." "That's not work, that's fun," declared Dolly. "I'm glad you think so, because you will be more likely to be successful." And so after supper Bessie and Dolly went, with two girls who called for them, to the Sunday School room of one of the Windsor churches, ready to do all they could to induce the local girls to form a Camp Fire of their own. And, being thoroughly enthusiastic, they soon fired the desire of the Windsor girls. "They won't have just one Camp Fire; they'll have two or three," predicted Dolly, when she and Bessie were walking back to the boarding-house later with Eleanor Mercer. "They asked plenty of questions, all right. Nothing shy about them, was there, Bessie?" Bessie laughed. "Not if asking questions proves people aren't shy," she admitted. "I thought they'd never stop thinking of things to ask." "That's splendid," said Eleanor. "The Camp Fire is the best thing these girls could have. It will do them a great deal of good, and I was sure that the way to make them see how much they would enjoy it was to let them understand how enthusiastic you two were. That meant more to them than anything I could have said, I'm sure." "I don't see why," said Dolly. "Because they're girls like you, Dolly, and it's what you like, and show you like, that would appeal to them. I'm older, you see, and they might think that things that I would expect them to like wouldn't really please them at all." "What's the matter with you, Bessie?" asked Dolly suddenly, as they reached the house. She was plainly concerned and surprised, and Eleanor, rather startled, since she had seen nothing in Bessie to provoke such a question, looked at her keenly. "Nothing, except that I'm a little tired, I think." But Dolly wasn't satisfied. She knew her chum too well. "You've got something on your mind, but you don't want to worry us," she said. "Better own up, Bessie!" Bessie, however, would not answer. And in the morning she seemed to be her old self. Just as they were starting for the train, though, Bessie suddenly hung back at the door of the boarding-house. "Wait for me a minute, Dolly," she said. "I left a handkerchief in our room. I'll be right down. Go on, the rest of you; we'll soon catch up." She ran upstairs for the handkerchief. "I left it behind on purpose, Dolly," she explained, when she came down. "I wanted them to go ahead. Ah, look!" As they went along, with most of the girls fully a hundred yards ahead of them, a lurking figure was plainly to be seen following the girls. "It's Jake Hoover!" said Dolly excitedly. "I thought I saw him last night. That was why you thought something was wrong, Dolly," said Bessie. "But I wanted to make sure before I said anything." "That means trouble," said Dolly. CHAPTER X A MEETING--AND A CONVERSION "Trouble--he's always meant that every time we've seen him!" said Bessie bitterly. "How do you suppose he has managed to be away from home so much, Bessie?" "I don't know, Dolly, but I'm afraid he's got into some sort of trouble. I'm quite sure that Mr. Holmes and that lawyer, Mr. Brack, have got something against him--that they know something he's afraid they will tell." "Say, I'll bet you 're right! You know, he must be an awful coward--and yet, the way he goes after you, he takes a lot of chances, doesn't he? It does look as if, no matter how much it may frighten him to do what he does, he's still more afraid not to do it." "Look out--get behind this tree! I don't want him to see us here if we can help it. It would be better if he thought he hadn't been noticed at all, don't you think?" "Yes. And it's a very good thing we saw him, Bessie. Now we know that we must look out for squalls at Plum Beach, and they don't know we're warned at all. So maybe it will be easier to beat them." "Look here, Dolly, isn't there another train to Plum Beach? A later one, that would get us there an hour or so after the other girls, if they go on this one?" "There certainly is, Bessie; but how can we wait for it? Miss Eleanor would be worried." "Oh, we'll have to let her know what we're going to do, of course. How soon does that train go?" "Not for half an hour yet. Miss Mercer wanted to be at the station very early so that all the baggage would surely be checked in time to go on the same train with us." "Well, that makes it easy, Dolly. I tell you what. I'll stay here, and follow very slowly, when Jake gets out of sight, so that he won't see me. And if you go right across the street, and cut across the lots there, you can get to the railroad station from the other side." "I know the way--I saw that last night, though not because I expected to do it." "All right, then. You take that way, and get hold of Miss Eleanor quietly. Better not let the others hear what you're saying, and keep your eyes open for Jake, too. But I don't believe he'll show himself in the station." "Do you think she'll let us do it!" "I don't see why not. We'll be perfectly safe. I'm sure Jake is here alone, and he wouldn't dare try to do anything to stop us here. He knows that he'd get into trouble if he did, and I don't think he's very brave, even in this new fashion of his unless some of the people he's afraid of are right around to spur him on. You remember how Will Burns thrashed him? He didn't look very brave then, did he?" "I should say not! All right, I'll tell her and see what she says. Then I'll get back to the boarding-house. You'll go there, won't you?" "No, I don't think that would be a good idea at all. The best thing for you to do is to wait for me right there in the station. The ticket agent is a woman, and I'm sure she'll let you stay with her until I come, if you get Miss Eleanor to speak to her. Miss Eleanor knows all the people here, and they all like her, and would do anything she asked them to do, if they could. "And it's easier for me to get to the station without being seen than to the boarding-house. Besides, I think it's right around the station that we'll have the best chance of finding out what they mean to do." "All right! I'll obey orders," said Dolly. "You're right, too, I think, Bessie." Jake Hoover, creeping along, was out of sight when Dolly made a swift dash across the street, and in a minute she had disappeared. Bessie knew that Dolly's movements, always rapid, were likely to prove altogether too elusive for Jake's rather slow mind to follow, and, moreover, she was not much afraid of detection, even should Jake catch a glimpse of her chum. Jake was sure that all the Camp Fire Girls were in front of him; he would not, therefore, be looking in the rear for any of them, especially for those he wanted to track down. Bessie had the harder task. She had to keep herself from Jake's observation until after the train had gone, in any case, and as much longer as possible. As she had told Dolly, she was not very much afraid of anything he might attempt against them, but she saw no use in running any avoidable risks. Once Jake was out of sight, she made her way slowly toward the station, prepared to make an instant dash for cover should she see Jake returning. The one thing that was likely to cause him to come back toward her, she figured, was the presence of Holmes or one of the other men who were behind him in the conspiracy, and she was taking the chance, of course, that one of these men was behind her, and a spectator of her movements. But she could not avoid that. If one of them was there he was, that was all, and she felt that by acting as she had decided to do, she had, at all events, everything to gain and nothing to lose. The road from the boarding-house to the station was perfectly straight for about three-quarters of a mile, and parallel with the railroad tracks. Then, when the road came to a point opposite the station, it came also to a crossroad, and, about a hundred yards down this crossroad was the station itself. Bessie reached that point without anything to alarm her or upset her plans, and there she was lucky enough to find a big billboard at the corner, which happened to be a vacant lot. Behind this billboard she took shelter thankfully, feeling sure that it would enable her to see what Jake was doing without any danger of being discovered by him. As she had expected, Jake did not enter the station. She had no sooner taken up her position in the shelter of the billboard than she was able to single him out from the men who were lounging about, waiting for the train. His movements were still furtive and sly, and Bessie had to repress a shudder of disgust. Such work seemed to bring out everything small and mean and sly in Jake's nature, and Bessie's thoughts were full of sympathy for his father. After all, Paw Hoover had always been good to her, and when she and Zara had run away from Hedgeville, he had helped them instead of turning them back, as he might so easily have done. It seemed strange to Bessie that so good and kind a man should have such a worthless son. Twice, as Bessie looked, she saw Jake approach one of the windows of the station building furtively, but each time he was scared away from it before he had a chance to look in. "Trying to make sure that I'm in there, and afraid of being seen at his spying," decided Bessie. "That's great! If he doesn't see me, he'll just decide that I must be there anyhow, and take a chance. It's a good thing he's such a coward. But I wonder what he thinks we'd do to him, even if we did see him?" She laughed at the thought. Never having had a really guilty conscience herself, Bessie had no means of knowing what a torturing, weakening thing it is. She could not properly imagine Jake's mental state, in which everything that happened alarmed him. Having done wrong, he fancied all the time that he was about to be haled up, and made to pay for his wrongdoing. And that, of course, was the explanation of his actions, when, as a matter of fact, he could have walked with entire safety into the station and the midst of the Camp Fire Girls. Soon the whistle of the train that was to carry the Camp Fire Girls to Plum Beach was heard in the distance, and a minute later it roared into the station, stopped, and was off again. Seeing a great waving of handkerchiefs from the last car, Bessie guessed what they meant. Miss Eleanor had agreed to her plan, and this was the way the girls took of bidding her good-bye and good luck. As soon as the train had gone Jake rushed into the station, and Bessie walked boldly toward it, a new idea in her mind. She had made up her mind that to be afraid of Jake Hoover was a poor policy. If the guess she and Dolly had made concerning his relations with those who were persecuting her was correct, Jake must be a good deal more afraid of them, or of what he had done, than she could possibly be of him, and Bessie knew that there should be no great difficulty in dealing very much as she liked with a coward. Moreover, the presence of a policeman at the station gave her assurance that she need fear no physical danger from Jake, and she felt that was the only thing that need check her at all. When she reached the station she looked in the window first, and saw Jake standing by the ticket agent's window. The ticket agent was also the telegraph operator, and Bessie saw that she was writing something on a yellow telegraph blank. Evidently Jake was sending a message, and Bessie knew that, while he could read a very little, Jake had always been so stupid and so lazy that he had never learned to write properly. The sight made her smile, because, unless her plans had miscarried completely, Dolly was inside the little ticket office, and must be hearing every word of that message! So she waited until Jake, satisfied, turned from the window, and then she walked boldly in. For a minute Jake, who was looking out of one of the windows in front toward the track, did not see her at all. In that moment Bessie got in line with the ticket window and, seeing Dolly, waved to her to come out. Then she walked over to Jake, smiled at his amazed face as he turned to her, and saluted him cheerfully. "Hello, Jake Hoover," she said. "Were you looking for me!" Jake's face fell, and he stared at her in comical dismay. "Well, I snum!" he said. "How in tarnation did you come to git off that there train, hey?" "I never was on it, Jake," said Bessie, pleasantly. "You just thought _I_ was, you see. You don't want to jump to a conclusion so quickly." Jake was petrified. When he saw Dolly come out of the ticket office, puzzled by Bessie's action, but entirely willing to back her up, his face turned white. "You're a pretty poor spy, Jake," said Dolly, contemptuously. "I guess Mr. Holmes won't be very pleased when he gets your message at Canton, telling him Bessie went on that train and then doesn't find her aboard at all." "What's that?" asked Bessie, suddenly. "Is that the message he sent, Dolly!" "It certainly is," said Dolly. "Why, what's the matter, Bessie?" But Bessie didn't answer her. Instead she had raced toward a big railroad map that hung on the wall of the station, and was looking for Canton on it. "I thought so!" she gasped. Then she ran over to the ticket window, and spoke to the agent. "If I send a telegram right now, can it be delivered to Miss Mercer, on that train that just went out, before she gets to Canton?" she asked. The agent looked at her time-table. "Oh, yes," she said, cheerfully. "That's easy. I'll send it right out for you, and it will reach her at Whitemarsh which is only twenty-five miles away." "Good!" said Bessie, and wrote out a long telegram. In a minute she returned to Jake and Dolly, and the sound of the ticking telegraph instrument filled the station with its chatter. "He wanted to run away, Bessie," said Dolly. "But I told him it wasn't polite to do that when a young lady wanted to talk to him, so he stayed. That was nice of him, wasn't it?" "Very," said Bessie, her tone as sarcastic as Dolly's own. "Now, look here, Jake, what have you done that makes you so afraid of Mr. Holmes and these other wicked men?" Jake's jaw fell again, but he was speechless. He just stared at her. "There's no use standing there like a dying calf, Jake Hoover!" said Bessie, angrily. "I know perfectly well you've been up to some dreadful mischief, and these men have told you that if you don't do just as they tell you they'll see that you're punished. Isn't that true?" "How--how in time did you ever find that out?" stammered Jake. "I've known you a long time, Jake Hoover," said Bessie, crisply. "And now tell me this. Haven't I always been willing to be your friend? Didn't I forgive you for all the mean things you did, and help you every way I could? Did I ever tell on you when you'd done anything wrong, and your father would have licked you?" Bessie's tone grew more kindly as she spoke to him, and Jake seemed to be astonished. He hung his head, and his look at her was sheepish. "No, I guess you're a pretty good sort, Bessie," he said. "Mebbe I've been pretty mean to you--" "It's about time you found it out!" said Dolly, furiously. "Oh, I'd like to--" "Let him alone, Dolly," said Bessie. "I'm running this. Now, Jake, look here. I want to be your friend. I'm very fond of your father, and I'd hate to see him have a lot of sorrow on your account. Don't you know that these men would sacrifice you and throw you over in a minute if they thought they couldn't get anything more out of you? Don't you see that they're just using you, and that when they've got all they can, they'll let you get into any sort of trouble, without lifting a finger to save you?" "Do you think they'd do that, Bessie? They promised--" "What are their promises worth, Jake? You ought to know them well enough to understand that they don't care what they do. If you're in trouble, I know someone who will help you. Mr. Jamieson, in the city." "He--why, he would like to get me into trouble--" "No, he wouldn't. And if I ask him to help you, I know he'll do it. He can do more for you than they can, too. You go to him, and tell him the whole story, and you'll find he will be a good friend, if you make up your mind to behave yourself after this. We'll forget all the things you've done, and you shall, too, and start over again. Don't you want to be friends, Jake?" "Sure--sure I do, Bessie!" said Jake, looking really repentant. "Do you mean you'd be willing--that you'd be friends with me, after all the mean things I've done to you?" Bessie held out her hand. "I certainly do, Jake," she said. "Now, you go to Mr. Jamieson, and tell him everything you know. Everything, do you hear? I can guess what this latest plot was, but you tell him all you know about it. And you'll find that they've told you a great many things that aren't so at all. Very likely they've just tried to frighten you into thinking you were in danger so that they could make you do what they wanted." "I'll do it, Bessie!" said Jake. CHAPTER XI A NARROW ESCAPE Despite Dolly's frantic curiosity, Bessie drew Jake aside where there was no danger of their being overheard by any of the others in the station, and talked to him earnestly for a long time. Jake seemed to have changed his whole attitude. He was plainly nervous and frightened, but Dolly could see that he was listening to Bessie with respect. And finally he threw up his head with a gesture entirely strange to him, and, when Bessie held out her hand, shook it happily. "Here's Mr. Jamieson's address," said Bessie, writing on a piece of paper which she handed to him. "Now you go straight to him, and do whatever he tells you. You'll be all right. How soon will you start?" "There's a train due right now," said Jake, excitedly. "I'll get aboard, and as soon as I get to town I'll do just as you say, Bessie. Good-bye." "Good-bye, Jake--and good luck!" said Bessie warmly. "We're going to be good friends, now." "Well, I never!" gasped Dolly. She stared at Jake's retreating form, and then back to Bessie; as if she were paralyzed with astonishment. "Whatever does this mean, Bessie? I should think you would be pretty hard up for friends before you'd make one of Jake Hoover!" "Jake's been more stupid than mean, Dolly. And he's found out that he's been wrong, I'm sure. From this time he's going to do a whole lot for us, unless I'm badly mistaken. I'm sure it's better to have him on our side than against us." "I'm not sure of anything of the sort, Bessie. But do tell me what happened. Why did you send that telegram to Miss Eleanor? And what was in it?" "I sent it because if I hadn't she would have walked right into a trap--she and Zara. Maybe it was too late, but I hope not. And our staying behind here was a mighty lucky thing. If we hadn't had some warning of what Mr. Holmes and the others were planning, I don't know what would have happened! Zara and I would have been caught, I'm quite sure." "Don't be so mysterious, Bessie," begged Dolly. "Tell me what you found out, can't you? I'm just as excited and interested as you are, and I should think you would know it, too." "You'll see it all soon enough, Dolly. Let's find out how soon the next train comes." "In twenty minutes," said the ticket agent, in answer to the question. "And is it a through train--an express?" asked Bessie. "Have you a time-table? I'd like to see just where it stops." She got the time-table, and, after she had examined it carefully, heaved a sigh of relief. "The train doesn't stop at any place that isn't marked down for it on the time-table, does it?" she said, as she bought the tickets. "No, indeed. That's a limited train, and it's almost always on time. They wouldn't stop that except at the regular places for anyone." "That's all right, then," said Bessie. "Dolly, can't you see the point yet for yourself? Go and look at the map, and if you can't see then, why, I'm not going to tell you! If you're as stupid as all that, you deserve to wait!" Bessie laughed, but Dolly understood that the laugh was not one of amusement alone, but that Bessie was undergoing a reaction after some strain that had worried her more than she was willing to admit or to show. "I guess I'm stupid all right," she said, after she had looked at the map. "I don't know what you're driving at, but I suppose you do, and that makes it all right. I'm willing to do whatever you say, but I do like to know why and how things like that are necessary. And I don't think I'm unreasonable, either." "You're not," said Bessie, suddenly contrite. "But, Dolly dear, I don't want everyone here to know all about us, and the things that are happening to us. You won't mind waiting a little for an explanation, will you?" "Not when you ask that way," said Dolly, loyally. "But I don't like to have you act as if it were stupid of me not to be able to guess what it is. You wouldn't have known yourself, would you, if Jake Hoover hadn't told you when you two were whispering together?" "I knew it before that. That's one reason I was able to make Jake tell me what he did, Dolly. I suppose you don't like my making up with him, either, do you?" "Oh, no, I don't like it. But that doesn't make any difference. I daresay you've got some very good reason." "I certainly have, Dolly, and you shall know it soon, too. Listen, there's our train whistling now! We'll start in a minute or two." "Well, that's good. I hate mysteries. Do you know, Bessie, that if this train only makes one or two stops, we shall be at Plum Beach very soon after Miss Eleanor and the other girls get there!" "I'm glad of it, Dolly. Tell me, there isn't any station at Plum Beach, is there?" "No, we'll go to Bay City, and then go back on another train to a little station called Green Cove, and that's within a mile of the beach. It's on a branch railroad that runs along the coast from Bay City." Then the train came along, and they climbed aboard, happy in having outwitted the enemies of Bessie and Zara. Dolly did not share Bessie's enthusiasm over the conversion of Jake Hoover, though. "I don't trust him, Bessie," she said. "He may have really meant to turn around and be friends with us, but I don't think he can stick to a promise. I don't know that he means to break them, but he just seems to be helpless. You think he's afraid of Mr. Holmes and those men, don't you?" "Yes, and he as good as admitted it, too, Dolly." "Well, what I'm afraid of is that he will see them again, and that he'll do whatever the people he happens to be with tell him." "I suppose we've got to take that much of a chance, Dolly. We really haven't much choice. My, how this train does go!" "Why are you looking at your map and your time-table so carefully, Bessie?" "I want to be sure to know when we're getting near Canton, Dolly. When we do, you must keep your eyes open. You'll see something there that may explain a whole lot of things to you, and make you understand how silly you were not to see through this plot." Canton was a town of considerable size, and, though the train did not stop there, it slowed down, and ran through the streets and the station at greatly reduced speed. And as the car in which they were sitting went through the station Bessie clutched Dolly's arm, and spoke in her ear. "Look!" she said. "There on the platform! Did you ever see those men before!" Dolly gave a startled cry as her eyes followed Bessie's pointing finger. "Mr. Holmes!" she exclaimed. "And that's that little lawyer, Mr. Brack. And the old man with the whiskers--" "Is Farmer Weeks, of course! Do you see the fourth man standing with them? See how he pushes his coat back! He's a constable and he's so proud of it he wants everyone to see his badge!" "Bessie! Do you mean they were waiting here for you?" "For me and Zara, Dolly! If I had been on a train that stopped here--but I wasn't! And I guess Miss Eleanor must have got my telegram in time to hide Zara so that they didn't find her on the other train, too, or else we'd see something of her." Dolly laughed happily. Then she did a reckless thing, showing herself at the window, and shaking her fist defiantly as the car, with rapidly gathering speed, passed the disconsolate group on the station platform. Holmes was the first to see her, and his face darkened with a swift scowl. Then he caught sight of Bessie, and, seizing Brack's arm, pointed the two girls out to him, too. But there was nothing whatever to be done. The train, after slowing down, was already beginning to move fast again, and there was no way in which it could be stopped, or in which the group of angry men on the platform could board it. They could only stand in powerless rage, and look after it. Bessie and Dolly, of course, could not hear the furious comments that Holmes was making as he turned angrily to old Weeks. But they could make a guess, and Dolly turned an elfin face, full of mischievous delight, to Bessie. "That's one time they got fooled," she exclaimed. "I'm sorry they found out we were on this train, though," said Bessie, gravely, "It means that we'll have trouble with them after we get to Plum Beach, I'm afraid." "Who cares?" said Dolly. "If they can't do any better there than they've done so far on this trip, we needn't worry much, I guess." "Well, do you see what they were up to, now, Dolly?" Dolly wrinkled her brows. "I guess so," she said. "They meant to come aboard the train at Canton and try to get hold of you and Zara. But I don't see why--" "Why they should pick out Canton rather than any other station where the trains stop along the line?" "That's just it, Bessie. Why should they?" "That's the whole point, Dolly. Look at this map. Do you see the state boundaries? For just a little way this line is in the state Canton is in--and Canton is in the same state as Hedgeville!" "Oh!" gasped Dolly. "You were right, Bessie, I _was stupid_! I might have thought of that! That's why they had Jake there, and what his telegram was. But how clever of you to think of it! How did you ever guess it?" "I just happened to think that if we did go into that state, it would be easy for them to get hold of Zara and me, if they only knew about it beforehand. Because, you see, in that state Farmer Weeks is legal guardian for both of us, and he could make us come with him if he caught us there." "Well, I think it was mighty clever of you. Of course, when you had the idea, it was easy to see it, once you had the map so that you could make sure. But I never would have thought of it, so I couldn't have looked it up to make sure, because I wouldn't have thought there was anything to look up." "What I'm wondering," said Bessie, "is what Miss Eleanor did to keep them from getting Zara. If you ask me, that's the really clever thing that's been done to-day. I was dreadfully frightened when I decided that was what they were up to." "Well, your telegram helped," said Dolly. "If it hadn't been for that, they'd have been taken completely by surprise. Just imagine how they would have felt, if they'd looked up when their train stopped at Canton, and had seen Farmer Weeks coming down the aisle." "It would have been dreadful, wouldn't it, Bessie? Do you know, Miss Eleanor wasn't a bit anxious to have us stay behind? She was afraid something would happen, I believe. But it's certainly a good thing that you thought of doing it, and had your way." "I was afraid they'd try to play some sort of a trick, Dolly. That's why I wanted to wait. I couldn't tell what it would be, but I knew that if Jake was there it wouldn't do any harm to watch him and see what he did. I didn't expect to get him on our side, though. Before I talked to him, of course, I was really only guessing, but he told me all he knew about the plan. They hadn't told him everything, but with what I had guessed it was enough." "No one trusts him, you see, Bessie. It's just as I said." "Well, do you know, I shouldn't wonder if that was one reason for his being so untrustworthy, Dolly. Maybe if he finds that we are going to trust him, it will change him, and make him act very differently." "I certainly hope so, Bessie, but I'm afraid of him. I'm afraid that they will find out what we've done, and try to use him to trick us, now that we think he's on our side." "We'll have to look out for that, Dolly, of course. But I don't believe he's as black as he's painted. He must have some good qualities. Perhaps they'll begin to come out now." At Bay City, where they arrived comparatively early in the afternoon, they had a surprise, for Miss Eleanor and all the girls were at the station to meet them, including Zara, who looked nervous and frightened. "Oh, I'm so glad you've come here safely, Bessie," said Eleanor, flinging her arms about Bessie's neck. "Your train came right through, didn't it?" "Yes, and we saw Mr. Holmes and the rest of them on the platform at Canton," said Bessie, laughing. "Did they get aboard your train?" "Did they?" cried Eleanor. "They most certainly did, and when they couldn't find either you or Zara, they were so angry that I was afraid they were going to burst! I don't believe I ever saw men so dreadfully disappointed in my life." "How did you manage to hide Zara?" "That was awfully funny, Bessie. I found some friends of mine were on the train, travelling in a private car. As soon as I got your telegram, I went back to see them. They had a boy with them, who is just about Zara's size. So Zara dressed up in a suit of his clothes, and she was sitting in their car, with him, when they came aboard to look for her." "Did they look in that car?" "Yes. They had a warrant, or something, so they had a right to go everywhere on the train--and they did!" "I should think the people who didn't have anything to do with us must have been furious." "Oh, they were, but it didn't do them any good. They searched through the whole train, but Zara looked so different in boy's clothes that they never even seemed to suspect her at all. She kept perfectly still, you see, and after they had held us up for nearly an hour, we came on." "Oh, how mad they must have been!" "You ought to have seen them! It made us very late getting here, of course, and we missed the train we were to take to Green Cove. But I think we would have waited here, anyhow, until you came. I was very anxious about you, Bessie. What a clever trick that was! If it hadn't been for you, we would have been caught without a chance to do anything at all." "Bessie's made friends with Jake Hoover, too," said Dolly, disgustedly. "Tell Miss Eleanor about that, Bessie." "You did exactly the right thing," said Eleanor, when she had heard the story, much to Dolly's disgust. "I agree with Dolly that we will have to look out for him, just the same, but there is a chance that he may do what he promised. Anyhow, there's a lot to gain and very little to lose." CHAPTER XII PLUM BEACH On the way to Plum Beach, on the little branch line that carried the girls from Bay City to Green Cove, Eleanor was very thoughtful, and Bessie and Dolly were kept busy in telling the other girls of their experiences. They wanted to hear from Zara, too, just how she had escaped. "I don't see how you kept your face straight," said Dolly. "I know I would have burst right out laughing, Zara." "You wouldn't think so if you knew Farmer Weeks," said Zara, making a wry face. "I can tell you I didn't want to laugh, Dolly. Why, he was within a few feet of me, and looking straight at me! I was sure he'd guess that it was I." "He always looks at everyone that way--just as if they owed him money," said Bessie. "Nasty old man! I don't blame you for being nervous, Zara." "Oh, neither do I," said Dolly. "But it was funny to think of his being so near you and having no idea of it. That's what would have made me laugh." "It seems funny enough, now," admitted Zara, with a smile. "But, you see, I was perfectly certain that he did have a very good idea of where I was. I was expecting him to take hold of me any moment, and tell the constable to take me off the train." "I wonder how long this sort of thing is going to keep up," said Margery Burton, angrily. "Until you two girls are twenty-one?" "I hope not," laughed Bessie, and then she went on, more seriously, "I really do think that if Jake Hoover sticks to what he said, and takes our side, Mr. Jamieson is likely to find out something that will give him a chance to settle matters. You see, we've been fighting in the dark so far." "I don't see that we've been fighting at all, yet," said Margery. "They keep on trying to do something, and we manage to keep them from doing it. That's not my idea of a fight. I wish we could do some of the hitting ourselves." "So do I, Margery. And that's just what I think we may be able to do now, if we have Jake on our side. He must know something about what they've been doing. They couldn't keep him from finding out, it seems to me." "But will he tell? That seems to be the question." "Yes, that's it, exactly. Well, if he does, then we'll know why they're doing all this. You see, Mr. Jamieson can't figure on what they're going to do next, or how to beat them at their own game, simply because he doesn't know what their game is. They know just what they want to do, while we haven't any idea, except that they're anxious to have Zara and myself back where Farmer Weeks can do as he likes with us." "Well, it would be fine to be able to beat them, Bessie, but right now I'm more worried about what they will try to do next. This is a pretty lonely place we're going to, and they're so bold that there's no telling what they may try next." "That's so--and they know we're coming here, too. Jake told them that." "They would probably have found it out anyhow," said Dolly. "And there's one thing--he didn't try to warn them that you knew about what they meant to do at Canton, Bessie." "No, he didn't. And he could have done it very easily, too. Oh, I think we can count on Jake now, all right. He's pretty badly frightened, and he's worried about himself. He'll stick to the side that seems the most likely to help him. All I hope is that he will go to see Mr. Jamieson." "Do you think he will?" "Why not? Even if they get hold of him again, I think there will be time enough for him to see Mr. Jamieson first. And I've got an idea that Mr. Jamieson will be able to scare him pretty badly." "All out for Green Cove," called the conductor just then, appearing in the doorway, and there was a rush for the end of the car. "Well, here we are," said Eleanor. "This isn't much of a city, is it?" It was not. Two or three bungalows and seashore cottages were in sight, but most of the traffic for the Green Cove station came from scattered settlements along the coast. It was a region where people liked to live alone, and they were willing to be some distance from the railroad to secure the isolation that appealed to them. A little pier poked its nose out into the waters of the cove, and beside this pier was a gasoline launch, battered and worn, but amply able, as was soon proved, to carry all the girls and their belongings at a single load. "Thought you wasn't coming," said the old sailor who owned the launch, as he helped them to get settled aboard. "We missed the first connecting train and had to wait, Mr. Salters," said Eleanor. "I hope you didn't sell the fish and clams you promised us to someone else?" "No, indeed," said old Salters. "They're waitin' for you at the camp, ma'am, and I fixed up the place, too, all shipshape. The tents is all ready, though why anyone should sleep in such contraptions when they can have a comfortable house is more'n I can guess." "Each to his taste, you know," laughed Eleanor. "I suppose we'll be able to get you to take us out in the launch sometimes while we're here?" "Right, ma'am! As often as you like," he answered. "My old boat here ain't fashionable enough for some of the folk, but she's seaworthy, and she won't get stuck a mile an' a half from nowhere, the way Harry Semmes and that new fangled boat of his done the other day when he had a load of young ladies aboard." He chuckled at the recollection. But while he had been talking he had not been idle, and the _Sally S._, as his launch was called, had been making slow but steady progress until she was outside the cove and headed north. Soon, too, he ran her inside the protecting spot of land of which Dolly had spoken to Bessie, and they were in such smooth water that, even had any of them had any tendency toward seasickness, there would have been no excuse for it. In half an hour he stopped the engine, and cast his anchor overboard. He wore no shoes and stockings, and now, rolling up his trousers, he jumped overboard. "Hand me the dunnage first," he said. "I'll get that ashore, and then I'll take the rest of you, one at a time." "Indeed you won't," laughed Eleanor. "We're not afraid of getting our feet wet. Come on, girls, it's only two feet deep! Roll up your skirts and take off your shoes and stockings, and we'll wade ashore." She set the example, and in a very short time they were all safely ashore, with much laughter at the splashing that was involved. "Mr. Salters could run the _Sally S._ ashore, but it would be a lot of trouble to get her afloat again, and this is the way we always do here. It's lots of fun really," Eleanor explained. Soon they were all ashore, and inspecting the camp which had been laid out in preparation for them. "Real army tents, with regular floors and cots, these are," said Eleanor. "Sleeping on the ground wouldn't be very wise here. And there's no use taking chances. I'm responsible to the mothers and fathers of all you girls, after all, and I'm bound to see that you go home better than when you started, instead of worse." "I think they're fine," said Margery. "Oh, I do love the seashore! How long shall we stay, Miss Eleanor!" "I don't know," said the Guardian, a shade of doubt darkening her eyes. "You know, Margery"--she spoke in a low tone--"that seems to depend partly on things we can't really control. There seems to me to be something really quite desperate about the way Mr. Holmes and his friends are going for Bessie and Zara. "Maybe they will make trouble for us here. It _is_ rather isolated, you know, and I can't help remembering that we're on the coast, and that a few miles away the coast is that of Bessie's state--the state she mustn't be in." "That's so," said Margery, gravely. "You mean that if they managed to get hold of Bessie or Zara, and took them out to sea and then landed them in that state they'd be able to hold them there?" "It worries me, Margery. The trouble is, you see, that once they're in that state, it doesn't matter how they were taken there, but they can be held. If Zara's father gets free, why, he would be able to get her back, I suppose. Mr. Jamieson says so. But there's no one with a better right to Bessie, so far as we know. I'm really more worried about her than about Zara." "We'll all be careful," promised Margery, with fire in her eye. "And I guess they'll have to be pretty smart to find any way of getting her away from us. I'll talk to the girls, and I'll try to be watching myself all the time." "I'm hungry," announced Dolly. "Just as hungry as a bear! Can't we have supper pretty soon, Miss Eleanor!" "Supper?" scoffed Miss Eleanor. "Why, we haven't had our dinner yet! But we'll have that just as soon as it's cooked. I've just been waiting for someone to say they were hungry. Dolly, you're elected cook. Since you're the hungry one, you can cook the dinner." "I certainly will! I'll get it all the sooner that way. May I pick out who's to help me, Miss Eleanor?" "That's the rule. You certainly can." "Then I pick out all the girls," announced Dolly. "Every one of you--and no shirking, mind!" She laughed merrily, and in a moment she had set every girl to some task. Even Margery obeyed her orders cheerfully, for the rule was there, and, even though Dolly had twisted it a bit, it was recognized as a good joke. Moreover, everyone was hungry and wanted the meal to be ready as soon as possible. "There's good water at the top of that path," said Eleanor, pointing to a path that led up a bluff that backed against the tents. "I think maybe we'll build a wooden pipe-line to bring the water right down here, but for to-day we'll have to carry it from the spring there." "Is there driftwood here for a camp fire, do you suppose, the way there was last year, Miss Eleanor?" asked one of the other girls. "I'll never forget the lovely fires we had then!" "There's lots of it, I'm afraid," said Eleanor, gravely. "Why are you 'afraid'?" asked Bessie, wonderingly. "Because all the driftwood, or most of it, comes from wrecked ships, Bessie. This beach looks calm and peaceful now, but in the winter, when the great northeast storms blow, this is a terrible coast, and lots and lots of ships are wrecked. Men are drowned very often, too." "Oh, I never thought of that!" "Still, some of the wood is just lost from lumber schooners that are loaded too heavily," said Eleanor. "And it certainly does make a beautiful fire, all red and green and blue, and oh, all sorts of colors and shades you never even dreamed of! We'll have a ceremonial camp fire while we're here, and it is certainly true that there is no fire half so beautiful as that we get when we use the wood that the sea casts up." "Don't they often find lots of other things beside wood along the coast after a great storm, Miss Eleanor!" "Yes, indeed! There are people who make their living that way. Wreckers, they call them, you know. Of course, it isn't as common to find really valuable things now as it was in the old days." "Why not? I thought more things were carried at sea than ever," said Dolly. "There aren't so many wrecks, Dolly, for one thing. And then, in the old days, before steam, and the great big ships they have now, even the most valuable cargoes were carried in wooden ships that were at the mercy of these great storms." "Oh, and now they send those things in the big ships that are safer, I suppose?" "Yes. You very seldom hear of an Atlantic liner being wrecked, you know. It does happen once in a great while, of course, but they are much more likely to reach the port they sail for than the old wooden ships. In the old days many and many a ship sailed that was never heard of, but you could count the ships that have done that in the last few years on the fingers of one hand." "But there was a frightful wreck not so very long ago, wasn't there? The Titanic?" "Yes. That was the most terrible disaster since men have gone to sea at all. You see, she was so much bigger, and could carry so many more people than the old ships, that, when she did go down, it was naturally much worse. But the wreckers never made any profit out of her. She went down in the middle of the ocean, and no one will ever see her again." "Couldn't divers go down after her?" "No. She was too deep for that. Divers can only go down a certain distance, because, below that, the pressure is too great, and they wouldn't live." "Stop talking and attend to your dinner, Dolly," said Margery, suddenly. "You pretended you were hungry, and now you're so busy talking that you're forgetting about the rest of us. We're hungry, too. Just remember that!" "I can talk and work at the same time," said Dolly. "Is everything ready? Because, if it is, so is dinner. Come on, girls! The clams first. I've cooked it--I'm not going to put it on the table, too." "No, we ought to be glad to get any work out of her at all," laughed Margery, as she carried the steaming, savory clams to the table. "I suppose every time we want her to do some work the rest of the time we're here, she'll tell us about this dinner." "I won't have to," boasted Dolly. "You'll all remember it. All I'm afraid of is that you won't be satisfied with the way anyone else cooks after this. I've let myself out this time!" It _was_ a good dinner--a better dinner than anyone had thought Dolly could cook. But, despite her jesting ways, Dolly was a close observer, and she had not watched Margery, a real genius in the art of cooking, in vain. Everyone enjoyed it, and, when they had eaten all they could, Dolly lay back in the sand with Bessie. "Well, wasn't I right? Don't you love this place?" she asked. "I certainly think I do," said Bessie. "It's so peaceful and quiet. I didn't believe any place could be as calm as the mountains, but I really think this is." "I love to hear the surf outside, too," said Dolly. "It's as if it were singing a lullaby. I think the surf, and the sighing of the wind in the trees is the best music there is." "Those noises were the real beginning of music, Dolly," said Eleanor. "Did you know that? The very first music that was ever written was an attempt to imitate those songs of nature." After the dishes were washed and put away, everyone sat on the beach, watching the sky darken. First one star and then another came out, and the scene was one of idyllic beauty. And then, as if to complete it, a yacht appeared, small, but beautiful and graceful, steaming toward them. Its sides were lighted, and from its deck came the music of a violin, beautifully played. "Oh, how lovely that is!" said Eleanor. "Why, look! I do believe it is going to anchor!" And, sure enough, the noise of the anchor chains came over the water. CHAPTER XIII THE MYSTERIOUS YACHT But, beautiful as the yacht undoubtedly was, the sight of it and the sound of the slipping anchor chains brought a look of perplexity and even of distress to Eleanor's eyes. "That's very curious," she said, thoughtfully. "There are no cottages or bungalows near here. Those people can't be coming here just for a visit, or they would take another anchorage. And it's a strange thing for them to choose this cove if they are just cruising along the coast." "There weren't any yachts here last year when we were camping," said Margery. "But it is a lovely spot, and it's public land along here, isn't it?" "No, not exactly. It won't be used for a long time, I expect, but it has an owner. An old gentleman in Bay City owns all the shore front along here for half a mile, and he has been holding on to it with the idea that it would get more valuable as time went on. Probably it will, too." "Well, he lets people come here to camp, doesn't he?" "Oh, yes. He's glad to have people here, I think, because he thinks that if they see how lovely it is, they will want to buy the land. I suppose perhaps these people on the yacht have permission from him to come here, just as we have. But I do wish they had waited until we had gone, or else that they had come and gone before we got here at all." "Perhaps they will just stay for the night," said Margery. "I should think that a small boat like that would be very likely to put in overnight, and do its sailing in the daytime. Probably the people on board of her aren't in a hurry, and like to take things easily." "Well, we won't find out anything about her to-night, I imagine," said Eleanor. "In the morning we'll probably learn what their plans are, and then it will be time to make any changes that are necessary in our own arrangements." "Do you mean you wouldn't stay here if they did, Miss Eleanor?" "I won't say that, Margery. We don't know who they are yet. They may be very nice people--there's no way of telling to-night. But if they turn out to be undesirable, we can move quite easily, I think. There are plenty of other beaches nearby where we'll be just as comfortable as we are here." "Oh, but I don't believe any of them are as beautiful as this one, Miss Eleanor." "Neither do I, Margery. Still, we can't always pick and choose the things we do, or always do what pleases us best." On the yacht everything seemed to be quiet. When the anchor had gone down, the violin playing ceased, and, though the girls strained their ears to listen, there was no sound of conversation, such as might reasonably have been expected to come across the quiet water. Still there was nothing strange about that. It might well be that everyone on board was below, eating supper, and in that case voices would probably not come to them. "I'd like to own that yacht," said Dolly, gazing at her enviously. "What a lot of fun you could have with her, Bessie! Think of all the places one could see. And you wouldn't have to leave a place until you got ready. Steamers leave port just as railroad trains pull out of a station, and you may have to go away when you haven't half finished seeing all the things you want to look at." "Maybe they'll send a boat ashore soon," said Margery, hopefully. "I certainly would like to see the sort of people who are on board." "So would I," said Eleanor, but with a different and a more anxious meaning in her tone. "I wish that man with the violin would start playing again," said Dolly. "I love to hear him, and it seems to me it's especially beautiful when the sound comes to you over the water that way." "Music always sounds best over the water," said Eleanor. "He does play well. I've been to concerts, and heard famous violin players who didn't play a bit better--or as well, some of them." And just at that moment the music came to them again, wailing, mournful, as if the strings of the violin were sobbing under the touch of the bow, held in the fingers of a real master. The music blended with the night, and the listening girls seemed to lose all desire to talk, so completely did they fall under the spell of the player. But after a little while a harsh voice on the deck of the yacht interrupted the musician. They could not distinguish the words, but the speaker was evidently annoyed by the music, for it stopped, and then, for a few minutes, there was an argument in which the voices of two men rose shrilly. "Well, I guess the concert is over," said Dolly, getting up. "Who wants a drink? I'm thirsty." "So am I!" came in chorus from half a dozen of those who were sitting on the sands. "Serve you right if you all had to go after your own water," said Dolly. "But I'm feeling nice to-night. I guess it's the music. Come on, Bessie--feel like taking a little walk with me?" "I don't mind," said Bessie, rising, and stretching her arms luxuriously. "Where are you going?" "Up the bluff first, to get a pail of water from that spring. After that--well, we'll see." "Just like Jack and Jill," said Bessie, as they trudged up the path, carrying a pail between them. "I hope we won't be like them and fall down," said Dolly. "I suppose I'd be Jack--and I don't want to break my crown." "It's an easy path. I guess we're safe enough," said Bessie. "It really hardly seems worth while to fix up that pipe-line Miss Eleanor spoke about." "Oh, you'll find it's worth while, Bessie. The salt air makes everyone terribly thirsty, and after you've climbed this path a few times it won't seem so easy to be running up and down all the time. There are so many other things to do here that it's a pity to waste time doing the same thing over and over again when you don't really need to." "I suppose that's so, too. It's always foolish to do work that you don't need to do--I mean that can be done in some easier way. If your time's worth anything at all, you can find some better use for it." "That's what I say! It would be foolish and wasteful to set a hundred men to digging when one steam shovel will do the work better and quicker than they can. And it's the same way with this water here. If we can put up a pipe in about an hour that will save two or three hours of chasing every day, whenever water is needed, it must be sensible to do it." They got the water down without any mishap, however, and it was eagerly welcomed. "It's good water," said Margery. "But not as good as the water at Long Lake and in the mountains." "That's the best water in the world, Margery," said Eleanor. "This is cold, though, and it's perfectly healthy. And, after all, that is as much as we can expect. Are you and Bessie going for a walk, Dolly?" "We thought we would, if you don't mind." "I don't mind, of course. But don't go very far. Stay near enough so that you can hear if we call, or for us to hear you if you should happen to call to us." Dolly looked startled. "Why, should we want to call you?" she asked. "No reason that I can think of now, Dolly. But--well, I suppose I'm nervous. The way they tried to get hold of Bessie and Zara at Canton to-day makes me feel that we've got to be very careful. And there is no use taking unnecessary chances." "All right," said Dolly, with a laugh. "But I guess we're safe enough to-night, anyhow. They haven't had time to find out yet how Bessie fooled them. My, but they'll be mad when they do find out what happened!" "They certainly will," laughed Margery. "I wouldn't want to be in Jake Hoover's shoes." "I hope nothing will happen to him," said Eleanor, anxiously. "It would be a great pity for him to get into trouble now." "I think he deserves to get into some sort of trouble," said Dolly, stoutly. "He's made enough for other people." "That's true enough, Dolly. But it wouldn't do us any good if he got into trouble now, you know." "No, but it might do him some good--the brute! You haven't seen him when he was cutting up, the way I have, Miss Eleanor." "No, and I'm glad I didn't. But you say it might do him some good. That's just what I think it would not do. He has just made up his mind to be better, and suppose he sees that, as a reward, he gets himself into trouble. What is he likely to do, do you think?" "That's so," said Margery. "You're going off without thinking again, Dolly, as usual. He'd cut loose altogether, and think there wasn't any sort of use in being decent." "Well, I haven't much faith in his having reformed," said Dolly. "It may be that he has, but it seems too good to be true to me. I bet you'll find that he'll be on their side, after all, and that he'll just spend his time thinking up some excuse for having put them on the wrong track to-day." "I think that's likely to keep him pretty busy, Dolly," said Eleanor, dryly. "And that's one reason I really am inclined to believe that he'll change sides, and go to Charlie Jamieson, as Bessie advised him to do." "Well, if he does, it won't be because he's sorry, but because he's afraid," said Dolly. "If he can be of any use to us, why, I hope he's all right. I don't like him, and I never will like him, and there isn't any use in pretending about it!" Everyone laughed at that. "You're quite right, Dolly," said Margery. "When you dislike a person anyone who can see you or hear you knows about it. I'll say that for you--you don't pretend to be friends with people when you really hate them." "Why should I? Come on, Bessie, if we're going for a walk. If we stay here much longer Margery'll get so dry from talking that we'll have to go and get her some more water." "Let's go up the path and get on the bluff again," said Bessie. "I like it up there, because you seem to be able to see further out to sea than you can here." "All right. I don't care where we go, anyhow, and it is more interesting up there than on the beach, I think." The night was a beautiful one, and walking was really delightful. Below them the beach stretched, white and smooth, as far as the cove itself. At each end of the cove the bluff on which they were walking curved and turned toward the sea, stretching out to form two points of land that enclosed the cove. "They say this would be a perfect harbor if there was a bigger channel dredged in," said Dolly. "Of course it's very small, but I guess it was used in the old days. There are all sorts of stories about buried treasure being hidden around here." "Do you believe those stories, Dolly?" "Not I! If there was any treasure around here it would have been found ever so long ago. They're just stories. I guess those pirates spent most of the money they stole, and I guess they didn't get half as much as people like to pretend, anyhow." "It would be fun to find something like that, though, Dolly." "Well, Bessie King, you're the last person I would ever have expected even to think of anything so silly! You'd better get any nonsense of that sort out of your head right away. There's nothing in those old stories." "I suppose not," said Bessie, and sighed. "But in a place like this it doesn't seem half so hard to believe that it's possible, somehow. It looks like just the sort of place for romance and adventure. But--oh, well, I guess I'm just moonstruck. Dolly, look at that!" Her eyes had wandered suddenly toward the yacht, and now, from their higher elevation, they were able to see a small boat drawing away from her, on the seaward side, and so out of sight of the girls on the beach. "That's funny," said Dolly, puzzled. "I should think that if they were going to send a boat ashore she'd come straight in." "Let's watch and see what happens, Dolly." "You bet we will! I wouldn't go now until I knew what they were up to for anything!" "It's going straight out to sea, Dolly, and it's keeping so that the yacht is between it and the shore. It does look as if they didn't want to be seen, doesn't it!" "It certainly does! Look, there it goes through the little gap in the bar! See? Now it will be hidden from the people on shore--and it's going toward West Point, too. See, I'll bet they're going to make a landing there!" They hurried along the bluff, and in a few minutes they saw the boat graze the beach at the end of West Point. Three men jumped out and hauled the little craft up on the shore, and then they began to move inland, toward Bessie and Dolly. "We'd better work back toward the camp," said Dolly, excitedly. "It wouldn't do to have them see us--not until we know more about them." "I wonder if they'll come back this way, toward the camp? And why do you suppose they're acting that way? It seems very funny to me." "It does to me, too. I'm beginning to think Miss Eleanor had a good reason for being nervous, Bessie. I don't believe that yacht is here for any good purpose." "It's a good thing we came up this way, isn't it?" "It certainly is, if we can manage to find out something about them. I say, do you remember where the spring is? Well, right by it there's a mound, with a whole lot of bushes. I believe we could hide there, and be waiting as they come along." "Let's try it, anyhow. Maybe there's something we ought to know." They found it easy to hide themselves, and when, a few minutes later, the three men came along, they were secure from observation. "Do you think it's Mr. Holmes?" whispered Bessie, voicing the thought both of them had had. "It's just as likely as not! It's the sneaky way he would act," said Dolly, viciously. "They're pretty careful about the way they walk--see?" But then the men came into the range of their eyes, and the sigh of disappointment that rose from them was explained by Dolly's disgusted, "It's not Mr. Holmes, or anyone else I ever saw before." The men came nearer, and seemed to be looking down at the camp. "They're the ones! That's the outfit, all right," said one of them. "Well, it's easy to keep an eye on them." CHAPTER XIV A NIGHT ALARM Bessie and Dolly looked at one another. Holmes wasn't there, but who but Holmes or someone working for him could have any such sinister interest in keeping an eye on the camp as was implied by that sly remark? Evidently luck had favored them once more, and they had stumbled again on early evidence of another coming attack. But they took little time--could take little time, indeed--to think of the meaning of what they had heard. It was too important for them to find out as much as possible from these men. They dared not speak to one another; the men were so close that they were almost afraid that the sound of their own breathing would betray them. And, dark as it was, they could see that these were men of a type who would stop at little if they felt they were in danger of failure. They were big, burly, ugly-looking men, rough in speech and manner, and, though they masked their movements, and went about their business, whatever it might be, as quietly as possible, their quietness was furtive and assumed and by no means natural to them. "They won't run away to-night, Jeff," grumbled one of the men. "You ain't a-goin' to stay here and watch them, are you?" "No, I'm not--but you are," growled the one addressed as Jeff. "See here, my buck, the boss don't want any slip-up on this job--see? He's been stung once too often. I'm goin' back to the boat, but you and Tim will stay here till daylight--right here, mind you!" "Aw, shucks, that's a fine job to give us!" growled Tim. "Larry's got the right dope, Jeff. They won't run away to-night." "Listen here--who's giving orders here? What I say goes--do you get that? If you don't, I'll find a way to make you, and pretty quick, too. I don't want none of your lip, Tim." "What's the game, Jeff?" asked the man Larry, in milder tones. "We'll do as you say, all right, all right, but can't you tell a guy what's doin'?" "I don't know myself, boys, and that's a fact," said Jeff, seemingly mollified by this submission to his orders. "But the boss wants them two gals--and what he wants he gits, sooner or later." "Guess he does!" laughed Tim. "You said something that time, Jeff!" "There's money in it, I know that," Jeff went on. "Big money--though I'm blowed if I see where! But we'll get our share if we do our part." "I can use any that comes my way, all right," said Larry, with a smothered laugh. "Always broke--that's what I am!" "How about the morning, Jeff?" asked Tim. "We can't stay here when it gets to be light. They'd spot us in a minute." "Won't be any need then, Tim. We can keep an eye on them from the yacht. And the boss is apt to turn up here himself most any time." "Why not pull it off to-night, Jeff?" asked Larry. "It's a good chance, I'd say." "Ain't got my orders yet, Larry. As soon as the boss turns up there'll be plenty doing. Keep an eye out for a red light from the deck. That'll be a sign to watch out for anything that comes along. We may show it--we may not. But if we do, be lively." "All right," growled Tim. "But let's quit this nursemaid job as soon as we can, Jeff. We're good pals of yours--and this ain't no game for a grown man, you know that." "'Twon't be so bad," said Jeff, comfortingly. "Nights ain't so long--and you can take turns sleeping. It's all right as long as one of you stays awake." "So long, Jeff," said both the men who were to stay behind, then, in unison. "Good-night," answered Jeff. "I'll have a boat at the point for you at daylight. Good luck!" And he went off, quietly, walking easily, so that the noise of his footsteps would not reach those on the beach below. From the beach the voices of the girls rose faintly. Words could not be distinguished, but Bessie and Dolly could both guess that their prolonged absence must be beginning to give Miss Eleanor and the others some uneasiness. They were trapped, however, although they were in no real danger. The men who had been left on guard were between them and the path; they could not possibly pass them without arousing them, and they did not care to take the chance of making a wild dash for freedom unless it became absolutely necessary. Bessie weighed the chances. It seemed likely to her that she and Dolly, taking the two men by surprise, could slip by them and reach the beach safely. But if they did that, the men would know that their plans were known, and that their talk had been overheard, and that would be to throw away half of the advantage they had gained. It would be better a thousand times, Bessie felt, to wait, and take the faint chance that both men might go to sleep together, and so give them the chance to escape unseen. For some minutes the silence was unbroken save for the faint murmur of the voices from the beach. Then Larry spoke to his companion. "Say, Tim, don't think much of this game, do you?" he said. "Sure don't!" grunted Tim. "Just like Jeff, though. Takes the easy lay himself and don't care what he puts up to us." "Got any money?" "About five dollars. Why? Want to borrow it? Just as soon you had it as me! Can't spend it here, anyhow." "No. Wouldn't do me any good. Got lots of my own out on the yacht." "Wish there was a place near here where I could get a drink. Seems like I was choking to death." "Lots of water right by you," said Larry, with a hoarse laugh. "Help yourself--it's free!" "Water--pah!" snorted Tim. "That's not what I want, and you know it, Larry." "Say, come to think of it, there's an elegant little roadhouse a ways back in the country here, Tim. About half an hour there and back, I judge." Tim grunted uneasily. "Think it's safe?" he queried. "If Jeff got on to us----" "Shucks! What could he do? We ain't his hired hands." "The boss, though--suppose Jeff told him?" "He wouldn't, and how's he goin' to find out, anyhow? Nothin's goin' to happen to-night, you can bet on that. Come on, be a sport, Tim! We've got as much on Jeff as he's got on us, if it comes down to that, ain't we?" "I dunno. I'm kind of leery, when he told us to stick, Larry." "I thought you had more nerve, Tim. Didn't ever think you'd stand for no game like this. But, if you're afraid--" "Come on!" said Tim, angrily. "I'll show you if I'm afraid! I guess it's safe enough." "That's more like my old pal Tim. I knew you had nerve enough. Let's be movin'. The sooner we go, the sooner we'll be back. And we'll show who's afraid--eh, old sport?" "That's the stuff, Larry! Guess there ain't no one big enough to tell us what to do." And, with linked arms, they moved off. Bessie and Dolly, hardly able to believe in the good luck that left the way to the beach clear, held their breath for a moment. Then Bessie, seeing that Dolly was about to rise, whispered to her. "Not yet, Dolly," she said, tensely. "Wait till we're sure they can't see us. No use taking chances now." "All right, Bessie, but what luck! I was afraid we'd have to stay here until daylight, and I was wondering what Miss Eleanor and the girls would think!" "So was I. I'm afraid they're worried about us already. But it wasn't our fault, and it really is a good thing we heard them, isn't it? The 'boss' they're talking about must be Mr. Holmes, don't you think!" "I don't see who else it could possibly be. Come on, Bessie. I think it's time now, they're out of sight." Slowly and carefully, to take into account the off chance that Jeff, the other man, might have come back to see if his sentinels were faithful, they slipped across the path and made their way down. And at the bottom, as they reached the beach, Eleanor Mercer spied them, with a glad cry. "Oh, whatever kept you so long?" she exclaimed. "How glad I am to see you back safely! We couldn't imagine what on earth was keeping you." "You shouldn't have stayed so long," said Margery Burton. "We were just going to start out to look for you." "You wouldn't have had very far to go. We've been right at the top of the path for three-quarters of an hour," said Dolly, excitedly. "It wasn't our fault, really! We couldn't get here any sooner," said Bessie. "You see--" And, quietly, being less excited and hysterical than Dolly, she explained what they had discovered, and the trap in which they had allowed themselves to be caught. "We thought it was better to wait there than to let them know we had heard them," she ended. "You see, they think now that we haven't any suspicions at all, and that we'll be off our guard. Don't you suppose Mr. Holmes must be coming on board that yacht, Miss Eleanor?" "I certainly do," said Eleanor, her lips firmly set, and an angry gleam in her eyes. "You did exactly the right thing. It was better for us to be worried for a few minutes than to take any chance of spoiling all you'd found out." "What do you suppose they'll try to do now?" wondered Margery. "Oh, I'd like to find some way to beat them, so that they'd have to stop this altogether." "They'll go too far, some time," said Eleanor, indignantly. "Mr. Holmes seems to forget there is such a thing as the law, but if he doesn't look out he'll find that all his money won't save him from it. And I think the time is coming very soon. My father has some money, too, and I'm pretty sure he'll spend as much as he needs to to beat these criminals." "Can't we go away from here to-night, Miss Eleanor?" asked Dolly. "They said we'd never do that, and it might fool them." Everyone looked at Dolly in astonishment. It was a strange proposition to come from her, since she usually was the one who wanted to fight if there seemed to be any possibility of success. Now, however, she looked nervous. "I don't see how we can, Dolly," said Eleanor. "And, really, I don't believe there's any danger here. Mr. Holmes isn't on the yacht, and these men won't do anything until he is there to direct them. I shall telegraph to Mr. Jamieson in the morning, and he will probably come here. He can reach here by noon, and I think we will be all right here until then." Dolly said nothing more to her, but when she was alone with Bessie she expressed herself more freely. "I'm afraid of those men," she said, with a shiver. "I think they're far more dangerous than the gypsies were. Didn't you think, from the way they talked, that they would do anything if they thought they would get well paid for it?" "Yes, but we're warned, Dolly. It isn't as if we didn't have any idea, as they believe, that there is danger here. So I don't think we need to be afraid." On the beach, between the sea and the tents, the blaze of the camp fire flickered in the darkness, casting an uneven light on the beach. On the yacht all was still and peaceful. One by one her lights had gone out, until only the anchor lights, which she was required by law to show, remained. "They've gone to sleep on board the yacht," whispered Bessie. "That looks as if they didn't mean to do anything to-night, doesn't it, Dolly?" "I suppose so, Bessie. But I'm not satisfied." Neither, wholly, in spite of her reassuring words, was Eleanor. Had there been any way of moving from the camp that night, she would probably have taken it. But there seemed to be nothing for it but to wait there until morning, at least. "We'll stay here," she said, as good-nights were being exchanged, "but we'll set a guard for the night. Margery, I wish you and Mary King would take the first watch. You'll be relieved at one o'clock. You're not too tired, are you?" "No, indeed," said both girls. "I think I ought to take the watch. This is partly on my account," said Bessie. "Sleep first, and perhaps you can take the second spell, with Dolly," said Eleanor. "You've had a harder day than the rest of us, and you must be tired now." Bessie and Dolly were, indeed, very tired. The fact that the camp was not to be left unguarded while they slept seemed to reassure Dolly, and she and Bessie were soon sound asleep. Only the noise of the light surf disturbed the intense stillness, and that had a soothing, musical quality that made it far from a disturbance to those who slept. But that peace was to be rudely shattered before the first watch was over. It was just after midnight when a wild tumult aroused the camp, and Bessie and Dolly, springing to their feet, saw that the beach was as light as day--and that the light did not come from the camp fire. Confused and sleepy as they were, they saw the cause in a moment--the big living tent, in which meals were to be eaten in case of rainy weather, was all ablaze, and the wind that had sprung up during the night was blowing the sparks to the other tents, which caught fire as the girls, frightened and almost panic stricken, rushed out. For a moment there was no concerted effort, but then Eleanor took command of the situation, and in a moment a line had been formed, and pails full of water from the sea were being handed from one girl to another. The yacht had sprung into life at the first sign of the fire, and now, as the girls worked, they heard the sound of oars, as boats were hurriedly pushed ashore. In a minute a dozen men had joined them in their fight against the fire, and, thanks to this unexpected aid, one or two of the tents, which had been furthest from the one in which the blaze had started, were saved. The men from the yacht worked heroically, but their presence and their shouts created a new confusion. And in the midst of it Bessie, a pail of water in her hand, saw a man seize Zara and carry her, struggling, toward a boat. She was just about to cry out when a hand covered her mouth, and the next instant she was lifted in strong arms, carried to the boat, and pushed in. Then two men sprang aboard, and one held the girls, while the other pulled quickly toward the yacht. They were prisoners! CHAPTER XV DOLLY RANSOM MAKES GOOD "Keep still, and you won't be hurt!" commanded the man who held them. Bessie had no choice in the matter for his hand covered her mouth, and, even had she wished to do so, she could not have cried out. In a moment, too, looking toward Zara, she saw that she had fainted, and her own predicament was made worse than ever, since the ruffian who held her could now devote all his attention to her. So, utterly helpless, and almost ready to despair, Bessie had to submit to being carried up the little companion ladder that ran to the yacht's deck. As soon as she was on deck a handkerchief was slipped over her eyes, and, though she could hear the low murmur of voices, and was almost sure that one was that of Mr. Holmes, her arch enemy, she could not be positive. Her one hope now was that Dolly or some one of the others on the beach would have seen her abduction. But, even if they had, what could they do? "Suppose they did see," poor Bessie thought to herself; "they couldn't do anything. It would take a lot of strong men to come on board this yacht and get us off, and the girls wouldn't be able to do anything at all." She was not left long on the yacht's deck. Almost at once she was carried below, and in a few minutes she found herself in a cabin, where the handkerchief was taken from her eyes. The cabin was a pretty one, but Bessie was in no mood to appreciate that. She hated the sight of its luxury; all she wanted was to be back with the girls on the beach, no matter how great the discomfort after the fire might be. Zara, who had not yet revived, was brought down after her and laid on a sofa. Then she and Bessie were left alone with the big man who had carried Bessie from the beach. She thought that he was Jeff, the man who had left the two faithless sentinels to watch the path from the cliff. And she noticed, to her surprise, that, though his speech and manners were rough, there was a look about him that was not unkindly. "Now, see here, sis," he said, gently enough, "we don't aim to treat you badly here. You've run away from home, and that's not right. We're going to see that you get back to them as has the best right to look after you, but we don't want you to be uncomfortable." "How can I help it?" asked Bessie, indignantly. "Just you behave yourself and keep quiet, and you'll be all right," said Jeff. Bessie was sure of his identity now. "You'll have this pretty room here to yourselves, and you'll have lots to eat. It'll be better food than you got with that pack of chattering girls, too. We'll up anchor and be off pretty soon, and then you can come up on deck and have a good time. But as long as we're here, why, you'll have to stay below." Bessie got her first gleam of hope from that speech. If they stayed in Green Cove a little while, there was always the chance that something might happen. "You see, sis," said Jeff, with a grin, "after a while your folks there will find you're missing, and, like enough, they'll suspicion that we done it; took you off, I mean. 'Twouldn't make no great difference if they did know it," Jeff went on. "But the boss thinks it's just as well if we throw them off a bit--guess he wants to have some fun with them." "Who is your 'boss'?" asked Bessie, quickly. "I should think you would be ashamed of yourself, treating girls who can't fight back this way! Do you call yourself a man?" "Easy there, sis!" said Jeff, with a roar of laughter. "You can't make me mad. Orders is orders, you know, and you did wrong when you run away like you did. And I ain't tellin' you who the boss is. What you don't know won't hurt you--and that goes for your friends, too." He left them alone then, and a faint hope was left behind him. Now that she had the chance, Bessie turned her attention to Zara. There was water in the cabin, and in a few minutes she had revived her chum, and was able to tell her what had happened. Poor Zara seemed to be completely overcome. "Oh, Bessie, we haven't got a chance this time!" she said. "I'll have to go back and work for Farmer Weeks, and you--will they make you go back to Maw Hoover?" "Never say die, Zara! As long as the yacht stays in the cove there is a chance that we'll be rescued. That man didn't know it, but he'll never be able to make Miss Eleanor believe we're not on this yacht. Listen--what's that?" There was a sound of hasty footsteps outside, and Jeff came in hurriedly. He slipped back a panel at one side of the cabin, and revealed a little closet. "In there with you--both of you!" he said. "And I'm sorry, but you'll have to be quiet, and there's only one way." In a trice their hands and feet were bound, and handkerchiefs were stuffed into their mouths. Then they were pushed into the closet and the panel was slipped back into place. They were helpless. Unable to speak, or to beat hands or feet against the thin wood, there was no way in which they could make their presence known. And in a moment they knew the reason for this precaution. For, through the wood of the panel, wafer thin, they heard Miss Eleanor's voice. "You can't deceive me, sir!" they heard her say. "Those girls must be on this yacht, and I warn you that you had better give them up. Kidnapping is a serious offence in this state." "You can see for yourself they're not here, ma'am," said Jeff. "And I don't take this kindly at all, ma'am. Why, when I saw the fire in your camp, I went ashore with my men to try to help you--and now you make this charge against us." "I certainly do!" said Eleanor, with spirit. "I am quite sure that this is the only place where my girls can be, and I mean to have them back. As to the fire, you helped us, it is true. But I am as certain as I can be of anything that you had something to do with starting it before you tried to put it out!" "There's no use talking to you, ma'am, and I won't try it," said Jeff. "If you're crazy enough to believe anything like that, I could talk all day and you'd still believe it. Here's the yacht--you're welcome to go over her and see for yourself. You won't find the girls, because they're not aboard. That's a good reason, I guess." "Then let me see Mr. Holmes." "There you go again, ma'am! Didn't I tell you on deck that there's no such party aboard, and that I never even heard of him? If you're satisfied now, we'll be glad to have you go ashore, because I want to sail. I've got business down the coast." "I shall not go ashore until I have found my girls," said Eleanor. There were tears of baffled anger in her voice, and Bessie thrilled with indignant sympathy at the idea that she was within a few feet of her best friend without being able to let her know that she was there. "Then you'll be put ashore--gently, but firmly, as the books say," said Jeff. "You're dead right, ma'am, kidnappin' is a bad sort of business in this state, and I don't aim to give you a chance to say we carried you off with us against your will. Sail we will--and you'll stay behind. This is my boat, and I've got a right to put off anyone that is trespassin'." "You brute!" gasped Eleanor. "Don't you dare to touch me!" "Will you go of your own accord, then?" "I suppose I must," gasped Eleanor tearfully. "But you shall pay for this, you scoundrel! You're tricking me in some fashion, but you can't deceive me, and you can't keep the truth quiet forever." Then there was the sound of retreating footsteps, and a few minutes later Bessie and Zara were released by Jeff, who was grinning as if it had been a great joke. "Well, sis, we're off now!" he said. "Come on! I don't want to be hard on you. Come out here in the passageway, and you can have a look at the shore as we go off." He led them to the stern, and to the little cabin, in which was a porthole. Looking out, Bessie saw the beach indistinctly. The ruined tents were there, and several of the girls, in bathing suits. And, swimming slowly to the shore she saw a girl in a red cap, which, as she knew, belonged to Dolly. How she longed to be able to call to her! But Jeff was at her side, and she knew that the attempt would be useless, since he was watching her as if he had been a cat and she a mouse. A bell clanged somewhere below them, and the next moment there was a rumbling sound as the machinery was started. At the same moment there came the grinding of the anchor chains as they were raised. But the yacht did not move! Even after the anchor was up there was no movement except the throbbing of the whole vessel as the engines raced in the hold! Jeff's face grew black, and he turned toward the passage with a scowl. "What's wrong here?" he shouted, going to the door. At the same moment, seizing her brief chance, Bessie gave a wild scream, and saw, to her delight, that those on shore had heard it. In a moment she was pulled roughly from the porthole, and Jeff, his face savage and all the kindness gone out of it, scowled down at her. "Keep quiet, you little vixen!" he shouted. "Here, come with me!" At the foot of some steps that led up to the deck he left the two girls in the care of Larry, one of the two men she had seen the night before. "Keep them quiet," he commanded, as he sprang up the steps. "What's wrong, Larry; do you know?" "Something the matter with the propeller. Can't tell what," said Larry. And above, on the deck, there was a wild rushing about now. Orders were shouted to the engineers below; hoarse answers came back. The engines were stopped and started again. But still the yacht did not move. A grimy engineer came up and stood beside her. "Propeller's fouled," he said to Jeff. "We'll have to send a man overboard to clear it." "How long will that take?" roared Jeff. "Maybe an hour--if we're lucky." "You're a fine engineer, not to have the boat ready to start!" screamed Jeff, mad with rage. "You'll lose your berth for this!" "Guess I can get another," replied the engineer calmly. "It's been done on purpose and it's the business of the deck watch to keep the stern clear, not mine." With frantic haste a man was sent overboard. He dived and found the propeller. Bessie heard his report. The screw was twisted around with rope--knotted and tied so that, even with a knife he would have to make many descents to clear it. Without a diving suit it was impossible for the man to stay under water more than half a minute at a time, and, as it turned out, he was the only man on board who could dive at all. Jeff raged in vain. The work of clearing the propeller could not be hastened for all his bellowing, and the precious minutes slipped by while the diver worked. Each time that he came up for rest and air he reported a little more progress, but each time, too, as he grew tired, his period of rest was lengthened, while his time below the water was cut shorter. And then, when he had reported that two more trips would mend the trouble, there was a sudden bumping of boats against the yacht, on the shoreward side, which had been left without watchers, it seemed, and there was a rush of feet overhead. Bessie cried out in joy, and the next instant a dozen men tumbled down the steps and overpowered Larry. "Are you Bessie King?" asked their leader. "I've got a search warrant empowering me to search this yacht for you and one Zara Doe and take you ashore." "We're the ones! Take us!" pleaded Bessie. And, sobbing with joy, she went up the steps to the deck. There Jeff, furious but powerless in the grip of two men, watched her go over the side and into a small boat in which sat Eleanor, who threw her arms joyously about the recovered captives. Dolly was there, too, and she kissed and hugged Bessie as soon as Eleanor was done. "The men got here in time from Bay City," said Eleanor. "Thank Heaven! A few minutes more, and they would have been too late. I telephoned as soon as I could, and I knew the district attorney there was a friend of Charlie Jamieson. He came at once with his men." "The propeller was fouled. That's why they couldn't get away," said Bessie. "Wasn't that lucky?" Dolly snorted. "Luck nothing!" she said, perkily. "I swam out with a rope, and they never saw me! I was there, diving up and down, for half an hour. I thought they'd have a lovely time getting it clear when the knots I made had swollen up!" "Yes, it was Dolly who saved the day," said Eleanor. "Shall we row you ashore, ma'am, or do you want to see the rest of the fun on board?" asked one of the oarsmen. "Take us ashore, please. I'll hear all about it later," said Eleanor. And in five minutes the Camp Fire Girls were reunited. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- THE BILLY WHISKERS SERIES As Originated by FRANCES TREGO MONTGOMERY Mrs. Montgomery has the happy faculty of knowing just what the small boy and his sister like in stories, and the added ability of giving it to them. Her ideas are touched with the sparkle of real genius and little folks find it a delight to travel in her company. These adventures of a frolicsome goat never fail to please. TWENTY-FIVE VOLUMES BILLY WHISKERS BILLY WHISKERS' KIDS BILLY WHISKERS, JUNIOR BILLY WHISKERS' TRAVELS BILLY WHISKERS AT THE CIRCUS BILLY WHISKERS AT THE FAIR BILLY WHISKERS' FRIENDS BILLY WHISKERS, JR., AND HIS CHUMS BILLY WHISKERS' GRAND-CHILDREN BILLY WHISKERS' VACATION BILLY WHISKERS KIDNAPPED BILLY WHISKERS' TWINS BILLY WHISKERS IN AN AEROPLANE BILLY WHISKERS IN TOWN BILLY WHISKERS OUT WEST BILLY WHISKERS IN THE SOUTH BILLY WHISKERS' ADVENTURES BILLY WHISKERS IN THE MOVIES BILLY WHISKERS OUT FOR FUN BILLY WHISKERS' FROLICS BILLY WHISKERS AT HOME BILLY WHISKERS' PRANKS BILLY WHISKERS IN MISCHIEF BILLY WHISKERS AND THE RADIO BILLY WHISKERS' TREASURE HUNT Quarto, six full color illustrations and many black-and-white drawings, bound in cloth, colored jacket. Price, $1.25 each. THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY AKRON, OHIO ----------------------------------------------------------------------- EVERY CHILD'S LIBRARY No child has come into his full and rightful heritage in the world of books until he has read the stories comprising Every Child's Library HEIDI--Spyri TREASURE ISLAND--Stevenson EAST O' THE SUN AND WEST O' THE MOON--Dasent HANS BRINKER--Dodge THE SWISS FAMILY ROBINSON--Wyss ROBINSON CRUSOE--Defoe PINOCCHIO--D. Collodi ROBIN HOOD--Gilbert KING ARTHUR FOR BOYS--Gilbert ANIMAL STORIES--P. T. Barnum KIDNAPPED--Stevenson CORNELLI, HER CHILDHOOD--Spyri A CHRISTMAS CAROL--Dickens A DOG OF FLANDERS--Ouida THE CUCKOO CLOCK--Molesworth JIM DAVIS--Masefield AT THE BACK OF THE NORTH WIND--MacDonald THE PRINCESS AND CURDIE--MacDonald THE PRINCESS AND THE GOBLIN--MacDonald BLACK BEAUTY--Sewell MAXA'S CHILDREN--Spyri A LITTLE SWISS BOY--Spyri UNCLE TITUS IN THE COUNTRY--Spyri THE BLACK ARROW--Stevenson THE RED FAIRY BOOK--Lang THE BLUE FAIRY BOOK--Lang GRANNY'S WONDERFUL CHAIR--Browne LITTLE MEN--Alcott AN OLD-FASHIONED GIRL--Alcott Each volume is well illustrated, is bound in cloth and has a jacket in colors. THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING CO. AKRON, OHIO ----------------------------------------------------------------------- JOHN NEWBERY SERIES Early in the 18th century John Newbery was born in a little Berkshire village in England, and became a bookman in the old St. Paul's churchyard. It was he who first believed children needed books of their own, and he set about to supply that need. Many of the old stories, quaint jingles and nursery rhymes we have to-day are due to him. It is therefore peculiarly fitting this series, comprising the best written for childhood, should bear his name. THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN--Robert Browning THE KING OF THE GOLDEN RIVER--John Ruskin MONI, THE GOAT BOY--Johanna Spyri FAIRY TALE GIANTS FAIRY TALE PRINCES FAIRY TALE PRINCESSES A DOG OF FLANDERS--Louisa de la Ramee (Ouida) THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW--Washington Irving RIP VAN WINKLE--Washington Irving THE NURNBERG STOVE--Louisa de la Ramee (Ouida) THE ADVENTURES OF A BROWNIE--Miss Mulock CHILD VERSES--Eugene Field These books are well bound in cloth, are profusely illustrated, have a colored frontispiece and a colored jacket, and contain 92 pages each. THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING CO. AKRON, OHIO 
31748	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 31748-h.htm or 31748-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/31748/31748-h/31748-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/31748/31748-h.zip) PEMROSE LORRY CAMP FIRE GIRL * * * * * By ISABEL HORNIBROOK DRAKE OF TROOP ONE SCOUT DRAKE IN WAR TIME COXSWAIN DRAKE OF THE SEASCOUTS PEMROSE LORRY: CAMP FIRE GIRL * * * * * [Illustration: Not a remote sign of a biplane decorated the sky overhead. Frontispiece. See page 171.] PEMROSE LORRY CAMP FIRE GIRL by ISABEL HORNIBROOK With Illustrations by Nana French Bickford [Illustration] Boston Little, Brown, and Company 1921 Copyright, 1921, By Little, Brown, and Company. All rights reserved Published October, 1921 Norwood Press Set up and electrotyped by J. S. Cushing Co. Norwood, Mass., U. S. A. TO THE MEMORY OF MY MOTHER, VETERAN AUTHOR, WHO FIRST HAD AN ADMIRATION FOR THE WISE WOMAN WHO SAVED THE CITY, THIS STORY IS DEDICATED. PREFACE This, the first story written upon the latest and unique conquest of the age, the conquest of empty Space, with the subsequent reaching out to the Heavenly Bodies, has the permission of the conquering inventor, Professor Robert H. Goddard. May it bring to every Camp Fire in America, and to boys as well, the romance of the transcendent achievement, beside which all dressing of fiction pales! The Author also acknowledges her indebtedness to Professor Frank G. Speck for permission to reprint the music of the Leaf Dance. CONTENTS Chapter Page I. A QUAKER GUN 1 II. GIMCRACK ICE 20 III. THE WRONG SIDE OF HER DREAM 31 IV. THE SECOND WRECK 40 V. SHE SAVED A CITY 49 VI. A HOTSPUR 60 VII. THE PINNACLE 69 VIII. A USURPER 78 IX. JACK AT A PINCH 86 X. CAMP FIRE SISTERS 98 XI. MOTHER EARTH'S ROMANCE 109 XII. OLD ROUND-TOP 124 XIII. COBWEB WEED 134 XIV. STOUTHEART 147 XV. AIRDRAWN AËROPLANES 160 XVI. THE COUNCIL FIRE 174 XVII. A NOVEL SANTA CLAUS 190 XVIII. REPRISALS 207 XIX. A RECORD FLIGHT 229 XX. THE SEARCH 244 XXI. THE MAN KILLER 262 XXII. A JUNE WOMAN 280 XXIII. THE CELESTIAL CLIMAX 296 ILLUSTRATIONS Not a remote sign of a biplane decorated the sky overhead Frontispiece "Oh! de-ar Mammy Moon--what a shock she'll get" PAGE 2 "Keep cool! Don't stir! I'll reach you in a moment!" 86 The man looked up at her, some dash of whimsical fire mastering weakness 268 PEMROSE LORRY CAMP FIRE GIRL CHAPTER I A QUAKER GUN "And will the Thunder Bird really lay its egg upon the moon? Such a hard egg, too! Will it--really--drop a pound weight of steel upon the head of the Man in the Moon?... Oh! de-ar Mammy Moon--what a shock she'll get." The girl, the fifteen-year-old Camp Fire Girl--all but sixteen now--to whom Mammy Moon had been the fairy foster-mother of her childhood, ever since she lay, wakeful, in her little cot, looking up at that silvery face of a burnt-out satellite, picturing it the gate of Heaven and her mother's spirit as bathed in the soft, lunar radiance behind it, caught her breath with a wild little gasp whose triumph was a sob upon the still laboratory air. "Lay its egg in a nest of the moon! A dead nest! It will do more than that, little Pem!" Toandoah, the inventor, turned from fitting a number of tiny sky-rockets into the supply chamber of a larger one,--turned with that living coal of fire in his eye which only the inventor can know, and looked upon his daughter. "Yes, it will do more than that! The Thunder Bird will lay its golden egg for us--if it drops its expiring one upon the moon. It will send us back the first record from space, the very first information as to what it may be that lies up--away up--a couple of hundred miles, or so, above us, in the outer edges of the earth's atmosphere of which less is known at present than of the deepest soundings of the ocean. Our Thunder Bird will be the--first--explorer." [Illustration: "Oh! de-ar Mammy Moon--what a shock she'll get." Page 2.] The man's eyes were dim now. For a moment he saw as in a prism the work of his fingers, those little explosive rockets--the charges of smokeless powder--which being discharged automatically in flight, would send the Thunder Bird upon its magic way, roaring its challenge to the world to listen, switching its rose-red tail of light. Then--then as the mist cleared those deep, glowing eyes of his became to his daughter a magic lantern by which she saw a series of pictures thrown upon the sheeting whitewash of the laboratory wall, culminating in one which was almost too dazzling for mortal girl of fifteen--though born of a great inventor--to bear. "And to think," she cried, rising upon tiptoe, swaying there in the February sunlight, "just to think that it's a Camp Fire Girl--a Camp Fire Girl of America--with the eyes of the world upon her, who will push the button, throw the switch upon a mountain-top, launch the Thunder Bird upon its glor-i-ous way, send off--send off the first earth-valentine to Mammy Moon!... Oh! Toandoah--oh! Daddy-man--it's too much." Pemrose Lorry clasped her hands. Her blue-star eyes, blue at the moment as the tiny blossoms of the meadow star-grass for which some fairy has captured a sky-beam, were suddenly wet. A slim, girlish figure in forest green--last sylvan word in Camp Fire uniforms which she was trying on--she hung there, poised upon an inner pinnacle, while sunbeams racing down the whitewash did obeisance before her, while spectroscope, lathe and delicate balances, brilliant reflectors, offered her a brazen crown. "Well--well, it's coming to you, Pem--you sprite." Her father shot a sidelong glance at the nixie green as he fitted another little rocket into its groove in the larger one's interior, where the touch of a mechanical appliance, like the trigger of a gun, in the Thunder Bird's tail, would ignite it in flight. "You alone, girl as you are, know the full secret of the Thunder Bird, as you romantically call it, the principle on which I am working, child--in so far as you can understand it--in creating this model rocket for experiments and the master sky-rocket, the full-fledged Thunder Bird, later, to soar even to the moon itself--Mars, too, maybe--you alone know and you have kept it dark. You've plugged like a boy at your elementary physics in high school, so's to be _able_ to understand and sympathize--you've lived up to the name I gave you--" "My chowchow name!" interjected the girl, winking slily. "Well! it is a mixture." Her father echoed her chuckle. "But I guess you've been son and daughter both, you good little pal--you sprite of the lab." "Oh! Toandoah--oh! Daddy-man--I'm so glad." Here there was a little laboratory explosion, a rocket of feeling fired off, as the owner of that hybrid name, Pemrose, came down from her pinnacle and, perching upon a low tool-chest at the inventor's side, took the humbler place she loved,--fellow of her father's heart. "I--I used to wish I was all boy until I became a Camp Fire Girl; that bettered the betty element a little," she confided, the spice of her mixed cognomen floating in her eye. It was a joke with her, that chowchow name--original mixture--and how she came by it. Her father, Professor Guy Noel Lorry, Fellow of Nevil University,--Toandoah, the inventor, she called him,--wearing his symbol, a saw-toothed triangle, embroidered with her own upon her ceremonial dress--had at one time almost prayed for a son, a boy who might help him to realize the dream, even then taking hold upon his heart, of conquering not the air alone but space--zero space, in which it was thought nothing could travel--so that old Earth might reach out to her sister planets. He planned to call the boy Pemberton after his own father. Likewise the mother of the maiden in green now seated upon the tool-box had longed for a daughter and aspired to name her Rose, in tender memory of a dear college chum, a flower no longer blooming upon earth. And when the little black-haired mite in due time came, when she opened upon her father eyes blue as the empyrean he hoped to conquer, he had cried out of a core of transport lurking in the very heart of disappointment: "Oh! by Jove, I can't quite give up my dream: let's name her Pemrose. If she had been a boy, I'd have called her Pem." The young mother blissfully agreed--and did not live long to call her anything. Grown to girlhood, the sprite of the laboratory, who had looked through a spectroscope at seven, clapping her small hands over the fairy colors--pure red, orange, green, blue, violet, separated by little dark, thread-like lines, each representing some element in that far-away upper air which her father hoped to master--preferred for herself the boyish Pem to the oft-worn Rose. But in order to square accounts with what she called the "betty" element in her, she evened things up on becoming a Camp Fire Girl by choosing a name all feminine wherewith to be known by the Council Fire. Wantaam, signifying Wisdom--a Wise Woman--was the title she bore as one who wore the Fire Maker's bracelet upon her wrist and had pledged herself to tend as her fathers had tended and her fathers' fathers since time began, that inner, mystic flame which has lit man's way to progress from the moment when he forged a bludgeon to conquer his own world, until, to-day, when he was inventing a Bird to invade others. And it was that Wise Woman who spoke now; she, of all others, who knew the secret of the magic Thunder Bird; and who, trustworthy to the core, had "kept it dark." "Oh! if I've 'plugged' hard in the past over those fierce first principles of mechanics, electricity, optics, heat and the rest--and those 'grueling' laws of gravitation--that's just nothing, a scantling compared to the way I'm going to study and make a hit when I get on into college," she cried; "so--so that, some day, I can, really, work with you, Toandoah--you record-breaking inventor--oh! dearest father ever was." Laughingly, passionately she flung an arm around the neck of the man in the long, drab laboratory coat, half strangling him as he bent over the two-foot model rocket, testing it with his soul in his finger-tips, from its cone-shaped steel head to its steering compartment, thence to the supply chamber with all the little propelling rockets in it, down to its complicated nozzle, or tail. "Why--why! there's no knowing what you and I may be doing yet, when we strain our wits to cracking, is there, Daddy-man?" she exulted further. "You say, yourself, that once space is conquered, that horribly cold old zero space outside the earth's atmosphere, anything devised that will move through it, as our Thunder Bird can do, then--then there's no limit! We might be shooting a passenger off to the moon now, provided the Man in the Moon would shoot him back," gayly, "if only the master sky-rocket, twelve times as large as this little model you're working on for experiments, were ready. The re-al moon-going Thunder Bird! Oh, dear!" Her little fingers restlessly intertwined. "How--how I can har-rdly wait to throw the switch upon a mountaintop and--watch it _tear_, as the college boys say!" "Sometimes--sometimes I'm inclined to think it will never 'tear'; that another than I will be the first to reach the heavenly bodies." Toandoah sighed. "For where are the funds coming from, Pem, the little bonanza--fairy gold-mine--necessary to gorge our Thunder Bird for its record flight--fit it out for its novel migration to the moon, eh?" The inventor clasped his hands behind his head, whistling ruefully. "Funds, child! Already, it has pecked through the biggest slice of mine!" "Ah! but--ah! but--" the girl suddenly flashed upon him a sky-blue wink--"ah! but the third _nut_ hasn't been cracked yet, remember, for the Bird to peck at that. Isn't it in four weeks from now--oh! in five--" the slight figure swaying like the blue-eyed grass upon its tall green stem, blown by a wild breeze--"in five weeks from now that the third drawer will be opened, containing the third and last installment of Mr. Hartley Graham's queer, queer drawn-out will. When it is--oh! when it is--maybe, then, at last, there will be something coming to the University, our University, to benefit your inventions, Daddy." "My child! when that third nut is cracked, 'twill only benefit a 'nut'." The man chuckled drily now. "In other words, the remainder of Friend Hartley's fortune, all that his sister, Mrs. Grosvenor, hasn't already got, will still be held in trust by me, as executor of the will, for--for that griffin of a younger brother of his who cleared out over twenty years ago and hasn't sent a line to his family since." "Was Mr. Treffrey Graham--really--such a--zany?" Pem asked the question for the nineteenth time, her black eyebrows arching. "My word! 'Was he?' A--a regular hippogriff he was, child! A hot tamale, like that Mexican fruit which burns you if you bite into it! At college one could hardly come near him without getting scorched by his tricks. Remember my telling you about my putting in an appearance in class one day--Physics 3--boasting of the latest thing in student's bags, setting it down beside me--and not seeing it again for three weeks? The terrible Treff, of course! The climax came, as you know, when he locked a gray-haired professor into the padded cell for opposing baseball too early in the season, while the campus was still soft." "Mer-rcy! And kept him there for ages--in that stuffy little room, all wadded and lined with brown burlap, used for analyzing sound--the prof not able to make himself heard!" The listener, girl-like, drew fresh excitement from a faded tale. "Yes--that meant expulsion, of course, and his family, one and all, turning a cold shoulder on Treff, before he went away for good--nobody knew where. His engagement was broken off. His brother Hartley saw to that--married the girl himself." "I wonder--I wonder if the Terrible Treff ever married?" Pem musingly nursed her chin,--and with it a wildfire interest in the "hot tamale." "I heard he did. Somebody said so--somebody who met him out West, years ago--that he was a widower, with a little son. But--apparently--he has no more use for his family." "No more--no more than his sister, Mrs. Grosvenor, has for us since you were made executor of that outlandish will, left, piecemeal in three drawers, to be opened on the first three anniversaries of Mr. Graham's death--and not her husband!" Now it was an entirely new breeze of excitement, a stiffening, pinching draught, which swept the forest-green figure upon the tool-chest until its voice grew thin and sharp and edged as the blades in the box beneath it. "Oh-h, yes! she's at daggers dr-rawn with us now--on her high ropes all the time, as you'd say. And--and she sneers at your inventions, father! She calls the rocket, the rocket," half-hysterically, "the moon-reaching rocket,--a Quaker gun--a Quaker gun that'll never be fired, never go off--never hit anything!... _Oh-h!_" With her hand to her green breast at the insult, the girl bounded, blindly as a ball, from her box, across the laboratory--and on to a low platform. Through her raging young body there shot like a physical cramp the knowledge that Quakers, noble-hearted Friends, did not use any guns; that the mocking term was but a by-word, a jesting synonym for all that was impotent--non-existent in reason and power--a dummy. Savagely she applied her eye to the tall, ten-foot spectroscope rearing its brazen height from this low pedestal. Without, beyond the glaring white-washed laboratory, was a February world, equally white, of zero ice and snow. Through the spectroscope she saw a world in flames--blood-red. It was not more flaming than her thoughts. Her father's transcendent invention just a faddist's dream! The Thunder Bird a joke--a _Quaker Gun_! "Bah!" Convulsively her little teeth bit into her lower lip as she adjusted the telescope portion of the instrument for analyzing light--reducing it to prismatic hues--a little. And now, lo! a world brilliantly jaundiced--her orange--the snow being a wonderful reflector of the sun's divided rays. "Father! Father-r! I used to love Una Grosvenor. Now I h-hate her! If her mother made that hor-rid speech about a Quaker gun, she repeated it, before all the boys and girls in our Drama Class, too! If I see her this afternoon at the Ski Club, the skiing party out at Poplar Hill, I shan't speak to her. And we used to be so chummy! Why--" the girl fluttered now, a green weathercock, upon the two-foot platform--"why, we used to stand side by side and measure eyelashes, to see which pair was going to be the longer. I'll wager mine are now!" With a veering laugh the weathercock was here bent forward, striving to catch some brazen glimpse of a winking profile in the polished brass of the spectroscope. Her father laughed: this was the Rose side of her--of his maiden of the patchwork name--the Rose side of her, and he loved it! "But--but Poplar Hill! Poplar Hill! Why! that's away outside the city line--out at Merryville," he exclaimed, a minute later, in consternation. "Goodness! child, you're not going off there to ski to-day--in a zero world, everything snowbound, no trolley cars running?" "Oh! the trains--the trains aren't held up, father." The coaxing weathercock now had a green arm around the neck of the man in the long, drab coat. "And I just couldn't give up going! I'm becoming such a daring ski-runner, Daddy-man; you'll be proud of me when you see! Why! I can almost herring-bone uphill; and I'm getting the kick-turn 'down fine.' Darting, gliding, stemming, jumping downhill--oh! it's such perfect fun, such creamy fun; I'm not a girl any longer, I'm just a swallow." "One swallow doesn't make a summer; all this doesn't change the weather." The inventor glanced anxiously through a window. "No, but it's such a very short train-run. Pouf! only six miles on the two o'clock express bound north, why--why! the very train that you and I will be taking, later, Daddy-man, along in May, when you try out experiments with that little model rocket you're working on now, upon old Mount Greylock--highest mountain of the State. Oh-h! if ever a girl's thumb itched, mine does to press the little electric button and start it off, to fly up a couple of hundred miles, or so, to send you back your golden egg, siree--the first record from space. Oh! through all the fun of slope and snow I'll be thinking of that the entire time to-day--the whole, enduring, livelong time. Yes!" CHAPTER II GIMCRACK ICE She was thinking of it two hours later--having gained her coaxing point--seated in the well-nigh empty parlor car of the north-bound express, that green-aisled Pullman being the first car behind the cab and plodding engine which, regardless of schedule, crept along slowly and warily to-day upon ice-shod rails. But as she caressed the honorable thumb--the little girlish member which would press the button while all the world wondered--and peered out through a window fairly frosted, lo! again she saw a landscape dimly in flames--blood-red--as viewed through the spectroscope of her own raging thoughts. For ice was within the car, as without. There--there, seated almost on a line with her, on the other side of the moss-green aisle, and only three other distant passengers in the compartment, was the girl whose caricaturing tongue had repeated the indelible insult about a Quaker gun; whose mother considered her father a mere chuckle-headed dreamer, with his visions of bridging the absolute zero of space--just a mild three hundred degrees, or so, lower than the biting breath of Mother Earth at the present moment--and reaching worlds far away amid the starry scope. Pemrose had kept her word about not speaking. She just dropped one pointed little icicle in the shape of a nod upon her one-time friend as she sank into her own swivel chair and threw off the heavy coat with which she had covered her ski-runner's silken wind-jacket and belted skiing costume of pure, creamy wool, with its full freedom of knickerbockers. "There's Una--Una Grosvenor!" Her face frosted over at the thought. "Oh, mer-rcy! how I hate her--shall everlastingly hate her--for passing on that sneer about the Thunder Bird.... And I know-ow her eyelashes aren't as long as mine now!" Mingled spice was in the furtive glance which Toandoah's little pal, his maiden of the chowchow name, threw across the narrow train-aisle at the delicate young profile opposite, outlined against a crusted window. "And she still has that funny little near-sighted stand in one of her dark eyes, too--Una! Although they're pretty eyes--I'll admit that!" mused the critic further. "Goodness! won't she open them one of these days when the world is all ringing with talk of Dad and his rocket: when the Thunder Bird, the finished, full-fledged Thunder Bird, undertakes its hundred-hour flight to the moon.... For, oh! I know-ow that it will go, some day--some day." The girl stared passionately now into the future in the frostscript of the pane near her. "Man would not let it fail, God _could_ not let it fail--just for lack of funds--however that third nut may turn out--that third section of a queer will!" And now the mulled world outside changed again, shading from blood-red to fairy rose-color as seen through the spectroscope of hope. She became lost in the most magnificent dream that ever entranced a Camp Fire Girl yet--with any hope of fulfillment. Standing of a starless night upon a lofty mountain-top, she was looking up at Mammy Moon, dear, silver-footed Queen, so near to the heart of every Earth-daughter! In the darkness she felt the eyes of the whole world upon her--she but a satellite reflecting her father's light--its joint ear was bent to catch the wild, triumphal song-sob of her heart. And at the words: "Ready! Shoot!", Toandoah's battle-cry, she was pressing the electric button which, connected with a switch in the Thunder Bird's tail, would start it off, pointed directly for the moon, to light up that silver disc with a bright powder-flash visible here on earth. She was mesmerized by its wild, red eye. She was watching it switch its rosy tail feathers, two hundred feet long, that dashing explorer, as, roaring, it leaped from its mountain platform at incredible speed for an incredible flight. She was echoing the college boys' untamed slogan: "Watch it tear; oh! watch it tear--the fire-eater." She.... But what--what was this? Was she tearing with it? Was she, she herself, just a shocked girl, at the heart of its rapid-fire explosions? Was she being hurled with it through space, blank space, Absolute Zero, below what human instrument could register,--or human girl encounter and live? All she knew was that she was being flung, first forward, then backward; and then, oh, horrors! against the train window near her where glass was all splintering and crashing, through which ice and water, mad, mad water and ice, were rushing together. There was an awful, punching jolt, a frenzied shriek of steam, a splashing, hissing roar--that, surely, could not be the steel Thunder Bird's challenge, unless it had suddenly become a wading goose--and, lo! she was hurled straight out of her dream across a Pullman aisle, fast flooding, right into the girl with whom she had once vainly measured eyelashes,--between whom and herself had existed that thin bridge of ice but one little minute before. Alas! poor human ice that couldn't stand a moment under the blows of Nature's ice-hammer. Both pairs of girlish lashes were stark with terror now. "Una! Una! _Una!_ Ac-ci-dent! Tr-rain accident! Gone through--through into--the--lake!" moaned Pemrose, half stunned, yet conscious, as she was ten seconds before, that they had been crossing frozen water. Water! A pale pond, now plainly seen through awful, swirling, wave-blocked window-gaps! Yet across its wan and shattering crust there shone a trail of fire, red fire, heart fire--vivid at that moment as the Thunder Bird's pink tail feathers switching through the space of horror--and somewhere in that stretched consciousness which is beyond thinking, Toandoah's daughter knew that it was the Camp Fire training in presence of mind. "Una! M-mer-rcy! Una! Water's r-rushing in-n--in so fast--through windows--doors ahead--m-may dr-rown right here, 'less we can f-fight it--get out," was her struggling cry as, paddling desperately like a little dog, she found herself topping the flood, that lashing, interned lake-water, now blotting out window-frames on one side of the car--groping with icy fingers for the painted ceiling of the Pullman--then undulatingly sinking below them on the other. For it was a case just half-a-minute before, while Pem was still sanguinely loosing the Thunder Bird, of small pony-wheels on the big express engine striking a frog in the rails, an icy groove, and skidding,--then recklessly plunging down four feet, those runaway ponies, from the low bridge which they were crossing on to the ice, dragging the engine, the cab and the two front cars with them. And now--now--to the inventor's daughter, the girl-mechanic, who had plugged so hard at her high school physics that she might understand her father's work, came a thought that was worse, worse even than the hiss of the imprisoned flood, tossing her like a cork: the engine might explode--the sneezing, sobbing engine, with the steam condensing in its boilers--wreck the car she was in--she and Una! No! She did not think of herself alone. All the frail girlish ice was a gimcrack now. But the terrors of the swamped car, that snuffling threat of steam ahead--a deep bass uz-z-z!--momentarily made a gimcrack of other things too--of everything but the desperate instinct to get out--free, somehow. Calling upon Una to follow, she headed for a dripping window-gap, to seize the moment when the flood, now lower upon that side, might give her a chance to paddle through--scramble through--escape on to the cracking ice, before the opening was again blotted out. But together with the cruelty of glass-splinters, ice-spars scratching her set face, came the shock of an inner splinter: an inkling, somehow, that Una was helpless, could not follow, that, battered by concussion, tossing like a log upon the flood's breast, her senses had almost left her. Many waters cannot quench love--the love of a daughter for her genius-father. In that moment--that moment--there leaped up in the breast of Toandoah's child the fire, the red fire, which alone can carry anything higher, be it rocket or girl's heart. They had called her father's invention a joke, a Quaker gun, Una and her mother. _Never_ should they say that of his daughter's pluck: that it was a dummy which would hit no mark,--or only to save itself! "Una!" Wildly she seized the other girl's creamy flannels, buoyed like a great, pale water-lily upon the imprisoned lake-water. "Catch--c-catch me by the belt--Una! I--I'll try-y to save you! Oh-h! s-stick ti-ight now." And the daughter of the man, still sitting afar in his quiet laboratory, fitting little powder charges into a model Thunder Bird, set herself to battle through the swirling gap of that half-covered window-frame--clutched and hampered now--yet upholding, even if it was her daring death-thought, Toandoah's honor in the flood. CHAPTER III THE WRONG SIDE OF HER DREAM The ice had been thick-ribbed, product of a bitter winter, but it could not withstand the shock of a hundred and eighty tons of leaping locomotive--it splintered in all directions. Of the whole long train, however, only two cars and the cab had followed the engine's plunge when those skidding pony-wheels turned traitor, and were now ice-bound and flooded in the middle of a small lake, while the remainder of the fast express, with one coach actually standing on its head, hanging pendent between the ice and the bridge, was not submerged. It was as if a steel bar were hurled violently at that solid ice, when one end only would pierce the crust and the remainder be left sticking, slanting, up. When Pemrose, a Camp Fire Girl of America, greater at that moment than when her hand should loose the Thunder Bird, because she was determined that whatever might be said of her father's invention, nobody should ever say that his daughter's courage was a Quaker gun, paddled through the window-gap of that swamped Pullman, towing Una, she found herself in such a vortex of zero water and shattered ice that all the strength behind her gasping breath turned suddenly dummy. "S-stick tight, Una! Oh-h! stick tight," was the one little whiff that speech could get off before it froze--froze stiff behind her chattering teeth, in the pinched channel of her throat. And then--then--she was clinging to the jagged spur of an ice-cake, her left hand convulsively clutching Una's flannels, while the eddies in the half-liberated water around them, spreading from a blue-cold center to a white ring, made horrid eyes--goggle-eyes--which stared at them. To Pem--little visionary--plunged from her dreams of pressing the magic button on a mountain-top, of watching the Thunder Bird tear, tear away moonward, switching its long tail of light, the whole thing seemed an illusion--the wrong side of her dream. It was as if she had soared with that monster rocket, Toandoah's invention, outside the earth's atmosphere, were being hurled about in the horrible vacuum of space, its unplumbed heart of cold, so far--so annihilatingly far below the balmy zero point of old Mother Earth on a February day when two light-hearted girls were going skiing. She was growing numb. In vain did her waterproof wind-jacket, the ski-runner's belted jacket of thin and trusty silk, defend, like a faithful wing--a warm, conscious wing--the upper part of her body. The deadly water was encroaching, clasping her waist with an icy girdle,--stealing under it, even to her armpits. And the petrifying little hand which had left its fistling in the train,--the thick mitten that should have grasped the balancing stick in all the wild swallow-fun of climbing, stemming, darting amid slope and snow upon a wintry hillside--could not hold on very long to the glacial spur. The ice-cake was threatening to slip away, to seesaw, turn turtle and waltz off, to the tune of blood-curdling sounds: screams for help here, there, everywhere, always with the background of that menacing hiss of steam in the great engine's boilers--that low, sneezing uz-z-z! as if it were taking cold from its bath--the engine that, at any moment, might explode. Frantically she would have struck out, the little girl-mechanic, and fought the whole ice-pack to get away from that threat, to reach a solid crust, but she knew that she could not "swim" two, herself and Una. Yet would they go under--one or both--perish in water not deep because of the starving cold, even if--if the engine...? Her teeth snapped together upon the thought, its diddering horror. Surely, it was as bad a predicament as could be for a girl! But, suddenly, through all the horripilation there seemed to shine a light. Somehow, Pem was conscious of it in the poor numb sheath of her own girlish being--and beyond. And she knew that her stark lips were praying: "Oh! Lord--oh! Father--help me-e to hold on. Don't let us--go--under! I want--I want so-o to live to see Daddy's rocket go off!... He ..." The stiff sobs tumbled apart there, as it were. But the Light remained, the Presence, so near as it seemed to Pem at the moment--even as she had felt it before upon a mountain-top, or at some matchless moment of beauty--that she almost lisped confusedly: "Daddy in Heaven!" as once, a two-year-old, she had prattled it at her father's knee. Then what--what? Another voice prattling near her--chattering icily! A bully human voice! "Gosh! Something r-rotten in the State of Denmark," it gasped. "Jove! I like excitement, but I'd rather be warm enough to enjoy it. Oh! Dad, if there are any others left in that car, the one on end, you help 'em. I must attend to these girls." "T-take her first--Una!" flickered Pem, a spicy flicker still, as she felt a strong grasp on her shoulder and looked up into the face of a broad-shouldered youth in a gray sweater; the engine might explode, but, to the last, they should not say of Toandoah's daughter that her courage was a Quaker gun. "Jove! but you're game," flashed the youth. "Well, keep up--hang on--I'll be back in a minute!" The minute was three. He had to lift the second girlish victim almost bodily out of the water and drag her with him as he wriggled and crawled over the broken ice-pack, to reach a firm spot, where he picked her up and--with all the vigor of an athletic eighteen-year-old--carried her to the shore, now not more than twenty yards off. "Humph! I was just in time, wasn't I?" he ejaculated on the transit. "By George! You've got pep, if ever a girl had--I'll wager you pulled your friend out of the parlor-car and held her up! Some horripilation, eh?" breezily. "Now--now what have you and I ever done that the Fates should wish this on to us--that's what I'd like to know?" It was what the daring little ski-runner, Pem, herself, had been vaguely wondering; she liked this jolly wit-snapper who preferred his excitement warm. "Ha! there goes the engine exploding," he gasped a moment later, as he set her down. "Bursting inward! Now, if it had done the mean thing, burst outward, piling up the agony, doing a whole lot of damage, 'twould have been quicker about it.... Oh--you! Dad," to a gray-bearded man, with a gray traveling cap pulled down almost to his eyes. "Here, I'll hand over these girls to you now! Will you look after them? I'd better go back." Simultaneously there was a low, sullen roaring, the crack of doom, as condensed steam sucked in the heavy steel casing of the locomotive's boilers and shattered it like an eggshell. In Pemrose it shattered something too. Wildly she looked into the eyes of the man in the tourist's cap and was conscious that in one of them horror was frozen into a fixed stand, as it was in one of Una's, as he helped her up a snowy bank. And, with that, her brain laid its last egg for the present, as the Thunder Bird would drop its expiring one upon the dead surface of the moon, in the knowledge that, the Fates notwithstanding, she was still alive--still alive, to see the great rocket go! And as for its completion--as to the little gold mine necessary to gorge it for its record flight--why! the third rich nut of which she had spoken a little while ago in her father's laboratory, had not yet been cracked: the third mysterious drawer containing the third and last installment of a dead man's very strange will had not yet been opened. CHAPTER IV THE SECOND WRECK That third nut was cracked just five weeks later in the firelit library of what had been Mr. Hartley Graham's home--the home of a man who during his lifetime, so it was occasionally said, had been, in some ways, almost as eccentric as his madcap brother--and concerning the latter his college chums, those who knew him long ago, were of the opinion that he was a freak whose "head grew beneath his shoulder." The house, a white marble mansion on Opal Avenue, finest of the old residential streets in the University city of Clevedon, was now occupied by the sister of the two, the mother of Una, who had snapped her fingers at the Thunder Bird, calling it a joke, a dummy, a Quaker gun. That jeering nickname still rankled in the breast of Pemrose, who looked more like a colorless March Primrose, owing to the lingering shock of that train wreck, upon the spring morning in early April when the family lawyer whose duty it was to settle the affairs of the man who had left three separate portions of his will in as many drawers, to be opened on three successive anniversaries of his death, drew forth the last. She was not the only pale girl present. By her side was Una, neighbor again in heart as in body, who laid one little agitated fist on Pem's knee while preparations for reading the will were being made, the two girls nestling together, as in chummy days, three years before, when in the peacock pride of thirteen they had conceitedly measured eyelashes. And the remorseful affection mirrored in that little near-sighted stand in one of Una's pretty dark eyes was only typical of an entirely similar state of feeling in the once scornful breasts of her father and mother. Mrs. Grosvenor was no longer "on her high ropes," as Pem had said in her father's laboratory; to-day she seemed to be, rather, on a snubbing-line which brought her up short now and again, even in the middle of a speech, when she looked at the inventor's blue-eyed daughter, his trusty little pal--and that, sometimes, with spray in her eyes, too. Also, her glances in the direction of the inventor himself, Professor Lorry, with whose name the world was already beginning to ring, were appealing--not to say apologetic. She was quite sure now that any man who could turn out a daughter, not yet sixteen, to behave in a fearful emergency as Pem had done--without whom her own daughter would not be here to-day, as Una constantly kept repeating--could never forge a gun, be it rocket or rifle, that would hit no mark! She even expressed some agitated interest in the great invention, inquiring when the first experiments with the little model Thunder Bird, upon a mountain-top, were to take place. And as for her husband, he boldly declared himself deeply interested in the conquest of the upper air and space--so far beyond the goal which any aviator had dreamed of reaching yet. He even went so far as to say that he would be glad to see the remainder of a fortune, represented by that third section of a will, go for the furtherance of the professor's wonderful moon-reaching, planet-reaching scheme, instead of being "hung up" awaiting the return of the dead man's younger brother who had been such a queer flimflam fellow in youth,--whose family did not even know whether he was dead or alive. And, at first, while the shell of that third nut was being solemnly cracked by the reading of opening sentences of the will--oh! how the heart of Pemrose jumped, like a nut on a hot shovel--it did seem as if the kernel were going to be a rich one for the Thunder Bird. For now, according to the testator's wish, if his brother, Treffrey Graham, had not yet returned to claim his portion of his elder brother's wealth, then the money--a little bonanza, indeed, a solid fortune--was to be turned over, forthwith, to the University of his native city, to be used for developments in the science of the air--the upper air and what lay beyond it--chiefly for the furtherance of any inventions that might be put forward by the dead man's trusted friend, Professor Lorry. It was here that two pale girls, abruptly transformed from April primroses to June roses--oh! such pinkly blooming tea-roses--gave simultaneously a wild little shriek. It was here that Pem, dazzled, saw the Thunder Bird, with a clear sky, tear--tear away moonward--and noticed at the same time, through some little loophole in the watch-tower of her excitement, the figure of a man with a gray tourist's cap pulled down to his eyes, rather waveringly crossing the street without. He circled to avoid an April puddle,--she saw him clearly through the broad library window, at a distance of some fifty yards, beyond a flight of marble steps and a graveled entrance. A queer little shiver, a horrid little shiver--a snowflake in summer--drifted down her spine! The figure had an icy background. She had seen it before amid the terrors of that February train-wreck. The boy who saved her, the boy with the jolly tongue in his head, humorous amid the "horripilation," had addressed it as Dad. And then--then, she caught her breath sharply, as something blew upon her, hot and cold together--and came back to the library, to the present moment. For the gray-haired lawyer, with his mouth opening gravely, wide as a church door, with a little forward pounce of his body upon the typewritten sheets, the sheets that meant life or death--flight or stagnation--for the Thunder Bird, was beginning to read again. "Ah, but that's not all, even yet!" he said. "This curious will has dragged its slow length over three years--and now we haven't finished with it, quite. Here's a codicil still to be read--its last word, written later, just two days before Mr. Graham's death, so it seems." Alack and alas! that was the moment of the second wreck; the moment for one jubilant girl of the dire breakdown, when the Victory Express to Clover Land, goal of blossoming success, crashed through into zero waters of blankest disappointment,--almost as bitter as those in which she had held up her friend. For the last word of the strung-out will set forth that, whereas it seemed borne in upon Mr. Hartley Graham, with life drawing to a close, that he had not been quite fair to his madcap brother in youth, and that the latter would some day return, the disposal of his wealth in the other direction named--to the University and for invention--should not come into effect for at least twelve years after the opening of that third drawer. "And so--and so, it's all hung up for another dozen years--unless Treffrey Graham comes back to claim the money! Well! I'm sorry, Professor Lorry; there's many a slip 'twixt cup and lip," said the lawyer, laying down the codicil with a blue look; he was interested in invention, progressive invention--he had never thought that the Thunder Bird was a Quaker gun. "And so it's all hung up for the next twelve years," was the baffled cry which went around the circle, with no single note of longing for the wanderer's return. It would not have been very flattering to the terrible Treff, if he was alive and present to hear, thought a gnashing Pemrose: to the exile who had been such a hazing firebrand at college, burning out the fine flame of youth in the straw blaze of senseless pranks,--a griffin and shatterpated jester. CHAPTER V SHE SAVED A CITY "And so--and so it's all hung up for another twelve years--the Thunder Bird's flight! For I don't suppose there's much chance of the money coming from another direction." Pemrose Lorry echoed the cry, repeated it desolately, hours later, standing in her own room--a room that was a sort of sequel to herself, as every Camp Fire Girl's nest should be. Her father had echoed it, as she sat very close to him, driving home in the Grosvenor's limousine. "Well! so far this strung-out will has been for us much cry and little wool, eh, girlie," he muttered; and for the first time she heard discouragement in his voice; perhaps he had "banked" upon that third nut more than he admitted. "So the money is hung up for the next dozen years, as far's any benefit to the invention is concerned," he went on presently, just before his own home was reached. "I'd better be putting my time into something else, I guess," with a raw scrape in the tones. "How--how about a machine for the manufacture of paper clothing, eh, or airdrawn rugs--" sarcastically--"prosperity, _riches_, in that! Ha! Get thee behind me, Satan--but don't push!" added the inventor whimsically, thrusting his head out of the auto window,--with a sound that was neither laugh nor groan. "Get thee behind me, Satan--and don't push!" Tears sprang to those blue eyes of Pemrose now, as she recalled the half-piteous tone in the voice. Toandoah was discouraged. Toandoah was tempted--tempted to sacrifice the highest claim of his intellect, his original dream, or the dream whose originality he had made practical, of reaching the heavenly bodies; of being a pioneer in exploring the Universe outside his own earth and its enveloping atmosphere; of finding out the secrets of that mysterious upper air, and where it ended, of getting back a record of it--the Thunder Bird's golden egg, the first record from space. And the girl in her buoyant young heart of hearts felt that hope--nay, certainty--were still there, green, springing, as the first signs of happy springtime in the world outside. How--how was she to make him feel it; she his little Wise Woman, his laboratory pal? Her eye went to the emblems upon her wall: a pine tree on a poster, typical of strength, a banner with a sunburst, the sun shedding warmth upon the earth. And then--then! To the little squat figure of a woman, as the Indians depicted her, with a torch in her hand, Wisdom's torch--her own emblem as Wantaam of the Council Fire. But there was another representation of that Wantaam--that Wise Woman. Pem had designed it herself, painted it herself upon a two-foot poster, gaining thereby a green honor-bead for handicraft. And before that the girl, wrestling with the heavy disappointment of that tantalizing will, brought up--her hands clasped. It was a curious scene: a lot of little tents with a wall around them, the same symbolic figure of the woman with the torch stood upon the wall, pointing a stiff arm at a man outside, a warrior, who had a knife in hand. Underneath were printed in flaming characters two Indian words: "Notick! Notick!" signifying: "Hear! Hear!" "I always did feel fascinated by that Wise Woman who saved--a--city." Pem looked adoringly at her handiwork. "A besieged Jewish city, away back in King David's time! To be sure, one reads of it in--in what's a bloodthirsty chapter of the Old Testament! And she saved the town by ordering the death of a rebel, a traitor, proclaiming that she, herself, was loyal and faithful to the king--so were her people--making Joab, David's captain, that man with the knife, outside the wall, listen when she cried to him: 'Hear! Hear!' She had more sense than the men about her--and one isn't told the least thing further about her, not even her name. That's what makes her mysterious--and fascinating.... Yet she saved a city!" The girl drew a long breath--a suddenly fired breath. Was it up to her now to save a city: the citadel of her father's courage--of that rose-colored conviction which is half the battle on earth or in the air? How was she to do it? Her eye went wandering around the room. Trained to the eloquence of symbols, it lit on something. Just a sheen of pearls and a little loom upon a table--myriads of pearly beads, woven and unwoven, with here and there a ray of New Jerusalem colors, ruby, emerald, blazing through them--the New Jerusalem of hope. "Ah-h!" Breathlessly she caught it up, that something, four feet and a half of the beaded history of a girl,--pearl-woven prophecy, too! Hugging it to her breast, that long leather strip, an inch and a half in width, on which her glowing young life-story was woven in pearls, with those rainbow flashes of color--the loom with it--she hurried out of the room. Never, perhaps, did a professor's laboratory, the stern, hardware "lab." of a mechanical engineer, react to anything so fairy-like as when Pem, scurrying down a flight of stairs to the workshop which her father had fitted up in his own house--not his University laboratory with the tall spectroscope--sat down to a table and began industriously to weave. Turning from a bench where he sat fiddling with a steel chamber, part of the anatomy of a fledgling Thunder Bird, of one of those small model rockets which he was fitting up for experiments on a mountain-top, the inventor watched her listlessly. "Hullo! What's the charm now, the thing of beauty? That--that looks such stuff as dreams are made of." Toandoah drew a long breath. "No, it isn't dream-stuff, father; it's history, the history of your life and mine, all told in symbols, woven into a chain, a stole--see--to wear with my ceremonial dress. It--it's my masterpiece." Pem looked up, all girl, all Rose, now. "I didn't want to show it to you until it was finished. But now--now--don't you want to see it?" Listlessly, still, her father drew near, his tall figure in its long, drab laboratory coat looming like a shadow behind her shoulder. "See there--there's where it begins with the Flag I was born under, the Stars and Stripes," excitedly. "And look," softly, "that gold star stands for Mother who died when I was two. And there you are, Toandoah, with that queer Indian triangle having the teeth of a saw, the emblem of invention." "What! That funny, squat figure, with something like a three-cornered fool's-cap on my head and the moon above it, looking through a tube!" There was a laugh in the inventor's throat now; the grim "Get thee behind me, Satan!" look, with the cloud of that codicil to a will, were melting away from him. "Well, go on!" he encouraged smilingly. "Artistic, anyhow! I believe you Camp Fire Girls would weave magic around a clock pendulum." "And here--here am I--Wantaam, a Wise Woman. There's the Thunder Bird, see, the symbol of the great rocket. Here are you and I, Dad, upon a mountaintop, watching it tear--oh! tear away." He laughed again at the two stiff, woodeny figures, the comet-like streak of fire above them. "And this--the quill fluttering down attached to a kite! Humph! That stands for the Thunder Bird's diary, I suppose, otherwise the golden egg--the little recording apparatus coming down on the wing of its black parachute." The inventor laughed amusedly again, glancing sidelong at _his_ masterpiece, the little five-inch openwork steel box, having in it two tiny wheels with paper wound, tapelike, on one and a pencil between them. This carried in the head of the Thunder Bird, big or little, would keep a record of as high as it went by the pencil automatically making marks so long as there was any air-pressure, like a guiding hand, to move it. "Yes." The weaver nodded. "And here--here is the Will being read!" The girlish voice was lower now, the girlish feet treading doubtful ground, as she pointed again to those two quaint, stubby figures, with a third one reading from a parchment. But there was no doubt at all in the young voice which presently gathered itself for a climax. "And see--see there--those little yellow dots I'm weaving in now; those are gold pieces, father, the money that _is_ coming to us from somewhere for you to finish your invention. Yes! and I'm going on to weave in the moon, too, and the little blue powder-flash before her face, to show the Thunder Bird has got there. For it is going to get there, you know!" Pem's blue-star eyes were dim now, but in them was the wisdom of babes--the wisdom oft hid from the wise and prudent. "Daddy-man!" She bowed her head over the pearl-woven prophecy, speaking very low. "I could always tell you my thoughts. Somehow, at that awful time of the train-wreck, when we were in the icy water, Una and I, before the boy came, the big boy who saved us, through--through all the 'horripilation', as he called it, I seemed to see a light; the--the Light of Light Eternal, as we sing--God--and I knew, oh-h! I knew-ew, at the last, that we weren't going to dr-rown.... I know just as certainly now that you're going to launch the Thunder Bird, to go-o where nothing--Earthly--has ever gone before.... Father-r!" Silence fell upon that passionate little cry in the dim workshop. Only the beauty of the pearl-woven thing upon the table spoke--the record to go down to posterity. Then into the silence tiptoed the voice of a man, whimsical, slightly, yet with a touch of tender awe in it, too: "And none knew the Wise Woman who saved the city!" CHAPTER VI A HOTSPUR "Oh! I'm so glad--just so glad I don't know what to do with myself--that those experiments with the lesser Thunder Bird, the smaller sky-rocket, which won't make the four-day trip to Mammy Moon, but will only fly up a couple of hundred miles, or so, and drop its golden egg, the diary, to tell you where that blank No Man's Land of space begins will still be carried out this spring from the top of old Mount Greylock. If they had been given up, it would have broken my heart--so it would!" It was evening now, late evening, in the dining room of the professor's home, looking upon the green University campus. The girl with the grafted Rose in her name, grafted on to a foreign stem, was pouring out her father's after dinner coffee--and her own full heart, at the same time. "Ouch!" She shivered a little. "I don't like to think of that 'diddering' cold of empty space; not--not since the train-wreck. I'm like the big boy who saved us then, and was so jolly; I'm out for excitement if I'm warm enough to enjoy it, eh?" "Humph! Well, here's somebody who's willing to take a chance on carrying his warmth, his fun too, with him into space." The professor laughed as he drew a sheet of thick letter paper, broad and creamy, from his pocket. "Oh! is it somebody else ... you don't mean to say it's another hotspur applying for a passage in the real Thunder Bird when you start the big rocket off for the moon, eh?" The girl glanced over her father's shoulder. "Yes, one more candidate for lunar honors! And this one is the limit for a Quixote. Young, too, I should say!" Again Toandoah's deep chant of laughter buoyed his daughter's treble note, as he began to read: "Professor G. Noel Lorry, Nevil University. My dear Sir, Having learned that you are perfecting an apparatus that will reach any height--even go as far as the moon--and that it will be capable of carrying a passenger, I should like to volunteer for the trip. I have always wanted to say 'Hullo!' to the Man in the Moon, on whose face I have often looked from an aëroplane already; and I am ready to try anything once--even if it should be once for all! Yours for the big chance, T. S. P. S. I respectfully apologize for not being able just at present to give my full name, but will, with your permission, furnish it later." "Humph! Mr. T. S.! 'With your permission,' where do you write from?" Pemrose bent low over the primrose sheet. "Oh! from Lightwood. Now,--now where is that, Daddy?" "There's a little, one-horse village of the name among the Berkshire Mountains, not far from fashionable Lenox." Her father smiled. "Lenox! How lovely! Why! that's where you and I are going to stay--stay for a week or two--isn't it, father, _en route_ for Greylock and the experiments. You know the Grosvenors have invited us--and they have a wonderful old place up there. Una's mother is carrying coals these days--" Pemrose winked--"coals of penitence in her heart for ever having sneered at your invention, Daddy." "Hot ones, are they? Well! I wish she'd hasten and spill them out before she reaches Lenox." The inventor chuckled. "Let me see, she was born there, I believe, at their mountain home--yes, and one or other of her brothers, too." "Ho! Was it--was it the unicorn; I--I mean the oddity; the Thunder Bird's rival for all-l that money?" The girlish hand shook now as it wielded the coffee-pot. "Oh, dear! wouldn't his horn be exalted if he never came back?" With a droll little catch of the breath. "Una and I are as friendly as ever now, Dad," ran on the girlish voice, hurriedly leading off from the neighborhood of the will. "And she's to be taken out of school early, when we go, because she has been so nervous since the train-wreck. So chummy we are--oh, as chummy as in the old days when we measured eyelashes and she laughed at my 'chowchow' name!" The speaker here shot the bluest of glances through those twinkling lashes at their reflection in a neighboring teapot, older than Columbia herself. "Chowchow, indeed! It just suits you, that compound. There's a vain elf in you somewhere, Pem, that sleeps in the shadow of the Wise Woman." "Maybe--maybe, there's a nickum! That's Andrew's word, Andrew's word for an imp, a tomboy. He's the Grosvenors' Scotch chauffeur, you know, who talks with a thistle under his tongue. Well! nickum, or not!" the girl was a rosy weathercock again. "I--I'm just dying to get up to the mountains, to climb the Pinnacle, the green Pinnacle, that rough, pine-clad hill, with Una--and sit in the Devil's Chair!" "_What!_ My Wise Woman sitting in the Devil's Chair! Why! 'twould take a daredevil nickum, indeed, to do that." The inventor threw up his hands, laughing again, as he beat a retreat to his hardware den, his laboratory, where there was ever a magnet, potent by night or day, to draw him back. Yet when still another six weeks had passed and Pemrose, with all the green world of spring in her heart, stood, breathless, upon that Lenox pinnacle--a pine-clad mountainette some thirteen hundred feet above sea-level--lo and behold! there was a nickum sitting coolly in the Devil's Chair. A brazen feat it was! For that Lucifer's throne was a curved stone seat, a natural armchair, rudely carved out of the precipice rock, more than a dozen sheer feet beneath the crest where she stood with Una--Andrew of the thistly tongue having driven the two girls up to the foot of the peak on this the third day after their arrival, with the May flies, amid the mountains. "A nickum--oh! a nickum, indeed--a daredevil nickum--sitting in the Devil's Armchair, with his feet dangling down--down over the deep precipice! Look!" Pemrose pirouetted in excitement at the sight. "Yes, and, goodness! he seems to be enjoying it, too. Not turning a hair. Oh! if 'twere I--I should be so-o dizzy." With the more timid cry in her pulsing throat, and that little appalled stand, a star of mingled consternation and admiration beaming, bewitched, in one dark eye, Una turned from the spectacle--turned, shuddering, from the hundred-and-odd feet of unbroken abyss extending from the nickum's knickerbockered legs, nonchalantly swinging, to an awed grove of young pine trees, rock-ribbed and bowlder-strewn, far below. "Oh! I don't want to look at him," she cried cravenly. "How will he--ever--climb back up here again?" "Tr-rust him--" began Toandoah's daughter, then suddenly clutched her throat, her widening eyes as round, as bright, as staringly blue as the mountain lupine already opening upon the world's surprises, in sunny spots, among the hills. Those eyes were now fastened to the back of the nickum's close-cropped head, to his broad shoulders in a rough, gray sweater, noting a certain "bully" shrug of those shoulders at the surrounding landscape, as if, monarch of all he surveyed, he yet felt himself a usurper in his present seat. "Something rotten--something rotten in the State of Denmark!" crowed Pemrose softly. "I wonder if he's getting that off now? Una! Una! It's He ... He!" "Who? Who?" "The man--the boy--who saved us after the train-wreck ... without whom we mightn't be here--now! Ah-h!" was the softly tremulous answer, as the blue eyes danced down the rock, with frankest recognition, friendliest expectation, to that daring, nonchalant nickum figure, now coolly drawing up its toes for a climb. CHAPTER VII THE PINNACLE It was an exciting situation. Pemrose, who like the enthroned daredevil liked excitement, if she was warm enough to enjoy it, had not hoped for quite such a tidbit when she came to the mountains,--at least, short of the little Thunder Bird's record-breaking flight. "Oh! I did so want to run across him again. I do so long to thank him! Why--why! we might never have escaped from that awful wreck, got out of the zero water, but for him, Una." The blue eyes were wet now, frankly wet, bluebells by a mountain brook--the little bursting brooklet of feeling within. "I--I'd like to thank him, too!" gushed Una, with that little fixed star twinkling most radiantly in one dark eye, the slight stand which characterized it only at intense moments when feeling reached indefinite altitudes. "Oh! how glad I am now," she ran on breathlessly, "that we made Andrew leave the car down in a garage at the Pinnacle's foot and bring us up here for a sort of picnic supper," sending a sidelong glance scouting round for the tall, capped figure of the grizzled chauffeur who, a brief ten years before, had been driving his "laird's" car upon Ben Muir, a heathery mountain of his native Highlands. Trustworthy as day, a capable driver and zealous Church Elder, he was one to whose guardianship Una Grosvenor, the apple of her parents' eye, might safely be intrusted with her visiting friend while her father golfed and her mother lunched and played bridge in complacent peace of mind. "Oh! she's all right with Andrew; he's such a true-penny!" was her father's dictum. "Safer with him, up here, than she would be with maid or housekeeper! And, after that shock in the winter, the doctor wants her to be out of doors among the hills morning, noon and night--practically all the time, if she can!" Ah! so far, so good. But just at this unprecedented moment of excitement Andrew, the true-penny, had encountered another Scot, who emigrated before he did, and was breezily "clacking" with him at some distance from where two breathlessly expectant girls gazed down upon the black top of the nickum's head--and at his wheeling shoulders in the great armchair. "Oh--oh! there he goes--see--curling up his legs, drawing up his feet carefully, turning in the seat--standing up!" cried Pemrose, all Rose at this crisis, prematurely blooming, as if it were June, not May, as she stood on tiptoe to meet a dramatic moment, reveling in the thought that the daredevil did not know what a surprise awaited him on top here, what a welcome--heart-eager gratitude. She bit her lip, however, upon the impulsive cry, for she saw two girls, younger than herself, with a ten-year-old boy, who had been watching the climber's feat from a near-by mound, turn and look at her curiously. They were evidently acquainted with the daring usurper of the Devil's Chair. For, having drawn up his legs until his knees touched his chin, then raised himself to a standing position on the grim stone seat, cautiously turning, his strong fingers gripping the granite chair-arms, when his back was to the precipice beneath and his face almost touching the twelve-foot, well-nigh perpendicular rock which he had to climb, he actually had the hardihood to wave his hand to them. "Now--now comes the 'scratch'!" he shouted laughingly. "I'm going to hook on to that 'nick' in the rock, there, just over my head, and draw myself up. Had to 'shy' it coming down--for fear it would catch in my clothing." "Didn't I--didn't I t-tell you it was him?" burst forth Pem, with all the vehemence of a little spring torrent, in Una's ear as she caught the ring of the chaffing voice which had railed at the Fates for "wishing a wreck on" to unoffending youth, and was so boldly challenging them now. And just as free and frank in her girlish gratitude as that torrent bubbling impulsively out of the earth, when the nickum reached the crest again, she sprang forward, hand outstretched, to meet him. Her eyes, blue as the little fairy blossoms of the star-grass now, were breeze blown in the meadow of her gladness. It was nothing--nothing not to know the name of one who had saved you from death, she thought. By the rescue you knew him! And he knew her! Those eyes, those keen, girlish eyes which had looked through the spectroscope a hundred times, in her father's laboratory, into the remote mystery of that far-away upper air could not be deceived. By the sudden, startled heave of his shoulders, whose defiant shrug she remembered so well, by the quick intake of breath, as its climbing hiss sharpened to a whistle--almost a rude whistle in the excitement of the feat he had just performed--by the little stare of breathless surprise, of quandary, in his dark eyes, glowing like Una's, he recognized her ... and passed her by. Recognized her as the girl whose "pep" he had complimented for putting another's life before her own--and didn't want to have anything more in life to say to her! Well! the Heavens fell upon the Pinnacle as Pem drew back--annihilated. Snubbed for the first time in all her blue-sky life--and by a boy, too! To be sure, indeed, the nickum, his glance darting past her to Una, had gone by with a slight inclination of his bare head that was a stony bow. To be sure, when one of the girls of his acquaintance questioned him about the view from the Devil's Seat, there was a sort of creak in his voice as he answered: "It's--a--corker! You can see away off: far-rms, lakes, all the other mountains--Mount Greylock, too, in the distance! But--but it's a cat's-foot climb down--there!" breaking off breathlessly, as if feeling were making a cat's-paw of him. "Oh! you can really see Mount Greylock! As far away as that! Well! I'm going to try-y it, too," ventured one of his girlish companions whose age was fourteen. "Summer and winter, I've done a lot of climbing, up here!" "You try it! Any girl try sitting in the Devil's Chair! Why! there isn't a girl living who could do it," crowed the gray-shouldered youth: and now his tones were lordly, as if he were picking himself up after an inner tumble. "Hey! Is that so?" Pem--over-hearing--ground the words between her teeth. "Have you never heard of Camp Fire, What a shame! What a shame! _If_ you've never heard of Camp Fire, You're to blame! You're to blame! Then don't take a nap, For we're on the map, Ready to prove it with s-snap!" She hissed the last word at the nickum's back, as he halted at some distance with his companions. "Una! I'm going to do it," she panted. "I'm going to slide down that rock there, turn round and sit in the Chair--then draw myself up again, as he did. I've got on sneakers. I know I can! I've done some breakneck climbing with father--yes! and with my Camp Fire Group, too." "I--I'll give you all my marshmallows that we brought with us to toast at an open fire, if you do!... Yes! and one of my two little thistle pins--pebble pins--that Andrew and his wife brought me from Scotland, when they went home last year, _if you do_.... Wasn't he just hor-rid? He didn't want to speak to us--to know us!" Una's face flamed upon the bribe, and was so pretty lit by that fixed star in the eye, that it must have been a zero-hearted nickum who could turn his back upon it. "Hold my hat," said Pem: if she had been a boy, the tone would have meant: "Hold my coat while I thrash him!" Unhesitatingly she stepped to the precipice-brink and measured the distance to that Devil's Chair very coolly and critically with her eye. CHAPTER VIII A USURPER Gathering her short, green skirt about her, for she wore, as on that February day in her father's laboratory, what he called the "nixie green", the sylvan Camp Fire uniform, the inventor's daughter stretched herself breast downward, upon the flat ledge of the Pinnacle's crest. Working her body carefully backward, without another glance at the precipice beneath, she slid warily over the edge, her face to the rock, and down the dozen feet of almost smooth, nearly perpendicular slab, until her feet touched the stone seat of that curved armchair, a deep embrasure in the mountain granite. It was not such a wildly difficult feat then for a girl on her mettle to turn cautiously until her tingling back was pressed hard against the slab, and thus to lower herself to a sitting position on the rocky throne. For that Devil's Chair was a spacious one--fairly so! The seat extended outward at least three feet and was roomy enough to allow of two people standing upright on it at the same time. And what a view old Lucifer must have from it, was Pem's first thought--provided he didn't, as an Irishman would say, reside away from home! Off to the right and left stretched the wonderful landscape of the Berkshire Hills, Massachusetts' Highlands--the Berkshire mountains in May where, afar, a summit snow-cap vied with the driven snows of blossoming fruit trees, lower down; where the pink-shot pearl of a lake gleamed, opal-like, from an emerald setting, and many a silver thread winding, expanding, showed where some madcap river or brook had become with spring a wild thing. "Oh, hurrah! I can really see off to Mount Greylock--old King Greylock--even the steel tower upon it--oh! so plainly," murmured the madcap in the Chair, and nestled triumphantly against its rocky back. "Greylock, cloud-girdled, from his purple throne, A shout of gladness sends, And up soft meadow slopes, a warbling tone, Of Housatonic blends." Yes! she felt as if they were two throned dignitaries, she and Greylock; for she wore the crown of derring do, and King Greylock, still wearing a thin diadem of snow, was enthroned for ever in her imagination as the favored peak from which the first experiments with her father's immortal rocket were to be made. Upon Greylock's crest within a week or two, maybe--at all events before summer dog-day heat clogged and fogged the air--her transcendent dream--or the first part of it--would come to pass: her yearning thumb would press the button and start the little Thunder Bird off, to fly up a couple of hundred miles, or so, with its diary in its cone-shaped head, and send back that novel explorer's log, the little recording apparatus, attached to a black silk parachute--the first, the very first record from the outer realm of space. No wonder that old Greylock sent her back a shout of gladness now, as, squirming in the Chair, she turned her gaze away from the distant mountain to green meadow slopes, to the right, where the broadest silver ribbon, intertwined with the matchless landscape, showed where the Housatonic River, the blue Housatonic, flowed and sang. "Oh, dear! I wouldn't have missed this for anything," she exulted silently. "But the idea of that perfectly horrid boy actually daring me to do it! He didn't mean to, but he did--strutting off, like that, crowing about his climbing! As if a girl were--gingerbread! Well--" indignantly--"that was just one with his passing Una and me when we only wanted to thank him, felt as if we naturally must thank him, for--for.... Bah! I won't think of the horrid wreck now! Or of him, either! I'll be taken up with the view! Isn't it exquisite--sublime? Not interrupted as it is up there on the--Pinnacle's--crest!...--Ah-h!" The little pinched exclamation came when--all too suddenly--she changed the point of view, and looked down. Beneath her yawned the precipice over which her feet dangled--treading air, with never a break between them and that grove of dwarf pine trees more than a hundred feet below, pointed by their glinting rocks. The little trees bowed to her, now, like servants--green pages. But, somehow, their homage made her feel uneasy; it put too great a distance beneath her and them. The crown of daring which she wore did not fit quite so easily. She began to feel like a usurper whose head might at any moment be taken off. And, with that, she decided to vacate! Drawing up her feet much more gracefully than her predecessor had done, she curled her body in the seat and raised it slowly until she was in a standing position, grasping the stone arms of the chair, turned--turned rather sickeningly, to be sure, until her breast was against the broad rock down which she had slid, then reached upward for a handhold by which to climb--to draw herself up. There was one. The nickum--churlish climber--had pulled himself up by it. Like him, she had fought shy of it, sliding down, for fear it should catch in her clothing. A little spur it was, projecting from a slight fissure, what he called a "nick," in the rock, rather more than half-way up,--a good seven feet from the rocky armchair. Breathlessly she reached upward, to grasp it. And, lo! her lips fell apart--like a cleft stone. At the same time her heart slunk out of her body and dropped into the precipice behind her. Her fingers just missed that spur--fell short! They touched it; they could not curl over it--and grip. Flattening herself to a green creeper against the rock which seemed spurning her, wildly she stretched every tendril--every sinew. In vain! Make as long an arm as she could, this daring Pem, her five feet three of slim girlish stature would not become the five feet nine of the daredevil who preceded her! Emergency balks at extension. That right arm, racked, fell limply back. The blue of her eyes, hooking to the spur, if her fingers couldn't, grew glazed like enamel. She felt as if she were tumbling backward already, the daring essence of her, to break her too spunky backbone among those glowing pine-dwarfs far beneath. Spread-eagled against the rock's cruel breast, she turned a blanched face, a convulsed face, upward! CHAPTER IX JACK AT A PINCH "Keep cool! Don't stir! I'll reach you in a moment!" As the cry, the reassuring cry, came ringing down to her, Pemrose felt the blood start again from where it was frozen at the back of her neck and surge through her flattened body, which, greenly spread-eagled against that gray rock, the head turned slightly aside, was not unlike the quaint Indian figure of the Thunder Bird upon a pedestal,--the emblem of her father's invention. As the first blind moment of terror passed--the blankness of the discovery that, strain as she might, she could not reach that spur of the rock, the nearest hand-hold, and draw herself up to safety--she saw two rescuing figures loom out on high. [Illustration: "Keep cool! Don't stir! I'll reach you in a moment!" Page 86.] The first was that of the chauffeur, Andrew, summoned by a piercing cry from Una--Una whose delicate face was white and square now as the marshmallows in the box under her arm, with which she had bribed her friend to the madcap feat of sliding backward down a twelve-foot rock and sitting in the Devil's Chair. And Andrew the Scot saw the danger, heard it skirling in his ears, for he had been brought up among mountains. He did not quite see what good he could do, that staid Church Elder, by joining the girl in the Devil's Seat. But he came of a Campbell clan which never flinched. He was preparing to slide down, himself, when an arm--a left elbow rather--thrust him rudely back. "T-take hold of this rope-end. Throw yourself flat on the ground there. Sit on him, you girls, so that he may not be drawn over!" cried a voice, pointed, vigorous. Pem knew that it was the fiery voice of the nickum, the broad-shouldered youth, who had sat in the chair before her, whose crowing had been responsible for her feat. Her colorless face was turned upward then and she had seen him push up the lower folds of his sweater with his left hand--even while its elbow sent the chauffeur back--and while his right, lightning-like, uncoiled a rope, a lariat, worn under it around his waist. It was then that he shouted to her to "keep cool"; and that she, turning her head aside against the rock, became a living effigy of the Thunder Bird. Not waiting to make the rope fast around his own body--or his body fast to it--he slid down. The next moment he was standing beside her in the chair. "Ha! So the 'pep' was in the wrong box that time," he said coolly. "Yes. Last time it was in the ice-box," snapped she, as coolly, not to be outdone. "So you _did_ remember--know me--us!" "How could I help--remembering--that icy train-wreck?" He was slipping the rope in a noose under her arms. "Perhaps, some day.... Well! I'm glad to be 'Jack at a Pinch' again, anyway." "R-ready!" he shouted then. And Pem was drawn up, to face a Highland squall from Andrew. "Hoot! lassie, an' air ye sech a fechless tomboy that a mon mun keep his een sticket on ye a' the time?" the Scot angrily demanded. "How cud ye be sech a nickum as to try sitting in yon--Deev's Chair?" "Ask--ask the other nickum; he did it first," flung back the rescued one. But under cover of the broad scolding, the other, the Jack at a Pinch--friend in need for the second time--had again slipped off, without a word from either of the girls. "Bah! he is a nickum--a mysterious imp," snapped Pemrose, the fire that smoldered behind her white face leaping up. "Can't be shyness with him; he doesn't look the least bit shy! Oh-h! what a fool I was to give him a chance to help me--save me--in a 'pinch', again." Tears were springing to her eyes now,--tears of reaction. She felt that an eighteen-year-old youth, privileged to save her life twice--it seemed a privilege at the moment--might, at least, have had the manners to let her thank him for it. "Oh! he's the nicest and the--hor-rid-est--boy I ever saw," wailed Una, in tribute to the train-wreck, still a nightmare on her mind. Both girls were dumfounded, as well they might be. Pemrose, with her blue eyes under jet-black lashes--girdled, moreover, with her father's growing fame--Una, with lighter eyelashes and hair, and that little fixed star of angry excitement blazing in one sweet dark eye, they were the kind of girls whose good graces a boy would be the last to spurn, fair even for daughters of Columbia who, democratic in beauty, as in all else, never hatches out an ugly duckling. They gazed in stormy bewilderment now after Jack at a Pinch walking off with his party whom, indeed, he had herded away. Andrew was looking gloweringly after him, too. "An' so he's the loon that sat in the Chair first!" grumbled the still angry chauffeur. "Aw weel--" the "dour" expression upon the speaker's long upper lip softening a little--"weel! he may be ill-trickit, but he's a swanky lad, for a' that. Aye, fegs! an' braw, too." "Oh! he's 'swanky' enough--swaggering--but I don't think he's 'braw', handsome--not with that little stand in his eye--just like Una's, only more so." Pem added the last words under her breath. "But, oh! for goodness sake! let's get away from here," she cried wildly; "over to the other side of the Pinnacle, anywhere--anywhere--so that we won't see him again, before his strutting over what he's done, makes me--makes me--" "Yes--it's pretty on the other side of the hill, easy climbing, much smoother--green and spring-like," assented Una soothingly, pouring balm. "It's all covered with young pine trees and just a few, very few, tall silvery birches. Not rough and rocky as it is this side!" glancing shiveringly down the precipice. "Not another Deev's Chair in sight, I'll be hoping--fegs!" muttered Andrew, picking up a basket which he had carried from the automobile up the low mountainside, and in the late emergency had set down. It contained cocoa, sandwiches, fruit and other toothsome dainties for a picnic supper. "We have permission to make a fire, a Pin-na-cle blaze, to--to boil water and toast our marshmallows. Oh! of all things, all-ll things on this planet--I don't know what we may find on any other--that's 'banner', it's a marshmallows toast out-of-doors--isn't it?" chanted Una, intoning her delight to the trees, the low spruce and pine scrub, as she skipped among them, an evergreen sprite, herself, for she, too, now wore the "bonnie green", the Camp Fire short skirt, middy blouse and captivating Tam-o'-shanter--most nymph-like note in dress for daughters of the woodland. "And--and I just know the dear-est, loveliest pin-ey nook," she went on in a choir-boy sing-song; "half-way down the Pinnacle's softer side it is, where we may build our fire. Halleluiah! I suppose I'll have to get busy and gather fagots, as in Camp Fire rank I'm a Wood Gatherer. Oh, dear! Will you listen to old Andrew. Now what is _he_ singing?" The Scot, indeed, relaxing from prim silence and chauffeur ceremony here upon the Pinnacle's height, with only two young girls to marshal instead of the mechanism of lever and brake--although the former, as he had found to his cost might prove the worse handful of the two--was alternately whistling, with lips drily pursed, and crooning in the burr-like accents which adhered like a thistle to his tongue, his version of a very old song: "Young lassie! Daft lassie, I tell ye the noo, I'm keepin' some fagots, An' a stick, too, for you! "Singing whack fol de ri do! De ri do! "A lassie, a dog, And an auld rowan tree, The mair that you thwacks 'em, The better they be!" "'Thwacks 'em!' Pshaw! he's flinging that in my direction--having a fling at me--for sitting in the Devil's Chair," laughed Pem, but the laughter was bitter, two-edged. "Oh! Una," she burst forth shakily, "as long--as long's ever I live, I'll wish I hadn't done it, letting--letting that Jack at a Pinch, as he called himself, that big, boorish boy, play friend in need to me-e again. Ugh-h!" Her stung lips quivered and were twisted, partly upon the after-taste of terror. "Humph! forget it--oh-h! forget it," caroled the younger girl. "See that you don't make a trouble out of it, for trouble is a hor-rid kettle-o'-fish for the troublers--see!... But--listen! Listen! Surely that's singing--singing from somewhere--_other_ singing!" She paused on tiptoe, a green dryad, one little hand, fair as a flower-petal, curled about her startled ear. But Pem was for the moment comfort-proof. "Bah! 'Tisn't quite so easy to forget," she murmured, bitterly. Her less fragile fists were mounted one upon another under her chin as if to hold her head up. For the first time in her life she felt as if she were being asked to drink a cup of humiliation--she, Toandoah's little pal--and she made wry faces over even a sip. "Humph! Doesn't it seem queer--queer--outlandish?" she snapped, bolstering the piqued head higher with each passionate adjective. "Here for three months, ever since February--since I recovered consciousness after that freezing wreck--I've been longing, oh! longing to meet again the boy whose chaff, whose very chaff, warmed one amid the horrors.... You didn't hear it; you were too far gone. And, _now_!" The little fists lashed out. "Bah! Who could ev-er dream that he'd turn out such a 'chuff', as the boys say--an un-civ-il chuff?... Una! it's never--it isn't, it can't be Camp Fire Girls?" "It is! It is! I told you I heard singing." The answer was shrill with delight as the wiry note of the little black-poll warbler, nesting near. "Why! Why! Goodness! That's what I hurled at _him_; at his crowing, cock-a-hoop back!" The older girl's face softened, melted into whimsicality now,--into a freakish surprise that encircled, like a golden ring, her wide-open mouth. Up--up from the Pinnacle's softer side, its tender, heavenly side, the chant came ringing, the merry chant and challenge: "Then--then don't take a nap, For we're on the map!" "Camp Fire Girls! Camp Fire Girls! Here on the Pinnacle 'map'!" Pem caught her breath wildly. Never--oh! never was a turn of the tide more welcome. CHAPTER X CAMP FIRE SISTERS Never was a diversion more welcome! "We're on the map, R-ready to prove it with snap!" Snap was in the very sunset as the evening breeze learned the song. As for the inventor's daughter, her joyous relief was now a hop and now a dance, anon a pine-caught hullabaloo, as she gleefully turned her back upon the Devil's Chair and nickum memories--her face to the glowing sun of sisterhood. "Camp Fire sisters! Camp Fire sisters! Was ever such luck?" she cried. "Oh! come, let's find them--let's join them." "Oh--let us!" assented Una, her excitement, too, running like wildfire through the wood. And, presently, the two city girls, wafting themselves airily over bowlders, threading their way in and out among pigmy pines, with here and there a needled patriarch among them, came upon a forest scene that might well have wakened Queen Mab from her sleep in a cobweb net and made her think that some, at least, of the fairy dreams with which she inspired mortals had come true. A dozen, and more, of sylvan figures, the green tassels of their Tam-o'-shanters waving like the tasseled green of the cinnamon fern flitted busily in and out among their passive brothers, the trees, not pines here, but a few beautiful stripling birches planted in a sunny spot. To these white-stemmed saplings, tall and taper-like, some of the nymphs, maidens from thirteen to seventeen, were playing fairy godmother, affixing to their slender trunks placards proclaiming the exaction of dire forfeits from any wanton human churl found guilty of mutilating a silver birch tree, stripping it even of an inch of tender skin, thus entailing upon it decay and death. Other of the maidens were gathering fagots for an outdoor fire to the tune of a version of Andrew's song, not without humor in the present crisis: "Singing whack fol de ri do, 'Twill comfort their souls, To get such fine fagots, When they've got no coals!" One, brisk spoon in hand, was busily stirring some fairy brew, batter rather--an older figure superintending, Queen Mab herself maybe, having a golden sunburst embroidered upon the heaving emerald of her breast. Now! to these came forth two other maidens, emerging, breathless, from the Pinnacle pines, and made the hand-sign of fire. Up went gracefully a dozen green arms, in charming tableau, as the woodland nymphs paused in their work, their curving fingers typifying the warmth of the curling flame behind the finger--the Camp Fire welcome to heart and hearth. A genial flame which the Guardian--she of the golden maturity--put into winsome words, as she approached. "Welcome--thrice welcome,--Sisters!" she cried. "We are the White Birch Group of Lenox, at present engaged in protecting our younger brothers, the little trees which we planted ourselves. I am Tanpa--signifying Birch--Guardian of the Group; in everyday life just Myra Seaver." "And my name is Lorry--Pemrose Lorry--my ceremonial name Wantaam, a Wise Woman." Here the spokeswoman for the two strangers had the grace to blush, remembering the Devil's Chair. "And this--this is my friend, Una Grosvenor, who has just been initiated into 'Camp Fire.' We belong to the Woo-hi-ye--Victory--Group of Clevedon which, you know, is only a hundred miles, or so, from here; and we--" But Tanpa's face had become suddenly fascinated--illumined--to rival the sunburst upon her breast. "'Pemrose!'" She echoed the words softly, with transient glow. "How novel--and pretty! But--Lorry! Oh-h! you don't mean to say--you don't tell me--that you're anything to the great inventor, of whom the whole world is talking: the professor who has invented an apparatus to--to travel anywhere through the air, through space--even to reach the moon?... Ah-h, there she is now! I wonder if she's listening to us!" It was, indeed, at that moment that Yachune herself, the Silver Queen, showed her placid face above the Pinnacle pines, pale on the rim of the waning sunset. Did she dream of the Earth-valentine in store for her, mild old Mammy Moon? No knowing! The Pinnacle, the green Pinnacle, towered until it seemed very near to her with the mounting pride in one girl's breast. "Toandoah, the inventor, is my father--oh! Professor Lorry, I mean. The Thunder Bird--the record-breaking Thunder Bird--is his invention. I call it that; an ordinary rocket he says it is." Well! the sky was in Pem's eyes, of a truth, now, enough blue to make a Blue Peter, the flag of embarking, the flag of adventure; no rudeness of "nickum", earthbound, boastful, could ever humiliate her again, with Toandoah's emblem in her heart. Yet, as she felt the Guardian's saluting kiss upon her young forehead, so starred by fate, as she was introduced, one by one, to her sisters of the White Birch Group and was invited, she the center of a flattering fuss, to sit with them by a Pinnacle blaze, instead of being at the pleasant pains to build her own fire, her thoughts would turn back--turn back every now and again, to Jack at a Pinch! To the quick-witted, surefooted youth, so daring, if so unmannerly--such a chuff--who had not even waited to make the rope fast around his own body before sliding down the rock to the Devil's Chair a second time--and who had, a second time too, climbed, unaided. But she said nothing of him--or of her recent escapade. And she was glad that Una didn't! Instead, she bathed every sore spot left by the experience in the glory of telling her new friends all that she might tell of the romantic, space-conquering Thunder Bird, while, above, the Man in the Moon, eavesdropping, learned of the surprise in store for him. Perhaps he cribbed some hint, too, from the excited girlish tongue of the demonstration so soon to take place upon Mount Greylock, when the invention would be tried out; and lastly of the thrilling invitation to the White Birch Group to be present--not then--but on that Great Day, far ahead, when the real Thunder Bird, full-fledged with magic, red-eyed, fiery-tailed, would embark on its hundred-hour flight moonward, as Pem was sure it would start, no matter where the gold-mine to equip it came from. "Well! we seem, truly--truly--to be treading the 'margin of moonshine land', don't we?" said the Guardian dreamily, enchantment in her voice. "I--almost--feel as if, some day, we might be inviting the Man in the Moon to supper with us here on the Pinnacle, to shoot himself back in the small hours. Joking apart, it does draw the Universe very near together, doesn't it--open the road to such wonderful possibilities!" Her hands came together as she gazed, that graceful, green-clad woman, speechless, transfigured, along the aërial high-road on which the Thunder Bird would first pay toll by dropping its golden egg, its record, off--off beyond the low night-clouds to the mysterious sky-ways where daylight now mated with dusk and the lunar lamps were being softly lighted, even to the gateway of Mammy Moon herself. Throbbing, she flushed from head to heel, as she thought of the two hundred and thirty thousand miles to be traversed before the first barrier between the heavenly bodies had been let down--and the Thunder Bird had won home. "It's--too--gr-reat for words," she said, a break in her voice now. "Well-ll! if we are not playing hostess to the Man in the Moon--quite yet--at least, we seem to be entertaining angels unawares, with the latest rumors from the sky," laughingly. "How about supper now? Later on maybe we can show you two dear girls that we--as a Group--can do something with red fire, too, a very earth-bound something, mere child's play compared to the future of your celestial Bird. Ha! But--what's--that?" And then, for the first time in its yet unwritten story, the Thunder Bird had its nose put out of joint by a modest little earth-bird--a hermit, too, as it would be among the starry spaces--by a little, brown-backed evening thrush singing its good-night song in a thicket of scrub near by. "O wheel-y-will-y-will-y-_il-l_!" it caroled, as a naturalist has translated the wonderful, silver-sweet prelude of the master-singer of the woods, the nightingale of America, rising, trilling until--now--with the voice-throwing magic of the ventriloquist, its song seemed to come from quite another corner of the thicket, while girls' hearts melted in their breasts, as, climbing a maypole of ecstasy, the notes trembled--fluted--upon a gossamer pinnacle of gladness at the close of a perfect day. "Oh-h!" There was no breath in girlish bodies for more than the one answering note of passion. No wonder the Thunder Bird's nose was out of joint. Earth has a magic all her own. But was it ventriloquism at large? Had the hermit power to throw his melody right into the center of the ring of girls--so to answer himself? It was the visitors' turn now for a stupendous sensation. Almost as airy and flute-like, though not as liquidly sweet and soaring, were bird-notes which answered back from within the very halo of Pemrose herself; and she turned, with her heart in her throat, to see who--who had the thrush in her pocket. CHAPTER XI MOTHER EARTH'S ROMANCE Surely, it was the sweetest grace ever said. A duet between a hermit thrush and a Camp Fire Girl! Pinnacle vespers! If gladness did not flow freely now, then human hearts were a desert! Instead, they were enchanted ground, those girlish hearts, carried away by a sense that Mother Earth did not, after all, have to go outside her own atmosphere for her fairy-land,--her golden crown of romance. "Wheel-y-will-y-will-y-il!" preluded again the little brown hermit-lover, with the rufous tail and ruffled, speckled breast, from an evergreen twig of the low pine-scrub. And, once more, the aping response, the counterfeit thrush-note, came from some little branch of that goodly green tree known as the White Birch Group. "Who's doing it? Oh-h! who's doing it--answering?" breathed Pemrose Lorry, feeling thrown into the shade with her Thunder Bird; which wasn't altogether bad for her, either. "Oh! it's _you_, is it? Where's the whistle--the bird-caller's whistle?" "Here. Look!" A maiden shy as a hermit-thrush herself, with rufous lights in her sleek brown hair, and tiny, red-brown specks flecking the iris of her eyes--corresponding to the many freckles upon her small face, with a luminous quality added--opened a volunteering palm. In its concave hollow, also marbled with sun-spots, lay the magic whistle, the two gleaming tin disks about the size of a fifty-cent piece, joined one upon another with an eighth of an inch distance between them, through whose simple medium the music in the heart of a fourteen-year-old girl had so attuned itself to a little of the melody in the breast of the thrush as to draw--actually draw--the hermit himself forth on to a rock on the edge of the thicket, looking eagerly, a trifle doubtfully, for the raw singer--the mate, who had answered him. "Romeo and Juliet!" laughed the Guardian. "Such a dear little feathered Romeo, with a beak lined with pure gold--and a fairy oboe in his breast! Juliet--" she lightly touched the brown-plumaged maiden--"Juliet answering from her balcony, this mound!" "Only a parrot Juliet who can coin such shabby notes to answer him with!" breathed the girl, shyly nursing her whistle. "No doubt he's saying to himself: 'Shucks! Where's that hermit--or hermitess--'" merrily, "'with the frog in her throat, or the great, big worm?'" "Oh! do-o try it again, anyway?" pleaded the visitors together. "It's won-der-ful! We'll be as still--as still as a nun's chapel!" And obligingly, once more, the human thrush lifted up her notes of speckled sweetness compared to the silver purity of the strength which answered, the hermit fluting passionately upon his rock: "the song complete, With such a wealth of melody sweet, As never the organ pipe could blow And never musician think or know!" Carried beyond himself--perhaps after all, he was a lonely hermit--he actually hopped from his rock, unalarmed, towards the firelight, when--when the concert was suddenly interrupted by a woodland gorgon! By Andrew who, rearing his six feet two of gaunt, hurlothrumbo length from a fern-bed, hooking stick in hand, suddenly lifted from the embers a boiling kettle. "Fegs! 'twas like to scald somebody wi' its daffy simmer," he explained apologetically to the Guardian, being, in his capacity of chauffeur, used to camping emergencies among these picturesque hills--so like, in many respects, the wilds of his Scottish Highlands where the Lady of the Lake, an original Camp Fire Girl, shot her skiff across the blue-eyed loch. "My certy! but 'twas pretty to see yon _merle_, though!" he murmured, having restored the kettle to sanity. "Fine it minded me, ma'am, o' the time when I was a boy, huntin' like a nickum for the nests o' mavis an' merle--blackbird an' thrush--when I'd rise 'wi' lark an' light!' Fegs!" Scotch humor ripping chauffeur silence, "yon was a thing to make a sober body young again; a while agone I don't know but I was feelin' like the last o' pea-time; an'--an', noo, I'm a green pea again,... or I would be but for the one sair memory," added Andrew, the true-penny, under his breath. "Yes--yes, and you had to go jumping around like a parched pea, and frightening the beautiful merle, the thrush, away!" complained Una, aggrieved. "Oh! how did you ever learn to mimic its call, at all?" she cried, catching at the wrist of the human merle, now very practically engaged in toasting bacon-strips on the end of a stick. "My brother taught me; my only brother, Stud--Studley--Studart they nickname him in camp--I don't know why," was the fluttering response. "A corruption of Stoutheart, I should say!" supplied the Guardian, now busily frying flapjacks. "Of all the Boy Scouts in my husband's troop, he's the lion-heart," laughingly. "So I understand!" "Yes, oh! yes, but he's so-o nice, with it," cooed the merle's brown-eyed "mate." "He has never--oh! never--squeezed me out of anything, just because I was a girl; always said that two--two--could hunt together and make good headway!" softly. "And so they can: and so they will, when it comes to the grandest quest of all, the hunt for truth and justice at the polls, voting side by side! Girls! Dear--girls!" The eyes of Tanpa, the Guardian, were ablaze now with more than the firelight's glow, as she tossed her browned cakes on to a platter. "_Dear_ girls! In the new, the wider future before us--soon to confront all of you--let us bring to it our Camp Fire hall-mark: the hall-mark of the woods: purity of the Pinnacle's breath, the 'pep' of the outdoor dawn--tenderness of the twilight, when we feel that God is near!... And now--and now! let us sing our grace, not for this food alone, but for the new manna which has fallen for us--the glorious manna of opportunity." "If we have earned the right to eat this bread, happy are we, but if unmerited Thy blessings come, may we more faithful be!" On wings of faith the moved chant floated forth, led by the girl-thrush in a sweet soprano, supported by the sonorous roll of the Pinnacle organ, the murmuring pine trees; and the voices of the slender tree choir, the slim, white-tunicked boy-birches, bore it aloft--aloft to Heaven. "So you're not only gifted as a 'merle', you sing as a girl, too!" said Pemrose presently, nestling nearer to the maiden with the whistle in her green breast-pocket. "You must love birds very much in order to imitate a thrush-song like that." "Well! my ceremonial name, as a Camp Fire Girl, signifies a little brown bird of the woods; so I thought it was 'up to me' to learn to converse with my kind!" was the half-shy, half-spicy answer. "My brother Stud and I have no end of fun, now in the early summer when the birds have just arrived, and are mating, calling them around our camp." "Here--here, let me explain that we have a sort of Community camp for boys and girls about three miles from here, on the wooded shores of The Bowl, that lovely, egg-shaped lake among the hills," put in Tanpa, an air-drawn picture in her glowing tones. "There are two big bungalows, a couple of hundred yards apart, one for the Troop, one for the Group! Of course, we can't occupy them all the time, at present, not until school is closed, but we constantly go out there over night--to watch the summer coming--and for week-ends." "Oh! the lake and the woods around it are more wonderful now than at any other season of the year," put in one of the older girls, an Assistant-Guardian. "And we can always keep warm, you know, even if there is a cold spell in May, because the boys chop wood for us." "Yes, and we do their mending; oh! and quite often the shoe pinches--the stocking, I mean--when the holes are just haggles!" The eyebrows of a fair-haired, pretty girl of fifteen were ruefully arched, over eyes of merriment. "But we do--do have such fun at our Get Togethers--our picnics and parties," went on she, whose ceremonial name was Aponi the Butterfly of the mountain group. "Hur-ra-ah! There are two such Get Togethers coming off quite soon now--one the day after to-morrow--Saturday--a picnic at Snowbird Cave, to explore some other caves afterwards upon the further side of the river, the blue Housatonic." This contribution came, piecemeal, from several feasting mouths together. "Oh! the Housatonic--blue--Hous-a-tonic!" Pemrose bent demurely over her flapjack and cocoa, curling her toes under her as she recalled her view of it from the Devil's Chair. "And what about the second Get Together--when is that to be?" she asked. "A week from Saturday: _Jubilate!_ It's our anniversary day as a White Birch Group when we hold a sort of carnival in he afternoon in honor--in honor of the de-ar birch trees just bursting into leaf." Aponi fluttered like green tree-hair, herself. "And that's to be followed--whoopee!--by a party: a real, full-blown June dance in the evening--to which all the boys are invited. And--and, maybe, some girls not of our Groups will find an invitation tucked into their stockings, too," slily. "But for the picnic this week the Boy Scouts are hosts." "I guess, if they knew there were two strange girls in camp--such girls--they'd scuttle to 'come across' with an invitation, too!" laughed the one slangy member inseparable from every group, whose talk is the long stitch in the thread of conversation. "Do you think they would? Oh! I don't know about that. Boys are such--such griffins, sometimes." Wormwood was in the eye of Pemrose, pointing the accusation, a new and gloomy pessimism born of the Devil's Chair and Jack at a Pinch. "_Ours_ aren't!" It was the voice of the little girl-thrush lifted in blue-jay belligerence now. "Our boys aren't queer fish--not a bit!" rising to hot defense of Stud, the Stoutheart, who even in callow youth, was of opinion that Life in every phase was a game for two--in which two, of differing sexes, could hunt together and make good headway. "To be sure, they do love to get off jokes on each other--and occasionally on us," went on Jessie, the brown-haired merle in maiden form. "They have a society of older boys in their camp called the Henkyl Hunters' Brigade. My brother Stud--he's a patrol leader--belongs to it. And they go on the war-path occasionally--and publish a bulletin about their doings." "What's a henkyl?" Una's mouth was wide open; upon its gusty breath rode horned toads and plated lizards, in imaginary solution. "A henkyl! Oh! if you ask _them_, they say it's a freak of an animal that they hunt up and down in the woods, trying to get its scalp, or--or catch it alive. Which they seldom or never do!" Jessie's eyes sparkled. "Stud says a whole 'henkyl' is hard to capture; it's so sure to shed its horns or its teeth just as you pounce upon it." Pem was staring intently at the speaker, her black brows drawn together over eyes as speculatively blue as ever they had been in Toandoah's laboratory when grasping, or trying to, grave problems of the air. "Oh! I know. I know!" she cried suddenly, the blue breaking up in the firelight into a harlequin patchwork of merry gleams. "A henkyl! Why-y! it's a joke. A joke that they're forever chasing up and down, trying to get a laugh against somebody,--that absurd brigade!" "Companionship with a Thunder Bird has sharpened your wits," smiled the Guardian. "A practical joke it is, that most elusive thing to pull off whole, point and all, with the laugh entirely on one side! Well! we mustn't give them any occasion to turn the chase against us, air their wit in our direction, by failing in our demonstration presently--the signaling practice to which we challenged them; eh, Tomoke?" "No, indeed!" A sixteen-year-old girl, gray-eyed, vibrant with energy, mobile as the Lightning, the mettlesome Lightning, from which she took her Camp Fire name, spoke up spiritedly. "We're going to flash a message right across the valley, over to old Round-top, that sleepy, dark mountain, a couple of miles away, just as soon as the daylight is all faded out," she explained. "Oh, ho! That's what the Guardian meant when she spoke of showing us something--a display--with red fire, eh?" gasped Pemrose. "How are you going to signal--with what code?" "Morse code--and a good, fat two-foot pine-knot, oozing with resin!" smiled the Lightning, vivid with inspiration. "How--how about sending over this message: 'Two strange girls in camp; you ought to meet them'?" "Lovely! That will hit the mark!" came the appreciative chorus, to the song of logs. "Then--then you'll see old Round-top wake up, quick's a wink and 'come across' with an invitation--an invitation to that banner picnic the day after to-morrow!" CHAPTER XII OLD ROUND-TOP "C. F. G.! C. F. G.! We are the Camp Fire C. F. G.! Oh! none with us can compare, For we looked over And picked the clover, And the World's lit up With our Camp Fires everywhere!" "And, fegs! wi' an aging, sober body like mysel', if he isn't a-picking o' the clover blossoms, he's a-smelling o' them the night," softly soliloquized Andrew, the chauffeur, as he listened to that halcyon song around the Pinnacle blaze--feeling barred out of Clover Land himself, as he lay among the ferns, because of the "one sair memory", the whiff of heather ever and anon wafted to his nostrils, as it seemed, from the grave of a fifteen-year-old lassie away back in Scotland. "Hum-m! if 'tweren't for that, I could maist fling out an' dance the 'Rigs o' Barley' a-watching o' those happy lasses," he whimsically confessed in the ear of a king fern. "I could, for sure, same's we used to dance it in the glen around a bonfire!" But if the heather in his heart, reinforcing chauffeur primness, checked even the first lashing kick of a Highland Fling, it did not restrain him, that grave Church Elder, from taking part later in something fully as giddy; a wild and storming torchlight procession. "Now! what we need, girls, is a good r-rich pine-knot, with a juicy, resinous knot in it, that will burn ten minutes, anyway, for signaling purposes," said Tomoke, the personified Lightning, as the "C. F. G." proclamation over, the magic moment came for the flashing of the light of this particular camp fire in speaking fire from mountain to mountain--across the mile and a half of intervening valley. That inflammable knot was not hard to find. Split with the toy axe which the girl who had won an honor bead for signaling carried at her belt--a modern Maid Marion, at home in all woodcraft--it blazed, transplendent, a foot-long flambeau, searching the Pinnacle's darkest nooks, winning sleepy birds from their slumbers, calling upon them to follow too, as Tomoke, nimble of foot as her aërial namesake, presently dashed up the hill, with it held high! Brilliant as a starshell--where near-by objects were concerned--it counted the needles upon the little, awed pine trees. It painted the wild excitement upon leaping girls' faces, lit dancing Jack-o'-lanterns in their eyes as, scrambling, they followed the light-shod leader--gold-slippered by the torch--in a breathless tumble-up over rock and needled carpet, amid scandalized bough and shamefaced crag and little, blinking torrent. It turned to nocturnal dewdrops the bright eyes of the birds,--scandalized, too, yet resolved, at all costs, to come in on the fun! Robins, flame-breasted in the glow, a black-throated green warbler--blossom of the night--a purple grackle, its boat-tail stiff as a fan-shaped rudder, and, "leggeddy-last," a cawing crow, they circled on low wing after the brilliant torch,--all pecking at the wonder in the air! It caught the whooping amazement on Andrew's smooth-shaven upper lip, shimmering through a veil of anxiety lest, somewhere, there might be another "Deev's Chair" around, or a madcap lassie to sit in it, as, with an irresistible "Hoot mon!" he brought up the rear of the fantastic revel; the rush of green-clad maidens, the elfin tassels of their Tam-o'-shanters waving, and of demented birds for the Pinnacle's tallest crag. Poised upon that gray rock-shelf, high above the ground, her slight face with the shining eyes, framed in the radiant torch-light as in a golden miniature, the signaler's right arm held the blazing knot with its ragged, foot-long flame at arm's length above her head, then described a brief quarter circle to the left with it, quick, snappy--once, twice--the arm being extended on a level with the young shoulder so slim, so stiffened! "See!--See! That stands for I: two dots! I, three times repeated, gives the call," breathed the Guardian at Pem's elbow, her mature face a gold-set miniature of excitement, too. "Oh--oh! I wonder if they'll 'get us', those boys--those joking Henkyl Hunters?" The throbbing question was on every girlish lip. Eyes burned, like the torch, across the valley. The mountains were falling asleep in their night-caps of mist. But suddenly one of them, far away, grim and dim, lifted an eyelid--and responded. The drowsy valley caught its breath--as old Round-top winked back. Caught its breath with many a waking scintilla of light in the pointed flash of pool and stream! A momentary, broken arc, a shattered rainbow dividing the flood of dusk above from the gulf of darkness below; and then--and then the triumphant cry in each gasping throat: "They've got us! They see us! Now--now for the message: 'Two strange girls with us. You....'" But there the Lightning's lore suddenly gave out, her signaling memory, as the news was vivaciously transmitted by staccato dot and lengthier dash, the latter being the same quarter-circle once described in a single movement to the right. Over the valley the message was hung up. It was hung up in Pem's heart, too,--and the honor, the fair grace, of boyhood with it. If old Round-top unhesitatingly played up, "came across" with an invitation--an invitation to that alluring Get Together at the winter palace of the Snowbirds, then she would feel that a nickum's rudeness was atoned for--and Jack at a Pinch might go his graceless road, never to prove a friend in need to her again--not if she knew it! "Invite them to the picnic ... and don't forget the cocoa!" The valley fairly bristled with the promptness of it--the skilled directness of the message, so rapidly, so spontaneously given that the poised Lightning on the crag was hard-pressed to keep up with the meaning--to read the handwriting of fire and give the interpretation thereof. Old Round-top had seized the shining hour. The Henkyl Hunters were no "chuffs", no conundrums, with the strange riddle of incivility up a sleeve. "'Invite them to the picnic--and don't forget the cocoa!'" Tanpa laughed. "Just like them! We did promise to lay in a fresh supply of sundries, as we pass through the town to-night--if there's still a store left open. And that reminds me, girlies, that it's getting late. We have no right to keep the birds out of bed any longer, demoralizing the feathered world." But the Lightning had recovered its morale, its memory, prompted by a Morse code-card excitedly snatched from a green breast pocket and explored by the light of the dwindling torch. "Invite--your--friends--to--our--d-a-n-c-e," slowly spelled out Tomoke, giving back diamond for diamond. She was beginning upon the word "A-ll", but the pine-knot winked itself out in a dazzlement on "dance,"--in an effulgence of sparks that fell like golden rain upon the hearts of the visitors. "Will it--will it be an outdoor affair--a piazza dance?" gasped Una. "Oh-h! I do love.... Now! Andrew!" She broke off suddenly at the chauffeur's declaration that it was "magerful" show, "yon fire-talk", that he never expected to see the like carried on by "tids o' lassies", but that it really wasn't in him to stand there any longer rolling his eyes over it, like a duck in thunder. "Now, Andrew!" reasoned his employer's young daughter. "You know that you've driven my father and mother, and Professor Lorry, too, to a dinner-party, where the professor is to give a talk about the Thunder Bird--and oh! may its fiery tale be a long one to-night--you won't have to fetch them home for another two hours yet." "Hoot! It's saft as peppermint. I am wi' ye, Miss Una, but it's time for all lassies to gang home," returned the other with paternal insistence, lifting his cap in questioning appeal to the Guardian. "He's right, dear. _We_ must be starting for the home camp, too--just as soon as we've seen that our fire is thoroughly extinguished," said Tanpa. "Our paths don't lie in the same direction, but we hope they often will in future. As to the dance, it will be a piazza affair, if the evening is fine--the festive wind-up of an exciting day, our White Birch anniversary which we celebrate with rites and symbolic dancing, in honor of our patron, our woodland lady, the leafing birch tree." "How lovely; per-fect-ly love-ly!" flowed from the visitors, both, in a silvery ripple. "Well! how about your spending a few days in camp with us then--at our camp on the Bowl--if your elders are willing?" went on the gracious grown-up woman, with warmth as golden as the sunburst on her breast. "We'll let Pemrose Lorry plant the tallest birch sapling in honor of the Thunder Bird. Long--long before it's a full-grown tree, let us hope, the Bird will have made its great migration, crossing, not a continent, but space! And now, dears, _au revoir_! to meet again at Snowbird Cave." CHAPTER XIII COBWEB WEED "Well! you certainly are the laziest bunch; you'd carry a whole bakery in your knapsacks rather than do any cooking--especially if there are girls around. Lazy as Ludlam's dog you are! Next time--next time, I'll set you to peeling potatoes." It was the chaffing voice of the Scoutmaster, Malcolm Seaver, which spoke, addressing some twenty scouts who were scattered about the vine-draped entrance to Snowbird Cave, where, yearly, the little gray-white junco birds--otherwise snow-birds--fluffy balls, with no heads to speak of, wintered among the low hemlocks near the cavern's mouth and fed upon the spicy hemlock bark. "I--I wonder if you could tell me of what breed Ludlam's dog was, sir? If he could burn up daylight chasing his tail any better than this crowd can, lolling around on a picnic, he must be the limit." The answer came with the low, drawling laugh of Stud Bennett, otherwise Studart, brother to Jessie, the "merle's" calling mate, who was himself playing fiddle-faddle in the sunshine, after a four-mile hike. "Humph! Well, _I'm_ off to locate a spring--where's the blue bucket? When I get back you'll _have_ to turn to, you dummies, build a fire and unpack the commissariat--otherwise rolls by the dozen. The 'duff' and Frankforts are in the 'Baby', I guess." The Scoutmaster shot a glance at a big, brown duffle bag reposing on a mound, capable of containing ten bags of rations, each pertaining to individual scouts on a long hike, yet hardly sufficient to transport the "cates", the luncheon for eighteen Camp Fire Girls and twenty scouts, plus a couple of invited guests, on a Together picnic. "Are there any boys and girls who are dying to come with me, to prospect for water?" he put forth alluringly, to the rhythmic swing of the big water bucket in his right hand, painted bright blue. There was an instant volunteering flutter among certain green-clad girls and lads in khaki, breezing up from the grass where they had languished; others held back. "I'd rather explore the cave--I love creepy caves--and we haven't been half through it yet," said Pemrose Lorry. Forthwith Stud, the Henkyl Hunter, decided that cave-exploiting was the pastime for him; there was rarely a younger boy--Studart was barely fifteen--who did not become the captive knight of this older girl with the sky in her eyes under jet-black lashes! Jessie, sister of Stoutheart, she of the thrush-song in her heart, wanted to be near to the girl who was mate to a Thunder Bird, too; and others were drawn by the same abstract birdlime--or else the bat-stirred cave had lures. "There--there's a secret lobby in it," said Stud, "a dark, rocky passage leading off from that queer black, three-cornered fissure in the right wall, ten feet from the ground--I guess nobody has ever explored it; nobody has cracked the nut of what's behind that triangular crevice, so high up!" "Come--come; that sounds exciting, very exciting!" remarked Tanpa, the Guardian, remaining behind too, as chaperon. But her husband wheeled upon his jog-trot off after water, swinging his galvanized iron bucket after a manner to give the air the blues. "Well! I wouldn't try to crack the nut, solve the riddle, of what's behind that queer-shaped crevice, Stud," he said. "It's black--black as a tinker's pot in there. You wouldn't know what you were heading into!" "Aw, gammon! I wouldn't be afraid to tackle that fissure--find out what's back of it--although I'm not a Tin Scout--ha! ha!--out with the whole toyshop to-day; all my monkey trappings," exploded a rough voice suddenly from among a trio of clownish-looking boys who hovered, vulture-like, on the edge of the picnic ground, transfixing with a sanguinary eye the Baby, whose soft heart was of blueberry "duff." "An' I tell you what's more, if I were to climb up an' in there, I'd trust to my own 'bean' and a few matches, 'thout any gimcracks," craked the boastful voice further, the special gewgaw on which the braggart fixed his eye, at the moment, being the little Baldwin safety lamp, four inches high, which Stud was just lighting, attached to the front of his olive-green scout hat. "Tr-rust to your own 'bean'--your own head--an' what's inside it! Well! I'll admit it's fiery enough," flouted the Henkyl Hunter, piqued even in the presence of girls into giving back tit for tat. "But you're carrying too many eggs in one basket, let me tell you, and you're likely enough to take a leap in the dark an' smash 'em all." "Ha! Am I now," snarled the other, resenting the implication that his brick-red head was a brash basket into which to pack all his chances of safety, such as were not anchored to the poor stay of a few fickle matches. "Am I now-ow?" he chortled, very red in the face--and tongue-tied--as he shadowed the picnic party through the cave. At his wits' end for a verbal retort, he presently proceeded, after the manner of his kind, to throw a stone in his own garden. "See here! you kids, if you'll let me stand on your shoulders, you two, I'll give those Tin Scouts an eye-opener," he said, retaliating after a manner to hurt only himself, as he addressed the two younger boys with him, his eyes cast up to that mysterious fissure, outlined, a rocky tripod, above his head, of which the Scoutmaster had remarked that all behind it was black as a tinker's pot. Into that ebony pot, forthwith, climbing by the willing step-ladder of his companions' bodies, Ruddy, the rashling, presently thrust his head--that flaming head with all his chances in it! His body followed, finding entrance through the crevice amidships, so to speak, where it broadened out to some three feet across from the tapering point of the lowest corner. "Oh-h! look at him. Do look at him!" panted the girls, held up in their search for pale-faced cave flowers and strange fungi by the "derring-do" act. "Gracious! some of you scouts ought to stop him--re-al-ly ought to stop him," shrilled Jessie, catching her breath at the shock of darkness visible in the yawning fissure's mouth, where the brief flicker of a match now chased bogies. "Humph! We can't head him off, Jess." Her brother disclaimed responsibility with a shrug--while the little lamp winked sarcastically from his hatbrim--but in the heedful tone of the boy who had been trained to feel--as Toandoah did with his little petticoated pal--that Life was a game in which two could hunt together, even upon the trail of a Thunder Bird, and make good headway. "We can't turn him back!" Stud shrugged his khaki shoulders. "But he'll strike a blind bargain in there. Ha! There goes another 'niggling' match!" A frippery flame, indeed, its reflection flickered a moment, a gold tooth in the fissure's grinning mouth--darkness followed! Two or three of the boy scouts--those who did not, like Stud, show incredulity, sarcasm gleaming, hawk-eyed, from a ruby lamp hooked to a hatband, and from a level eye beneath it--held their breath, dazzled; for the moment beaten at their own brave game of exploring. So did the girl who had been piqued and dared into sitting in the Devil's Chair--with a sheer abyss beneath her! Again did her wide-open, staring eyes, under their black lashes, sport a Blue Peter, the flag of adventure. "Oh! he's plucky, anyhow. I wonder what he'll find in there?" her palms were laid together upon a spicy filling of excitement. "He really is daring--awfully daring, you know!" "Ha! Courage cobweb-weed!" muttered Stud laconically. "Well--well, he'll have tears in his eyes before I go after him!" And--with that--there was the rasp of a third "niggling" match, faintly-heard, far in, a momentary reflection, a tiny glance-coal, in the fissure's leering mouth! And--and, following that, a shriek! A shriek, headlong, sinking and pitching--dying like a falling star, as if some clutch were stifling it. "Hea-vens!" The girls, blanching, shrank against the opposite cave-wall, which shuddered behind them. A bat, flying low, a winged Fear, brushed Tanpa's cheek, as she stood, transfixed,--and her cry was almost as hysterical as theirs. In the blackness of that Tinker's Pot behind the looming fissure, were there other things--other things besides a boy, a broken braggart of a boy? Was Death in the pot with him? Had he sipped of its mystery--only to perish? Death--it seemed a raving possibility--in the shape of some wild animal, perhaps--a live, a clutching claw! Tales were always current among the mountains, trappers' tales--and most of them airy "traveler's yarns", too--of strange tracks seen in lonely spots, of lynx and bobcat; and even of the young and roving panther. To be sure, a three-cornered tunnel, the second floor back of a lofty cave, would be the last place to look for such an ambush, unless there was some fly-trap opening to it from above. But there might be! Boys and girls, both, their blood flamed upon the fear, then froze--until the silence, the bat-churned cave silence, was hung with icicles above them. Then, once more, it was ripped from on top by that perishing shriek--passing strange, remote--but now it was as if the fissure's three-cornered mouth filled with it, faintly gibbered the one word: "C-caught!" "'_Caught!_' Oh! Stud, you warned him; it's his own doing. Let those other two boys--his friends--climb up to him! Well--if you feel--you--must?" Jessie's cry gibbered in agony in her throat, too, liquid as the thrush-tone in terror for its mate. But it struck a high note at the end. For Stud's hand was groping mechanically for the bright little lamp above his forehead, as if for inspiration, his left for the lariat at his waist, in defiance of his threat that the desperado in the "pot" might have tears in his eyes before he would help him. But there was something worse than cave-tears in question now--of that Studart felt sure. And Pem, watching,--Jessie, too--caught from an entering shaft of day-light which shivered as if aghast, the reflection of the tightening glow upon his young face--the waggish features of the Henkyl Hunter! And she recognized it, by the feeling of her stiff, cold cheeks, as she clapped her hands to them--did Toandoah's little chum--for the glow which had electrified her own when she fought her way out of a swamped Pullman, saving her friend, driving it into the teeth of the flood, and of the World, too, that neither her father's honor, nor his invention--nor anything he ever turned out--was a Quaker gun; letting fly with it faintly at a rescuing youth, too, when she bade him "take Una first." For by that glow as by an altar-lamp, in whose gleam she had worshiped before she saw as the strong boy's hand went automatically to his equipment that lamp and lariat were nothing--nothing--"without the heart of a Scout!" CHAPTER XIV STOUTHEART "W-wedged!... Wedged!" Now--now it was another word which jabbered faintly in the dark fissure's mouth! A girl caught it--or thought she did. "_Wedged!_" she echoed wildly. "Caught! Oh, maybe--maybe--there's nothing in there but Ruddy himself!" "Maybe--so!" Stud panted heavily while, across an inner, gaping hollow, the next words took a giant stride to his lips: "Anyhow--I'm going up!" "Oh--Studley!" But beyond this one faint cry, Jessie, stanch little partner,--the girl behind the lines,--said no more to hinder him now, as she watched the scout detach his little lamp from his hatbrim and hook it on to his khaki breast. With it glowing there, a headlight for his gallant heart, Stud set himself to climb. Standing upon the shoulders of two brother scouts, in his belt a club snatched from one of them, he reached the lowest point of the tapering fissure. "Ha! There he goes, in spite of his teeth," tremored a younger boy. "His teeth aren't chattering!" Pem's eyes--lightning-blue--hurled back the charge. The denial rang in Stud's ears as he thrust his head into the black opening, entering, amidships, as the former muddle-headed explorer had done. "That girl's a trump--the girl with eyes the color of the little 'heal-all', that blue flower we pick up here in May! A trump! But so's little Jess, too!" Thus did Stoutheart, a knight of to-day, pay tribute to the world he left behind him, when he felt in his exploring knees, now creeping along the bottom of the Tinker's Pot, that there was a chance of his leaving it behind forever. "I don't see what else he _could_ have done," said Tanpa, the Guardian, her fingers hysterically interlocking. "Somebody had to go up; and he's the oldest boy--a Patrol Leader. But, oh! I wish my husband were here. Run and meet him, a couple of you!" She glanced appealingly at the scouts. "Oh! do--and hurry him back--back from the spring." Meanwhile Stud had forgotten even his backers in the feminine hearts below and was banking all on just one trusty ally--the headlight on his breast. "Without the light, the little safety lamp, I couldn't do-o it," he told himself. "Gee! but it is as black in here as Erebus, a Tinker's Pot, indeed--the blindest passage--blindest bargain--I ever struck! So--so sharp underneath, too!" Yes, difficulty masked was in the "bargain", yet he crept on over tapering ridges of rock that now and again buckled like teeth. But he knew by the parched sound of his own voice, as he shouted a question, that his courage might have ended in smoke, there and then, if it weren't for the little lamp at his breast. So rosily it burned now, in here, that its feeding oil seemed the red blood of his heart! "Anyhow--anyhow, with it, I'll be able to see which way the cat jumps!" Here, Stoutheart more tightly gripped the club; the last words might prove more than mere figure of speech. From ahead came strange, gurgling, choking sounds, rising from somewhere--growing weaker. "Where--where are you, Ruddy? Answer! R-rap--rap out something, if you can!" he adjured. And it was--truly--a rapping reply that reached him; a queer, hollow knocking at the door of some throat that semed shutting. "My word! What on earth ... what in thunder's got him?" Stud felt his own breath blow hot and cold together, but--this crucial moment it came back to him--the eyes of a girl out there had driven it home, with blue lightnings, that he did not _have_ to defy his teeth. "Humph! I'm no quitter," he told the piloting breast-ray, blazing its ruby trail ahead. "Well-ll! for the love of Mike! Well! what do you know about that?... What have we h-here?" In answer to his gasping snort, as he gaped and gasped there in the darkness, the little safety lamp told him what it made of it--of the staggering sight--it made a pair of big feet in rough cowhide boots tightly wedged by the ankles in a buckling switch of rock where two sharp, narrow ridges that formed the bottom of the Tinker's Pot dovetailed into each other,--after the manner of rails at a switch. Ruddy, the slipslop explorer, had gone in heels over head, so to speak. He was hanging by the heels now. Nothing visible of him but those pinioned feet! "_Hea-vens!_ he did strike a blind bargain. S-such a snag! The passage ends here. A drop! A--blank--fall of rock! Gee-ee!" Dank--dank as cave-tears now was the moisture upon Stud's forehead. For the first time his teeth almost chattered. What would he see when he held the lamp over the edge of the Tinker's Pot into the horror of that empty space beyond where the passage broadened into blankness and the rock shelved sharply down? A dead boy? Or one so far gone from hanging that he could not be rescued? At the first sight of those wedged feet he had felt inclined to laugh. Now he was laughing at the wrong side of his mouth, as he peeped over the brink. "Oh-h! the rock _isn't_ perpendicular; it slants down, though, pretty sharply--down into an inner cave--by gracious! And Ruddy, the way he's hanging his nose, is within an inch or two o' the floor of that other cave!... And, yet, he's helpless! Helpless as if he had a halter round his neck! Oh-h! if some of the other fellows were here." But Stud did not seem to be quite alone; he was one and a half; for the hearts of two girls were pendent from _his_ neck; outside he knew they were backing him,--praying for him. Also, that frenzied gurgle from the victim's throat, his choking cry as the light struck him, the squirming body and up-rolling eyes told the boy scout that he was just in time; although the foam was pink upon Ruddy's lips and his congested head was a fire-ball, indeed,--that brash head with all his chances in it. "Ha! "No Loyal Scout gives place to doubt, But action quick he shows!" The song, his own, the original march-song of his troop, sang itself through Stud's brain, seethed in the low whistle upon his lips, as, guided by his ruby breast-eye, he slid down into that strange and secret dungeon in which the black passage ended and, thrusting his sturdy shoulders under the pendent body of the victim whose convulsed hands clutched vainly at the bare slab, raised it so that the choking boy could breathe freely again--and in due time shake off the dizziness of his awful plight, hung up by the heels by the rock itself. But not until the Scoutmaster came to his patrol leader's assistance could those pinioned feet be really freed and their owner brought to daylight again, not by a return via the fissure route, but hoisted in a rope-noose, as Pem had been from the Devil's Chair, through a grass-covered opening discoverable in the roof of that inner cave. "Goodness! after all, he wasn't so much more foolish--headstrong--than I was. But Una! Una! If you ever-r tell them!" Thus did the maiden of the chowchow name spill her spice into her friend's ear,--burning spice, for, privately, she was shocked at seeing her own folly, parodied, vulgarized, as it were. "Well! I should say! He was hanging between hawk and buzzard--if ever a fellow was," happened to be Stud's moved comment as, clinging to that lowered rope, he was hoisted, too, through that covert opening, the loyal little lamp upon his breast paling now into a penny candle held towards the sun. But the rescuer's halo did not pale. It burnished the picnic luncheon which followed, encircling, rainbow-like, little Jessie who basked in it more than did the rebellious hero, pelted with wild flowers by the girls--as symbolic of other bouquets. "Oh! let up--let up--will you? Those big fellows will take me for the 'goat'--somebody's 'goat'!" protested Stud helplessly, striving to direct attention from himself by training it upon a straggling group of distant youths, really too far off to take stock of what was going on among the merry picnic party. But Pemrose was taking stock of them. Her widening eyes, her reddening cheeks, the little piqued shiver that electrified her chin, told that one figure--one figure--called for recognition; called for it, indeed, so loudly that it couldn't be denied him. Every member of that group--a canoeing party, a wading party, it was, just landed from the near-by river, the blue Housatonic--was a blaze of color. But the sturdiest among them was simply barbaric. The warm sunlight of May dripped golden from his nickum shoulders, bronzed to the hue of a statue, bathed his bare knees and feet, his khaki shorts, the flame of an apricot jersey, the black and yellow cap,--the sheaf of mayflowers within his arm. "Oh! how boys--big boys--do revel in color. A girl--any girl I ever knew--is demure in her taste beside them," murmured the Camp Fire Guardian, with amused, motherly tolerance. "Pshaw! I think it's hor-rid. So flashy!" snapped Pemrose; Jack at a Pinch had made gorgeous his incivility and was parading it before her eyes. "Oh, boy! Look at that middle fellow. He'd have a grosbeak 'skun a mile'!" gasped Stud, following the direction of her glance, with a virtuous consciousness of his own cave-soiled khaki, moderately lit by merit badge and service stripe. "'Grosbeak!' Oh, but I love grosbeaks! And all that color--why! it paints the landscape," came flutteringly from Aponi, the White Birch Butterfly, least Priscilla-like in her tastes of the Group, when she was not in Camp Fire green, or soft-toned ceremonial dress. "Maybe 'twill paint the blues in old Tory Cave, if we run across them there," put in Tomoke, maiden of the flambeau and the fire-talk. "They certainly are a perfect 'scream', those big boys," her eyes merrily following that clamor of color now wending back towards the canoes. "Humph! they'd have to 'go some' to leaven the blues of Tory Cave," remarked the Scoutmaster, laughingly addressing himself to a roll. "The biggest bonfire on earth wouldn't half dry the cave-tears there." "Yes, that's the den of the Doleful Dumps--their diggings!" laughed a younger scout, flourishing aloft a mess-mug, the gray of his rolling eyes. "Bats--bats as big as saucers--no, soup-plates! And, far in--far in--the sound of running water, like a weak wind!" "Running water! Invisible running water! A--weak--wind! Oh-h! do let us hurry and go on there. We have to cross the river; haven't we?" The gurgle of that cloistered brooklet was already in Pem's heart as her dilating gaze spanned the Housatonic, broad and open, "warbling" amid its soft meadow slopes, as she had looked upon it from the Devil's Chair. "But, goody! I hope we _won't_ run across him there--Jack at a Pinch! Flaunting round like a grosbeak!" She bit the thought into an olive. "Stud's no grumpy riddle--if he is a Stoutheart, like the other!" CHAPTER XV AIRDRAWN AËROPLANES Running water! Invisible running water! The voice behind the scenes prompting the play,--the grim play of bat and rat and reptile in old Tory Cave, where the rocks wept, the little strolling sunbeams clapped their hands, and the great fungi, primrose-skirted, drooped over a drama never finished! It was even more romantic than the girls had hoped for,--such romance as clings, cobweb-like, to melancholy. Like a weak wind, truly, a sad wind blowing from nowhere, was the purl of that hidden streamlet whose mystery no man had penetrated--nor ever seen its flow--mournfully as cave tears it dripped upon the ears and hearts of the girls. "Pshaw! Who cares for weeping rocks, though they look as if they were bursting with grief and ready to tear their pale hair--that queer growth clinging to them. Humph! Only crocodile tears, anyhow, like 'Alice in Wonderland!'" cried Ista, the laughing Eye of the White Birch Group, whose everyday name was Polly Leavitt. "It's _not_ the tears and it's not that horribly sad lake with the little, blind, colorless fish in it, that I mind--it's the Bats!" screamed Una Grosvenor. "Oh-h!" as the mouse-like head of the cave mammal and its skinny wing almost brushed her face. "Well! They're not brick-bats," came reassuringly from one of the boys, as the Togetherers ranged through the outer part of that vast Tory Cave--once the hiding-place of a political refugee, whose spirit seemed flitting among them in the filmy cave-fog which, dank and mournful, clung about the margin of that strange lake of fresh water where blind fish played. Presumably fed by that cloistered brooklet, whose cell, far in, in an impenetrable recess, no human foot had ever trod, the lakelet had the floor to itself, so to speak, so that in places scouts with their lamps, and girls pairing off with their exploring brothers, one piloting eye between them, had difficulty in skirting it--without a ducking. "Whew! a ducking in the dark--a cave-bath--horrible!" cried Pemrose. "Oh, mer-rcy! what--what is it?" "Bah! Only a garter snake--a pretty fellow," laughed Studley, picking the slim, striped thing up from a corner of the blind lake where it was amphibiously basking, and letting it curl around his khaki arm, investigating the merit badges of the patrol leader. The green and red of the life-saver's embroidered badge, the crossed flags of the expert signaler, the white plow of the husbandman, they enlivened the gloom a wee bit, winking up at the safety lamp hooked to his hat-band, as he bent over the illumined reptile. But they did not challenge it as did the flash of an apricot sweater, blood-red in the ruby lamplight, of a black and yellow cap, several yellow and black caps, suddenly--eagerly--thrust near. "He's big--big for a garter, isn't he, Buddy?" remarked a voice that did not come from the ranks of Togetherers, of Boy Scouts and Camp Fire Girls, excitedly scrutinizing Stud's novel armlet. Neither--neither was it the voice of the nickum, so much Pemrose knew, as she edged coldly a little away,--a little nearer to the dim and sighing lake-edge. Yet he was among them, those gaudy big boys, whose flare of color merely striped the cave-dusk, like the dingy markings upon the snake's squirming back. He actually had his armful of mayflowers, too, the nickum, not the snake; _passë_ mayflowers, with the tan of decay on them, was nursing them carefully, as if they were part of a long lost heritage into which he had lately come--as if he were afraid to lay them down lest some alien should snatch them from him. "He doesn't look like a 'chuff'--a boor. He looks like a really nice college boy, one with a hazing imp in his eye though, lur-rking in that little star--almost a squint; so--so like Una's," thought the inventor's daughter, familiar with the student brand of boy. "Yet how could he be so uncivil to us, really--actually--snub us, after all he did, too? Goodness! wouldn't I like to get a chance to snub him?" It was the Vain Elf which slept in the shadow of the Wise Woman in the breast of Pemrose Lorry, that stored this wish, laid it up, a vengeful arrow in the blue quiver of her eyes, now shooting piqued, sidelong glances at those flaunting big boys. "Why-y _should_ we run up against them here? Well! he'll never get a chance to play Jack at a Pinch--friend in need--to me again. Watch me--watch me pick my steps!" She picked them so at random, at the moment, moving off, that she came near slipping in for that eerie ducking, with the blind fish--pale as phantoms, swimming round--and Stud, flinging the striped garter away, hurried after her--Jessie, too! "Gee! this is a peach of a cave; isn't it?" effervesced the scout sarcastically. "Melancholy so blooming thick that you could almost sup its sorrow with a spoon, eh?" "It's a regular cave of despair." The lonely trill of the feathered hermit was in Jessie's answering note. "That sad voice of water, a cascade--a stream--far in, which nobody ever saw!" "I'd give worlds to see it!" said Pemrose. "So would I!" Stud's voice was pitched high. "If it weren't for the Scoutmaster.... Tradition says that whoever drinks of that hidden water will have luck." "Well! I'd let somebody else have the piping times if I were you, Buddy--if they depend on a draught from that mysterious spring." Now, it was the nickum who answered; the same scintillating tones they were--how bully they sounded then--which had quoted Shakespeare on "Something rotten in the State of Denmark", amid other depressing waters, half hidden, half liberated by their ice-cloak. "I can look out for my own 'piping times'--thank you! And I'm not going to buy any pig in a poke--take any leap in the dark." The scout's reply was bristling. To a fifteen-year-old patrol leader, a Henkyl Hunter, who went up and down upon the trail of a joke, there was a smack of condescension about that "Buddy", used twice by those big boys; perhaps he, too, at that moment, laid up something against the youth of the flaming tone and rig. "Humph! hasn't he the nerve, butting in?" he muttered. "He has--has all sorts of nerve," agreed Pemrose readily, glancing sideways after the boy whose courage she knew to be as high as his colors. "The Scoutmaster wouldn't hear of our venturing in so far as to investigate that running water, anyhow," said Studley. "My eye! What's the rumpus now--the kettle o' fish?" It was a shriek from one girl--half-a-dozen girls. It was a loud hiss, almost a whistle, from some pallid vegetation near the lake-edge. It was a black snake rearing a blue-black head and glittering eye within three feet of Una Grosvenor, novice among Camp Fire Girls, whose scream tore at the very stones of Tory Cave until they cried out in echo. It was a dozen green-clad girls scattering wildly this way and that, olive-green aspen leaves tossing in a whirlwind, shuffling from pillar to post--from rock to darkling rock. It was--it was a powerful reptile form, in armor of jetty scales, trailing its six-foot length away, the noise of its mighty tail-blows against the earth and flying pebbles calling all the Dumps--the Doleful Dumps--out of the dens where they hid here, making them take strange and shadowy shapes, gigantic shapes, of threat. "Let me get out! Oh-h! I want to get out, away--anywhere!" shuddered Una. "This is no-o fun." "Yes! it is--once you get used to it," laughed Pemrose, who--together with the Jack at a Pinch still hovering near--liked her excitement warm. "Look--_look_ at him crimp himself along! Ever--ever see anything so crooked?" as the great muscle in the reptile's body contracted and relaxed upon its hasty retreat. "When we girls had our War Garden, a year ago, an old farmer said we planted our potato rows so straight that he 'vummed 'twould make a black snake seasick to cross from one to the other.'" "Ha! Because he just naturally has to go ajee!" laughed her scout knight, estimating the length of that scaly corkscrew, if uncoiled, with his eye. "Pshaw! I've tamed 'em--and killed 'em, too," he added. "Yes! a black snake wouldn't harm you, even if he did bite." Pem was still reassuring her friend. "Did you hear him whistle?... But--but what's that?" It was just half a minute later that she put the question. "He isn't making that noise with his tail still; is he?" She looked at Stud. Under the ruby eye of the lamp his face--the face of a Stoutheart--had turned suddenly pea-green. His eyes were fixed upon a gleam of bloated yellow dimly seen, under the lee of a rock, not very many yards away--the venomous, pale yellow of the dropsical cave fungi. "Why--why! it's only one of those horrid, blowzy, mushroom things. But _what's_ the noise--like--like somebody rattling little marbles, dry peas?" The girl felt her own breath go ratatat as she put the question. "Oh-h! only some fellow rattling--rattling--beans in his pocket. Let's get away--quick!" And then Pemrose knew what it was to look upon a Stoutheart "rattled." But, with that, a voice, a cry, not loud, but strong, exploded like a spring gun in the cave,--suddenly halting advance. "What's that outside? What's that outside?" it whooped. "Is it an aëroplane? _Two_ aëroplanes? Oh! hurry out--and see." "A dozen aëroplanes! A corps of aëroplanes!" boomed back those flaunting big boys, of whom the nickum was leader, playing up to the cue of the Scoutmaster who had started the concentrated cry. "Oh, hurry--hurry!" She saw him fling his mayflowers on the ground, that strange youth, and snatch at Una's hand, to drag her along towards the low cave entrance. He made a wide, circling movement to catch at hers, too. But she dodged it. Never more should he play Jack at a Pinch to her! Never! Through old Tory Cave there surged the noise of a rising wind, silencing that weak gust afar off, now baleful, the sound of the hidden water; reverberating among the rocks, it might be taken for anything, for the hum of aircraft--for a perfect onslaught of sky cavalry! And the Scoutmaster's cry was convincing. Yet--yet, when boys and girls tumbled tumultuously through the cave entrance--the girls by some mysterious understanding, first--not a remote sign of a biplane, even a meager _one_, decorated the sky overhead. No flying wires sent down their challenge. And the hum resolved itself into what it was: the rising, random mockery of Ta-te, the tempest, laughing at their searching looks, going north, south, east and west, aloft, skirmishing in bewilderment to all points of the horizon. "Hum-m. There isn't a _sign_ of a buzz-wagon! Who pulled off that stunt--on--us?" bleated a few of the mystified younger boys, while Stud silently brushed moisture like cave-tears from his forehead. So did the tall Scoutmaster, heavily breathing relief. "Not an aëroplane in sight! Not a single one!" breezed the girls, all ready to be angry. "Who--who put that hoax over?" "Varnish right--and aëroplane wrong!" It was the freakish voice of a nickum which answered. "No! No buzzer, as the boys say, but there was a rattler, in there, beside that rock. If some of you girls had gone ahead, you'd have stepped right on him!" "A 'rattler!' A big rattlesnake! And--and you started the cry, to get us out quietly--quickly!" "Not we! The Scoutmaster had the presence of mind to launch an aëroplane. We boomed it," came the laughing reply, as Jack at a Pinch, second fiddle now, marched off with his companions. "Who--is he?" Pemrose caught wildly at the arm of Stud, who was wishing that he and not those patronizing big boys had caught the Scoutmaster's cue and created airdrawn aëroplanes by the corps. "Do you--do you know who he is; that biggest--that gaudiest--one among them?" "Yes! No-o! I do--an' I don't!" stammered the boyish Henkyl Hunter. "I--we--" indicating his scout brothers--"have met him a couple of times in the woods; I guess his father an' he have a camp on the opposite side of the lake from ours. We've talked with him--tried to be friendly. And he--he's always jolly, you know--like now! But--but when it comes to finding out anything about either of them, gee, you might as well whistle jigs to a milestone--so-o you might!" CHAPTER XVI THE COUNCIL FIRE "Across the lake in golden glory, The fairy gleams of sunlight glow. Another day of joy is ending, The clouds of twilight gather low." Another day of joy, indeed! Without peril of rattlesnake--or marplot nickum to spoil it! "'Varnish right--and aëroplane wrong!' That's what _he_ said when they laid that trap to get us out of the cave, without any fuss. But I say it's: 'Varnish right--and puzzle wrong!' All wrong!" snapped Pemrose to herself again and again, repeating an old saying during the week following that first Get Together. "Nobody--nobody has a right to drift around as a puzzle, these days! If ever I get a chance, see me snub him har-rd--though he did rescue me twice! Well, thank goodness! it was the Scoutmaster, not he, who played Jack at a Pinch in Tory Cave." And it was the Scoutmaster, in days gone by, with the help of his boys, who had built the great stone fireplace in the girls' bungalow in which a brilliant Council Fire was now blazing. Across the lake the golden glory stole, and girls came tip-toeing to the hearth-flame in soft, ceremonial dress, fringed and beaded, the firelight, like dawn, flushing the pearl of their headbands,--and Pem forgot the enigma of that eighteen-year-old youth who seemed to have a trick of bobbing up, now and again, under the lee of a summer holiday, like some menacing spar to leeward of a vessel in fair sail. Well! to recall Stud's figure of speech, nobody was "whistling jigs" to his milestone heart now--or trying to. The fire was the fiddler; and wax was not softer or more responsive than the pliant breasts on which its music fell. "I watched a log in the fireplace burning." They whispered it one to another and under the spell of its transfiguring lay, bent forward, they witnessed the last act in a pine-tree pantomime. A dazzling transformation scene it was: in the glow they could see, summed up, each transition of light and heat that went before: dawn's tender flame, the fierce blaze of high noon, ruby rays of evening streaming now across the Bowl--hill-girt lake without--gathered, all gathered, in a golden age behind them to feed the sap of a noble tree, here poured forth, amid a radiant ballet of flame and spark, to furnish life, light--inspiration--to a Council Fire. "I watched a log in the fireplace burning, Oh! if I, too, could only be Sure to give back the love and laughter, That Life so freely gave to me!" Tanpa, the Guardian, softly breathed it. And in the eye of more than one girl the wish was transmuted into a tear,--into something more tender, more transported, than a laugh, as the log, in a final spurt, gave all, and fell, like a tired dancer, upon the broad hearth, its rosy chiffons crumpled and fading into the pale gray of wood-ashes. "There it goes!" The eyes of Pemrose were a patchwork now, flame embroidered upon their shining blue; oh! if she were to give forth what Life gave to her, which of her Camp Fire Sisters would have such riches to reflect? It had been hers--hers--to share the dream of a great inventor, to look forward with him to the pioneering moment--the beginning of that which would surely, in time, draw the Universe visibly together--the moment when the Thunder Bird should fly. She never qualified that dream by an _if_, wherever the funds to equip it might come from--or even if it had to wait a dozen years, Toandoah's triumph, like that fortune "hung up--" for the great Bird to make its new migration to the moon, in proof that space was no barrier--when the Thunder Bird, giving all, as the log had done, would drop its skeleton upon the desert of that silent satellite. But there were steps to be taken in the meantime--exciting steps in the ladder of success. Those patchwork eyes, looking into the flame now, counted them, one by one, and hung in breathless anticipation upon the first: upon the moment, so soon to come off, when old Greylock would really send back a shout of gladness, for on his darkling summit the hand of a Camp Fire Girl of America would press the button and loose the lesser Thunder Bird to fly up the modest distance of a couple of hundred miles, or so, with its diary in its head, and send back the novel record of its flight. "I--do--believe that my father sleeps with one eye open, thinking of that golden egg, as he calls it--the little recording apparatus," she said, when the White Birch Group, as one, asked that the special program for this ceremonial meeting should be a talk from an inventor's daughter upon this most daring enterprise of the age. "He says that if _that_ does not drift back to earth safely with the crow-like parachute--if anything should happen to it, to the two little wheels, with the paper winding from one on to the other, all dashed with pencil marks--the world would call him a fool's mate.... If it did!" Pem's teeth were clinched. "But, of course, without the record, there would be nothing to show how high the little rocket had really flown--showing the bigger one the road," with an excited gasp. "Yes, I can understand how anxious he must be about the safe return of the egg--or the log--whichever you choose to call it--the first record from space, anyway." Tanpa's tone was almost equally excited. "And of course the wind may play pranks with the parachute--drift it away down the mountainside!" "So that we'd lose it in the darkness--oh-h!" Pem shivered upon the thought. "But we'll all be on the lookout to prevent that, as many of us as are there--and that won't be more than a picked few, Dad says, to witness this first experiment.... When--when the real Thunder Bird flies, though--" she turned those patchwork eyes now, sky-blue, flame-red, upon her companions--"you'll all--all-ll be there. And, oh! won't it--won't it be a sight to watch--it--tear?" Drooping towards the fire-glow, lips parted in entranced assurance, the slight figure became lost in the same dream which had held it months before in a February Pullman, while a daring flame, like a red-capped pearl diver, plunging into the mystery of that fairy thing, that gleaming stole about her neck brought out milky flashes of luster--together with those New Jerusalem tints, jade and gold and ruby. Finished now it was, the pearl-woven prophecy--fair record to go down to posterity! In faith--such faith as had inspired Penelope, faithful wife, of old, to weave and unravel her endless web, steadfast in the belief of her husband's return, so the girlish fingers upon the loom had wrought the transcendent story to a finish. To a finish even to the sprinkling of gold pieces, the yellow bonanza, coming from somewhere, to gorge the Thunder Bird, for its record flight; to a finish even to the celestial climax, the little blue powder-flash lighting up the dear, fair face of Mammy Moon! But of one climax, more celestial still, Pemrose Lorry could not speak, not even to these her Camp Fire Sisters: of the evening of the second wreck--the wreck of hope after that third installment of a disappointing will had been read--when she had taken the four feet and a half of pearl poem to her father's workshop, the grim hardware laboratory, and out of the home of light, which she herself hardly understood, in her young, young heart, had told him, doubtful of the future, that she knew the invention would win out--the Thunder Bird go where nothing earthly had ever gone before. And he had whispered something--something surpassing--about a Wise Woman who saved a city. It made sacred every thought now, and humbled it, too, in the breast of this little sixteen-year-old girl, with the mingled yarn in her nature--the mingling spice in her name. Others had these fair stoles, too, the history of their girlish lives woven in pearls of typical purity, crossed by vivid representations of events. Drooping to their knees, in symbolic beauty, finishing with the soft leather fringes on which a breeze sweeping down the wide chimney played, they flashed here and there in the high colors of adventure--the quaintly symbolized adventure tale. But none could match the theme of the two little primitive figures upon the mounttain-top, the inventor looking through a tube, the comet-like streak of fire above them: the opening of a highroad through Space,--the first step towards a federation of the heavenly bodies. The record to go down to posterity! Yet old Earth had still her individual romance of seedtime and harvest, sun and storm, peril and deliverance. Emblematically depicted these were in the pearl strip of a girl, with a winsome reflection of Andrew's thistle-burr in her speech. Born "far awa' in bonnie Scotland", the thistle and America's goldenrod blent their purple and gold upon her young shoulders; there was an idealized plow, representing the peaceful agricultural calling of her father,--and a jump from peace to peril in the primitively symbolized scene of a shipwreck through which she had been with him when crossing the Atlantic in a sailing vessel. "We had all to take to the boats, you see," said Jennie McIvor, "for the ship was leaking so badly that she couldn't keep afloat but a wee bit longer; and we had a verra rough time until we were picked up." A rough time, indeed, typified by the wildly driven little canoes--the most primitive form of the boat--tossed upon stiff water-hills, brooding above them the quaint, corkscrew figure, with the eye in its head, of Ta-te, the tempest. Somehow, this eye--the spying wind's eye--haunted Pemrose that night, curled up in a previous suggestion of the Guardian's which, momentarily, had twisted itself, snake-like, around her heart. Suppose Ta-te should prove cruel to her, as to Jennie whom she had eventually spared! Suppose, on the great night of the first experiment with Toandoah's little rocket, Ta-te, jealous of a rival in the small Thunder Bird which could out-soar all the winds of Earth--out-soar even the air, their cradle--should meanly seize upon the black, silk parachute, light as soot, anchored to the golden egg, the little recording apparatus! Suppose it should whirl both off, away from the eager hands stretched out to claim them, hide them in a dark recess of the mountain side, maybe, where they could not be found for days,--possibly never! Ta-te _could_ play fast and loose with her father's reputation, she knew; at least, with the witness to his success as an inventor. "If the wind should do that," she thought, "then the World, some part of it--the horrid World--will say that Mr. Hartley Graham's last thoughts about that mile-long will were wise ones: that it was better--better to leave all that money 'hung up' awaiting the possible return of that madcap younger brother--who'll make ducks and drakes of it, most likely--than--than to turn it over to a Thunder Bird," with a faint flash of a smile, "in spite, oh! in spite of the fact that daring volunteers--skilled aviators--are wild to take passage in the far-flying Bird." Yes! even that youthful hotspur who used the cream of rough-edged paper, and was willing to try anything once, though it should be once for all. The girl's thought reverted to him now as she gazed into the bungalow fire, seeing in the gusty flicker of every log that menacing spiral,--the brooding wind's eye. It claimed her, that wild, red eye, even while her companions of the White Birch Group were excitedly discussing their picturesque plans for the morrow; for the celebration of their annual festival in honor of the birch trees bursting into leaf, for the odes, the songs, the dances, the planting, each, of a silvery sapling. It mesmerized her, did Ta-te's eye, with its setting of flame, even to the exclusion of enthusiasm about the big dance--the joyous Together--in the evening, of which Una raved in anticipation now and again, and for which these two friends and rivals in the matter of eyelashes had brought their prettiest party dresses. The elders presiding over the destinies of both had given a happy consent to Tanpa's invitation, and the two were now the guests for a few days of the mountain Group at their camp on the egg-shaped Bowl. The sigh of the mountain breeze came soothingly across the lake to lull their slumbers as they lay down to rest, side by side, in the little bungalow cots of which a dozen ranged the length of the great water-side dormitory half-open, half-screened. Yet Pem fell asleep imploring Ta-Te--and lost the little record altogether in her dreams! Up and down old Greylock she plodded, looking for it, hand in hand with Toandoah,--but ever it eluded them! Muttering, bereft, she tossed; then for a moment awoke, blinkingly sat up, to see the moonlight flickering--Mammy Moon's own smile--upon the pearl-woven prophecy beside her, from which she could hardly be parted by night or day. Sleep again! And now it was not only the diary but the Thunder Bird, itself, that was lost,--astray in space, and she with it! She was trying to catch it by the fiery tail-feathers when, all of a sudden--all of a sober sudden--those feathers became soft, flopping, buffeting,--real. They brushed her parted lips. They flopped against her cheek. They even mopped the dews of slumber from her eyes. "Hea-vens! W-what is it-t?" Wildly she sat up--a second time--to see the dawn poking at her with a pink finger and the lake shimmering without, a great pearl found by the morning in an iridescent oyster-shell of mist. And, within, a bumping, buffeting something, soft as moss, dun-gray as terror--blundering into every sleeper's face, as if testing its warmth, bowling its way along the line of cots. "Cluck! Cluck! Flutter! Flutter! Awake! Awake! I'm lost! I'm lost!" it said. "What is it? _What is it?_" Never was such an exciting reveille as girl by girl bounded up--elastic--fingering a brushed, a tickled cheek. The answer was a screech that made the morning blush, as if a ghost had invaded the Tom Tiddler's ground of open day light. Una shrieked in echo. Morale was undermined. Cots were vacated. Maiden jostled maiden, all colliding upon a gaping question that fanned sensation sky-high--until the bungalow fairly rocked upon a hullabaloo. CHAPTER XVII A NOVEL SANTA CLAUS "It's an Owl!" "Only an owl--a little screech owl! Not--not so little, either! Where did it come from?" "Yes! How on earth did it get in? Doors--windows--all are screened." "Glory halleluiah! It came down the chimney. Look--look at the black on its feathers, the wood-smuts clinging to it! Down the big chimney of the living room!" "Like Santa Claus down the chimney! Mercy! d'you suppose it played Santa itself? or did the boys push it down?" "The boys! Those miserable Henkyl Hunters--always on the trail of a joke! If they did, they'll never own up! Never!" Such was the substance of the uproar as the downy ball of mopping feathers took on a beak, claws and big brown eyes, blank and round, perching upon the foot-rail of a cot! "Oh! it's as bad as the bats in Tory Cave. And they were so-o hor-rid!" wailed Una. "It--it just tickled my lips with its wing. Bah!" "Bad! It's not bad, at all; it's dear," cooed Jessie, the merle, feeling instant kinship with the bewildered bird. "Girls! Girls! I believe it's blind--blind as a bat, or as the pale fish in the cave. There it goes--look--knocking its head, this way and that, against the wall!" Yes, the fluttering thing, of a sudden taking to flight again, was now playing shuttlecock, feathered shuttlecock, to the battledore of a broad sunbeam which batted it wildly hither and yon. "Oh! keep back--quiet--maybe, 'twill settle down again," pleaded the merle. "Hasn't it the face of a cunning little kitten? Such a wise, blinking, round-eyed kitten! Its head is reddish, not gray--and the rufous markings on its breast, too! Oh-h! I wonder if the boys did catch it in the woods and thought it was a good 'henkyl' to put down our chimney?" But that, as the girls knew, would remain as blind a puzzle as the long, screened dormitory was to the dazzled owl, unable to see clearly in daylight, out visiting when he should have been in bed in the cool, dark hollow of a tree. "Oo-oo-oo-ooo ... cluck!" it cooed and grumbled, pressing a dappled breast and wide-spread wings against a screen, the mottled back-feathers ruffling into a huge breeze-swept pompon. "See! He's playing he's a big owl." "Oh! I wonder if he'd let me--let me catch him." Jessie sighed yearningly. "Do-o, and we'll tame him--keep him for a mascot!" It was a general acclamation. And the feathered Santa, apparently having no objection to this rële--finding himself no longer a waif in Babel--finally settled down again on the glittering head-rail of Una's cot, his fluffy breast to the outdoor sunlight, his solemn, kittenish face--the head turning round on a pivot without the movement of a muscle in the body--confronting sagely the delighted girls. "Isn't he the dearest thing? Oh! I'm glad the boys played the trick--if it was the boys. I'd rather think he played Santa himself." There was no inkling in Jessie's mind, as, so murmuring and softly barefoot, she stole up to the visitor, now motionless as a painted bird, of a much worse trick that those freakish Henkyl Hunters might play, a girl abetting them, too--shocking fact--before night fell again upon the pearly Bowl. "Oo-oo-ooo! Boo! See me reverse!" It seemed to be what the owl was saying to the maidens as he turned the tables on them again and again with that teetotum trick of his swivel neck. But he did not scream any more or offer the least objection when the merle took him to her tender breast, cooing reassurance. "There! you've got a new singing teacher, Jess--a little screech owl. Little! My! he's big for a small-eared owl, isn't he?--nearly a foot long. Brush the camouflage off him--the smuts of the chimney!" "Well--well, whether he enacted Santa Claus of his own accord, or whether he didn't--" thus Tanpa broke in on the last flow of speech which was a medley--"he's brought us one gift, anyway, the gift of a glorious day for our annual White Birch celebration." It did prove a banner day, from the breakfast out of doors on the wide piazza in that matchless warmth of early summer when buds are bursting, trees singing themselves into leaf--for "all deep things are song--" when the inquisitive breeze peeps longingly into the yellow heart of the first wild rose and May is bourgeoning, flowering, into the joy of June. Below the bungalow the three-mile lake, a mile and a half across--the transfigured Bowl--was still a softly glowing pearl, treasured in cotton-wool mists which entirely hid its real framing of lofty hills. "When the mountains cease playing blindman's buff with each other, then--then it will be time for our morning swim, won't it? The first real swim of the season, too," murmured Tomoke, the signaling maiden, nestling coaxingly near to the presiding Guardian. "Yes, if you think the water will be warm enough." "Oh! it was quite warm yesterday when we paddled out around the float--the floating pier." Jessie, who was tempting the feathered Santa Claus, pampered captive under her arm, with every tidbit she could think of, from cereal to lake-cod caught by the girls themselves, looked down at that buoyant pier--a golden raft, at the moment--tossing a dozen yards from the base of a fifteen-foot cliff where the shore jumped sharply down to the water. Yesterday it had been wreathed with boughs for the coming festival: the swimming structure, naëvely composed of two great barrels, boarded over, with a broad plank, as a bridge, running out ashore. To it a couple of shining canoes and two broad camp boats were moored; it also served as a springboard for diving. Built by girl-carpenters themselves--with a little masculine help--presently to be garlanded with daisy-chains and buttercups, for the June carnival, and to hide its crudity, it stood, so the Guardian thought, exquisitely for the practical and the poetic in Camp Fire life, which ever in "glorifying Work" seeks Beauty! The sun was seeking that too, just now, gloating over his own noble reflection in the green-lipped Bowl,--benevolently promising, indeed, a day hot for the season, as well as radiant. "Yes! the temperature has taken a leap ahead," said Tanpa musingly. "I think you can go in--for a short swim, any way." "Notify me--notify me if you see me drowning--for I can't hear the voice of doom through my bathing cap!" laughed Una Grosvenor, two hours later, in consequence of this permission, wading coyly out beyond the float, to where the lake-water rose over the crossed logs of the Camp Fire emblem on the breast of her blue bathing suit. "Oh! she's in no danger of drowning; she swims better than I--I do-o now," shivered Pemrose, rather wishing that June were July and the Bowl had undergone the gradual glow of a heating process. "Aren't you coming, Thrush?" she cried. "Aren't you coming in, Jessie?" "I can't leave the owl! I believe the boys meant him as an anniversary present--though they went about presenting him in a queer way," was the fostering answer. The other girls, however, were in the water, as those grigs of boys had been before them; the Bowl seemed to froth with their laughter, spray creaming around the bare, sunflushed arms flung above it, as if the lake itself, in festive mood, were a sentient sharer in the joy of these daring June bathers. "Now--now who wants to dress and come out in the boats for a study of pond-life under the microscope?" cried the Guardian. "Whoo! Whoo! That--that's a bait to which the fish always rise," cried one and another, eagerly splashing ashore blue of brow and covered with gooseflesh, yet loath to admit that on this the feathered Santa Claus' gift of a prematurely perfect June day the creamy Bowl was still too emphatically a cooler. Up the rude sod steps of the cliff they trooped--a bevy of shivers--fleeing for warmth and the shelter of the bungalow. "Oo-oo-oo! I've never been in bathing so early in the year before," shook out Pemrose, to whom the experience--the lingering chill of this mountain Bowl many hundred feet above sea-level--was rather too much of a weak parody upon her last freshwater ducking. "Oh! you'll soon warm up. Come, hurry and dress! It's no end of fun studying water-snails and egg-boats--gnats' funny egg-boats--under a microscope, with the Scoutmaster," encouraged Tomoke, in everyday life Ina Atwood, blue as her lightning namesake, and rather hankering after the warmth of her pine-knot torch. "Ye-es; and--and minnows--where every one of them is--is a chief Triton among the minnows!" laughed another girl, scrambling into her clothes. "Meaning no minnows, at all--all-ll Tritons!" All Tritons, sure enough, rosy Tritons, brilliant now in the early summer, the breeding season, with wonderful colors, the males, especially. Swimming about, near the surface, as the minnows usually do, the clear waters of the June Bowl became for the girls, looking, one by one through the large microscope over the boat's side, a "vasty deep" in which leviathans played--fairy fish--seeing everything rose-color, painting themselves to ecstasy with the joys of mating, the joy of June. "See--see they're not all red--or partly so--s-such a lovely pinky-red, especially around the fins and head--that's where they keep their pigment," said Tanpa. "Some have colored themselves like goldfish; others are greenish--or lighter yellow." "Ha! While others, again, are gotten up as if for a minstrel show for their marriage--painted black, for the time being!" laughed her husband, the tall Scout Officer. "Yes. That's why we like, girls and boys, to come down to our camp early in the season--if only at intervals--because we watch the summer coming and can study the wonderful lake life as at no other time," remarked the Guardian again, and then subsided into private life in the stern of the broad, red camp-skiff, scribbling something in verse form to be read at the White Birch celebration in the afternoon when land as well as lake was a-riot with young color, strewn with wild flowers for gay June to tread on. "Oh! isn't it the most wonderful--wonderful season? In the city we go camping too late. The freshness isn't there." Pem's eyes were dim as she applied one to the lens of the microscope, to gaze once more at the painted Tritons; she was glad that in the freshness of the year it was--oh! so soon now--that the little Thunder Bird would momentarily color the skies and paint the World rose-colored in excitement over its demonstration--over the heights that could be reached--paving the way for the Triton of Tritons to come. "Well! if we spend any more time with the minnows, we'll have to 'cut out' the 'fresh-water sheep', the little roaches, and the insects' egg-boats," said the Scoutmaster. "Speaking of the latter, I saw a curious one yesterday upon a stagnant pool over on the other side of the lake; perhaps the visitors would be interested in it." The visitors were interested in the bare mention. Warming equally to comfort and excitement again, they clamored--Pemrose and Una--for a sight of that raft of gnats' eggs, so cunningly formed and glued together, minute egg to egg, hundreds of them, that it was a regular lifeboat--no storm could sink it, and pressure only temporarily. Yet, after all, Pemrose only half heard the Scoutmaster's explanation of how the insect chose a floating stick or straw as a nucleus, placed her forelegs on it and laid the egg upon her hind ones, holding it there until she had brought forth another to join it, gluing the two together by their sticky coating,--and so on till the broad and buoyant boat was constructed! Pemrose hardly heard, for as the party made its way to that stagnant pool, an overflow at some time of the sparkling Bowl, and hidden in a dense little wood, she had a sudden demonstration of how, under certain circumstances, a girl's heart is much more capsizable than a gnat's egg-boat. Hers positively turned turtle--yes! really, turned turtle--at sight of a long, gray figure lying, breast down, amid undergrowth upon the margin of a little stream that was hurrying away from it to the lake. She felt momentarily topsy-turvy, every bit of her, for anywhere on earth--aye, even if she were scouring space with the Thunder Bird--she would recognize that angular figure. It had once pulled her up a snow-bank to the distant rumble of an engine's explosion. Yes, and surely she had seen it again, once again, since then--although, sandwiched as it now was between egg-boats and painted Tritons she could not--for the moment--remember where. "Fine day! Having luck? Catching anything?" hailed the Scoutmaster, with genial interest, as one woodsman to another, for the figure was angling with a fly-rod. The latter shot a side long glance at the party from under a broad Panama hat,--then jammed that, rather uncivilly, further down upon his head. "Bah! The fish aren't ex-act-ly jumping out of the water, saying 'Hullo!' to you!" it returned in the freakish drawl of a masked battery, shrinking deeper into cover amid the ferns. Yet, when the Nature students had passed on, one quivering girl, with ears intently on the alert, heard it fire off something in the same fern-cloaked rumble about a certain fly being a "perfect peach" to fish with. And the answer came in clear, ringing, boyish tones--from another angler presumably--momentarily rainbowing the wood. "Yes--sure--that Parmachene belle is _the girl_, Dad! If--if there's a trout in the stream, she'll put the 'come hither!' on it." "Bah! Likening a trout-fly to a girl! So like his 'nickum' impudence!" Pem's teeth--in her present mood--came together with a snap. And, of course, she couldn't see the gnat's raft when she arrived at the stagnant puddle, for she had borrowed the gnat's sting with which to barb the snub which she meant to inflict, some time, upon that angling youth who had sat, unabashed, in the Devil's Chair,--if ever luck held out a chance. "Yes--yes! and if he had played Jack at a Pinch forty-eleven million times, I'd do it." Her eyes were flashing now like the sky-dots in the pool, forked by iridescent shadows. "So--so _here's_ where they have their camp," craning her neck for a glimpse of a log-cabin amid the spruces. "Stud said it was just across the lake from the girls'!" After that--well! who could be interested in gnat-boats when they had just lit upon the ambush of a Puzzle; a puzzle that would only open in a pinch and shut up, like a Chinese ring-box, afterwards? And, moreover, that woodland lurking-place was just a bare mile and a half across the Bowl from the floating barrel pier, decked, as it was built, by girls' hands, and from the great heart's-ease bungalow, now, too, in process of decoration for the gala time in the afternoon around the White Birch totem; and for the blissful, far-off event, drawing nearer with every shining moment, the brilliant piazza, dance in the evening! CHAPTER XVIII REPRISALS "Her tunic is of silver, Her veil of green tree-hair, The woodland Princess donning Her pomp of summer wear. White arms to heaven reaching, Shy buds that, tiptoe, meet The kiss of June's awaking, The season's hast'ning feet! Oh, sure, a laugh is lisping In each uncurling leaf; The joy of June is thrilling Some sense to transport brief! Sister of mine, White Birch Tree! That sense my own sets free, For in thy dim soul-stirrings My Father speaks to me." It was Tanpa, with the sunburst upon her right breast, general symbol of the Camp Fire, and the birch tree in grace of green and silver embroidered above it upon emerald khaki, who read the verses which she had scribbled in the skiff's stern under cover of the general interest in water-snails, eggboats and "fresh-water sheep." "Most beautiful of forest trees--the Lady of the Woods!" came the responsive hail from eighteen green-clad maidens, tiptoeing around the Silver Lady, the emerald tassels of their Tam-o'-shanters skipping in the June breeze that peeped under her fluttering veil, still tucked with buds, to kiss those white limbs lifted to the skies, with surely, some bud of conscious joy. It was June! Upon the cliff-brow, above the lake, wild roses were budding, too; and the girls' cheeks painted themselves with their reflection--even as did the blushing minnows in the lake. But the lady of the woods had the best of it so far as decoration went. Never new-crowned head wore in its coronet Life as hers did,--fledgling life. For amid the heart-shaped leaves, so brightly green, was the cap-sheaf of summer wear: "A nest of robins in her hair." The poet who penned that line would have gloried in the sight of her, that bungalow birch tree, a tall, straight specimen, radiant as a silver taper from the black, frescoed ring about the foot to the topmost ivory twig, and here and there amid the fluttering, pea-green tresses a little tuft of conscious life--a nestling with open beak and craving, coralline throat. He would have joyed in the sight of the tree-loving Group, too, as the earth was turned and the first silver sapling rooted deep to the music of Tomoke's voice, softly proclaiming: "He who plants a tree, He plants love. Tents of coolness spreading out above Wayfarers he may not live to see. Gifts that grow are best, Hands that bless are blest, Plant! Life does the rest." And Life would do the rest--oh! surely--in the case of her father and herself, was the dewy thought of Pemrose Lorry as she planted her baby tree in honor of that novel Wayfarer, that would first traverse space and conquer it--bridge the gulf which made Earth a hermit amid the heavenly bodies--of the great invention, whereof poets in future ages would sing, that daringly took the first step towards linking planet with planet. And the tender sapling was rooted in the hope that long before it was a mature tree that comet-like Wayfarer would start,--the Thunder Bird would fly. Well! star-dust never blinded the eyes. But it certainly dazzled those of Pemrose, that young visionary, as she pressed earth around her sapling's root: would there ever come a time when the Camp Fires of Earth would hail the Camp Fires of some other planet across that illimitable No Man's Land of Space, first--oh! thought transcendent--first bridged by her father's genius? But with the high seasoning of that thought came the salty smack of another! All unseen in the planting excitement a tear dropped upon the spading trowel as she thought of that whimsical "Get thee behind me, Satan, but don't push!" plea of the inventor sorely tempted to commercialize his genius, thwart its inspired range, because of the difficulties about bringing his project to fruition--and of that money hung up, idle, for the next twelve years. "Daddy-man thinks he'll be--well! not an old man, but that his best energies will be spent by that time, even if--" But here the trowel dug vigorously, burying head over ears the thought of the possible return within that time of the "zany" who had been such a mad fellow in youth that, according to her father and others, it was like sitting on a barrel of gunpowder to have anything to do with him, so sure were you to come to grief through his explosive pranks. And yet, and yet--perhaps it was the dash of spice in her name--Pem could not help feeling an interest for his own sake in that "hot tamale", the Thunder Bird's rival in the will! So she spaded away, watering her sapling for the first time, herself, with that little tributary tear; and then, propitiating it, after the manner of the Indians, in the graceful Leaf Dance, capering around it, around the Queen Birch, too, with her companions, upon the lightest fantastic toe, their green arms outstretched and waving, to imitate the leaves above them, blown by the wind. Went the phonograph upon the bungalow piazza, as it threw off the music, the quaint Indian accompaniment to those stamping, shuffling, skipping feet, to the queer little half-savage syllables, borrowed from the Creek Indians, upon the lips of the chanting, dancing girls, to the coconut hand-rattle wielded by Aponi, the Butterfly, most fairy-like of the green dancers, as she led and led, in honor of the new _idlwissi_, or tree-hair, the listening leaves--ethereal partners overhead. [Illustration] Containing little pebbles picked from the lake-side, with a stick running through the painted coconut-shell for a handle, its gleeful rattle fairly turned girls' heads with the joy of June. "I think we'll have to ask you to repeat that dance to-night for the benefit of the boys, your guests," said the Scoutmaster, who was manipulating the phonograph. "Fairyland wouldn't be 'in it' with the human leaves tripping in pink and gold and green and--no ordinary man knows what!" Fairyland, indeed, seemed beaten hollow as "across the lake in golden glory" the waning sunbeams of early June bathed the little floating pier, wreathed in laurel and daisy chains, then climbed with flagging feet, like a tired angel, the sod-steps cut into the side of the steep cliff, and, gaining the top, joined their rose-colored brothers skipping among girlish forms in every fair hue imaginable, claiming partners in a dance as of Northern Lights before ever their human brothers, the scouts in gilded khaki, got a chance at a reel. "Oh! I feel it in my toes that this is going to be a won-der-ful party," said Toandoah's little pal, kicking lightly, impatiently with those satin toes of her party slippers at the tufted grass, as she sat enthroned upon the sod of the cliff's brow, with two knights beside her, Stud of the stout heart, and a bright-eyed luckless tenderfoot, whose parents, in a fit of dementia surely, had named him Louis Philip Green, which, as he used only the initial letter of his second name, had of course entailed a nickname. "You promised you'd dance the Lancers with me, although I'm only a tenderfoot," said Peagreen, nibbling a blade of grass as he lay prone upon the sod and shooting a glance, bright and eager as a robin's, in the direction of the black-haired girl with those skybeams in her eyes under inky lashes. "Humph! The cheek of some kids who ought to be tucked up in their Beehive when--when that dance comes off!" grumbled the fifteen-year-old Stud, with the arrogance of a Patrol Leader, directing his glance at a brown, conical bungalow flanking a large one, where the younger boys turned in at what seemed to them unseemly hours, while scout veterans sat up overhauling the day's doings for an occasion of a laugh against somebody, practical joke, of course, preferred, to be published in the Henkyl Hunter's typewritten Bulletin and hung up in the porch next morning. "Well! I'm safe for the Grand March, anyhow--and the Virginia reel, too, eh!" Stud dug congratulatory fists into his brown sides, wriggling aggressively upon the cliff-brow, like Peagreen figuratively hugging the ground with an impatient nose. Privately he was inclined to the opinion that the blue-eyed girl's friend who had that little nearsighted stand in one of her dark eyes, and two dimples to Pemrose's one, was the daintier "peach" of the two--and that his own sister, Jess, was as pretty as either; but think of the distinction of leading off with a girl whose father would lead off amid the dance of planets, in sending a messenger to the moon, Mars, too, maybe! "Whoopee!" He kicked the sod as if spurning it as common or garden earth--although there were moments when, like others--elders--in a skeptical world, he told himself that the Thunder Bird would prove, after all, a Flying Dutchman,--just an extravagant dream. "So--so you were out on the lake this morning, studying pond life with the professor," he said, alluding to the Scoutmaster. "He's instructor in a college and each year he gets us started on something; last summer it was astronomy--he brought a small telescope along." Pem's heels drummed more excitedly on the sod--the starry heavens were _her_ scope. "But we have a good deal of fun with the big compound microscope, too--and more without it," acknowledged Studley. "Fancy last week we caught a huge pike which had jumped clear out of the water, on to the bank, after a water-hen!" "Where was that? How--how big was it?" The girlish questions mounted helter-skelter. "The pike? Oh! he weighed about fifteen pounds. It was right over there, on the other side of the lake," pointing to the spot where the party interested in egg-boats had landed that morning. "He--he gobbled the hen, too." "_Did_ he?" But he might have been threatening to gobble her, judging by the start which the girl gave at the moment. Her heart jumped down to the water's edge as abruptly as did the cliff beneath her. Her eyes were on a boat rowing out of the sunset's eye directly across the lake from that very spot. There was but one individual in it and he--he was rowing by instinct, as the birds fly, for his gaze was glued to a newspaper sheet, the sun's own evening edition, gorgeously printed by the painted rays in every hue of the spectrum. He was heading straight--straight for the floating wharf with its plank-bridge running out ashore. Jack at a Pinch again! "Do--do you know who he is?" Pem flashed the question upon the older of her two boy-knights. "Well-ll! I guess so." Stud's joy in the recognition floundered a little. "He--he's the fellow--one of the fellows--who boomed the aëroplane, the other day, to get you girls quietly out of the cave, when there was a 'rattler--'" "As if we'd have made a fuss, anyhow!" The girl's eyes blazed, again a patchwork, drawing their red center from the sun. "You said--you said that it was so hard to make friends with him, like whistling jigs to a milestone--ah!" Her own voice was suddenly stony. "Have you--oh! have you made any headway since?" "Humph! Yes. I've found out something about him." The patrol leader's preoccupied eyes were on the boat edging vaguely nearer to the wharf, with its one "nickum" figure, so nonchalantly rowing, so absorbed in the rainbowed sheet upon its knees that at this moment it awkwardly "caught a crab" and almost suggestively lost an oar. Simultaneously, however, the phonograph on the piazza struck up, as a prelude to festivities, the Virginia reel, the notes tripping gaily out across the painted lake; and the rower shot one glance upward, as if to say: "I'll be there in time!" then bent his hungry nose to the paper again. "What--what did you find out about him?" Pem's interest was equally hungry--positively famishing. "His name--eh?" "Ha--that's the question! Over on Greylock the farmers' sons call him Shooting Star', alias 'Starry'," with a boyish laugh, "because when they were awf'ly hard up for a player in the last ball game of the series against Willard College, having lost their second baseman and substitute too, by gracious! he breezed along, an' the captain, hearing he had played on a college team, roped him in ... an'--an', what do you know, but he won the game for that mountain team with a home run! A home run over the left field fence! Bully!" "But, surely, _they_ know his--real--name!" Pem's aloof absorption in that fell like fog-drip even upon the glow from that left field fence. "Maybe they do--and maybe they don't! He refused it to the fans. And when the Greylock coach cornered him he palmed it off as Selkirk. But my cousin who's pitcher on the team says in his opinion that was just 'throwing a tub to a whale'--something fishy about it, see?" Stud winked. "For 'Starry' an' his father--who's a queer fish, if ever there was one--had a camp then up on Greylock peak, and the postmaster in charge o' the Greylock mail owned that he received letters for them addressed to another name--only he couldn't--wouldn't--give it away." "_Wha-at!_" Pem's hand suddenly smote her lips. Her wide eyes were no patchwork now. Stud had not thought that a girl's eyes could be so blue. It almost gave him the "Willies", their remote, peculiar sky-glow, as if afar--afar--they were seeing things. "What!" she gasped again, while that vivid glow faded, became bluish, blank, the tint of "Moonshine"--of a strange, wild, nondescript dream. Moonshine that seemed flooding her whole being! And yet--although she was a quick-witted girl--it was too vague for her to draw from it one clear thought--only an uneasy, unreal, absolutely breathless feeling! And then the queer, air-drawn sensation as suddenly passed--and with it the blue moon which had momentarily turned her world to nothing--"shooed" off by a very real, very tangible, quite pressing apprehension: "He--he's not coming to the da-nce?" She sprang up hurriedly, pointing to the boat below; to its one preoccupied figure, clad neither in rough sweater nor May-fly gaudiness, now, but, if the sunset didn't exaggerate, in a very becoming dark suit. "Humph! I don't know! I guess he is! Didn't think he could pull it off for some reason or other--" Stud's shoulders were shrugged. "But, maybe, he's found where there's a will there's a way." "Why-y?" The girl's lips were parted breathlessly, her foot involuntarily stamping. "Oh! you know you told us to invite our friends to the party; not you, but the other girls did, when they signaled across that night from the green Pinnacle--gee! and it was some signaling, too." The scout's glance was teasing now as it shot up from the grass. "So--so one of the older boys he ran across that bunch o' fellows who were blooming round in the cave the other day--they're all from camps on the lake--and invited the whole five. This one thought he couldn't accept, but I guess he's making a dash at it--at coming just the same!" "Oh!... Oh, _dear_! I wish he wasn't!" "Why?" Now it was the scout's turn to hang, breathless, upon the interrogation as he too jumped to his feet. "Because--oh! because I'd be--be ever so much more comfortable without him--enjoy myself more." Pem caught her breath wildly. "Then 'twill be A. W. O. L. for him! ... A. W. O. L. for him--if I perish for it!" "What--what does that mean?" "Absent With-Out Leave, as they set it down in the Army!" Mischief leaped to the Henkyl Hunter's eye. He beckoned Peagreen from the grass to follow him. A whisper in the tender-foot's ear and down the winding sod-steps of the cliff they scrambled! Pem knew that she ought to call them back; knew it from the white parting at the side of her throbbing little head to the toe of her satin slipper tumultuously beating the ground, as she sank down, an orchid amid her chiffons, to watch. But it was a moment when the spice of her chowchow name had all spilled over; when the Vain Elf which, according to her father, slept in the shadow of the Wise Woman, was broadly--mutinously--awake. The boat had drawn in alongside the decked float now. It was gently rocking there, on and off, the rower having shipped his oars and laid them beside him, his strong fingers now and again hooking the wharf when there was danger of his drifting away, while his obsessed nose was bent closer still to the newspaper sheet, catching the last rays of daylight on it. He did not look up when the scouts, running out over the plank bridge, spoke to him. Suddenly one of them--Stud it was--leaned down and snatched the oars, lifted them high in the air, the nickum's evil genius having prompted him to lay them in the boat's side nearest the wharf; perhaps it was the demon which he had dared by sitting in the Devil's Chair. At the same time Peagreen gave the boat a strong shove outward to where a current caught it and swept it further--mockingly further, towards the darkening center of the Bowl. "Oh! I say--I say, you fellows, that's no stunt to pull off!" roared the nickum wrathfully. "I'm due at the dance now!" "You're not coming to the dance. There's a girl here who doesn't want you!" rang back the voice of callow chivalry in the barbarous pipe of the tenderfoot. And Pem, slipping up from the grass, her hands to her burning cheeks--for she had not meant it to go as far as this--stole back to the piazza, to dance away from the shamefaced ecstasy of reprisal in her heart. Perhaps she would have felt that this was too sore a snub to inflict for any rudeness on Jack at a Pinch; perhaps she would have compelled her boy-knights to put out in the camp skiff and return those oars--under pain of not dancing with them, at all--had she seen the illuminated column over which the victim's nose had been so disastrously bent. It was in every sense a highly colored description of her father's record-breaking invention, dwelling particularly, though vaguely, upon the experiments so soon to take place with a lesser Thunder Bird, a smaller rocket, from the remote and misty top of old Mount Greylock. CHAPTER XIX A RECORD FLIGHT It had come at last, that starless night, that stupendous night of which Pemrose had dreamed for a year, as she perched on a laboratory stool and watched her father at work, when the little Thunder Bird, the smaller rocket, would take its experimenting flight, its preliminary canter, up a couple of hundred miles, or so, into the air,--and on into thin space. Most dashing explorer ever was, it would keep a diary, or log, of its flying trip. But whereas travelers, hitherto, had carried that up a sleeve or in a breast-pocket, it would have its journal in its cone-shaped head; the little openwork box, five inches square, with the tape-like paper winding from one to another of the wheels within and the tiny pencil making shorthand markings, curve or dash, as the air pressed upon it, until it got beyond the air-belt altogether--out into that bitter void of space, where pressure there was none. No wonder that the inventor called this log the golden egg, for when the magic Bird had flown its furthest, when all the little powder-rockets which, exploding successively, sent it on its way, were spent, then its dying scream would release the log from its bursting head. Back that would come, fluttering to earth on the wing of a sable parachute, lit on the way, as it drifted down two hundred miles, or so, by the glowworm gleam of a tiny electric battery,--a little dry cell attached to it! And this, really, was, as Pemrose had said, the kernel of the present experiment to her father, the only witness to prove that the baby Thunder Bird had, indeed, "got there", flown higher than anything earthly had ever ventured before; and that if a little two-footer in the shape of a sky-rocket had done so much, then there was nothing to prevent a twenty-foot steel Bird from flying on indefinitely,--even to Mammy Moon, herself, or fiery-eyed Mars, perhaps. "I don't believe that Dad has slept for two nights now, thinking about its safe return," said Pemrose to Una, as in the starless, breeze-tickled night the two crouched together upon the mountain-top. "Well! that little firefly, the tiny electric lamp--the 'wee bit battery', as Andrew calls it--will guide us to finding it when it drifts down," panted the other girl, excitement fixing that little peculiar stand, like a golden lamp, in her dark eye. "Yes, but--" perhaps her dream in the bungalow of Ta-te, the tempest, was affecting Pemrose--"but suppose, oh! suppose, that the wind--there is a wind--should waft it away--away from us, down the mountainside, to where we couldn't find it in the woods--dark woods--to where somebody, some horrid meddler, might pick it up, and get a look at the Thunder Bird's diary before us ... the first record from so high up. Oh--dear!" The girl's sigh was echoed by that stealthy wind around her, in whose every whisper there was menace, as it swept through the long grasses and ruffled the ash trees of Greylock's summit. Una, to whom this "half the battle", the quick locating of the parachute and its treasure, was not so vital, soared above all threat in this witching-time of excitement--the transcendent hour. "The Thunder Bird's diary! Oh-h! the Thunder Bird's diary," she repeated dreamily, as if reciting a charm. Being Camp Fire Girls of fervid imagination, the supreme invention, the beginning of old Earth's reaching out to the heavenly bodies, gained its crowning romance from them. As moment by moment flew by romance in their young breasts became a sort of rhapsody that set every thought to wild music. To Pem it was as she had dreamed it would be, away back in her father's laboratory, before the February train wreck. Hands seemed reaching out to her from everywhere,--she the satellite reflecting her father's light. From the four quarters of the habitable earth eyes seemed trained upon her, as she knelt in a little island of flashlight, with her thumb on an electric button which, connected by wires with a platform about a hundred feet away, would throw the switch and release the magic Bird to flying. "N-now, keep cool, Pem! Don't get excited--too ex-ci-ted--or-r you may miss the moment when they shout to you: 'R-ready! Shoot!'" breathed Una, so wrought up herself that her words had a sort of little zip, a hiss, in them, like the soft sighing of the breeze at the moment. Pemrose knew that her father's thoughts were taken up all the time with that summit breeze, on how far it might affect the safe return of the golden egg, as he hovered about the low platform, a hundred feet away, on which the little Thunder Bird was mounted, together with his young assistant tightening up every bolt and screw for the record flight. A third tall figure hovered near, within the ring of distant flashlight, that of Una's father, as transported now over the whole experiment as if he had never hinted that the far-flying rocket was a Quaker gun. With the girls in their little fairy-like ring of electric light--to go out like a will o' the wisp presently--was their usual body-guard, old Andrew, who had driven the party up the mountain. "Cannily noo, lassie! _Cannily._ Dinna be fechless--flighty!" The Scot was breathing like a Highland gust as he cautioned the girl whose tingling little thumb touched lightly as thistledown the fairy button. "Whoop!" he grunted sharply. "I reckon they're maist ready, noo, to gie it its fling--let it go!" It was at this moment that in the distant island of flashlight an arm was flung up. It was that of the professor's young assistant. He forgot to bring it down again. And, lo! a hush, as of a world suspended, fell upon old Greylock,--that grim, black mountain-top. The long grasses ceased to whisper. The mountain-ash trees cuddled their little pale berry-babies in awe. "All R-ready! _Shoot!_" Toandoah's battle-cry it was. A roar as of a small brass cannon, the first gun of the new conquest, responded, as the hand of a Camp Fire Girl of America pressed the button, triumphantly throwing the switch in the nozzle, or tailpart, of the mounted rocket, a hundred feet away. Simultaneously the flashlights went out. And in the darkness--into the blackness the little Thunder Bird soared. Soared with the wild red eye of its headlight challenging the heavens themselves to stop it, with its comet-like tail of red fire streaming out full twenty feet behind it. At lightning speed,--fifty miles the first minute, a hundred the next,--it leaped from its mountain platform straight up--bound for the vacant lot of space. Explosion after bright explosion tore the cloud-banks as, one by one, the innumerable little rockets, which Pem had watched her father fitting into their grooves in its interior--far back in that quiet laboratory--went off. And with each radiant roar higher--faster--it dashed, the little Thunder Bird, with never a puff of smoke to dim the spectacle--the transplendency of its flight. "Michty! Michty!... _Magerful!_" There was just the one skirl from Andrew, to lend it music on its upward way; he had not thought that he came to America to witness a thing like this. "Magerful", indeed! Magical, indeed! The others were silent, swept away by the magic of it--the greater, moon-storming magic to come. Only--only, they breathlessly asked themselves: "What next?" Well! the immediate "next" would be the return of the golden egg, the diary, the falling fruit of the experiment, without which there was no proof of its success--of how high the fiery Bird had flown--before, its last automatic charge expended, it sang its swan-song somewhere in space. At the increasing speed with which the little Thunder Bird flew--when miles were but a moment--the record might be expected back in a few minutes. Minutes--but they seemed a moon's age! It was Una--Una--who saw it first: the tiny speck of star-dust drifting down, down among the woolly clouds--dark as if the night had been shorn and its fleece hung out to dry--alighting here and there, the little firefly, in other words the atomy electric battery attached to the precious record, trying so hard, with the parachute's aid, to find its way back to earth from the lonely height it had reached. Another quarter of a minute, and they could trace the outline of the black silk parachute, itself, a drifting crow with their prize in its claws; that prize which the inventor, at least, would have given ten years of his life to grasp--if, grasping it, he could see that the little pencil had duly made its record markings--the proof that his Thunder Bird had "got there." "Glory halleluiah! it's drifting down right into our laps--into the old mountain's lap, rather! The wind won't carry it far, I bet! 'Twill land within quarter of a mile of us, anyhow," shrieked the professor's young assistant, a college boy, an athlete, who had led the quarter-mile sprint on many a hard-won field, when the racing honor of a school was at stake; and he ran as never before to get the better of the tricky gusts and seize the parachute--faster, even, than the nickum, that mysterious youth, had run, when he saved the day for the mountain team at baseball. "Hoot mon! Dinna ye let it get away frae ye into the dar-rk woods!" skirled Andrew, equally excited, and filled with awe of the raven parachute now springing, like a great, black mushroom, out of the night--and of the firefly which had been up so high. "Oh! it is--it is drifting towards the dark spruce woods--where we'll have hard work to find it." In the wild chase after the prize, Pemrose made a good third, as she thus shouted her fear. "See--oh! see, it _is_ landing," she cried again, "c-coming down--touching earth." Yes! for one fleeting instant it did alight upon a mound, the shooting starlet, the little electric dry cell, winking brilliantly against the background of somber evergreens, now dark as Erebus, that girdle old Greylock's crown. Then, freakish firefly, there, it was off again, the prey of the nickum gusts, before ever a hand could touch it--the black parachute rotating like a whirligig. Never--oh, never--was such a chase for such a prize since mountain was mountain and man was man! Once again the steely clog, the weight of the five-inch box containing the recording apparatus, the precious log, almost dragged it to a standstill! But the summit gusts were strong. Even the college boy began to have heart-quakes and Pemrose heart-sinkings. "Jove! What a stunt you're pulling off on us, you old black crow of a parachute--you booby-headed umbrella!" groaned he. "C-can't you stay put for just a second? Or are you bent on leading us a dance through the woods?" He began to lose hope of its landing in his lap, that breezy athlete, as it made straight for the jaws of darkness now, the inky spruce-belt--the parachute coquetting with its pursuers, like a great black fan. Was--was it the wind then? Something--something caught it up, the golden log--the first record from space--something snatched it up and whisked it off, off into those blackamoor woods, while the feet of the foremost runner were still many yards away. "'Twas na the wind! 'Twas mon or deil; I saw it loop out frae the boggart trees!" roared Andrew. And now in his skirl there was a wild ring of superstition that turned girlish hearts quite cold. "I saw it loup out frae the dark--dar-rk woods!" he insisted hoarsely. Ah! but those dim spruce woods were faintly illumined now with strange little dots and dashes of light--the firefly winking passionately, as if somebody, some thief, were running with it. And _they_ ran, too, its rightful owners, in full cry, calling frantically upon the robber, whether thief, or tempest, to stop. And the girls kept bravely up with the men. Or one of them did! For all the spice of her chowchow name was afire in Pemrose Lorry now; and she would have tackled the thief, single-handed, to get back her father's record. Into the core of darkness--in among the ebony spruce-boughs--the jetty, frowning trunks, the snarling, brambly underbrush, dashed the chase, the hue and cry, not daring to turn on a flashlight and in its glare lose the one little piloting blink ahead, which now seemed to have considerable odds on them, as it fled helter-skelter through the woods. "My word! this--this beats anything I ever dr-reamed of," gurgled the college boy. "The Thing, whatever it is, has us nicely fooled. There--there, it has switched off the 'glim' now--the little, telltale battery. Now--where are we?" No one could tell, as they floundered about, three men, and two girls, in the mysterious night-woods--without a clew--Pemrose clinging desolately to her father now, Una to hers--while Andrew, the Church Elder, muttered weird Highland curses. Nobody could tell where they were, indeed, figuratively, of course, except--except that the experiment was a failure, so far as any proof to the World was concerned! Except that Toandoah's hopes were dashed,--if not broken! The first record from Space was stolen,--or lost. CHAPTER XX THE SEARCH No! She did not think the nickum had taken it,--that mysterious Jack at a Pinch! This is what the bleeding heart of Pemrose told her over and over again within the next twenty-four hours,--and after that, too! True, she had robbed him of his oars and a dance,--or had been responsible for the trick! She had not made her scout-knights return those ashen blades until the morning after the dance, when they were surreptitiously deposited upon the opposite shore of the lake in the neighborhood of the camp near the insects' egg-boats. And she had enjoyed herself hugely as the guest of the White Birch Group at the wind-up of the June carnival, while he, twice a rescuer, a friend in a pinch, was drifting helplessly out upon the dark night-waters of the Bowl, trying to paddle with his hands, within hearing of the festive dance music, until some good Samaritan from his own shore rowed out and gave him a homeward tow. But all this, as the girl passionately told herself, was an everyday trick,--just a paper pellet thrown at one beside the overwhelming blow of the loss of her father's record. And he who could quote Shakespeare upon "Something rotten in the state of Denmark", amid the horrors of a zero train-wreck, who "liked his excitement warm", had a sense of humor. True humor is never without a sense of proportion. It knows where to stop. But if the nickum was not the thief,--who then? Ta-te, the tempest--otherwise the mountain gusts--had to be acquitted too. For at the first dawn after the blighted experiment some thin silk rags of a raven parachute were found clinging, soot-like, to bushes in the spruce wood, together with a portion of a twisted and bent wire frame. There was not a trace of the diary, the golden egg, the little perforated steel box, with the recording pencil and paper in it. Deprived of its wing, that could not have gone on alone,--without some hand carrying it. So the weary and despondent searchers were forced to accept Andrew's assertion that "mon or deil" had robbed them; and it was plain from the solemn shake of the "true-penny's" gray head in its up-to-date chauffeur's cap that he, himself, was disposed to lay the blame on a "deev." "It's plain to me, noo, that this auld Earth should bide where she belangs," he told the two girls, "not go outside o' her ain bit atmosphere--be sending muckle messages outside it--it's na canny." He even respectfully delivered himself of this opinion to the inventor--to Toandoah, with the hungry look of loss in his eye, which occasionally wrought Pemrose to the point of choking sobs and to clenching her fists at the mysterious robber. And he repeated it, with elaborations, did Andrew, on the second June morning after the loss when Professor Lorry, declaring that it would take a year to search every foot of Greylock Peak, and that he was not going to waste time in crying over spilt milk, went down the mountain with his young assistant and Mr. Grosvenor, who had business in the valley, to procure materials for another experiment--although not on the same scale as the first--the girls being left behind with the landlady of the little mountain inn where they were staying. The chauffeur wore a "dour" look as he saw them depart, Una's father driving his own car; for the first time in all his well-trained service, the true-penny was inclined to sulk over being told to keep an eye on two "daft lassies", who refused to go down to the town, because they wanted to search some more--or Pemrose did. So he sat on a bench outside the little mountain house, thirty-six hundred feet above sea-level, where there were no visitors at this early season, with the exception of the experimenting party, and, between whiffs of his pipe, discoursed upon the folly of simple earth folk in "ganging beyant themselves, thinking o' clacking wi' the Man in the Moon, forbye"--and, in tones seemingly bewitched, of the black shape he had seen jump forth from the woods. "Pshaw! I do believe you think that it was some bad fairy, Andrew,--fairy or mountain 'deev', who stole the little record, and part of the parachute, too--spirited them away," said Una, with fanciful relish, having not quite grown beyond the fairy-tale age, herself. "If that's so, girlie," said the mountain landlady--alas! for Andrew True-penny, alias Campbell, now came the evil chance over which he sulked--"if that's so, and you could only find the mountain wishing-stone, stand on it and wish three times--wish har-rd--maybe, the good fairies would give you back what you're looking for!" "Where--where is it--the wishing-stone?" The little fixed star in Una's eye was never so bright--a twinkling star of portent. "The wishing stone on Greylock! Oh! I never knew there _was_ one." "Havers, woman! Dinna ye ken that ye hae a tongue to hold?" muttered the grizzled chauffeur, in a stern aside. But the motherly New Englander--who, with her old husband, could not for a moment be suspected of the theft--had her heart full for two sorrowing girls. "Why! it's a little over a mile from here, I guess, down the Man Killer trail, the third flat slab you come to. I'd go with you myself--though it's rough traveling, the steepest trail on the mountain--only my man is laid up with the rheumatiz, hangin' on to him like a puppy-dog to a root." "Oh! we can find it for ourselves--hurrah!" shouted Una, almost squinting with anticipation. "I've never stood upon a real mountain wishing-stone before. Who--who knows what may come of it?" In her young blood, as in Andrew's, was the extravagant excitement of the whole experiment,--this first step in the ladder of demonstration which was by and by to reach the moon--lending to all an unearthly touch. "The--the Man Killer trail! Why! that's _one_ place where we haven't searched--yet!" A moping Pemrose suddenly awoke. To her, who had grown up amid the mathematical realities of an inventor's laboratory, who had "plugged" so hard at her elementary physics that she might be able to grasp the first principles of her father's work, some day--some day to work with him,--to her, the little girl-mechanic, a wishing stone was no golden magnet. But the very fact that there was one spot, not so far from the summit, either--wildest spot on the mountain though it be--still unexplored, was enough to draw her restless feet anywhere, against any deadlock of difficulty. "Ha! The Man Killer trail!" she whooped again. "Oh-h! we could easily find it; we saw a sign directing to it, as we came up the mountain." "It's na a trail; it's just a hotch-potch o' rocks--some sharp as stickit teeth!" groaned Andrew, who saw his own doom fixed, in vain protesting. He felt rather like a man who had been left behind to hold a wolf by the ears when, in the teeth of every remonstrance he could offer, he found himself, a little later, starting out in the rear of two adventurous girls, in quest of that third slab of a wishing stone--and the breath-racking Man Killer trail. But those girls were, to some degree, seasoned climbers, both,--sure-footed as venturesome! Through the dim limelight of fringing pine woods, across oozing mud-beds, soft from spring rains and freshets, over a babbling brook spanned by an elastic bridge formed of the interlacing roots of giant trees--where Una found much delight in bouncing up and down in anticipation of the magic stone--they stubbornly held their way, and came at last to the chaos of rocks crowding a steep gorge which marked the head of the lonely Killer trail. "Noo--I gang first!" said Andrew--a true-penny still, though the stamp was reversed. "My word!" he added sourly, "this is na trail--juist a scratch on the mountainside--an' the muckle rocks they're a flail for beating the breath out of a puir body." "What--what do I care if they shouldn't leave me a pinch if only I could find something--even a few more rags of the parachute!" gasped Pemrose, in stifled tones of passion, as she climbed, hurry-skurry, over a piled capsheaf of bowlders. Indeed, that battling breath was at a low ebb in all three when, following the tangled skein of a sort of trail which the feet of daring climbers had beaten, here and there, amid the rocks, they reached in due time the third slab which, like the invisible running water in Tory Cave, was supposed to bring "piping times" of luck to whoever should brave the difficulties of the wild pass, to stand on it and wish. "Oh--oh! there it is, at last," cried Una, her hand to her breathless side, "a nice 'squatty' slab--almost as smooth as glass--an' shaped like a mud-turtle. I wonder if there is a fairy underneath it--lurking under the rim. Now--now for the wishing cap!" But before she could don Fortunatus' cap by breaking a wee branch from a dwarf cedar growing amid the crags and wreathing it, like a green cottage bonnet, around her head, she slipped upon the wet moss girdling the stone where a tiny spring bubbled, and almost pitched headlong down the trail, at this point particularly steep. "Easy there, lassie! Ye dinna want to mak' o' that auld flat slab a tombstone, eh?" murmured Andrew, laying a great hand upon her shoulder, with a little smack of laughter upon his long, smooth-shaven upper lip. But immediately he winced as if his own words hurt him, and Pemrose--herself in an aching mood--knew what he was thinking of, that grizzled chauffeur. Una, her balance recovered, jumped upon the stone. Surely, no wishing-cap ever before was so bonnie, so becoming as the fine, emerald needles of the little cedar branch gripped together under the dimpled chin, fringing the sweet, saucy, girlish face, the star in the bright dark eye so intently fixed. Pem smiled; in the present crisis of her young life she didn't care if her friend's eyelashes were longer than hers by a whole ell. And Andrew sighed because of that one "sair memory" which had oppressed him on the Pinnacle. The serio-comic passion in the green-framed face, the fervor in the one little clenched fist drooping at Una's side, might well have won over all the good fairy-hosts that ever landed in the wake of the Pilgrims, and set them to scouring Greylock for the missing record from on high. "Now then! Pemrose, it's up to you! Turn your backbone into a wishbone." The wreathed figure stepped from the pedestal,--a laughing June spot against the wintry grimness of the Man Killer trail. Obligingly the inventor's daughter stepped up, closing her eyes half-humorously, doubling the drooping hands at her panting sides. But, as suddenly, the eyelids were flung up, like shutters from the blue of day. The uncurling fists were outflung passionately. "I can't! I _can't_!" cried Pemrose Lorry, choking upon her own wishbone. "I--I'm not in the humor for it--for foolery! I must go on--right on--and search! This--this is the shortest trail down the mountain, if it's the roughest--I know that!" She looked desperately at old Andrew. "If any mean thief--anybody--stole that record, there could be only one--one motive for it, my father-r says--curiosity; to be the fir-rst to see that very first record man has ever got from so high up--high up in the earth's thin atmosphere, where the air ends--and space begins!" She seemed to have that whole zero void in her heart now, its light, stifling gases in her distended throat--Toandoah's little pal--as she looked distractedly down the gorge. "Oh! it's pos-si-ble--just barely possible, that after he had satisfied his cur-ios-ity--or mischief--or whatever it was--he might have thrown away the little steel box, dropped it somewhere on the trail," she panted extravagantly. "Or--or we might even come on some more rags of the parachute and track him--track him to a camp! My father-r--" It was the passionate break on that word, even more than the spice in the blue eyes, that went straight to the shadowed spot in Andrew's heart and found the little sprig of memorial heather, hidden there, the mountain heather, the tiny, pinkish blossoms, with the faint, wild tang, which he plucked whenever he went home to Scotland from a small grave in a hillside "kirkyard" on whose granite marker was printed: "Margery Campbell, aged fifteen!" It had been as much the restlessness of bereavement as a desire to better their fortunes which had brought his wife and him to the New World, for she had been their only child, with the exception of one son, old enough to be in the American Army. The fragrance of that imaginary heather-bloom tucked away in the impassive chauffeur's breast was occasionally apparent in a furtive glance thrown skyward, or in a momentary glisten of mist in the gray shell of the mechanical eye. It had made the whole family of his employers very sympathetic towards Andrew, as to a friend. And now a whiff of that heather memory stood Pemrose in good stead. "I reckon if leetle Margery were livin', she'd feel in the verra same way gin anny misfortune happed to me," he told himself. "Aw, weel, lassie!" Thus he spoke aloud. "Since ye're set on gaeing on a wee bit further, we'll gang; but dinna get yer hopes stickit on finding onything!" "Andrew--Andrew, himself, has found something! Look--look at him!" It was barely twenty minutes later that the wildly startled cry burst from Una as the trio struggled on--on down the fitful path, between the rocky jaws of the Man Killer, where beetling crags loomed, fang-like, on either side of them and, here and there some swollen rill made of a green moss-bank a slimy mud-bed. "He--he's hearing things, if he isn't seeing them. Oh, look!... Look at him!" Una's hand was at her jumping heart--pressing hard as if to hold it in her body--as she beheld the tall figure of the chauffeur, motionless as arrested mechanism, upon the trail, ahead. "I heerd a--skirl." Andrew's face was stony as that of the Old Man of Greylock--a featured rock--as he turned it upon the breathless girls. "A skirl! A cry!" he repeated hoarsely. "'Twas na the yap of an animal, either! Somebody--somebody's yawping for help out here in this awfu' spot! Dinna ye hear it, children?" They did. Their flesh began to creep. Up, upward, struggling between great rocks, it climbed, that cry, where the stony teeth of the Man Killer bit the trail right in two. "Help--h-help!" it pleaded. "Oh--help!" Then feebly, but fierily: "_Oh-h!_ confound it--_help_, I say!" That was the moment when Pemrose Lorry shook as if the old Man Killer were devouring her. Was there--could there be something familiar, half-familiar, about the faint, volcanic shout: some accent she seemed to have heard before? And yet--and yet, not quite that, either! "My word! Some puir body's hur-rted bad--ba-ad--like a toad under a harrow," grunted Andrew, and scrambled hastily on over a gray barrier of rocks,--the girls following. Once again it limped painfully up to them, the cry, like a visible, broken thing. "Help--h-help, I say!" Then, feebly, in rock-bitten echo: "_Help!_" CHAPTER XXI THE MAN KILLER "We must lift him out of the mud! Oh-h! even if it hurts him--terribly--we'll have to lift him to a dry spot." It was Pemrose Lorry who spoke. Together with her Camp Fire sisters she had taken some training in first aid. And one agonizing accident which she had been told how to deal with was the case of a knee-cap displaced or broken. There almost seemed to be a broken head on her own young shoulders through which wild, streaky lights and shadows came stealing, like moonlight through cracked shutters whose chinks are not wide enough to reveal clearly any object in a room. It was the same breathlessly unreal feeling--the same dim moonlit groping, that she had felt as she sat on the cliff-brow with Stud, when he talked of the nickum and his father--and called the latter a "queer fish!" For one thing she knew at a glance! She had seen the injured man, who lay calling for help in a miry spot of the Man Killer trail, before. Three times before, said lightning perception! And it came upon her now, as emergency's stiff breeze blew the cobwebs from her brain, the occasion of the second time, sandwiched in between that zero day when he had dragged her up a snow-bank, the youth who saved her addressing him as Dad, and the smiling June one when he lay on a fernbed before his lake-shore camp, grumpily fishing. "I--I saw him: I know I saw him--again--crossing the street outside Una's home on the day when the last installment of the Will was read," she realized, her hands coming together convulsively at the thought of the blighting codicil which hung up the fortunes of the moon-going Thunder Bird for twelve long years. "He--he was wearing the same gray cap!" was the next cleaving flash of memory. He was not really wearing it now. It bobbed in the rill beside him. As one eye turned feverishly towards it, the third thunder clap of perception came in the staggering sense of how like he was to Una. She might have been his daughter--Una--with that little fixed star of feeling set like a shining pebble now in her right, fascinated eye, reflected, exaggerated in the glazed cast of pain in the stone-gray eye of the man beneath her, whose climber's suit of homespun was daubed with mountain mud,--whose tweed cap was the brooklet's toy. He had been trying to scoop up water in it. And that brought Pemrose Lorry, Camp Fire Girl, to herself again, within quarter of a minute of her first laying eyes on him. For there is one gallant anchor that will hold in any pinch,--when thought is shattered and speculation the maddest blur: the Camp Fire law: Give Service! She unhooked her little camper's cup from where it hung at her green belt, and offered him a drink. She dipped her handkerchief in the trickle of water and wiped the cold drops of faintness and agony from his forehead. And then, when he had confided to Andrew, who knelt beside him, that he had slipped upon the wet, slimy moss beside the rill, as he ascended the trail, and broken his knee-cap by striking heavily against a confronting rock, she said that they must lift him to a dry spot. "That's--r-right. She knows what to--do. Ouch! a--a knee-cap slipped, or broken--is--the deuce of a rack," groaned the victim, as they proceeded to raise him, the girls supporting, each, a knickerbockered leg, Pemrose the injured one, while Andrew took the main weight of the writhing body, until they laid it upon some dry moss. Yes! and she knew further what to do, that Camp Fire Girl who wore the Fire Maker's bracelet upon her wrist, for plucking off her soft, green sweater she rolled it into a wad and placed it under the hollow of the injured knee, so flexing it, supporting it, while Una doubled hers into a pillow for his head,--Una who moved as if in a fantastic dream. And then arose the question as to the next move; how to go about obtaining further help. "We might--might make a stretcher with poles, saplings, with our sweaters, your coat, Andrew, and--and carry him down to the nearest farmhouse," Pem suggested. "No-o thank--you!" The injured man shifted his shoulders ever so slightly upon one elbow and looked at her; the tiniest laugh shot the rapids of pain in his eye. "My son said you had a whole lot of 'pep'--same that's in your inventor-father, I suppose, who wants to bombard the moon!... My son who's play-ing baseball now down on the Greylock field--mountain's foot!" The sufferer here appealed to Andrew. "If you could--only--get him up here, I'd be all right! There's an auto at the nearest farmhouse--maybe they'd let you take it. Any one--any one can point out 'Starry'"--in a lame rush of pride--"player who made that home run--" "Hadna I better bid him bring a doctor along too--a stretcher as weel?" put in the Scotchman dryly. The victim nodded, looking at the other's cap. "You're a chauffeur," he pleaded; "you'll drive fast?" "Aye, fegs! Fast as God and gasoline will let me!" answered Andrew devoutly, with an anxious glance at the two girls. As his tall, spare figure scrambled on down the trail, the sufferer raised his eyes to Pemrose. "If--if you could t-twist my knapsack round from under me," he murmured; "there's a restorative in it--a few drops of ammonia--I'm faint!" She did so--and turned for the moment as faint as he was. The whole trail swam, grew black--black as the wisp of thin, ebony silk, parachute silk, with a fraction of a bent wire frame peeping out from one corner of that roomy knapsack. "Well! are you going to desert me now-ow?... Now that the thief is so-o nice-ly bagged!" The man looked up at her, some dash of whimsical fire in him mastering weakness; at the girl kneeling, bolt upright, with the black rag between her hands, and the twisted scrap of frame,--the frame which had drifted down two hundred miles. [Illustration: The man looked up at her, some dash of whimsical fire mastering weakness. Page 268.] "Ar-re you--going--to desert me now?" Again the anchor held; the noble anchor: Give Service: it was as if a voice outside of her numbed self spoke the words. The raven rags dropped from between her fingers,--their reflection from her face. Steadily enough, she found the little vial lying amid the top layer in that pigskin knapsack, shook a few drops from it, into the thimble-like glass accompanying, mixed them with water, held them to his lips. At the same time she dipped her handkerchief again and passed it over his forehead. "Ha! Pity as well as 'pep' in you, eh? Good!" The sufferer actually winked one eye as the stimulant trickled down. "Well! my dear, the little recording apparatus is in that knapsack too; I--I make you a present of it--and of the codicil to my brother's will, as well.... You won't have to wait twelve years." Then, indeed, the trail seemed to double up, to wind itself around Pem's brain, rocks and all,--only every rock was gold-edged, a nugget. Her eyes stared straight before her,--blue as the June violet that caught a drop from the spring near. "Who--who are you?" screamed Una, forgetting that she was speaking to a broken man. "How about my being your uncle, Treffrey Graham, my dear, who--who was such a mad fellow--in--youth; s-such an oddity? Oh-h! you've heard of him--have--you?" The whimsical light in the pain-reddened eyes burned to mockery now. It showed the hippogriff, the "hot tamale", still there. Evidently eccentricity wasn't all dead. "Humph! By Jove! I'm having some fun out of my broken knee, after all--electrifying you girls," gurgled the still racked voice. "Dramatic setting for a denouement, too, the old Man Killer trail!" "But why--oh! why-y did you do it?" Pem snatched up the rag of parachute again, her eyes going wildly from the soot-like scrap of silk to a wonderful, antique ring upon the little finger of the pale hand which twitched so strangely below her. "What! S-steal the little record, you mean!" The bushy eyebrows were twitching, too. "Well! maybe I want-ed to make sure, for myself, that the rocket really had gone higher than anything earthly ever flew yet, before--before I resigned a fortune to it." That was the moment when the nuggets all turned to rocks again for Pemrose. He saw the change in her face. "Oh! I don't mean anything der-og-a-tory to your father, my dear"--pain snatched at the man's breath--"or to his invention, either. I knew him before you did. 'Why did I do it?' Curiosity--eccentricity, I suppose--anything you like to call it! I always was such a 'terror'--a regular zany, my college friends used to call me." A flash from those prankful days, erratic as a shooting star, shot the glaze in the sufferer's eye. "And, then--and then, I really am interested in everything connected with the conquest of the air--of space--myself," the hampered speaker went on. "I've done a little flying, out West,--my son, too! I found out when the experiments with your father's in-vention--" "We call it the Thunder Bird," put in Una, as pain again called for a break. "Ha! Good name for it! Piles up the moon-going romance, eh? Well-ll," wearily, "having found out the par-ti-cu-lar night on which the lit-tle model rocket was to fly, I came up the mountain to a small camp that my son and I have ne-ar the summit--east side of Greylock. I was standing on the edge of the spruce woods, watching the whole performance. Then--then, when the parachute dragging the little recording apparatus blew towards me in the darkness, almost into my hand, I--why! I snatched it up and ran with it. Why? Oh, because I suppose the boy has never died in me: the boy that's 'part pirate, part pig!'" with a grating chuckle. Incredible as it seemed, the low laughter, the treacherous tinkle, was echoed by girlish lips as that renascent urchin momentarily swaggered in the glaze of the suffering eye! "And then--and then something told me--an aberration, I suppose, as my impulses usually are--that I had some sort of r-right to see the very first record man had ever got of that upper air, of Space, if--if I was go-ing to turn over a couple of hundred thousand dollars, for the pursuit of the--sov-er-eign invention." "I--I can't believe it," murmured Pem into the stony teeth of the Man Killer. "I meant to return the record next morning, but I was a-fraid your father might shoot me," to Pemrose. "Then, later, I heard he had gone down the mountain--that was yesterday and a mistake--I went-down, too, to beard him. A--a little more water, please! I could not climb again until to-day; I took the Man Killer trail, as being the shortest. And--here I am!" grimly. "Incidentally, I gave our family lawyer a shock, little niece," he went on, as Una, plucking up courage, adjusted her sweater under his head; she began to like this uncle with the pebble-like cast in his stone-gray eye, she began to think that girls--Camp Fire Girls, especially, with their love of the fanciful--might have more patience with him than others had had. "Yes! you bet I gave old Cartwright the staggers!" He laughed down the twinge of agony in his voice. "Called him up on the long distance telephone, told him I was Treffrey Graham back; that I had been in the East nearly six months, with my son; that I came pretty near disclosing myself on the--on the day when the third installment of my brother's will was read--actually walked up to the door of my sister's house, then shied off, because ... Oh, gosh! this knee." The voice broke; it had really become a feverish babble of excitement now--pain's wild excitement. "Well! What was I saying--yes! I didn't ring the bell because I hadn't made up my mind whether I wanted to claim any share of my brother's fortune, or not; you see he hadn't been very fair to me in youth--taking away my sweetheart. None of my family had--for--that--matter! I didn't know whether I wanted to meet them again. Although I liked the look of my little niece; I had seen her, at a distance, with her mother. And then, we didn't need the money, my boy and I! Had enough of our own; Treffrey Graham may be a terror, but he isn't a failure--financially!" No--not by a long shot! said the flame of the pigeon-blood ruby upon the pale little finger, now curling significantly in air,--the gem whose fire in this wild spot seemed as erratic as his own, seeing that none but a zany would have worn it here. "So--so I told old Cartwright this morning that I stepped out of that strung-out will," a smile curled the pallid lips now; "that I authorized him to make preparations, at once, for the turning over of the remainder of my brother's wealth, in his name and mine, to the University of our native city, to be used for the furtherance of Professor Lorry's won-der-ful invention for r-reaching in-de-finite heights." "My father!... Oh! my fa-ther!" It was a wild little cry to which the Man Killer rang now, as the head of Pemrose Lorry went down upon her knees. "Yes, I'm glad his way is clear--though, I suppose, only a man 'whose head grew under his arm' would have managed the thing as I have done." The sufferer winked through the veil of pain. "Now! my son is different. He's a dare-devil too--but he knows where to stop. You couldn't have bribed him to steal that record--though somebody played a trick on him the other night--robbed him of his oars and a dance--just when he had 'taken the bit between his teeth', too; said he was tired of this camouflage business, and he was going--going whether I liked it, or not!" "_Ah-h!_" That was the moment when Pem's shoulders trembled like the needles upon the little green cedar sapling that grew by the rill: all because the Wise Woman in her was shaking the Elf, bidding her go to sleep for ever--which the Elf, very properly, refused to do, for, after all, undiluted wisdom would be a colorless cloak for any young back. "Well! he--he wouldn't speak to us when we just wanted to thank him for saving us in that terrible train-accident," put in Una defensively. "Ha! That was my fault, little niece. I made him promise, on coming East, that he wouldn't go near any of his relatives, risk being identified by them, until I had decided what to do about the legacy--and whether I was going to make myself known to them, or not. Now-ow, I hope you'll be friends. He's your own cousin--Treff junior." And so Jack at a Pinch at last came into his own in the shape of a name! "Yes, called after me, he is! Goodness! don't I wish he'd hurry up and get here, now--with the doctor?" It was a hollow groan. Pain was, at length, getting the better of that capricious spirit. "Can't--can't I do--anything--to make you more comfortable?" Pemrose asked. Then suddenly remembering that it was he who was making the Thunder Bird's fortune, as impulsively as the little cedar tree leaned to the swollen rill, she bent and kissed the cold sweat of pain from his forehead. "That--that's worth coming East for," murmured the man, his own eyes growing wet. "Little niece! don't you want to--follow--suit? I suppose, a year from now, your Thunder Bird will fly." CHAPTER XXII A JUNE WOMAN "I feel as if I was in the pictures!" "Oh! I feel as if I was in the pictures." It was the wild thought in each girl's breast, as minutes went on. The loneliness of the mountain pass, nearly three thousand feet above sea-level, the rigors of the wind sweeping up it, chill now, June not yet being ten days old, the frowning crags, the remote heads of other tall mountains peeping over their shoulders, the two green dots of girls on either side of a broken man, they took it all in, to the full, most dramatically too--and felt as if they were in the pictures. A surpassing moving picture reel, more telling than any they had ever witnessed, in which--oh, queer double-headed feeling--they were both actors and spectators! But pain--pain left no atmosphere of unreality about it for the suffering man, for the sufferer who monopolized both their soft sweaters, while they shivered convulsively, until if it came to a beauty contest between the two now, the old Man Killer, awarding the palm, would not have made it dependent on a mere matter of eyelashes, but on which little nose was the least blue bitten. Pain released something in that sufferer too,--a fire that was not all wild-fire! For suddenly he dragged Una's green sweater-roll from under his head and thrust it towards her with an imperious: "Put it on, child!" "I shan't!" replied that child of luxury, as arbitrarily, slipping it back under the pallid cheek, above which the stand of agony in the stony eye told that the man was suffering almost to a point of delirium now. "Who ever thought Una would be such a brick?" Pem nibbled the words between her chattering teeth. "She's shivering--yes! and frightened and trying to cry--but the brick in her won't allow it!" There was no doubt that the uncle of her blood was a brick, too, for he fought the groans reverberating behind his clenched teeth, like a bee in a bottle, only breaking out now and again in a yearning prayer for the coming of his son. "If he were only here--here!" he moaned; it was evident that the youthful daredevil who liked excitement, but "knew where to stop", was a tower of strength to the less balanced father. Pem was longing uncontrollably for his appearance, also--for the rower whom she had robbed of his oars, while the sufferer seemed to find his only relief in talking about him. "My son and I have been in bad scrapes before among--mountains," he panted, feverishly. "Once high up in the Canadian Rockies, we missed our guide who had gone back for provisions. Bad plight then, but the boy didn't 'cave'! He was only fifteen when he shot his bear in Arizona. He loves the West. But the East's in his blood. Just went wild over these Berkshire Hills, this spring, over his first sight of mayflowers! They seemed more of a treasure than the fortune he wanted to part with. _Hiff-f!_" Before the eyes of both girls rose the clamor of color "blooming round" in old Tory Cave--the armful of passë blossoms flung down at the "rattler" scare. "Yes--his Mother Earth has been good to him," muttered the whimsical voice. "Very good! Yet--yet such are earth-sons that he'd turn his back on her to-morrow--go off on a wild-goose chase after some other world--even a dead one--if only that moon-storming Thunder--Bird--" "What! You don't mean to say--oh! did he write to my father about it--write to my father and sign himself 'T. S.'?" broke in Pemrose, glancing back along the trail which she had traveled these past few months and finding it stranger, more baffling than the Man Killer's. "May--may--have done so," came the answer, with a faint chuckle. "I asked him when pressed for a name to give his mother's--his middle one--Selkirk. But he a lunar can-di-date! Not if I know it! With me, the moon may have the money--but not the boy!" "The moon may have the money!" Pemrose Lorry glanced at the mud-stained knapsack lying by the sufferer,--the knapsack tucked away in which was the golden egg, the precious record; she would not unearth it and glance at it, because the second look, at least, belonged to her father. This mature madcap upon the ground, this queer, practical joker, chastened now, if never before, had played on him a cruel prank, but, at least, he was not the fool who loved money for its own sake. "If--only--I could do anything for him!" yearned the girl passionately. "Oh! I'd want father--father--to feel that I did ev-ery-thing for him." And, as once before in a watery pinch, the thought of Toandoah's honor, Toandoah's debt to this trapped March hare, was the vital breath of inspiration. "Have--have you any matches?" Suddenly she bent to the ashen ear. "In my br-reast pocket, yes." It was a feebly appreciative flicker. "A fire! I--I a Camp Fire Girl--and not to think of it sooner! Una! Una! Get busy! Gather wood, quickly--quickly--all-ll the dry wood you can!" And the friendly little cedar gave of its one brown arm, the spruce chit, the birch stripling, the pine urchin--all the hop-o'-my-thumb timber that flourished in this wild pass--contributed of the dead limbs torn from them by last winter's blasts, to burn up the chill in the old Man Killer's heart. Una's little nose, piquantly tiptilted, warmed from a fashionable orchid-color to a cheery rose pink, with the excitement, the pressing adventure of trailing firewood among the rocks and dragging it captive to the new-born blaze which Pem was fanning with her breath and with the breezy bellows of her short green skirt. As for the sufferer, hope stirred anew in him as he turned his head towards the flaming pennons of good cheer, while the fire, prospering gayly, feathered its nest with scarlet down. He saw, too, that the fire-witch was preparing something in that red nest for him. Raking out the first glowing embers, she filled her little aluminum cup at the rill and set it among them; when it steamed she shook into it a few drops from the little vial--the aromatic spirits of ammonia--and held it to his lips. "It's the best I can do," she murmured, but her eyes stretched that best into an indefinite blue of longing to capture the pain even for a short time and bear it for him--for him who was making the Thunder Bird's fortune. As before, the stimulant set the racked heart to sending strength through the freezing veins--and with it a touch of the whimsicality which Death alone could quench. "Little girl!" Treffrey Graham's eye winked upon a mote of fun that softened to a mist. "Your fa-ther's invention is the gr-reatest thing yet; it's a Success--I know that from the one glimpse I had at the record--" Pemrose winced--"but--but you may tell him from me that I doubt if, after all, his Thunder Bird is the best thing he's turned out." "Some-somebody coming! Oh-h, some-body--coming!" cried Una, at that moment, so that the man started up, with a heyday exclamation--and tumbled back, a wreck of groans. For it was not his son. Neither was it the long-coated figure of the chauffeur, at sight of which each girl would have passionately hugged herself--if not him. But it was a messenger whom Andrew had sent. And at sight of her, of the fresh mountain rose in her cheeks, with its heart of American gold, the climbing flash in her hazel eye, Una just tumbled into sobs, herself, that little fixed star in her eye blazing pathetic welcome, for this was her first taste of emergency's pinch, emergency's call for sacrifice. "Are you--oh! are you come to stay with us--us?" she cried, running forward with childish confidence. "That I be--girlie!" responded the mountain woman, throwing a warm arm around her. "The man that borrowed our little aut'mobile truck and set off in it at a score down the mountain, the man with a queer blowpipe at the roots of his tongue, he told me that he had left two lassies up here on the lonely trail, with a badly hurt man. 'Woman!' says he, kind o' fierce-like, 'if they were yer own bit lassies, ye'd scorch the rocks, climbing to 'em.' 'Man!' says I," the Greylock woman paused, half-laughingly, to catch her breath, "'I never laid eyes on them, or on the broken-kneed man, either, but I'll warm the way, just the same.' But, mercy! it took me most an hour to get here--though only a mile of climbing--the old Man Killer is--so-o--fierce." Her eye, at that, went to the fire, now brilliantly painting the trail, to the pillowed figure upon the moss, with the sweater-roll in the hollow of the injured knee. "But, land sakes! I needn't ha' been in such a mad hurry getting here, after all--giving my skin to make ear-laps for the old Man Killer!" she cried, holding up two raw palms, flayed by indiscriminate climbing. "For, my senses! they're no stray lambs o' tenderfoot--those 'twa bit lassies'!" mimicking Andrew's blowpipe. "They know how to take care of themselves in a pinch--and of somebody else, too!... And--and, see here, what I've brought you, honey, rolled in the blanket for _him_!" "Cake--choc'late cake! C-coffee!" Una gasped feebly, confronted by the ghost of her everyday life. She grasped the reality, though, of that normal life, somewhere waiting for her, with the first bite into the brown-eyed cake, while her sweater was restored to her thinly clad shoulders as the mountain woman spread her blanket over the injured man and tucked it under him for a pillow. "You--you're a 'trump,' little niece--letting me have it for-r so long," he said wistfully. And Una shyly forbore to answer. Occasionally it is easier to land gracefully after a long jump than a short one in the case of an awkward gulf to be crossed! She saw that her friend Pemrose, no relation at all to this extraordinary uncle, could care for him and welcome him without embarrassment, while, with every doubtful glance in his direction, she felt, still, as if she did not quite know whether she was on her head or her heels. She crept, for reassurance, very close to the mountain woman, the typical June woman, with the normal rose in her cheeks, and the golden buttercup for a heart, as she picnicked, subdued, by the trail fire. "I don't think--oh! I don't believe I ever met anybody q-quite like you before. But I'm so glad you're in the world!" she murmured gratefully. "And I just wish you could come into _my_ world often, girlie," was the cuddling answer, "for it's lonely as old Sarum here on the mountainside--though where old Sarum is I don't know myself!" breezily. "Nor I!" laughed Una. "Old Man Greylock doesn't talk to one, you know--only roars sometimes." The woman lifted her eye to the dim peak above her, with the pale mists streaming, tress-like, about its crown, from which Mount Greylock takes its name; then her anxious glance returned to the sufferer. "Ha! there he goes--making faces at the pain again," she murmured pityingly. "And, mercy! I suppose 'twill be a blue moon yet--a dog's age--before his son can get here." It was a long age anyhow; although, in reality, little more than an hour--a wild, wind-ridden, fire-painted hour--before three haggard men came stumbling up the trail. Two carried a stretcher between them. One had a bag in his hand. As they hoisted that collapsible stretcher between its poles over the last bleak hurdle of rock, one, the youngest, dropped his end of it, which the doctor, shifting his bag, took up. Jack at a Pinch rushed forward. And ever afterwards Pem liked that churlish nickum because he ignored her then; because he had no more consciousness of her presence, or of Una's, or of the June woman's, than if they had been rocks--blank rocks--by the trail, as he flung himself on his knees beside his father. "Dad! _Dad!_" he cried, his face as gray-blue with hurry as his baseball flannels. "Oh-h! Dad, what have you been doing to yourself--now?" "The biter bitten--Treff! Joker pinched!" came the answer in tones almost jocular, for the love in that boyish voice was a cordial. "Well! I guess I haven't got my death-blow now you've come. And--and the murder is out, boy: these little girls know all-ll: who you are--who I am!" Then, indeed, Jack at a Pinch raised his head and looked straight across into the blue eyes of Pemrose Lorry. "You must have thought me an awful 'chuff'," he said. "I'm sorry about the oars," was the mute reply of the girl's eyes, but the least little tincture of a smile trickling down from her lip-corners, said: "But I'm glad I got even with you, somehow!" However, there was too much "getting even" just now in this wild spot--Life grimly settling accounts with the dragon who had so often "hazed" others--for the boy and girl to spend any more conscious thoughts upon each other. There was the terrible trip--the worst mile ever traveled--down the Man Killer trail, for him, strapped to the stretcher, after the doctor had examined the injury and found the delicate kneecap both slipped and broken. "I guess if--if I pull through this, I'll be a--reformed--character; no more--no more eccentricity for me," he murmured dizzily to Pemrose who, when the trail permitted, walked beside him, stroking his hand,--and he rolled his eyes faintly, through the veil of the opiate which the doctor had given, at the knapsack beside him, wherein lay the golden egg. And with his own hands, the Man Killer at last conquered, as they laid him in an ambulance, he took the five-inch, open-work steel box, the precious record, from that knapsack's depth and handed it to her. She could not look at it, the little Thunder Bird's log of that two-hundred mile trip aloft, she could only jealously clasp it to her breast,--Toandoah's little pal. "T-tell your fa-ther from--me," said the broken voice, "that Treff Graham is the same old Treff; that he m-may be a pirate, but he isn't a pig--not re-al-ly! That," faintly, "he apol-o-gizes--and steps aside; that, with all his heart--it's there, if it is a madcap--" wanderingly, winkingly, he touched his left breast--"he hopes that, a year from now, the highways of the hea-vens may be opened--the im-mor-tal Thun-der Bird will fly!" CHAPTER XXIII THE CELESTIAL CLIMAX A year from then it did! It awoke the World with its challenging roar, silencing for ever, let us hope, the racket of guns upon this dear planet, leading man in future to seek his conquests in more transcendent ways, even outside Earth's atmosphere, as it took its pioneer flight again from the misty top of old Mount Greylock. The World and his wife were there to see: scientists from the four quarters of the globe--Earth's great ones. And other spellbound spectators, too: Una, the White Birch Group, their Boy Scout comrades--Stud fast developing into the type of hotspur who wanted to take passage for the moon--all massed in such a stupendous Get Together as made the mountain seem "moonshine land", indeed, to their thrill-shod feet. And never--oh! never since the history of Mother Earth and her satellite began did such a spectacular traveler start on such a flaming trip as when the hand of a Camp Fire Girl of America threw the switch and the steel explorer, twenty feet long, leaped from its platform high into the air, pointed directly for the moon, with a great inventor's mathematical precision,--trailing its two-hundred-foot, rosy trail of fire. There was not breath--not breath, even, to cry: "Watch it tear!" Only breath enough, in young girls' bodies, at least, to gaze off at Mammy Moon, loved patron of many an outdoor revel, and ponder upon the nature of the shock she would get when the Thunder Bird's last explosion lit up her fair face with a blue powder-flash--lit it up for earth to see! "Do--do you think 'twill ev-er get there--two hundred and thirty thousand miles, about, when--when an eighth of an inch out at the start; and it would m-miss--miss?" breathed a youth who knelt by the heroine of the evening, the inventor's daughter. "Toandoah doesn't miss. My father doesn't miss." The young head of Pemrose Lorry queened it in the darkness, with a pride which made of old Greylock, at that moment, the world's throne. "But how--how are we to live through the next hundred hours--the next four days--the time the Thunder Bird will take to travel?" Yet they did succeed in living through it and in leading time a merry dance too, for young Treffrey Graham, junior, all old scores forgotten, was proving a prince of chums, as spirited in play as he was prompt in a pinch. And together--hand clasped in hand, indeed--by virtue of her being the inventor's daughter, he the son of the man who had resigned a fortune to the transcendent invention, side by side with two or three of those Very Great Ones, they stood, four nights later, looking through a monster telescope upon a mountaintop, and saw--saw the celestial climax, the first of the heavenly bodies reached. Saw the blue powder-flash light up the full, round face of the Silver Queen they loved, while the Thunder Bird, expiring, dropped its bones upon her dead surface. "It's--got--there," breathed the youth. "What next? Some day--some day, maybe, we'll be shooting off there--together?" "Yes! if only the Man in the Moon could shoot us back!" breathed Pemrose. Already it had come to be "we" bound up with "What next?" for it would, indeed, be a zero "next" in which the hands of youth and maiden would not meet in comradeship--and love. But the sun and center of the girl's heart was still--and would be for long--her father. The greatest moment of that unprecedented night came when Toandoah bent to her, and said: "Little Pem! there was just one moment when I may have been discouraged, you remember! None knew the Wise Woman who saved the city." [Illustration] * * * * * A story of the best type of home life, with a charming heroine. THEN CAME CAROLINE By LELA HORN RICHARDS With illustrations by M. L. Greer. 12mo. Cloth 306 pages. Caroline was the fourth daughter in Doctor Ravenel's family of five girls,--fourth on the list, but first in mischief, in ingenuity, in originality, in human sympathy and democracy. The father's health made it necessary for the Ravenels to leave their old Southern home and migrate to Colorado. Here Caroline grew up--from ten to eighteen--her days full of interest, her courage, as the family struggled along under straightened circumstances, always unflagging. Sometimes the delight and sometimes the despair of her mother and her sisters, Caroline made friends in many quarters and met in unusual ways the many emergencies into which her impulsiveness led her. This is a splendid story of the best type of home life, and the four other girls--Leigh the unselfish, Alison the ambitious and self-seeking, Mayre the artistic and Hope the baby--complete a well-individualized group, alternately caressed and disciplined by old black "Mammy," who had accompanied her "fam'bly" from Virginia. There are plenty of boys in the story too, likable lads, such as inevitably would gather around a group of wholesome and merry girls, ready for a game, a dance or any other frolic. Caroline will be a favorite with girl readers. They will enjoy the account of her running away; her attempt to help her mother form a "social acquaintance" in their new home; her outwitting of Alison at the party; her early literary efforts; and the daring with which she "puts her finger" in nearly everyone's "pie." LITTLE, BROWN & CO., Publishers 34 Beacon Street, Boston 
34926	----	[Illustration: RICHARD HUNT SAT DOWN ON A WAYSIDE BENCH WITH HER] THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS IN AFTER YEARS BY MARGARET VANDERCOOK Author of "The Ranch Girls Series," etc. ILLUSTRATED PHILADELPHIA THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO. PUBLISHERS Copyright, 1915, by THE JOHN C. WINSTON COMPANY STORIES ABOUT CAMP FIRE GIRLS Six Volumes THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS AT SUNRISE HILL THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS AMID THE SNOWS THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS IN THE OUTSIDE WORLD THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS ACROSS THE SEA THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS' CAREERS THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS IN AFTER YEARS CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. THE INAUGURAL BALL 7 II. NEW NAMES FOR OLD ACQUAINTANCES 21 III. IDLE SUSPICION 32 IV. TIES FROM OTHER DAYS 44 V. SOMETHING UNEXPECTED 55 VI. THE FIRST DISILLUSION 66 VII. A NEW INTEREST 79 VIII. "BOBBIN" 91 IX. BACK IN NEW HAMPSHIRE 101 X. LONELINESS 110 XI. A MEETING AND AN EXPLANATION 120 XII. THE WAY HOME 132 XIII. "A LITTLE RIFT WITHIN THE LUTE" 140 XIV. SUSPICION 150 XV. WAITING TO FIND OUT 160 XVI. A TALK THAT WAS NOT AN EXPLANATION 172 XVII. CHRISTMAS 180 XVIII. THE STUPIDITY OF MEN 191 XIX. A CRY IN THE NIGHT 201 XX. THE DISCOVERY 212 XXI. ONCE MORE IN CONCORD 221 XXII. THINGS ARE CLEARED UP 230 XXIII. FINIS 244 ILLUSTRATIONS RICHARD HUNT SAT DOWN ON A WAYSIDE BENCH WITH HER _Frontispiece_ PAGE HE GLANCED QUICKLY ABOUT HIM AND THEN DISAPPEARED 39 ANGEL HAD CAUGHT BETTINA'S ATTITUDE ALMOST EXACTLY 167 SHE SPRANG OUT OF BED HERSELF THE NEXT MOMENT 239 The Camp Fire Girls in After Years CHAPTER I THE INAUGURAL BALL FACING the hills, the great house had a wonderful view of the curving banks of a river. Half an hour before sunset a number of workmen hurried away across the grounds, while a little later from behind the closed blinds glowed hundreds of softly shaded electric lights. The lawns were strung with rows and rows of small lamps suspended from one giant tree to the next, but waiting for actual darkness to descend before shedding forth their illumination. Evidently preparations had been made on a splendid scale, both inside the house and out, for an entertainment of some kind. Yet curiously there seemed to be a strange hush over everything, a sense of anxiety and suspense pervading the very atmosphere. Then, in odd contrast to the other lights, the room on the third floor to the left was in almost total darkness save for a single tiny flame no larger than a nurse's covered candle. At about half-past six o'clock suddenly and with almost no noise the front door of the house opened. The next moment a slight form appeared upon the flight of broad steps and gazed down the avenue. From behind her came the mingled fragrance of roses and violets, while before her arose the even more delicious tang of earth and grass and softly drifting autumn leaves of the late October evening. Nevertheless neither the beauty of the evening nor its perfumes attracted the girl's attention, for her expression remained grave and frightened, and without appearing aware of it she sighed several times. Small and dark, with an extraordinary quantity of almost blue-black hair and a thin white face dominated by a pair of unhappy dark eyes, the girl's figure suggested a child, although she was plainly older. In her hand she carried a cane upon which she leaned slightly. "It does seem too hard for this trouble to have come at this particular time," she murmured in unconscious earnestness. "If only I could do something to help, yet there is absolutely nothing, of course, except to wait. Still, I wish Faith would come home." Then, after peering for another moment down the avenue of old elms and maple trees, she turned and went back into the house, closing the door behind her and moving almost noiselessly. For the present no one else was to be seen, at least in the front part of the big mansion, except the solitary figure of this young girl, who looked somewhat incongruous and out of place in her handsome surroundings. Notwithstanding, she seemed perfectly at home and was plainly neither awed by nor unfamiliar with them. The hall was decorated with palms and evergreens and festoons of vines, and adorning the high walls were portraits, most of them of men of stern countenance and of a past generation, while here and there stood a marble bust. But without regarding any of these things with special attention the girl walked quickly past them and entered the drawing room on the right. Then at last her face brightened. Surely the room was beautiful enough to have attracted any one's attention, although it was not exactly the kind of room one would see in a private house, for it happened to be in the Governor's mansion in the state of New Hampshire. In preparation for the evening's entertainment the furniture had been moved away except for a number of chairs and divans. The two tall marble mantels were banked with roses and violets and baskets of roses swung from the two crystal chandeliers. With a murmured exclamation the girl dropped down on a low stool in the corner where the evergreens almost entirely concealed her and where she appeared more like an elf creature that had come into the house with the green things surrounding her than an everyday girl. For a quarter of an hour she must have remained there alone, when she was aroused from her reverie by some one's entrance. Then, although the girl did not move or speak, her whole face changed and the sullen, unhappy look disappeared, while oddly her eyes filled with tears. There could have been nothing fairer in the room than the woman who had just come quietly into it. She must have been about twenty-eight years old; her hair was a beautiful auburn, like sunshine on certain brown and red leaves in the woods in late October; her eyes were gray, and she was of little more than medium height, with slender hips, but a full throat and chest. At the present moment she was wearing a house gown of light blue cashmere, and although she looked as if life might always before have been kind to her, at present her face was pale and there were marks of sleeplessness about her eyes and mouth. Apparently trying to summon an interest in her surroundings which she scarcely felt, she glanced about the room until her eyes rested on the silent girl. "Why, Angel, what are you doing in here alone, child? How lovely everything looks, and yet I am afraid I cannot come down to receive people tonight. All afternoon I have been trying to make up my mind to attempt it and each moment it seems more impossible." Then with a gesture indicating both fatigue and discouragement the woman sat down, folding her hands in her lap. "But the baby isn't any worse, I heard only half an hour ago," the younger girl interrupted quickly, and in answer to a shake of the head from her companion went on: "You simply must be present tonight, Princess. This is the greatest night in your husband's career and you know the Inaugural Ball would be an entire failure without you! Staying up-stairs won't do little Tony any good. And think what it would mean to the Governor to have to manage all alone! You know you promised Anthony before his election that you would attend to the social side of his office for him, as he declared he didn't know enough to undertake it. So you can't desert him at the very beginning." Swiftly Angelique Martins crossed the room and seated herself on the arm of her friend's chair. "I promise you on my honor that I shall sit just outside little Tony's bedroom the entire evening and if he is even the tiniest bit worse I shall come down and tell you on the instant." There was a moment of silence and then the newly elected Governor's wife replied: "I suppose you are right, Angel, and I must try to do what you say, for nothing else is fair to Anthony. Yet I never dreamed of ever having to choose between my love and duty to my baby and my husband! But dear me, I am sure I have not the faintest idea how the Governor's Lady should behave at her first reception, even if I have to make my début in the character in the next few hours." Then, in a lighter tone than she had yet used in their conversation, Betty Ashton, who was now Mrs. Governor Graham, smiled, placing her hand for a moment on that of her companion. For the friendship between Betty Ashton and the little French girl whom she had discovered at the hospital in Boston had never wavered even after the Betty of the Camp Fire days had become Mrs. Anthony Graham, wife of the youngest governor ever elected to the highest office in his state. Moreover, Betty and Anthony now had two children of their own, the little Tony, a baby of about two years old, who was now dangerously ill on the top floor of the Governor's mansion, and Bettina, who was six. Angelique Martins was almost like an adoring younger sister. She was approaching twenty; yet on account of her lameness and shyness she appeared much younger. But she was one of the odd girls who in some ways are like children and yet in others are older than people ever dream. After her mother's death, several years before, she had come to live with Betty and Anthony and held a position as an assistant stenographer in the Governor's office. Ordinarily she was strangely silent and reserved, so that no one, not even her best friend, entirely understood her. "But you must not miss the ball tonight, Angel," Betty now continued more cheerfully. "You and Faith have been talking of it for weeks, and so I can't have you sacrifice yourself for me. Besides, one of the nurses can do what you offered and send me a message if I am needed. Don't you remember that your dress is even prettier than Faith's? I was perfectly determined it should be." And Betty smiled, amused at herself. She was always a little jealous for her protégé of Faith Barton. It was true that since their first meeting at Sunrise Cabin the two girls had become close friends. But then Betty could seldom fail to see, just as she had in the beginning, the painful contrast between them. Faith had grown into a beautiful girl and Dr. Barton and Rose were entirely devoted to her; and she had also both charm and talent, although still given to impossible dreams about people and things. Angel now shook her head. "You know you would feel safer with me to stand guard over Tony than if you had only one of the servants," she argued a little resentfully. Then with her cheeks crimsoning: "Besides, Princess, you know that I perfectly loathe having to meet strangers. No one in the world except you could ever have induced me even to think of it. I am ever so much happier alone with you and the children or pegging away at my typewriter at the office. I believe people ought to remain where they belong in this world, and you can't possibly make me look like Faith by dressing me up in pretty clothes. I should never conceive of being her rival in anything." There was a curious note in the lame girl's voice that passed unnoticed, for her companion suddenly inquired: "By the way, dear, do you know what has become of Faith? I passed her room and she was not there. I hope she is not out alone. I know she has a fashion of loving to go about in the twilight, dreaming her dreams and composing verse. Still, when she is here visiting me I would much rather she did not." "But Faith isn't alone. She is with the Governor's secretary, Kenneth Helm," Angel answered. "Mr. Helm came to the house with a message and Faith asked him to go out with her." Betty smiled. Faith Barton scorned conventionalities and felt sure that she was above certain of them. "Oh, I did not know Kenneth and Faith had learned to know each other so well in two weeks' time," she replied carelessly, her attention wandering to the little Tony up-stairs. "However, Faith is all right if she is with Kenneth. I know Anthony has the greatest possible trust in him or he would never have selected him for his secretary in such troublesome political times as these. I don't believe you seem to like Kenneth as much as you once did. But you must not be prejudiced against so many people. He used to be very kind to you." Without waiting for Angel's reply Betty walked away. If she could have seen her expression she might have been surprised or annoyed. For sometimes Angel had wondered if it would be wise for her to take her friend into her confidence. Surely she had reasons for not being so sure of the Governor's confidence in his secretary. But then what proof had she to offer against him? Besides, people often considered her suspicious and unfriendly. Moreover, in this case the French girl did not altogether trust herself. Was there not some personal reason in her dislike? It was entirely true that she had not felt like this in the beginning of their acquaintance. With a feeling of irritation against herself, Angel started to leave the drawing room. This was plainly no time for worrying over the future; she must go and have something to eat at once so as to be able to help watch the baby. There was only one regret the girl felt at her own decision. She was sorry not to see Betty receiving her guests at the Inaugural Ball tonight. For her friend remained her ideal of what a great lady should be in the best sense. Moreover, there would be other old friends whom she had once known at Sunrise Cabin. However, some of them were guests at the mansion, so she could meet them later. Out in the hall the little French girl now discovered Faith and Kenneth Helm returning from their walk. The Governor's private secretary must have been about twenty-four or five years old. He was a Yale graduate and had light-brown hair and eyes of almost the same color. He had the shoulders of an athlete, a clear, bright complexion, and as Angel watched them she could not deny that he had a particularly charming smile. However, he was assuredly not looking at her. It was absurd to care, of course, yet nevertheless even the humblest person scarcely likes being wilfully ignored. And Angel was sure that the young man had seen her, even though he gave no appearance of having done so. The next moment, after her companion's departure, Faith Barton turned to her friend. Faith's cheeks were delicately flushed from her walk in the autumn air and her pale gold hair was blowing about her face. Her blue eyes were wide open and clear and she looked curiously innocent of any wrong or misfortune in the world. Surely there were seldom two girls offering a more complete contrast than the two who now tiptoed softly down the long hall together. "I am going to rest a little while," Faith said at parting. "But do let us try to have a long, quiet talk tomorrow. I want to tell you a secret that no one else in the world must know for the present." CHAPTER II NEW NAMES FOR OLD ACQUAINTANCES THERE was a shimmer of silver and blue on the stairs and then the man with his eyes upturned saw his wife moving toward him in a kind of cloud. The next moment with a laugh of mingled embarrassment and pleasure Betty Graham put up her hand, covering her husband's eyes. "You must not look at me like that, Anthony, or you will make me abominably vain," she whispered. "Wait until the girls and the receiving party appear and then you will see what an ordinary person the new 'Governor's Lady' is and repent having raised humble Betty Ashton to such an exalted position." Arm in arm the husband and wife now moved toward the drawing room. "How little we ever dreamed of this grandeur, dear, in the days when I had to work so hard to persuade you to marry me." "Perhaps if I had known I never should have dared," Betty went on, still half in earnest. "But I mean to do the best I can to help in our new position, although I must confess I am dreadfully frightened at having to receive so many distinguished people tonight. However, nurse says Tony is really better. And I shall have you to tell me what I ought to say and do." Now under the tall crystal chandelier the young Governor lifted his wife's hand to his lips with a smile at her absurdity. In spite of his ordinary origin Anthony Graham had a curious courtliness of manner. It was amusing to hear Betty talking of being afraid of people. All her life she had had unusual social charm, winning friends and admiration in every circle of society almost from her babyhood. Naturally in the years since her marriage, during her husband's struggle from the position of a successful young lawyer in a small town to the highest office in the state, both her charm and self-possession had increased. Indeed, it was well known that she had been her husband's chief inspiration and aid, and there were many persons who declared that it had been the wife's beauty and money that were responsible for the husband's success. However, this remark was made by the Governor's political enemies and not his friends and was of course untrue. Nevertheless Anthony did look somewhat boyish and insignificant tonight for his distinguished position. He was of only medium height, and although his shoulders were broad, he had never lost the thinness of his boyhood due to hardships and too severe study. Yet there was nothing weak or immature about his face with its deep-set hazel eyes, the high, grave forehead with the dark hair pushed carelessly back, and the firm, almost obstinate, set of his lips. Indeed, the young Governor already had gained a reputation for obstinacy, and once persuaded to a policy or an idea, was difficult to change. This trait of character had been partly responsible for his election to office. For there had been serious graft and dishonesty in the politics of New Hampshire, and led by Anthony Graham the younger men in the state had been able to defeat the old-time political ring. Whether or not the good government party would be allowed to remain in power depended largely on the new Governor. He had promised to stop the graft and crime in the state and to give positions to no persons who were not fitted for them. Of course this meant that he must have many enemies who would do their best to destroy his reputation. Already they were aware that the young Governor's one weakness was his devotion to his beautiful wife. But Betty used often to be amused at the outside world's opinion of her husband's character. For never once in their married life so far had he ever refused any request of hers. Therefore the real test was yet to come. Five minutes later and there was once more the sound of movement and laughter on the stairway when the re-opening of the drawing room door admitted six persons, who were to form the first members of the receiving line. First came Doctor and Mrs. Richard Ashton. Already Dick had made a reputation for himself as a surgeon in Boston, while Esther was one of the plain girls who so frequently grow handsomer as they grow older. Her tallness and pallor with her abundant red hair and sweet yet reserved manner formed tonight as striking a contrast to her sister's grace and animation as it had in the days when they first learned to know of the closeness of the tie between them. Mr. and Mrs. William Webster had come all the way from Woodford to Concord, leaving three babies at home, to assist their old friends at the Inaugural Ball. You must have guessed that Mollie O'Neill, as Mrs. William Webster, would have grown plumper and prettier during the busy, happy years of married life with her husband and children on their large farm. For Mollie now had a small daughter "Polly," named for her beloved twin sister, and a pair of twin sons, Dan and Billy. She was more than ever in love with her husband and, many people believed, entirely under his thumb. Yet there were times when Mollie could and would assert herself in a surprising fashion just as she had in former days with her girl friends. Tonight she was wearing a white silk which looked just the least bit countrified and yet was singularly becoming to Mollie's milk-white skin, pink cheeks and shining black hair. Yet in spite of never having changed his occupation of farmer, there was little to suggest the countryside in Billy Webster's appearance, except in his unusual strength and size. For he had fulfilled the prediction made to Polly O'Neill over a Camp Fire luncheon many years before. He had remained a farmer and a highly successful one and yet had seen a good deal of the world and understood many things besides farming. Of the three Sunrise Hill Camp Fire girls who had within the last few moments joined Betty and her husband, the third was the most changed. For is it not difficult to imagine Meg Everett transformed into a fashionable society woman, Meg, whose hair never would stay neatly braided, whose waist and skirt so frequently failed to connect? However, after a number of love affairs, to her friends' surprise Meg had married a man as unlike her in taste and disposition as one could well imagine. He was a worldly, fashionable man, supposed to be wealthy. Anyhow, he and Meg lived in a handsome house, owned a motor car and entertained a great deal. They had no children, and perhaps this was the reason why Meg did not look altogether happy. Sometimes her old friends had wondered if there could be other reasons, for Meg had always been a warm-hearted, impetuous girl, careless of fashions and indifferent to conventions, and now she was always dressed in clothes of the latest design and at least appeared like a fashionable woman. Nevertheless Meg had always been more easily influenced than any other of the Camp Fire girls, hating to oppose the wishes of any one near to her heart. Her husband, Jack Emmet, was an intimate friend of her adored brother John. He and Meg made an attractive couple, for although Mr. Emmet was not handsome, he was tall and had a slender, correct figure and sharply cut features with light blue eyes and brown hair. Meg's costume was quite as beautiful as Betty's, a soft rose silk and chiffon, and her golden hair was fastened with a small rope of pearls. "You are as lovely tonight as ever, Betty, and I know Anthony is proud of you," Meg whispered, holding her friend's hand for an instant. "Remember when you once believed that Anthony was falling in love with me? Silly child, he never thought of any one except you! But then he and I have always been special friends since he believed I helped him win you. I want to tell him how proud I feel of you both tonight." As Meg moved away, Mollie's plump arm, which was only partly concealed by her glove, slipped inside her hostess's. "It is nice we can have a few moments to ourselves before the ball begins," she remarked shyly, glancing toward her husband, who was for the moment talking with Jack Emmet. The two men did not like each other, but had been forced into conversation by Meg's moving off with Anthony. Betty kissed her friend, quite forgetting the dignity of her position on the present occasion. "Dear old Mollie, it is good of you to have come to help me tonight! I know you don't like this society business. How I wish we had Polly here with us! She promised to come if possible, but I had a telegram from her only this afternoon saying that she is almost on the other side of the continent. It was dated Denver, I believe." The same look of affectionate incomprehension which she had often directed toward Polly, again crossed Mollie Webster's pretty face. "It is just as impossible as ever to keep up with Polly," she explained half complainingly. "She has been acting through the West all summer, but promised to come home for a visit this autumn. Now she writes she won't be here for some time. Dear me, I do wish that Polly would marry and settle down. Of course I know it is wonderful for her to have become such a distinguished actress, but I never think she is very happy and I am always worrying over her." Betty laughed and then looked serious. "Polly never will settle down, as you mean it, Mollie dear, even if she should marry," she argued, forgetting for the moment the other friends close about her and the evening's ordeal. For her thoughts had traveled away to Polly O'Neill, who was to her surprise still Polly O'Neill. For at one time she had certainly believed that Polly had intended marrying Richard Hunt, the actor, and just why their engagement had been broken no one had ever been told. Possibly it was because Polly had wished to devote herself entirely to her work. She had always said as a girl that marriage should never be allowed to interfere with her career, and certainly it had not. For the Polly who had made her first success some ten years before in the little Irish play was now one of the best known actresses in the United States. Indeed, she had succeeded to the position once held by Margaret Adams, since Margaret Adams had married and retired. However, for the present there was no further opportunity for mutual confidences, since in the interval Faith Barton had appeared and with her the Governor's new secretary, besides a dozen other persons, most of them political friends, who were to assist in opening the Inaugural Ball. As Anthony joined her, Betty felt her cheeks flush and her knees tremble for an instant. Moving toward them, accompanied by his wife, was the man whom Anthony had defeated in the election for Governor. To save her life Betty could not help recalling at this instant all the hateful things this man had previously said against her husband. Yet she must not be childish, nor show ill feeling. Ex-Governor Peyton and his wife were much older than she and Anthony, and besides they were their guests. Betty's manner was perfectly gracious and collected by the time the visitors reached them. CHAPTER III IDLE SUSPICION SHE had sat huddled up in a chair outside the baby's room for several hours. Her self-sacrifice had been entirely unnecessary, as half a dozen persons had assured her, but Angel was by no means certain that she was not happier in her present position than if she had been down-stairs in the crowded ballroom unnoticed and perhaps in the way of the few people who would try to be kind to her. Two or three times she had stolen in to look at Tony. He was sleeping quietly and peacefully, a big beautiful baby with Betty's soft auburn hair and Anthony's hazel eyes. But now a clock somewhere was striking twelve and Angel decided that she must have a look at the guests before they went away. She had put on the white frock of soft chiffon and lace that Betty had given her, but somehow it only made her look more childish and insignificant. Her face was pale now with weariness and her hair and eyes seemed so dark in comparison as to give her a kind of uncanny appearance. Perhaps waiting to gain more courage and perhaps for other reasons, immediately after leaving the nursery Angel, before starting down-stairs, went into another big room at the end of the hall. As the girl leaned over to gaze at a little sleeper a small hand reached up and touched her face. It was that of Bettina, the "little Princess" as everybody called her. Nevertheless Bettina was not in the least like her mother. She had long hair that was gold in some lights and in others a pale brown, and her eyes were bluer than gray. Indeed, Polly had once said of her two or three years before, that Tina's eyes had no color like other people's, for they merely reflected the lights above them like a clear pool. The little girl was slender and quiet and many persons believed her shy, which was not altogether true. Possibly the oddest of her characteristics was her ability to understand what other people were thinking and feeling without being told. Now she whispered: "Why don't you just find a place where you can see, Angel, without any one's seeing you? I shall want you to tell me everything tomorrow. Mother won't understand in the way I mean." Of course that was just what she should have been doing for these past two hours, Angelique thought to herself as soon after she slipped away. But it was like Bettina to have suggested it. Already she knew the exact place where she might have been in hiding all this time. On the second floor toward the rear of the house there was a kind of square landing which faced a small room that was oddly separated from the other apartments. For this reason the Governor had chosen it for his private study. Only one servant was allowed to enter this room and very rarely any member of the family. For in it were kept a number of important letters and papers. But concealing the entrance tonight were a number of palms and other tall plants, and by placing a small camp chair behind them one could see through the railing of the balustrade down into the big hall. The music was there and many beautifully dressed people were walking up and down. The little French girl stared for ten minutes without moving. She had a curious, almost passionate love of beautiful people and things, inherited from some far-off French ancestor, who may have been a great artist or perchance only carried a great artist's longings in his soul. Indeed, Angel had real talent of her own and whatever her hands touched she could make lovely, whether it was designing a dress, decorating a room or even making a sketch of a scene or a flower, anything that had appealed to her imagination. Through her Camp Fire training she had learned to make remarkable use of her hands, especially in the days before she was able to leave her wheeled chair. Indeed, Betty and all of her friends had been disappointed when she had failed to follow some artistic profession. Betty had urged and pleaded with her to become an artist or designer and had offered to pay her expenses, yet as soon as she was well enough Angel had insisted upon studying something through which she could at once make her living. By this time the little French girl had been brought too close to life's realities not to understand its difficulties. To make her living as an artist or a designer would take years and years of study and work before she could hope to succeed. Besides, Betty, in spite of Judge Maynard's legacy, was not so rich as she was generous and there were always other people to be thought of. For the Princess had never ceased her generosities, and even if her husband had become a distinguished man it would be difficult for him ever to be a rich one unless something unforeseen happened. Therefore Angel had been happy enough with her stenography and typewriting and with her new position in the Governor's office. For in her heart of hearts it was her philosophy that duty could be done every day and beauty kept for certain exquisite moments. Now, however, she felt that one of these perfect moments had come. Only she wished that Betty or some one whom she knew might appear within her range of vision. It was entertaining, of course, to watch the strangers and to decide whose clothes were prettiest and guess their names. Angel drew her chair farther away from the landing so she could peep squarely through the banisters and was now some distance from the study door. Moreover, the following moment she had caught a glimpse of a friend whom she had wished to see almost as much as Betty. There stood a tall girl with pale gold hair, wearing a frock of white and blue, and talking to a young man in as absorbed a fashion as if they had been entirely alone. It was difficult to see her companion and yet the French girl felt that she might have guessed before she finally discovered him. For Faith's face wore the same rapt, excited expression it had worn that afternoon on returning from her walk. What could it mean? Angel pondered. Surely Faith and Kenneth Helm did not yet know each other well enough for Faith's secret to have anything to do with him. Their acquaintance had started only about ten days before. [Illustration: HE GLANCED QUICKLY ABOUT HIM AND THEN DISAPPEARED] Surely in her absorbed interest Angelique had no thought of spying on her friend, for two people could not be seriously confidential when hundreds of others were close about them. Nevertheless the watcher felt her own cheeks flush guiltily as she saw the young man below her whispering something in his companion's ear. The next instant, however, Faith had left the hall with some one else. Then to her intense consternation Angel observed Kenneth Helm coming alone straight up the broad stairs. Could it be possible that either one of them had seen her and that Faith was sending Kenneth to bring her down to the ballroom? With all her heart Angel hoped not. She would like to have gotten up and run away to shelter, yet knew it was impossible for her to move without making a noise. By remaining silent there was just a chance that Kenneth Helm was on his way to the men's dressing room and would not notice her. Moreover, if Faith had not sent him to find her probably he would not even speak to her. It was quite true that the girl in hiding need have felt no concern. The young man certainly did not see her, nor did he pass her by. For some odd reason he stopped for a moment at the top of the landing, glanced quickly about him and then disappeared inside the Governor's private study, opening the door with a key which must have been given him for the especial purpose. "What could Kenneth wish in there tonight?" Angelique wondered idly, somewhat relieved because his errand plainly had nothing to do with her. Moreover, there was too much that was absorbing below stairs to give a great deal of thought to anything else just at present. The next instant Angel started, uttering a little gasp of anger and dismay, as a hand was laid rudely upon her shoulder. "Whom are you spying upon now, 'Angel in the House?'" the young man's voice asked mockingly. "Don't you think that perhaps you are rather an uncanny person anyhow?" The girl flushed and found it impossible to keep her lips from trembling. When she had first gone to work in Anthony Graham's office, Kenneth Helm had also been employed there and had been unusually kind to her. Recently, however, he seemed to have avoided and almost to have disliked her. This she knew had caused a change in her own attitude, so perhaps her prejudice against the young man's position as the Governor's private secretary was largely due to this. Nevertheless she had done nothing to deserve the change in his treatment of her, and if a human being is disloyal to one friendship, why not to another? However, at the present moment the girl only wished to be left alone, so she merely shook her head, explaining: "I didn't mean to be spying upon any one, and I am sorry if you think I am uncanny." Then she glanced pathetically down toward the cane at her side, and this time her companion blushed. "Oh, I did not mean that, Miss Martins. That is not fair of you," he remonstrated. "But please don't mention to the Governor or any one that you saw me go into his private study tonight, will you? You see, I had forgotten something that I ought to have attended to at the office. My memory is not so good as yours. Won't you let me take you down-stairs?" The lame girl rose slowly, not knowing exactly how to refuse the young man's offer. Besides, she remembered what Betty had said to her. "She must not be so suspicious and prejudiced against people." "Certainly I won't speak to Mr. Graham of your having gone into his office. Why should I?" she conceded, laying her hand lightly on her companion's arm. "Besides, do you think I talk to the Governor about his affairs just because I live in his house? He is so quiet and stern I am dreadfully afraid of him. It is Betty, Mrs. Graham, who is my friend. If it is not too much trouble to you and she is not too busy I would like to have you take me to her now for a little while. Never in my life have I seen anything so splendid as this reception tonight!" When the little French girl talked she was not half so homely and unattractive, Kenneth Helm decided as he made his way with her through the crowd. Moreover, he must not turn her into an enemy, for assuredly Mrs. Graham was her devoted friend and what his wife desired was law with the Governor. Kenneth Helm intended to succeed in life. This was the keynote of his character. He wanted money and power and meant to do anything necessary to attain them. CHAPTER IV TIES FROM OTHER DAYS ONE morning, a few days later, Mrs. Jack Emmet was ushered into Betty's personal sitting room. Betty was writing notes and Bettina was curled up in a big chair near the window with a book of fairy tales in her lap. Both of them rose at once, Betty kissing her friend affectionately. But her little girl, who showed her affection differently from other children, sitting down by Meg's side, slipped her small hand inside hers. Meg was beautifully dressed in a dark blue broadcloth and black fox furs with a velvet hat and small black feather curled close against her light hair. Yet the hat was the least bit awry, one lock of hair had come uncurled and been blown about by the wind, and a single blue button hung loose on the stylish coat. Noticing these absurd details for some reason or other, Betty felt oddly pleased. For they brought back the Meg of old days, whom not all the strenuous years of Camp Fire training had been able to make as neat as she should have been, although since her marriage she seemed to have greatly changed. Therefore, in observing these unimportant facts of her friend's costume Betty failed to catch the difference in her expression. They began their conversation idly enough in discussing the ball of a few nights before, the Governor's health and just how busy he was and what people were saying of him in Concord. For, although Mr. and Mrs. Graham had only been installed in the Governor's mansion a few weeks, Mr. and Mrs. Jack Emmet had been living in Concord ever since their marriage about five years before. Nevertheless, if Betty had not observed the change in her friend, in some unaccountable fashion Bettina had. Not that the little girl realized that Mrs. Emmet had dark circles under her eyes and that instead of gazing directly at her mother as she talked, her glance traveled restlessly about the pretty room. Nor did Bettina know that Meg's cheeks were not a natural pink, but flushed to uncomfortable redness; no, she only appreciated that "Aunt Meg," for whom she cared a great deal, was uneasy and unhappy and would perhaps enjoy having her keep close beside her. "You will stay and take lunch with us, won't you, dear?" Betty urged, moving forward to assist her visitor in removing her wraps. "You see, we shall probably be all by ourselves. Anthony is too busy to come home, Angel is at the office and Faith asked to be left alone for the day. The child is probably scribbling away on some story she desires to write. Then after lunch we can see little Tony. The baby is well again, only the nurse wants him kept quiet." Affectionately Betty placed her hands on Meg's shoulders and standing directly beside her now for the first time looked closely into her face. To her shocked surprise she discovered that unexpected tears had started to Meg's eyes. At once Betty Graham's happy expression clouded. For she was no less ready with her sympathy than in former days, and the Camp Fire girls of the old Sunrise Club seemed almost like real sisters. "You came to tell me of something that is troubling you and I didn't dream of it till this minute!" Betty exclaimed, slipping off Meg's coat and unpinning her hat without waiting for permission. Then, pushing her friend down into a big, soft armchair, she took a lower one opposite. "Isn't it good fortune that we are living in the same place just as we used to long ago?" She continued talking, of course, to allow her companion to gain her self-control. Then she glanced toward Bettina, but Meg only drew the little girl closer, hiding her face for an instant in her soft hair. "I'm absurd to be so nervous, Betty," Meg whispered apologetically. "Please don't think there is anything serious the matter. Only--only I have come to ask you a favor and I don't know exactly how to begin. Of course, we used to be very intimate friends and all that, but now you are the Governor's wife, and--and----" Before she could finish a somewhat hurt voice interposed. "And--and--I am Betty Ashton Graham still, very much at your service, Sweet Marjoram, as Polly once named you. Dear me, Meg, don't be absurd. I can't say I feel particularly exalted by my position as wife of the new Governor, though of course I am frightfully vain of Anthony. Besides you know if there is anything I can do that you would like, I shall be happier than I can say." With a laugh that still had something serious in it, Betty put her hand over her friend's. "I still insist that I owe Anthony partly to you," she ended. But this time Meg did not trouble to argue the absurd statement. She began talking at once as rapidly as possible, as if glad to get the subject off her mind. "It's about John, I came to talk to you, my brother, John Everett, Betty," Meg explained. "I don't know whether you have seen much of him lately, but you were devoted friends once and I thought perhaps for the sake of the past you might be interested." "John Everett? For the sake of the past I might be interested! Whatever are you talking about?" Betty was now frowning in her effort to understand and looked absurdly like a girl, with her level brows drawn near together and her lips pouting slightly. "Why, of course I am interested. I used to like John better than any of the other beaus we had, when we were girls, except Anthony. Tell me, is John going to be married at last? I have wondered why he has waited such a long time. But I suppose he wanted to be rich first. It has been about two years since we met by accident in a theater in New York, but I thought he had grown handsomer than ever." This time Betty's laugh was more teasing than sympathetic. "I wonder why sisters are so jealous of their big brothers marrying, Mrs. Jack Emmet? You are married yourself--why begrudge John the good fortune? I don't believe Nan has ever entirely forgiven me for capturing Anthony. I am convinced she would have preferred any other of the Camp Fire girls. There is only one of us, however, whom she would have really liked, and that is Sylvia. Yet who would ever think of Doctor Sylvia Wharton's marrying?" This time Meg's voice was firmer. "But John isn't going to be married, Betty. It is quite a different thing I wish to talk to you about. Instead of John's getting rich on Wall Street, as you think, he has gotten dreadfully poor. And I am afraid it is not just his own money he has lost, but father's savings. Now Horace will have to give up his college and I really don't know what will become of father. He is too old to begin teaching again since his resignation several years ago." Her voice broke, but then her friend's face was so bewildered and so full of a sudden, ardent sympathy, that it was difficult for Meg to keep her self-control. However, she said nothing more for a minute, but sat biting her lips and wondering how to go on to the next thing. Fortunately Betty helped her. "I expect John will have to come back home and take care of your father. Horace is too young and it is more John's place than your husband's. I am sorry, for I'm afraid things will seem pretty dull for him here after his gay life in New York." All at once Betty's face cleared a little and she leaned back in her chair. "But you remember, Meg, that when you first spoke you said you wished me to do you a favor. Is there anything in the world I can do? I am sure I can scarcely imagine what it is, yet if I can in any way help you out of this trouble----" "You can," Meg whispered shyly; "that is, perhaps not you, but Anthony, and you are almost the same person." In answer to this rather surprising statement Betty Graham merely shook her head quietly. However, this was scarcely the time to argue whether or not marriage merged two persons into one or simply made each one bigger and more individual from association with the other. She wanted to do whatever was possible to assist Meg and John Everett too in this trying time in their affairs. Besides, as a little girl she had always been fond of old Professor Everett, whose life had been given to the wisdom of books rather than to the living world. But most of all, being a very natural woman, Betty was now keenly curious to know how she could possibly be expected to be involved in the present situation and what she could do to help out. "You are right. John does mean to come home, or at least he wishes to return. He says he is tired of New York and all the fret and hurry and struggle of life there. But you see, Betty dear," and Meg spoke quickly now that she had finally come to the point of her story, "there is no use John's returning unless he has something to do. There is where you and Anthony can help. I didn't think of this myself, but when my husband and I were talking things over he said that Anthony and you and I were such old friends and that the new Governor had so many appointments he could make to all sorts of good positions. So we thought perhaps you would ask Anthony to help John. I know Anthony does anything you wish." "Oh!" Betty replied somewhat blankly. For never had she been more surprised than by Meg's request. Of course she knew that Anthony was making a number of changes in positions held by people whom he thought unworthy of trust throughout the state. Often he talked about what he felt he should do, but really it had never dawned upon Betty until this minute that she or her friends could be in any way concerned. Still, why not? John was a good business man, Betty thought; he was not dishonest or dishonorable and the Everetts were her old friends. If Anthony could help them in their present trouble, surely he would be as glad as she was to have the opportunity. Yet Betty hesitated before answering. However, as she did not wish to make Meg uncomfortable she slipped from her own chair and put her arm sympathetically about her friend's shoulders, while she endeavored to think things quietly over. Finally Betty returned: "I can't _exactly_ promise what you first asked, Meg dear. You see, I have always intended not to interfere in the things that did not seem altogether my affair. But somehow, since you have asked me and for John's and your father's sakes, who are such old friends, why I don't feel as I did before. I tell you, I _will_ ask Anthony this very night, so let's don't worry any more. Tina darling, run and tell the maids we would like our luncheon up here. Our dining room is so absurdly big." As she talked, as if by magic Betty's expression had changed and again she was her usual gay, light-hearted self. Of course she and Anthony together would be able to clear away Meg's troubles. Never before had she entirely realized how fine it was to have power and influence. Moreover, Betty's confidence also inspired Meg, and for the first time in weeks Mrs. Jack Emmet felt like the Meg Everett of the old days in Woodford, who used to keep house for her father, kiss her small brother Horace's (surnamed Bump's) wounds and help and encourage her big brother John in all his ambitions and desires. Just as Meg went away, however, she insisted quite seriously: "Betty, I often think that even if our old Camp Fire Club did nothing more for us than to bind our friendships together in the way it has, it would be dreadful for all girls not to have the same opportunities in their lives. Talk of college friendships, surely they are not to be compared with those of Camp Fire clubs!" CHAPTER V SOMETHING UNEXPECTED DINNER was tiresomely dull! Again Anthony did not return, but telephoned that he would be in as soon afterwards as possible. Several times during the meal Betty almost wished that she had accepted an invitation for the evening without him. For they had been invited to a dinner party and dance, but as Anthony had declared he would be too busy to attend, Betty had declined without any objection at the time. She had made up her mind never to go out into society unless accompanied by her husband. Nevertheless, tonight the young wife of the new Governor felt somewhat differently. If Anthony was going everlastingly to be kept at his office must she always sit alone during the evenings? Always as Betty Ashton she had loved people and gayety and still loved it quite as much as Betty Graham. Moreover, her only two companions at dinner, Angel and Faith, were both in extremely bad humor and unwilling to confess the cause, for Faith looked sulky and annoyed and Angel undeniably cross. Of course, the two girls must recently have had a quarrel. Their hostess wondered for a few moments what the trouble could have been. But then they were so utterly different in their dispositions and tastes, it was not surprising that they sometimes disagreed. Besides, she decided that they were both unlike the intimate friends of her youth and far harder to understand. In fact, though she was scarcely much more than a girl herself, Mrs. Graham concluded that "girls had changed since her day" and determined as soon as dinner was over to leave them to themselves. Naturally, if they had wished her society Betty would have been glad enough to have remained and received their confidences. However, neither Angel nor Faith showed the slightest sign of desiring her society. In a pale blue silk dinner gown Betty wandered disconsolately about her big house waiting for her husband. He had promised to come home early and it seemed not worth while to settle down to any task beforehand. The babies were asleep and she did not feel like writing letters either to Esther or her mother. Several times she thought of Polly. But Polly was so far away out West that she really did not know where to find her at the present time. Betty wondered if her best friend was happy with no home or husband or children, nothing intimate in her life but her career as an artist. She had always been puzzled to understand why Polly and Richard Hunt had never married after an engagement lasting over several years. But since neither of them had cared to explain their separation, it was, of course, useless to conjecture again after all this time. The drawing room was too hopelessly big and formal! After Betty had walked around inside it for half an hour perhaps, sitting down in half a dozen chairs and then pacing up and down, she grew even more restless. Surely it was no longer early in the evening, and why did Anthony not keep his word and come home at the time he had promised? It would be ever so much more satisfactory to have her talk with him in regard to giving John Everett a good position, with a comfortable salary, early in the evening, before they were both tired and wanting to sleep. Suddenly, with an impatient stamp of her foot, Mrs. Graham fled from her state apartment. She was homesick tonight for her old home in Woodford, where she and Anthony had lived ever since their marriage until his election as Governor, and where her mother still lived. Passing through the hall, more and more did Betty become convinced that Anthony was not keeping his word, for the tall clock registered quarter to ten. The upper part of the house looked dark and quiet as if the rest of the family had already gone to bed. Besides it was lonely enough on the first floor, for the servants had their sitting room and dining room in a big old-fashioned basement and were nowhere to be seen. Of course, one of them would come at once if she desired anything, but Betty could not think of anything she wished at present except society and amusement. In the library back of the drawing room a few moments later she decided that things were not so bad. There was a little wood fire in the grate, kept there for its cheerful influence and not because the steam-heated house required it; but Betty had not been a Camp Fire girl for half her lifetime without responding to the cheerful influence of even a grate fire. Sinking down into a comfortable chair, she picked up a magazine and began reading. The clock in the hall ticked on and on and she was not conscious of the passing of time. The story was not particularly interesting--an absurd tale of a husband and wife who had quarreled. It was, of course, perfectly unnecessary for people who loved each other to quarrel, Betty Graham insisted to herself, and yet the writer did not seem convinced of this fact. Toward the close of the story she grew more interested and excited. Then, without actually hearing a sound or seeing a figure, Betty suddenly looked up, and there in the open doorway of the library stood a strange man. Like a flash her mind worked. She was alone on the first floor of a big, rambling old house and uncertain of how late the hour. Must she at once cry for help, or should she try to get across the floor and ring the bell furiously?--for that would be more certain to be heard. Yet for the moment her knees felt absurdly weak and her hands cold. However, with a stupendous effort Betty now summoned her courage, of which the shock of the moment had robbed her. For her Camp Fire training had taught her the proper spirit in which to meet emergencies. Quietly Mrs. Graham rose up from her chair. "What is it you wish? I think you have made some mistake," she remarked stiffly. For in spite of her terror the man in the doorway did not look like an ordinary thief. Besides, if he were a thief why did he remain there staring at her? Why had he not committed his burglary and gotten away with his spoils without alarming her? But he was now advancing a few steps toward her and there was no light in the library, except from the reading lamp. "Anthony!" Betty cried instinctively, although she knew that the Governor could not be in the house at the time, else he would have come straight to her. Then to her immense amazement, almost to her stupefaction, the intruder actually smiled. "Betty," he answered, "or rather Mrs. Graham, have I startled you? Yes, I know it is dreadfully informal, my coming upon you in this fashion and not even allowing your butler to announce me. But I ran down from New York today to spend the night with Meg and Jack Emmet. A few moments ago we began talking of you. Well, as I've got to go back to town in the morning I decided that nothing would give me more pleasure than seeing the wife of our distinguished new Governor, so here I am!" Positively the stranger was holding out his hand. Moreover, the next instant Betty had laid her cold fingers inside it. "John, John Everett, how ridiculous of me not to have recognized you! Yet, though I was thinking of you, you were the last person in the world I expected to see at present. And I confess you frightened me." Betty made her visitor a little curtsey. "Remember how you boys used to try to terrify us when we were in camp just to prove the superiority of Boy Scouts over Camp Fire girls? I would not have been frightened then! But do let us have more light so that we can really see each other." Betty touched the electric button and the room was suddenly aglow. Then she again faced her companion. It had been foolish of her not to have recognized her old friend, John Everett. He did look a good deal older, but he was a large, handsome man with blond hair, blue eyes and a charming manner. Moreover, he was undoubtedly returning Betty's glance with undisguised admiration. "You won't mind my saying it, will you, Mrs. Graham, but you are more stunning than ever. I suppose it sounds a little impertinent of me, but you know even though I always thought you tremendously pretty as a girl, really I never believed----" John began. Betty shook her head reproachfully and yet perhaps she was a little pleased, even though she recognized her visitor's compliment as extravagant. Motioning to another chair, she then sat down in her former one. For a few moments there was a kind of constraint in the atmosphere, such as one often feels in meeting again an old friend with whom one has been intimate in former years and not seen in a long time. Under her lashes Betty found herself studying her visitor's face. At first she did not think that he appeared much discouraged by his misfortunes, but the next moment she was not so sure. "I am awfully pleased the world has gone so well with you, Mrs. Graham," John Everett began, to cover the awkwardness of the silence. "You were a wise girl to have known that Anthony had so much more in him than the rest of us fellows. I hear he is making things hum in the state of New Hampshire." Betty looked a little shocked. "Oh, I did not care for Anthony because I thought him cleverer than other people. I--oh, does one ever know exactly why one cares? But do tell me about yourself, John. You don't mind my knowing of your present difficulty? Meg has just told me, but I am sure things will be all right soon again." Half an hour later the young Governor, coming in very tired from his long day's work, seeing the light burning in the library, walked quickly toward the door. He was worn out and hungry and wanted nothing so much as supper and quiet talk with his wife. For Anthony had never gotten over the pleasure he felt at returning home to find her there to receive him. Already it seemed ages since he had said good-bye at breakfast. However, just before he arrived at the open door he heard the sound of Betty's laughter and some one answering her. Of course it was selfish and absurd of him to feel a sudden sense of disappointment. He knew that he should have been glad to find Betty entertained. Before entering the library the new Governor managed to assume a more hospitable expression. He was also surprised at finding John Everett their caller. But then he too had known him in their boyhood days in Woodford and was glad to see him. Certainly they had never been friends as boys. The young Governor could still remember that John had then seemed to have all the things he had wanted as a boy--good looks, good family, money enough for a college education. Yet with all these advantages John had not been able to win Betty. Now was Anthony's chance to feel sorry for him. Lately he too had heard that John Everett was in some kind of business trouble. He hoped that this was not true. Therefore it was Anthony who insisted that their visitor should remain with them while they had a little supper party in the library. And Betty was glad to see that her old friend was making a good impression upon her husband. For she was now firmly determined to ask Anthony to give John Everett a fine position at once. CHAPTER VI THE FIRST DISILLUSION "BUT you can't mean, Anthony, that you positively refuse to do what I ask?" It was a little after midnight and Betty and Anthony were up-stairs in their own apartment. Betty had on a blue dressing gown and her hair was braided and hung over her shoulders. But her cheeks were flushed, her gray eyes dark with temper and her voice trembled in spite of her effort to keep it still. Undeniably Anthony appeared both obstinate and worried. Moreover, he was extremely sleepy and yet somehow Betty must be made to understand before either of them could rest. Never before had he dreamed that she could be so unreasonable. "I don't think that is exactly a fair way of stating the thing, Betty," the young Governor answered gently enough. "You see, I have tried to explain to you, dear, that I can't give positions to friends just as though running the affairs of the state was my private business. I could afford to take risks with that if I wished, but you know I promised when I was elected Governor only to make appointments of the best men I could find." If possible, the Governor's wife looked even more unconvinced. She was sitting in a big blue chair almost the color of her wrapper, and every now and then rocked back and forth to express her emotion, or else tapped the floor mutinously with the toe of her bedroom slipper. "You talk as if there was something wrong with John Everett," she answered argumentatively, "and as if I were asking you to give a position to a man who was stupid or dishonest. I am perfectly sure John is none of these things. He has been unfortunate in business lately, of course, but that might happen to any one. Really, Anthony, would you mind telling me exactly what you have in your mind against John Everett? Of course, I remember you never liked him when you were boys, but I thought you were too big a man----" "See here, Betty," the Governor interrupted, "can't we let this subject drop? I never knew you to be like this before." He had thrown himself down on a couch, but now reached over and tried to take his wife's reluctant hand. "I've been explaining to you for the past hour that I have nothing in the world against John Everett personally, except that he has no training for the kind of work I need men to do. He has been a Wall Street broker. Well, that is all right, but what does he know about prison reform, about building good roads for the state, or anything else I'm after? Just because he is your friend--our friend, I mean--I can't thrust him into a good job over the heads of better men. Please look at this as I do, Betty. I hate desperately to refuse your request and I know Meg will be hurt with me too and think I'm unfaithful to old times. Heigh-ho, I wonder if anybody thinks being Governor is a cheerful job? Good-night, Princess." Plainly meaning to end their conversation, Anthony had gotten up from his sofa. He now stood above Betty, waiting to have her make peace with him. But Betty looked far from peaceful, more like a spoiled and angry little girl thwarted in a wish which she had not imagined could be refused. Of course the Princess had always been more or less spoiled all her life. Her friends in the Camp Fire Club and her family had always acknowledged this. But she was usually reasonable with the sweetest possible temper, so that no one really minded. Nevertheless Betty was not accustomed to having her serious wishes denied, and by her husband of all people! Really she would have liked very much to cry with disappointment and vexation, except that she was much too proud. Moreover, even now she could not finally accept the idea that Anthony would not eventually do as she asked. But she drew back coldly from any idea of making friends until then. "Good-night," she replied indifferently. "I don't think I shall try to go to sleep." Her voice trembled now in spite of all her efforts. "Really, Anthony, I don't know how I can tell Meg and John that you have declined to do what I have asked you. I wonder what they will think? Certainly that I haven't any influence with my own husband! Do you know, Anthony, perhaps I am wrong, but I thought I had helped you a little in your election. I've made a good many sacrifices; you have to leave me alone a greater part of the time because you are too busy to spend much of your time with me. Well, I have never thought of complaining, but somehow it does seem to me that I have the right to have you do just this one thing I ask of you. I'm afraid I don't find being a Governor's wife so very cheerful either." While she was talking Betty had also gotten up and was now standing near the doorway. As her husband came toward her she moved slowly backward. "I say, Betty dear, you are hard on a fellow," Anthony protested. "Of course I owe my job to you and anything else that is good about me. But you can't want me to do wrong even for your sake. Maybe you may see things differently tomorrow." However, instead of replying, the Governor's wife slipped outside the room. In the nursery she lay down by Bettina. But she slept very little for the rest of the night. For in her opinion Anthony had not been fair; he had not even been kind. A few hours before, when she had assured John and Meg of her sympathy and aid, she could not have believed this possible. This was the first time in their married life that her husband had refused her anything of importance. Surely she had been wrong in suggesting or even thinking for half a second that his old boyish dislike and jealousy of John Everett could influence Anthony now! It was an absurd idea, and even a horrid one; and yet is one ever altogether fair in anger? Down-stairs, in spite of his fatigue, Anthony Graham walked up and down their big room for a quarter of an hour. If he only could have reconciled it with his conscience to do what Betty asked him, how much easier and how much more cheerful for both of them! She was right in saying that he owed something to her. He owed everything. It was not just that she had helped him since his marriage--most wives do that for their husbands--but she had helped him from that first hour of their meeting in the woods so many years before. Nevertheless he had given his word to keep his faith as Governor of the state. He had promised to give no one a position because of pull and influence. Naturally he had not expected his wife to have any part in this, but only the politicians and seekers after graft. Yet even with Betty misunderstanding he must try to keep his word. Sighing, the young Governor turned out the lights. He did look too boyish and delicate for the weight of his responsibilities tonight. For there had been other troubles in his office which he had wished to confide to his wife, had she only been willing to listen. However, he finally fell asleep somewhat comforted. For he was convinced that Betty was too sensible a woman not finally to see things in the light that he did. When he had the opportunity and she was neither tired nor vexed with him he would explain to her all over again. An uncomfortable spirit, however, seemed to be brooding over the Governor's mansion this evening, for in another part of the big house, there was another argument also lasting far into the night. Angel and Faith sat on either side an old-fashioned four-poster bed, often talking at the same time in the way that only feminine creatures can. In her white cashmere kimono over her gown, with her pale hair unbound, Faith Barton looked like a little white saint. But alas, and in spite of her name, the little French girl bore no resemblance to one! Angel's dark hair was extraordinarily heavy and curly but not very long, and now in her uneasiness she had pushed and pulled at it until it was extremely untidy. Moreover, her black eyes now and then flashed resentfully at her friend and two bright spots of color burned in her cheeks. When she was not talking her lips were pressed closely together. "Faith, it isn't right of you; you know it isn't. You should not have made me promise to keep your secret before telling me it. How could I ever have guessed such a dreadful thing! I simply must, must tell Betty if you are not going to confide in Mrs. Barton. Then Betty can do what she thinks best and it will be off my conscience." Certainly Angelique Martins was not speaking in an amiable tone, and yet her companion seemed not in the slightest disturbed. Indeed, Faith began quietly brushing her long, straight hair. "Don't be a goose, Angel, and don't have so much conscience for other people. Of course, I am sorry I told you. Kenneth said it would be wiser not to speak to any one for the present, but I had to have some confidant. Now you are trying to spoil my first real romance by wanting me to get up and proclaim it on the housetops. What I like most about being engaged to Kenneth is that no one knows of it and that we can see each other without a lot of silly people staring and talking about us. Of course, when we begin to think about being married I shall tell Rose everything. Then I know she will understand. But we are not going to be married for a long, long time, I expect. Kenneth says that nothing would persuade him to marry me until he could give me everything in the world I want. Oh, you need not look so superior, Angel; I understand you don't approve of that sentiment, but I think it is beautiful for a man to feel that way about a girl. You simply can't appreciate Kenneth." And Faith looked sufficiently gentle and forgiving to have tried the patience of a saint. "Perhaps not," the other girl answered shortly. "Anyhow, Faith, you are right in believing I don't approve of the things you have told me. The idea of your being secretly engaged to a man whom you have only known about two weeks! It is horrid! Naturally you don't either of you know whether you are really in love; but then I don't think you ought to be engaged until you are willing to tell people. Besides, what do you know about Mr. Helm's real character, Faith? He is the kind of fellow who makes love to almost every girl he meets." Almost under her breath and with her cheeks flaming the little lame French girl made this last speech. Nevertheless her companion heard her. Still Faith did not appear angry as most girls would have been under the circumstances, but perhaps her gentle, pitying expression was harder to endure. "Is that what troubles you, Angel? I am so sorry," Faith returned, ceasing to brush her hair to smile compassionately at her friend. "You see, Kenneth warned me that you did not like him very much. He was too kind to explain exactly the reason, only he said that you seemed to have misunderstood something about him. I suppose he was kind to you once, Angel, because of course he would be specially kind to a girl like you. But, there, you need not look so angry! You have a dreadful temper, Angel. Even Betty Graham thinks so in spite of being so fond of you." With pretended carelessness Faith Barton now glanced away, devoting all her energy to plaiting her long hair. Really her speech had been more unkind than she had intended it. But somehow she and Angel were always having differences of opinion and it seemed to Faith that it was usually Angel's fault, because she never quarreled with any one else. Besides, ever since her first meeting with the little French girl at Sunrise Cabin she had been the one who had tried to make and keep their friendship. Angel never seemed to care deeply for any one except her mother and now Mrs. Graham and her babies, and was always getting into hot water with other people. However, it certainly did not occur to Faith that her own amiability came partly from a lack of interest in any one except herself and partly because her own whims were so seldom interfered with. Curious that Rose Barton, who had been such a sensible guardian and friend to her group of Camp Fire girls, had been so indulgent to her adopted daughter! But very few persons understood Faith Barton. She seemed to be absolutely gentle and loving and to live always in a world of beautiful dreams and desires. How could any one guess that she was often both selfish and self-willed? "There is no use talking any more on this subject, Faith, if you think I wish to interfere because I am jealous of you," Angel declared, and finding her cane slipped down from the bed. "Besides, you know perfectly well you are doing wrong without my saying it. Anyhow, I believe that something will happen to make you sorry enough before you are through." With this parting shot Angel marched stiffly out of the room, too proud to reveal how deeply her friend had wounded her. CHAPTER VII A NEW INTEREST IT is a far journey from the New Hampshire hills to the plains of the West. Nevertheless a girl whom we once knew at Sunrise Hill is walking alone this afternoon on the rim of a desert and facing the western sun. It is scarcely fair to call her a girl, unless one has the theory that so long as a woman does not marry she retains her girlhood. Yet glancing at her as she strolled slowly along, no one could have guessed her to be more than twenty, though perhaps she was a little nearer the next decade. Exquisitely dressed in a long, dark green broadcloth coat with a fur collar and small hat, she was a little past medium height and unusually slender. Her hair was so black that it had an almost somber look, and yet her eyes were vividly blue. Just now, having wandered a good many miles from the place where she was staying, she looked extremely tired and depressed. In no possible way did she appear to fit into her present surroundings, for without a doubt she was a woman of wealth and distinction. It was self-evident in the clothes she wore, but more so in the unconsciously proud carriage of her head and in the lines of her face, which was not beautiful and yet seemed to have some curious charm more appealing than mere beauty. She stopped now for a moment to gaze with an appreciation that was almost awe at the beauty of the sinking sun. There was a glory of color in the sky that was almost fantastic; piles of white clouds seemed to have been flung up against the horizon like mammoth soap bubbles, tinted with every rainbow shade. With unconscious enthusiasm, the woman clasped her hands together. "Why," she exclaimed aloud, "I was wondering what this scene reminded me of. It is dear old Sunrise Hill! What would I not give to be there in the old cabin tonight with Betty and Mollie and the others! But they must not know what has become of me until things are all right again. Both Betty and Mollie are too happy with their babies and husbands to worry over the old maids in the family. Sometimes, though, I feel that I should like to send for Sylvia." Then the wanderer turned and stared around her. In every direction there were long waving reaches of sand with an occasional clumping of rocks, while growing near them were strange varieties of the cactus plant. Some of them had great leaves like elephants' ears, some were small and thick with queer, stiff hairs and excrescences, and among them, in spite of the lateness of the season, were occasional pink and crimson flowers with waxen petals. Behind the wayfarer there was a trail which she must have followed from some nearby village, yet it was growing less and less distinct ahead, and certainly the hour was far too late for a stranger to be traveling alone so near a portion of the great Colorado desert. Nevertheless the young woman at this moment turned and left her path. Walking deliberately for a few yards she seated herself on a giant rock, and leaning forward, rested her chin in her beautifully gloved hands. "So like you, Polly O'Neill, even in your old age to have gotten yourself entirely used up on the first walk you were allowed to take alone!" she began aloud, giving a half despairing, half amused shrug of her thin shoulders. "I am not in the least sure that I know the way back to my hotel if it grows dark before I arrive there, and assuredly I am too weary to start for the present. And hungry! Heaven only knows when I was ever so ravenous! Now if I had only been a Camp Fire girl in the West instead of the East, doubtless I could at once discover all sorts of delectable bread fruit and berries growing nearby. But I don't feel I want to run any further risks at present." So for the next half hour in almost perfect quiet Polly O'Neill remained seated. It would have been impossible for her to have done otherwise, for suddenly a curious attack of exhaustion had swept over her. It was not unusual of late, for indeed Miss O'Neill and her maid had established themselves in a small hotel near Colorado Springs in order that the well-known actress might recover from an attack of nervous exhaustion which she had suffered during her successful tour in the Western states. So Polly was quite accustomed to finding herself all at once too weary either to move or speak. But quite like the Polly of old she had just deliberately walked five miles without reflecting on her lack of strength or the fact that she must return by as long a road as she had come. No, in spite of the fact that Polly O'Neill had in the last ten years made a great name for herself as one of the leading actresses in the United States, she was as thoughtless and impetuous as she had been as a girl. Finally, however, with what seemed to require a good deal of effort she got up and moved, this time toward the east, but all the elasticity had gone from her. The sand was uncomfortably heavy, so that she dragged one foot after the other and her slender body seemed to wave like a stalk in the wind. But the worst of her difficulty was that her breath came in short, painful gasps. Unconsciously the effort which the business of walking required made Polly pay less strict attention to the path which she should have followed. But by and by, realizing that her way was less plain and that it was now quite dusk, she paused for a moment, put her hand to her side and then again seemed to be considering her situation. Whatever her decision, she must have accepted it philosophically, for this time, more deliberately, she sought another resting place. Fortunately not far away was a better shelter of rocks, half a dozen of them forming a kind of semicircular cave. Deliberately Polly crept toward their shelter and there removed her hat and tied her hair up in a long automobile veil. Then she lay down in the sand with the stones as a shield behind her and before her a wonderful view of the night as it stole softly over the desert. Polly was not afraid and not even seriously annoyed. Life to her was but a series of adventures, some of them good and others less cheerful. She was not at all sure that she was not going to enjoy this one and she could not believe that it would do her any especial harm. She was sleeping outdoors for the benefit of her health in a small porch attached to her hotel bedroom. Perhaps the sand was less comfortable and clean than her bed, but then she had never before imagined so much sky and prairie. Moreover, there was no one to worry over her failure to appear except Marie, her maid. It was just possible that Marie might arouse the hotel and a searching party be sent to find her. In that case Polly knew that she would be glad to return to civilization. However, she did not intend to worry if no one came. Her hunger and thirst must be forgotten until morning. Somehow, when the stars came out, in spite of the beauty of the night Polly found she could not manage to keep her eyes open. She was not exactly sleepy, only tired. For never in years had she had such an opportunity to think things over. How crowded her life had been, how full of hard work, of failure and success, yes, and loneliness! She was willing to confess it tonight to herself. How she would have liked to have had one of her old Camp Fire friends here in Colorado with her! Yet they were all too busy and she had not wished any one of her family to know how ill she had been. How much trouble she had always given all the people who cared for her ever since she could remember! Polly's conscience pricked her sharply. Why had she not married and settled down as her sister Mollie had suggested at least a hundred times? Because she would not give up her acting? Well, she need not have done this had she married Richard Hunt. But too many years had passed since their engagement had been broken for her to recall him. She had not even seen Mr. Hunt in the past five years, although they had occasionally acted in the same cities and at the same time. Finally, however, when the famous Miss O'Neill actually fell asleep she was smiling faintly. For a vision had suddenly come to her of how shocked her sister Mollie and her brother-in-law, Mr. William Webster, would be if they knew that she was sleeping alone on the edge of a desert. But she was surely too near the village to be in any danger from wild animals and no one would undertake such a walk as hers had been at this hour. Nevertheless, wisdom should have prompted an old Camp Fire girl to have found twigs enough to have started even a miniature camp fire. But the edge of a desert is scarcely the place where wood abounds and the fact is, though she had thought of it, Polly had been too tired to make the necessary effort. For goodness only knows how much farther she need have wandered before coming to an oasis of shrubbery or trees. When at last Miss O'Neill opened her eyes actually it was broad daylight and standing before her was a figure that almost fitted into her dream. For the girl was just about the age of the group of friends who had once lived together in a log house in the woods, and all night she had been dreaming of Sunrise Cabin. Nevertheless her visitor bore no other resemblance to them, so that the distinguished lady rubbed her eyes, wondering if she were yet awake and how the girl could have come so close up to her without her hearing. A glance explained this, for the intruder was barefooted and her legs and feet were so brown and hard they appeared totally unfamiliar with shoes and stockings. She was staring so hard at Polly that she seemed scarcely conscious of anything except her own surprise. With an effort Miss O'Neill sat upright. She did not feel tired now in the least, but gloriously rested and strengthened from her wonderful night out of doors in the clear, pure air. But of course she must explain her situation to the little girl before her, although she would have preferred her discoverer to have explained herself. In spite of being about fourteen years old, this child had on only a thin yellow calico frock, and it was late October. Her hair was perfectly straight and Polly might have thought her an Indian except that it was light brown in color, although a good deal stained by wind and sun. However, the girl's eyes were a kind of greenish gray in shade and her features were delicately modeled. But she had a peculiar and not an agreeable expression. "I wandered away from my hotel last evening and was not able to return, so I slept here all night. How did you happen to find me?" Polly began, feeling that some one must start a conversation in order to persuade her companion to cease her almost frightened staring. Of course Polly appreciated that she herself was not looking her best, but there was no reason why she should excite so much curiosity. Notwithstanding she received no answer. With a slight gesture of annoyance Miss O'Neill stood up. After all, she did not feel as energetic as she had thought and it was undoubtedly a long walk back to her hotel. "Do you live anywhere near here? I am both hungry and thirsty. If you could find some one to help me I should be most grateful," Polly said as politely as if she had been speaking to a friend. For if the girl was afraid of her she wished her to forget her timidity. But instead of replying the strange child stared harder than ever for half a minute, and then before Polly could speak again or touch her she was off, running across the sand like a deer, without a backward glance. Miss O'Neill watched her for some time until she vanished into what appeared at this distance to be a clump of trees. Then she deliberately set out to follow her. The child must have come from some place nearer than the village where she was staying. In almost any kind of settlement she would be able to find a horse to take her back to her hotel. CHAPTER VIII "BOBBIN" ALL her life Polly O'Neill had felt a curious shrinking from physical cruelty, and growing older had not made the least change in her feeling. She had never talked about it, but had always been fearful that at heart she was a coward. The Camp Fire girls used to laugh at her because, of course, she had learned to do all of the things that their rules required without feeling any possible nervousness. But then no one of them understood what physical cruelty might mean and possibly might never see an exhibition of it. Yet nothing was farther from her own mind at the present moment than this fear. She had come in about fifteen minutes' walk to a clump of cottonwood trees by a small stream of water, and there in their midst stood a crude two-room shanty with a bare space of ground in front of it and a lean dog sitting in a patch of sunshine. But the sight that froze Polly's blood and made her stand suddenly so still that she might have been a wooden image was the figure of a man with a long whip in his hand, such as one might have used in driving cattle. And this whip was now whirling and stinging through the air and twisting itself about the body of the little girl who had been the first vision that Miss O'Neill's eyes had rested upon on waking that morning. But the strangest thing of all was that the child was making no outcry and showing no effort to run away. Indeed, she stood perfectly still, hugging half a loaf of bread in her arms. Polly made an inarticulate sound which she thought was a loud cry: "Stop!" But the man had not seen her approach and was too occupied with his hateful task to hear her, and to her intense shame she felt all at once desperately afraid of him. She was so far from any one she knew, she had so little physical strength and this man was so much more brutal than any one she had ever seen before in her life. Perhaps he would cease hurting the child this instant. Then, without in the least knowing when nor how she had accomplished it, Polly rushed forward and seizing the man's thick wrist in her own slender fingers, clung to him desperately, while the thong of the whip curled and fell in a limp fashion about her own shoulders. Too surprised to speak, the man took a step or two backward. In the course of her stage career Polly had acted a number of tragedy queens; and notwithstanding her slightly rumpled appearance at this moment, she had never looked the part better than now. Her thin figure was drawn up to its fullest height, her Irish blue eyes flashed Celtic lightnings. She even stamped her foot imperiously. "You beast!" she exclaimed. "What do you mean by striking a little girl in that cruel fashion? I'll have you arrested! I don't care in the least if you are her father or what she has done, you have no possible right to be so brutal." The man had dropped his whip to the ground and Polly now stooped and picked it up. It was absurd of her ever to have dreamed she could have been frightened by mere brute strength. The man was a good deal more afraid of her for the instant. The sudden apparition of a fashionably dressed young woman, appearing out of nowhere and springing upon him in such a surprising fashion, had destroyed his nerve. "I wasn't doin' nawthin I hadn't a right ter," he growled. "That young 'un is allers stealin' somethin'. I caught her red-handed running off with that there loaf of bread." For the first time since her arrival on the scene Polly O'Neill turned toward the girl. She was still staring at her with almost the same expression she had worn earlier in the day. But somehow something in her look touched Polly, brought her sudden inspiration. "Why," she exclaimed with a break in her voice, "I believe she was bringing the bread to me. I told her I was hungry just a little while ago." There was no one in the world who could be sweeter or simpler than Polly O'Neill when her feelings were deeply touched. This had always been true, even as a young girl, and of course, as she had grown into a famous woman, her charm had deepened. Now she put her arms about her new friend's shoulders. "You were going to give the bread to me, I'm sure. Thank you." Oblivious of the fact that the little girl's dress was exceedingly dirty and that her face was far from clean, Polly leaned over and kissed her. Then she turned to the man. "If you will get a horse and drive me to my hotel I will pay you well for it," she explained. In reply the man nodded and moved away, so that Polly was once more left alone with the girl. It suddenly occurred to her that the child had never spoken since their meeting. Could she possibly be deaf and dumb? That might explain her strange expression. "What is your name?" Polly asked gently. Still the girl stared. Miss O'Neill repeated her question. Then the girl, picking up a stick from the ground, slowly and laboriously printed in big letters, such as a child of six might have made, the word "Bobbin." "Bobbin?" Polly repeated the name aloud as she read it. What an extraordinary title! One could scarcely call it a name. "Is that the only name you have?" she inquired again, wondering at the same time how it was possible for the little girl to understand what she said without being able to reply. But Bobbin bowed her head, showing that she had understood. In some fashion she must have learned the lip language. Yet it was curious why if the girl had ever been sent to school she had learned nothing else. She appeared the veriest little savage that ever lived so close to wealth and civilization. Polly sought in her mind to find out what she could do or say to show her gratitude. She had a sudden feeling that she could not turn her back upon the girl and leave her to her wretched fate, and yet of course the child had no claim upon her. It was something in the expression of Bobbin's eyes that seemed to haunt one. With a slight, unnoticeable shrug of her shoulders, as though giving up the problem as too much for her, Polly now slipped her hand into her pocket, drawing out her purse bag. Opening it she found a large silver dollar, such as one uses in the West. "Won't you buy yourself something from me?" she asked, trying to speak as distinctly as possible. She had not observed that in taking out the money she had carelessly dropped a handkerchief from her bag. With a fleeting expression of pleasure the girl accepted the gift, but the next instant, when Polly turned to watch the man who was now approaching her with a lean horse hitched to a cart, she swooped down toward the ground and picking up the crumpled white object thrust it secretively inside her dress. Five minutes after, when Polly and the man had started for Colorado Springs, Bobbin remained in the same position, watching them until they were out of sight. Then she began eating the neglected bread. Upon arriving safely at her hotel, Miss O'Neill discovered that the news of her disappearance had been spread abroad by her frightened maid, and that a thorough search was being made for her. For although Polly had been trying to live as quietly as possible in a small, obscure hotel, the fact of her visit was well known to hundreds of people. You see, at this time in her life not only was her name celebrated from one part of the country to the other, but her face was equally familiar. Through her maid, Marie, Polly was told that a gentleman, whose name she had not learned, had been particularly kind and interested in seeking to find her. So as soon as she rested she had every intention of inquiring his name and thanking him personally. But by late afternoon, when she finally dressed, this was impossible. Evidently the man did not wish to be annoyed by her thanks, for the message brought her was that on hearing of her safety he had suddenly left the village. However, Polly was able to acquire some actual information about the girl she had seen earlier in the day, for "Bobbin" was apparently a well-known character in the famous Western resort. She was a little stray daughter of the place. Years before, the mother had come to Colorado from some city in the South and had died. Afterwards no one had ever claimed the child. So the town had taken care of her, sent her to school and tried to teach her to talk. She was perhaps not entirely deaf, although no one exactly understood her case. But the girl was a hopeless little rebel. In no place would she stay unless kept there by iron bars. She seemed to have an unconquerable desire to be always out of doors, and in the brilliant Colorado climate this was nearly always possible. Recently she had been living with some gypsy people, who had established themselves in a temporary shanty at some little distance from the roads usually followed by sightseers. So Miss O'Neill had certainly wandered from the beaten track. Nevertheless she need not make herself unnecessarily unhappy over "Bobbin," for the girl would again be brought back to school as soon as she could be captured. Yes, her name had been Roberta, an old-fashioned Southern name, and then in some way it had been shortened to Bobbie and now Bobbin. The child had a last name, of course, but the woman who told the story to Miss O'Neill had either never heard the mother's name or else had completely forgotten it. Late that night in reflecting over her adventure Polly wished that she and Betty Graham could have changed places for a week or so. For Betty would certainly do something for the unfortunate Bobbin to make life happier for her, as she had a kind of genius for looking after people. Her Camp Fire training had taught her a beautiful sympathy and understanding. But Betty must have been made that way in the beginning, Polly concluded with a sigh and a smile. She had no such gift herself. The girl's story, fragmentary as it was, interested her, but there could be no possible point in undertaking to interfere with the child's future. Nevertheless, try as she might, all night it was impossible for the famous actress to get the half tragic, half stupid figure of Bobbin out of her vision. CHAPTER IX BACK IN NEW HAMPSHIRE BETTY was driving alone through one of the less crowded parts of Concord. She had been into the country and was now on her way home again. Not very often did she go out alone, but she had not felt in a mood for company and had purposely gotten away by herself. A week had passed since her midnight talk with Anthony and there was still a coldness between them. Each day Betty had expected her husband to declare that he had changed his mind in regard to finding a position for John Everett and would do as she asked. Yet so far he had not even referred to the subject. On her way home Betty considered that she had better stop and tell Meg how she had failed in influence with her husband, notwithstanding she could not decide just what she should do or say. Meg would not understand and might believe that she had made no real effort for John's sake. Yet she could not be such a coward as to leave her old friends in suspense. Since Anthony would do nothing to help, it was better that John Everett should know, so that he might find another occupation. They were passing through a quiet street shaded by magnificent old maple trees that were now bare except for a few clustering brown leaves, when Mrs. Graham leaned over to speak to her coachman and the man drew in his horses. The next moment her attention was attracted by seeing some one on the sidewalk pause and lift his hat to her. Betty had returned the bow before she actually recognized John Everett. Then he took two or three steps forward and held out his hand. "I was just going to see Meg," Betty explained, blushing and wishing that she could escape the confession that lay before her. If John should question her now she felt she might have a sudden panic of embarrassment. Of course she could think up some excuse for Anthony's unkindness; she might even offer the same excuse he had made to her. Yet the fact that he had declined to do what she so much desired would remain the same. But John Everett was smiling in the most ordinary fashion. "I wonder, Mrs. Graham, if you will not let me ride along with you, if you are going to Meg's. I am on the way home myself." Then in a short while Betty had forgotten her worry and was having the same agreeable talk of old times that she had enjoyed the week before. Moreover, it was John Everett who relieved her from her chagrin. "By the way," he began, just as they were about to arrive at Mrs. Jack Emmet's house, "please don't worry, Mrs. Graham, or Betty, if I may call you by the old name, about asking your husband to fix me up with a position in his office. I know the new Governor is being overwhelmed with office seekers. I have been lucky enough to secure something to do with my brother-in-law, Jack Emmet, and ex-Governor Peyton. They have a new business scheme on hand in which they think I may be useful." Of course, Betty could not utter her thanksgiving aloud, although she repeated it very fervently to herself. So, after all, she need not confess to other people Anthony's lack of consideration. It was enough that she should be carrying the hurt feeling about inside her own heart. Instead, she merely murmured something or other that was not clear, about the Governor's having been so very busy recently and having some special annoyance in his affairs. She was by no means certain of just what she said at the moment nor how she explained the situation, but fortunately John Everett did not appear to be particularly interested in the subject. Meg was not at home when they arrived, but instead of saying good-bye, John suggested that he should drive back to her own home with Betty. It had been years since they had seen each other, except the other evening, and there was so much to talk about. Then John explained that he had taken a small house in Concord and that his father was soon coming to live with him. Bumps would continue with his course at Cornell for this winter anyhow. So, after all, there were uses in this world even for old bachelors, he ended smilingly. It was Betty, however, who suggested that they should go and see this house, although John told her it was a good deal out of her way. Yet it was a beautiful warm November afternoon and would not be dark for another hour. Somehow Betty did not feel that she wanted to go home at once. Faith had gone for a walk with Kenneth Helm, Angel had a half holiday and was spending the afternoon with the children. She and Bettina had a wonderful secret game that they played together in a room by themselves, where no one else had ever been allowed to come. There was no prospect of Anthony's returning home for some time, so the Governor's splendid mansion would seem big and empty to the Governor's wife for an hour or so more at any rate. There was a caretaker in the little white house with green shutters, who was anxious to show Mrs. Graham and Mr. Everett every detail of it. The house was to be let furnished and yet it seemed to have been peculiarly fitted for old Professor Everett's needs. It was pleasant for Betty to imagine the sweet-tempered, learned old man here with John and near his daughter Meg. He had been living alone in Woodford ever since his younger son, Horace, departed for college. Somehow Betty felt that it would be pleasant for her also to have the old gentleman living so near by. He had been a devoted friend of Mr. Ashton's, whom she had certainly loved even more than an own father. "I shall be running in here very often to see Professor Everett and tell him the things that trouble me, just as Meg and I used to do when we were little girls," Betty remarked to her companion. "He was the one person who never by any possible chance believed that Meg or I could ever be in fault." "I'm sure he will always be overjoyed to see you," John Everett replied. "Only it is a little difficult for me to imagine Mrs. Anthony Graham ever having anything to trouble her." As the November evenings grew dark so soon, it was almost dusk when Betty at length entered her own home after saying good-bye to her friend, who had insisted on walking back to his sister's house instead of allowing the coachman to drive him. Going into her private sitting room, Betty was surprised to find that Anthony had come home and was sitting there pretending to read. But most undeniably he looked cross. "I thought we were going to have a drive and tea together, Betty," he remarked reproachfully. "Where in the world have you been? No one seemed to know. I should think you would leave word where you are going, so that if anything happened to the children or to me the servants would know where to find you." Actually Anthony was reproaching her in a perfectly unreasonable fashion! Betty could hardly believe her ears, it was so unlike him. Was he going to turn into the dictatorial type of husband after all these years of married life when he had been so altogether different? Usually Betty's temper was gracious and sweet. Possibly if Anthony had approached her in his usual fashion at this moment they might have gotten over the feeling of estrangement that had come between them for the first time since their wedding. Moreover, the room was not brightly lighted, so that Betty did not notice how tired and worried Anthony looked. Of course, fatigue and worry explain almost any temporary unreasonableness on the part of human beings. Quite casually Betty began to draw off her long gray suede gloves. She wore a beautiful gray coat and skirt and chinchilla furs and a hat with a single blue feather. "Don't talk as if we lived in England and you were a kind of domestic tyrant, please, Anthony," she said lightly. "I am sorry, but I had no possible way of knowing that you were coming home from your office so much earlier than usual. You should have had some one telephone me. I have been having a very agreeable drive with John Everett. And, by the way, it was not worth while for me to have annoyed you by asking you to do me the favor of giving John something to do. He tells me he is going into business with Jack Emmet and ex-Governor Peyton." Then as she moved toward her own bedroom Betty was surprised and annoyed by another speech from her husband. "I don't like the combination very well," he remarked quietly. "Neither Emmet nor Peyton have very good business reputations. They are going to try and get a shaky bill through the Legislature in the next month or so, I hear. But I suppose Everett knows his own affairs best." As Betty had now disappeared, she did not hear Anthony's closing speech. "I am sorry to have talked like a bear, dear. Won't you forgive me and let us be friends? I wish I could have fixed up things for Everett for your sake, but I could not feel that I had the right." Moreover, the young Governor's back was unfortunately turned, so he did not appreciate that Betty had not heard him. He was under the impression that she had simply refused to pay any attention to his apology. Well, he was too tired to discuss the matter any further for the present. He had several important decisions that must be made before morning and he and Betty and Faith and Kenneth Helm were to go to some big reception later in the evening. CHAPTER X LONELINESS NEVER in her entire career had Polly O'Neill felt more depressed. She was, of course, accustomed to a very busy life filled with people and excitement. Nothing else is possible to an actor or actress, although Miss O'Neill had tried to keep her private life as quiet as possible. But here in her little hotel about a mile or more from the celebrated Colorado Springs she was finding existence duller than she had bargained for. In the first place, on her arrival she had let it be known that she desired no callers or acquaintances. Her reason for giving up her work at the present time was that she was greatly in need of a rest cure, so visitors to the Springs had taken her at her word and Miss O'Neill had been left to recover her health unmolested. Now and then some unknown admirer had appeared at her hotel or sent books and flowers. Nevertheless, she had so far made no acquaintances. However, after several weeks of the wonderful, brilliant air, with nothing to do except sleep and write an occasional letter, Polly felt a good deal stronger. Yet she did not feel that she was well enough to return to Woodford, and today the news from home had been depressing. You see, Mollie had never been told that her sister was ill and considered that if she only required rest it might as well be enjoyed at her own lovely big farm as among strangers in the West. So this morning her letter had urged Polly's return home and had also imparted a great variety of dispiriting reasons. In the first place, Mollie told at great length that Dan, who was Polly's favorite of her sister's children, was not in good health and that he was showing certain oddities of disposition which struck his aunt as very like her own. Indeed, she believed that neither her sister nor brother-in-law understood the delicate, difficult little fellow, and she would have liked to have been near enough to have helped him through a trying time. Then more disquieting had been Mollie's information about their mother, Mrs. Wharton, who was beginning to show her age. Moreover, Mr. Wharton seemed somewhat depressed over his business affairs. Then finally the most mystifying and in a way disturbing of Mollie's statements had been her account of Betty Graham. For several weeks there had been no line to Polly from her dearest friend, which in itself had made Polly vaguely uneasy. It was so unlike Betty ever to fail in her weekly letter which had always followed her friend to whatever part of the world she happened to be. But now Mollie announced that Betty had been on a visit to her mother, Mrs. Ashton, in Woodford, and that she had seemed entirely unlike herself. Instead of having a great deal to say she had been strangely quiet, almost sad. Moreover, the new Governor's enemies were said to be making a tremendous effort to destroy his reputation and there was a great deal of talk going on about some matter which Mollie did not claim to understand. Possibly Anthony's annoyances may have been worrying his wife. Polly had been sitting alone on her small, private veranda which commanded a wonderful view of a rim of hills, when her sister's letter had been given her along with her other mail. Before glancing at the other communications she had eagerly opened this. But now she sat with the pages fluttering in her lap and her eyes filled with tears. Naturally Mollie had not intended to be so depressing; people seldom do seem to realize just what effects their letters may produce. Often they write merely to relieve their own feelings and once having put down all the gloomy possibilities that worry them at the time, rise up and go cheerfully about their business with the evils forgotten. So naturally it remains for the unfortunate recipient of the letter to become even more depressed than the writer had been. Moreover, Polly really wanted desperately to go home. It had been many months since she had seen her own people, and though they often believed her to have less affection than other women, it was not in the least true. She had given up many things for her art and had sometimes seemed selfish and cold-blooded. But it wasn't fair that her sister, Mollie, always seemed to think that she had never desired a home of her own, babies and some one to care for her supremely, that she had never grown tired of the wandering life her stage career forced her to lead. Finally, however, Polly managed to smile and give a characteristic shrug over her own self-pity. There was nothing in the world so silly. Like the rest of us she knew this to be true, yet, like the rest of us, now and then even this famous, grown-up woman, who had most of the things that people would give worlds to possess, indulged in attacks of being sorry for herself. Moreover, the day before she had sent for her doctor and he had positively refused to consider her leaving Colorado for the present. You may remember that Polly had a certain inherited delicacy that used to keep her mother uneasy, and lately it had troubled her. It was this fact she had concealed from her family and friends, so that now, though she was better, her physician had scouted the idea of a return East. Once near New York he was sure she would begin to talk business with her theatrical manager, or even undertake to study a new play. No, she must undoubtedly remain at her post a while longer. And yet was it really necessary to have her post quite so lonely? Just as this idea occurred to her, a slight noise attracting her attention, Polly glanced down into the garden below her veranda. There stood Bobbin and the next moment she had flung a poor little bouquet at her feet. It was a strange offering, all prickly cactus leaves with a single white flower in their midst. For some absurd reason it flashed through Polly's mind to wonder if her offering could be in any way symbolic of the girl who had given it her. Could there be something beautiful hidden within the child's peculiarities? For this was not the first token of affection that Bobbin had presented. Indeed, many queer, small gifts had been brought to the strange lady since their first meeting, so that Polly had been curiously touched. For of course Bobbin's offerings came straight from her heart. In her pathetic, shut-in world she had no way of knowing anything of the history of the woman whom she so plainly admired. Yet inside Polly O'Neill's sitting room at this moment there were four or five tokens of affection that must have come from her. They were too extraordinary for any one else to have sent them and had been laid at her shrine in too unusual a way. For most of them had been literally flung on her veranda. A few of them, when she happened to be sitting outdoors as she was doing at the present moment, and the others when no one had seen or known of their appearance. One of the gifts was a beautiful blue feather that must have fallen from some unusual bird flying over the western lands, another a stone that shone like the finest crystal, in the sun, and a third a horseshoe some small broncho must have shed in trotting across the plains. However, never once had Polly been able to thank her new friend for her gifts. For always at the slightest movement on her part Bobbin had turned and run away more fleetly than any one else could. For since Miss O'Neill's report that she had found the girl living with such rough people Bobbin had been recaptured and brought back to the village to school. Notwithstanding, she had once more escaped and now either no one knew just where she had gone or else no one had taken the trouble to capture her a second time. It occurred to Polly at this moment that she would like to try and influence the girl, or at any rate show her gratitude. Besides, anything would be better than spending the rest of the day bewailing her own loneliness. Moreover, it would do her good for a moment to compare her own loneliness with Bobbin's! Without a movement or a sign to the girl to betray that she had even caught sight of her, Polly at once slipped into her bedroom and put on her coat and hat. And she was down in her yard and had stretched out her hand to touch her visitor before the girl became aware of her. Yet the very next instant Bobbin started and began running as swiftly as she had at their first meeting. And this time, even more impetuously and with less reason, Miss O'Neill pursued her. It was ridiculous of Polly and utterly undignified and unbecoming. No other person in the world in her position would have done such a thing. Yet she had no more thought of its oddity and the attention that she might create than if she had been a Camp Fire girl in the New Hampshire woods nearly fifteen years before. Of course the woman could not run half so fast as Bobbin in these days, but it was only because she was not well, Polly said to herself angrily. She had been the swiftest runner of all the girls for short distances in their old Sunrise Hill Club. Of course Sylvia had used to get the better of her in long distance tests. Still, even now she was managing to keep Bobbin in sight, although she had a horrid stitch in her side and was already out of breath. Fortunately, however, for Miss Polly O'Neill's reputation she was not at the present time within the fashionable precincts of Colorado Springs, else she might possibly have been thought to have gone suddenly mad. Her hotel was some distance out in the country and there were but few houses in its neighborhood. Moreover, Bobbin was running away from the town and not toward it. The road was a level, hard one, but all at once Polly felt a queer pain that took her breath completely away and then a sudden darkness. She did not fall, however, because some one who was walking in the direction of her hotel reached her just in time. Then to her amazement Polly heard an exclamation that had in some unexplainable way a familiar note in it. The next moment when straightening up and opening her eyes she seemed to be reposing in the arms of a tall man with dark eyes and gray hair, whom she had once known extremely well, but had not seen in the past five years. CHAPTER XI A MEETING AND AN EXPLANATION "I--I was running," explained Miss O'Neill as soon as she had sufficient breath to speak. Which was such an absurdly unnecessary statement of an apparent fact that her rescuer smiled against his will. He was not pleased at this meeting with Miss Polly O'Neill. It was true that he had been walking out to her hotel to make inquiries concerning her health, but he had no thought or desire to see her. Indeed, deep down in his heart he believed that few women had ever treated a man much worse than she had treated him and he had never even tried to forgive her. For several years they had been engaged to be married, only postponing the wedding because of Polly's youth and because she wanted to go on with her acting for a few years longer without interruption. Then when Richard Hunt had insisted that he was not young and could not wait forever, with characteristic coolness Polly had broken her engagement. She had written him of her change of mind and heart and he had accepted her letter as final. Never once since had they met face to face until this minute. Yet now Richard Hunt found himself holding the same young woman in his arms, rather against his will, of course, but not knowing what else to do with her since she scarcely looked strong enough to stand alone. "I think I would like to sit down for a moment," Polly volunteered finally and managed to cross over to the opposite side of the road, where she established herself very comfortably on a carefully cultivated mound of grass. Her rescuer stood over her. "May I do anything for you, Miss O'Neill?" he inquired formally. "I think it might be well for me to find your maid." He was about to move off when Polly with her usual lack of dignity fairly clutched the back of his overcoat. "Oh, please don't go, Mr. Hunt--Richard," she ended after a slight hesitation. "Really, I don't understand why you have treated me so unkindly all these years. I don't see the least reason why we should not have continued to be friends. Still, you were going to my hotel to call on me. There isn't any other possible reason why you were marching out this particular road, which does not lead anywhere else." And at this Miss O'Neill smiled with open and annoying satisfaction. "I hadn't the faintest idea of asking to see you," Richard Hunt announced firmly, although a little surprised by Polly's friendly manner. If they had been parted for a matter of five weeks instead of five years, and if the cause of their separation had been only some slight disagreement rather than something affecting their whole lives, she could not have appeared more nonchalant and at the same time more cordial. But then there never had been any way of accounting for Polly O'Neill's actions and probably never would be. However, Richard Hunt had no desire again to subject himself to her moods. He wished very much to walk on, and yet he could not make up his mind to remove her hand forcibly from his coat. Moreover, she looked too pale and exhausted to be left alone. Yet this had always been a well-known method by which Polly had succeeded in gaining her own point, he remembered. "Then what were you going to my hotel for? Didn't you even know I was staying there?" she demanded, finding breath enough to ask questions, in spite of her exhaustion of a few moments before. If only he had been a less truthful man! For a moment Richard Hunt contemplated making up some entirely fanciful story, then he put the temptation aside. Notwithstanding, his manner and answer were far more crushing to Miss Polly O'Neill than if he had told her a lie which she would probably have seen through at once. Always he had commanded more respect from her than any man she had ever known in her life, which was secretly mingled with a little wholesome awe. Polly had always put it down to the fact that he was so much older than she was. But she had had other acquaintances among older men. "You misunderstood me, Miss O'Neill, when I said that I was coming to your hotel without any intention of seeing you. That was true, but I was coming with the idea of inquiring how you were. You see, I also have been staying in this part of the country, and not long ago I read in one of the papers that you were here and seriously ill. Afterwards I learned that you were alone. Your family and friends have always been so kind to me that it appeared to me my duty to find out your true condition. I of course guessed that you had not told them the truth." Richard Hunt gazed severely down at the crumpled young woman at his feet, ending his speech as cruelly as possible. "Well, I like that!" Polly returned weakly, falling into slang with entire unconsciousness. "Here I have been suffering perfect agonies of loneliness and crying my eyes out every day because I so wanted mother and Mollie and Betty to come to me. And I only did not let them know I was ill, to keep them from worrying. Yet you make it sound just as if I were keeping my tiresome old breakdown a secret from the pure love of fibbing inherent in my wicked nature. I do think you are--mean!" Was there ever such another grown-up woman as Polly O'Neill? Actually there were tears in her eyes as she ended her speech, relinquishing her hold on her companion in order to fish about in her pocket for a handkerchief, which she failed to find. With entire gravity Mr. Hunt presented his, and Polly, wiping her eyes and perspiring forehead, coolly retained the handkerchief. "Don't you think you are strong enough now to permit me to take you back to your hotel, if I may not look for your maid?" the man suggested, wondering if his companion had any idea of how absurd their position was, nor of how much he desired to get away from her. However, she only sighed comfortably. "Oh, thank you very much, but don't trouble. I am perfectly all right now. I was only out of breath because I was running after a little girl who is as fleet as a deer. But I don't want to go back to my hotel unless you were coming to see me. I was much too lonely there. I'll just walk along with you and after a while, if I am tired again, perhaps we may find a bench and you'll sit down with me. Of course I know you are too dignified to sit on the grass like I am doing." Without the least assistance Polly rose up and stood beside her companion, smiling at him somewhat wistfully. What else could any man do except agree to her wishes? Besides, she had him cornered either way. For now if he continued his journey toward her hotel she would assuredly accompany him, and she had also volunteered to walk the other way. Moreover, it would seem too surly and disgruntled to refuse so simple a courtesy to an old acquaintance. So Polly and her former friend walked slowly along in the brilliant Colorado sunshine in air so clear that it seemed almost dazzling. Beyond they could see the tops of snow-covered mountains tinted azure by the sky. It would have been humanly impossible to have felt unfriendly toward any human being in such circumstances and on such a day. Every now and then Polly would glance surreptitiously toward her companion's face. Gracious, he did look older! His hair was almost entirely gray and his expression certainly less kind. Polly wondered if he had really minded their broken engagement. Surely he had never cared seriously for so unreliable a person! She must have seemed only a foolish school girl to him, incapable of knowing her own mind. For of course if he had not felt in this way he would have made some effort to persuade her to change her decision. How often she used to lie awake wondering why he did not write or come to her? Well, he was probably grateful enough for his escape by this time. Then without in the least knowing what she was going to say nor why she said it, Polly inquired suddenly: "Richard, do you think Margaret Adams is happy in her marriage? I have so often wondered. Of course she writes me she is." Several years before, Miss Adams had married one of the richest men in New York City and since then had retired permanently from the stage. Indeed, many persons considered that Polly had succeeded to her fame and position. Richard Hunt shook his head. "Really, I don't know any more than you do, Miss Polly," he returned. "But she has a fine son and certainly looks to me to be happy." Polly smiled. At least she had succeeded in persuading her companion to call her "Miss Polly." That was a step in the right direction, for in spite of her own boldness in using his first name as she had done years before, up to this moment she had been addressed as Miss O'Neill. But there were so many things to say that she quite forgot in what way she should say them and talked on every minute of the time. She had been so lonely, so depressed until now, that life had seemed to have lost almost all its former interest. When she was plainly too tired to go further Richard Hunt sat down with her on a wayside bench for ten minutes. Then he resolutely rose and said good-bye. "I am ever so glad to find that you are so much better," he concluded finally. "I see there is no cause for anxiety." Yet even as he spoke the man wondered how any human being could manage to be as delicate looking as Polly O'Neill and yet do all the things she was able to accomplish? Just now, of course, she did look rather worse than usual for her run; and then the walk afterwards had used up her strength. Besides, she had been trying so hard to persuade her old friend again to cherish a little liking for her and at this moment was convinced of her failure. She shook her head. "Thank you," she answered quietly. "It has done me good to have seen some one of whom I am fond. It hasn't been altogether cheerful being out here ill and alone. It was kind of you to have cared enough to inquire about me. I suppose you will soon be going back to work. Good luck and farewell." Polly reached out her slender hand, which was white and small with blue veins upon it. In her haste on leaving her apartment she had, of course, forgotten gloves. However, instead of shaking her hand quietly, as both of them expected, Richard Hunt raised her fingers to his lips. "I am not going away from Colorado immediately. May I come and see you soon again?" he inquired. A few minutes before he had not the slightest intention of ever deliberately trying to see Polly O'Neill alone as long as they lived. But she did look so forlorn and as lonely as a forsaken little girl. No one could ever have guessed that this was the celebrated Miss O'Neill whose acting had charmed many thousands of people during the last eight or ten years. Polly bit her lips. "Then you will come? I was afraid to ask you," she replied. "I want so much to tell you about a queer little girl whom I have come across out in these wilds. Her name is Bobbin and she seems to be deaf and dumb. I feel that I ought to do something for her and don't know exactly what to do. Perhaps I'll adopt her, although I'm afraid the family and Betty Graham won't approve. But anyhow, Sylvia, the well-known Doctor Sylvia Wharton, who is a children's specialist, may be able to do something for her." Naturally this idea of adopting Bobbin had not dawned upon Polly until the instant of announcing it. But the more she thought of taking the girl to Sylvia's care the more the idea appealed to her. Besides, Bobbin perhaps might awaken Mr. Hunt's interest if he could see the child and hear her tragic story. The little girl might be made attractive with her queer eyes and sunburned hair, if she were cleaner and more civilized. "You will come some day and help me decide what to do, won't you?" Polly urged. "One's chief difficulty is not alone that Bobbin won't be adopted, she won't even let herself be discovered. She is such a queer, wild little thing." Then she watched her companion until he was entirely out of sight and afterwards got up and strolled slowly home. CHAPTER XII THE WAY HOME NOT a long time afterward Bobbin must have changed her mind for some reason or other, for voluntarily she came to call on Miss O'Neill. That is, she appeared in the garden and threw a queer scarlet flower up to the veranda. Then she waited without trying to escape when Polly came down to talk to her. And evidently she must have felt, somewhere back in the odd recesses of her mind, that she was to be considered a visitor, for she had washed her face and hands and even her hair. Indeed, though it hung perfectly straight, Polly thought that she had never seen more splendid hair in her life, it held such strange bright colors from being always exposed to the sun and air; besides, it was long and heavy. Moreover, Bobbin wore an old red jacket, which some one recently had given her, over the same pitiful calico dress. By and by, using all the tact she possessed, Polly persuaded her visitor out of the yard and up-stairs to her own rooms. Of course Marie, the maid, was shocked and displeased, but after all she was fairly accustomed to her mistress's eccentricities. Moreover, after a little while she too became interested in Bobbin. The first thing Polly undertook to do was to feed her visitor. She had an idea that Bobbin might be hungry, but she did not dream how hungry. The girl ate like a little wolf, ravenously, secretly if it had been possible. Only, fortunately, she had learned something of table manners from her occasional training in institutions, so that she at least understood the use of a knife and fork, and altogether her hostess was less horrified than she had expected to be. Later on Bobbin and Polly undertook to have a conversation. This they managed by acquiring large sheets of paper and nicely sharpened pencils. But it was astonishing how easily Bobbin appeared to understand whatever her new friend said to her and how readily she seemed to be willing to accept her suggestions. The truth is that the half savage little girl had conceived a sudden, unexplainable devotion to the strange lady whom she had discovered asleep on the sands. Perhaps Bobbin too may have dreamed dreams and imagined quaint fairy tales, so that Polly's appearance answered some fancy of her own. But whatever it was, she had offered her faithful allegiance to this possible fairy princess or just ordinary, human woman. Yet how Bobbin was to keep the faith it was well that neither she nor Polly knew at the present time. However, by the end of her visit the girl had promised to go back to the home which the town had provided for her and to do her best to learn all she could. As a reward for this she was to be allowed to make other visits to Miss O'Neill. She was even to be allowed to eat from the same blue and white china and drink tea from the same blue cup. Moreover, before Bobbin's final departure Marie persuaded her into the bathroom and half an hour later she came forth beautifully clean and dressed in a discarded costume of Polly's, which was too long for her, but otherwise served very well. It was merely a many times washed white silk shirt waist and blue serge walking skirt and coat. They made Bobbin appear rather absurd and old, so that Polly was not sure she had not liked her best in her rags. However, both Bobbin and Marie were too pleased for her to offer criticism; yet, notwithstanding, Polly made up her mind that she would try and purchase the girl more suitable clothes as soon as possible and that she would write and ask Betty Graham's and Sylvia's advice in regard to her. For Richard Hunt had not come to see her since their accidental meeting and she could hope for no interest from him. Polly wished she had never laid eyes upon him, for their little talk had only served to start a chain of memories she wished forgotten. Besides, of course, she felt lonelier than ever, since there is nothing so depressing as waiting for a friend who does not come. Soon after dinner that evening Polly undressed and put on a pretty kind of tea gown of dark red silk, the color she had always fancied ever since girlhood. She was idling about in her sitting room wondering what she could do to amuse herself when unexpectedly Mr. Hunt was announced. "Why, Polly," he began on entering, his manner changed from the coldness of their first meeting, "do you know what that gown you are wearing brings back to me? Our talk in the funny little boarding house in Boston so many years ago, when you explained to me that you had run off and were in hiding in order to try and learn to be an actress. I wish I could tell you how proud I am of your success." But Polly did not wish to talk of her success tonight. So she only shrugged her shoulders. "Oh, I have always been doing foolish things for the sake of my acting and yet I don't seem to amount to much." After this visit Richard Hunt returned half a dozen times. Polly did not understand whether he was acting in the West not far from Colorado Springs or whether he too was taking a holiday. She asked the question once, but as her old friend did not answer her explicitly she let the matter drop. Nevertheless it was quite true that from the time his visits began she grew steadily better. Finally, about ten days before Christmas, Miss O'Neill's physician announced that she might return to the New Hampshire hills to complete her cure at her sister's home. Then came the hour of final decision in regard to Bobbin. Of course Polly could not adopt the girl in the conventional sense. It would have been impossible to have her travel about with her or to have kept her constantly with her. And even if it had been possible this was not what Bobbin needed. Fortunately for Polly, Richard Hunt's ideas on the subject were far more sensible than her own. Between them it was decided that Bobbin should travel east with Miss O'Neill and her maid and spend Christmas at the big Webster farm. Mollie had written she would be glad to have her. Then later Bobbin was to see Sylvia Wharton and be put into some school where she might learn to talk and perhaps acquire some useful occupation. There was no difficulty in persuading the town authorities to permit the little girl to follow her new friend. Indeed, the child had always been a tremendous problem and they were more than glad to be rid of the burden. She seemed completely changed by Miss O'Neill's influence. She was far quieter and more tractable and had not run away in several weeks. Besides this she appeared to be learning all kinds of things in the most extraordinary fashion. However, her teacher explained this to Polly by saying that Bobbin had always been unusually clever, but that some wild streak in her nature had kept her from making any real effort until now. Another peculiarity of the girl's which Polly remembered having seen an example of on the morning of their first meeting was that she had absolutely no sensation of physical fear. Either nothing hurt her very much or else she was indifferent to pain. For this reason it had always been impossible either to punish her or to make her aware of danger. The thought interested Polly, since she considered herself something of a coward. She wondered if some day she and Bobbin might not change places and the little girl be discovered taking care of her. However, when the three women finally started east there was nothing unusual in the appearance of any one of them. For by this time Polly's protégé was dressed like any other girl of her age with her hair neatly braided. There only remained her peculiar fashion of staring. Richard Hunt saw the little party off. He expected to be in New York later in the winter and promised to write and inquire what had become of Bobbin. However, he did not promise to come to Woodford to see Miss O'Neill, although Polly more than once invited him. CHAPTER XIII "A LITTLE RIFT WITHIN THE LUTE" "BUT, my dearest sister, what is the matter with Betty? You were perfectly right, she isn't one bit like herself and neither is Anthony. I don't even believe she was particularly glad to see me when I stopped over in Concord with her for a few days." Polly O'Neill was in her sister Mollie's big, sunshiny living room in her splendid old farm-house near Sunrise Cabin. There was no specially handsome furniture in the room, perhaps nothing particularly beautiful in itself, yet Polly had just announced that it was the very homiest room in all the world and for that reason the nicest. There were low book-shelves on two sides of the room, for though Mollie never read anything except at night when her husband read aloud to her, Billy Webster kept up with all the latest books, fiction, history, travel, besides subscribing to most of the magazines in the country. Indeed, although he and Polly often quarreled good-naturedly, Polly was openly proud of her brother-in-law, who had turned out to be a more intelligent and capable man than she had ever expected. But besides Billy's books there were lots of old chairs, some of them rather worn, but all delightfully comfortable; a great big table, now littered with children's toys; the old-fashioned couch upon which Polly was reposing; some ornaments belonging to ancestral Websters and a tall grandfather's clock, besides half a dozen engravings and etchings on the walls. Mollie was sitting in a low chair dressing a big china doll. The sunshine lingered on her dark hair, her plump pink cheeks and her happy expression. For she was in a delightful state of content with the world. Was not her beloved Polly at home for the Christmas festivities and were not Billy and the children and her mother in excellent health and spirits? Yet she looked a little uneasy over her sister's question. For Betty was nearer to her heart than any one outside her own family. "So you noticed it too, Polly?" she returned, stopping her work for a moment and gazing out the great glass window. Outside in the snow her three children were playing, her little girl, Polly, and Billy and Dan. Bobbin was standing a short distance away watching them intently. Indeed, ever since her arrival at the farm she seemed to have done almost nothing except look and look with all her might and main. The girl seemed scarcely to wish either to eat or sleep. And at first this had worried her new friends, until suddenly Polly had realized what a wonderful new experience Mollie's home and family were to this child who had never seen anything in the least like it in her whole life. But Mollie was not watching the children. Polly got up and leaned on her elbow to discover what had attracted her sister's attention. For only a few moments before the children had been sent outdoors to keep them from tiring the aunt whom they adored. No, Mollie's gaze was fastened on a big man who had just approached wearing a heavy overcoat and a fur cap and carrying a great bunch of mistletoe and holly in his hands, which he was showing with careful attention to the little girl visitor. "Here comes Billy," she explained. "Perhaps he can tell us." Of course Polly laughed. "Gracious, dear, isn't there anything in the world you won't let your husband decide? I should think that even Mr. William Webster could hardly tell us what is troubling our beloved Betty. And I don't know that it is even right to ask him. You see, old maids are shy about these things." But in reply Mollie shook her head reproachfully. "I was only going to ask Billy about the difficulty Anthony is having with his position as Governor," she explained. "You see, I know there is some kind of talk. People are saying he is not being as honest as they expected. There is a bill which ex-Governor Peyton and Meg's husband, Jack Emmet, and her brother, John, are trying to get through the Legislature. Most people don't think the bill is honest and believe Anthony should come out and say he is opposed to it. But so far he has not said anything one way or the other. I thought maybe Betty was worrying because people were thinking such hateful things about Anthony. I simply couldn't stand it if it were Billy." "Wise Mollie!" her sister answered thoughtfully. "You may be right, but somehow there seemed to me to be something else troubling Betty. If it were only this political trouble, why shouldn't she have confided in me?" But at this instant William Webster came into the room with a dozen letters and almost as many newspapers in his hands. Six of the letters he bestowed on Polly, who opened five of them and stuck the sixth inside her dress. Ten minutes later Billy Webster looked up from the paper he was reading. "See here," he said, "I don't like this. This paper comes pretty near having an insulting letter in it concerning Anthony Graham. Of course it does not say anything outright, but the insinuations are even worse. See, the article is headed: 'Is Our Reform Governor So Honest As We Supposed?' Then later on the writer suggests that Anthony may not be above taking graft himself. Everybody knows he is a poor man." Afterwards there was an unusual silence in the big room until Billy turned inquiringly toward his wife and sister-in-law. "Don't take my question in the wrong way, please," he began rather timidly. "But is Betty Graham a very extravagant woman? I know she was brought up to have a great deal of money, and although she was poor for a little while that may not have made any difference. You see, Anthony Graham is absolutely an honest man, but everybody knows that he adores his wife----" Billy stopped because quite in her old girlhood fashion Polly had sprung up on her sofa and her eyes were fairly blazing at him. "What utter nonsense, Billy Webster! You ought to be ashamed of yourself for suggesting such a thing. In the first place, Betty is not extravagant, but even if she were she would most certainly rather be dead than have Anthony do a dishonest thing on her account. Besides, if Anthony is your friend and you really believe in him, you ought not to doubt him under any possible circumstances." Then Polly bit her lips and calmed down somewhat, for Mollie was looking a little frightened as she always did when her sister and Billy disagreed. However, her sympathies this time were assuredly on her sister's side. "If you had only belonged to a Camp Fire club as we did with Betty Ashton you would never have doubted her even for a second, Billy. I know you don't really," Mollie added, somewhat severely for her. "Oh, dear, I never shall cease to be grateful for our club! All the girls seem almost like sisters to me, and especially Betty." Billy Webster folded up his paper and glanced first at his wife and then at his sister-in-law. "I beg everybody's pardon," he said slowly, "and I stand rebuked! Certainly I did not mean really to doubt either Anthony or Betty for a moment. But you are right, Mollie dear, that Camp Fire Club certainly taught you girls loyalty toward one another. I don't believe people dare say nowadays that women are not loyal friends, and perhaps the Camp Fire clubs have had their influence. But some day soon I believe I will go up to Concord and see Anthony. Perhaps he might like to talk to an old friend." "He and Betty and the children are coming to Woodford for Christmas," Mollie announced contentedly, whipping away at the lace on the doll's dress now that peace was again restored. "Betty says she can't miss the chance of spending a Christmas with Polly after all these years. Besides, she is curious about Bobbin. I hope Sylvia will come too. She won't promise to leave her old hospital, but I believe the desire to see Polly will bring her here. You know she writes, Polly, that you are positively not to come to her for the present." Her sister nodded, but a few moments later got up and went up alone to her own room. Their talk had somehow made her feel more uncomfortable about Betty than she had in the beginning. Somehow she had hoped that Mollie would not be so ready to agree with her own judgment. Yet most decidedly she had noticed a change in Betty during her short visit to her. Betty was no longer gay and sweet-tempered; she was nervous and cross, sometimes with her husband and children, now and then with the two girls who were spending the winter with her, Angelique Martins and Faith Barton. Moreover, she had gotten a good deal thinner, and though she was as pretty as ever, sometimes looked tired and discontented. Besides, she was living such a society existence, teas, balls, dinners, receptions almost every hour of the day and night. No wonder she was tired! Of course Anthony could not always go with her; he was far too busy and had never cared for society. For a moment Polly wondered when Betty and her husband managed to see each other when they were both so occupied with different interests. Yet when they had married she had believed them absolutely the most devoted and congenial of all her friends. Well, Betty need not expect finally to escape confessing her difficulty. Even if there was no opportunity for an intimate talk during the Christmas gayeties they must see each other soon again. Either she would go to Concord or have Betty come again to Mollie's. Then Polly cast off her worries and settling herself comfortably in a big leather chair by the fire took out the letter concealed inside her dress and began reading it. CHAPTER XIV SUSPICION "ANGEL, will you go into Anthony's private office; he told me he wanted to speak to you," Betty Graham said carelessly one afternoon in December. She was dressed for driving in a long fur coat and small black velvet hat which brought out the colors in her auburn hair in the most attractive fashion. However, her expression changed as she saw the girl to whom she had just spoken turn white and clasp the railing of the banister as if to keep herself from falling. "What on earth is the matter with you, Angel?" she demanded crossly. "You look like you were going to faint when I deliver a perfectly simple message. Surely you are not afraid of Anthony after living here with us all this time and working for him even longer. I suppose he just wants to speak to you about some business in connection with the office. He never talks of anything else." Then a little ashamed of her impatience, Betty put her arm on Angel's shoulder. "There has been something on your mind recently, hasn't there, Angel, something you have not cared to confide to me?" She stopped, for her remark was half a statement and half a question. However, Angel nodded agreement. "Well, I am sorry, but I don't seem to be worthy of any one's confidence these days," Betty continued, trying to speak lightly. "However, if any one wishes to know where I have gone, dear, please say that Meg Emmet and I are driving together and that we are to have tea with old Professor Everett." And the next moment Betty Graham had disappeared down the steps. Still Angel stood in the same place and in the same position. Surely Betty was being kept in the dark if she did not dream of the trouble that had been hovering over the Governor's office for several weeks. Several important state papers had been misplaced, lost or stolen. No one knew what had become of them, yet on them a great deal depended. They were the proof that the Governor required for exposing certain men whom he believed dishonest. It was absolutely necessary that they should be found. Summoning her courage, Angel knocked timidly at the Governor's study door. It was in front of this same door that she had watched the guests at the Inaugural Ball some weeks before. Of course it was absurd for her to be frightened at the Governor's having sent for her. She was too insignificant a person even to be questioned in regard to the lost papers, as she was only one of the unimportant stenographers at the Capitol and was only occasionally asked to do any of the Governor's private work. Anthony was sitting with his desk littered with papers when Angel walked timidly in. She thought he looked rather old and tired and stern for so young a man. But he was always very polite and at once got up and offered her a chair. "I am sorry to disturb you out of office hours like this, Angel," he began kindly. "I know it is Saturday afternoon and a half holiday, but I thought perhaps we could talk something over better here at home than at the office. One is so constantly interrupted there." Angel made a queer little noise in her throat which she believed to have sounded like "Yes." Of course the Governor was going to dismiss her from her position. She was not a particularly good stenographer, not half so fast as many of the girls, although she had tried to be thorough. But then she had no real talent for office work and of course there was no reason why she should continue to hold her position because she was a friend of the family. Positively Angel was beginning to feel sorry for the Governor's embarrassment and already had made up her mind to try and get some other kind of work. She would not stay on and be dependent. Anthony was tapping his desk with his pencil. "See here, Angel," he said, "I wonder if you by any chance have the faintest idea of what has become of some papers we have been a good deal worried about at the office. I know you don't often have anything to do with my private business, but I thought by accident you might have seen them lying around at some time. They were two or three letters bound around with a blue paper and a rubber band. Know anything about them?" The girl started. For suddenly the Governor's manner had changed and he was looking at her sternly out of his rather cold, searching eyes. For a man does not win his way to greatness through all the trials that Anthony Graham had endured without having some streak of hardness in him. Quietly Angel shook her head, but she was neither nervous nor offended by the Governor's questioning. She had heard the gossip, strictly within the office, of the loss of these letters and it was most natural that every member of the force should be investigated concerning them. "I am sorry," she answered, her voice trembling the least little bit in spite of her efforts, "but I have never at any time seen anything of the letters you mention. Could it be possible that one of the servants at the Capitol realized their importance and stole them in order to get money for them?" "No," the Governor answered promptly, "that is not possible, because the letters were taken from this study and in this house. Think again, Angel, have you seen nothing of them? There is no one else living in the house here, you know, who works at my office except you." Angel jumped quickly to her feet. "You don't mean--you can't mean," she began chokingly. "Oh, I can't bear it! I shall tell Betty--she will never believe. Why, I thought you were my best friends, almost my only friends." For a moment she found it impossible to go on. But the Governor was looking almost as wretched as she was herself. "My dear, I don't mean really to accuse you of anything, remember. I am only asking you questions. And I particularly beg of you not to mention this trouble of ours to Betty. She is not very well at present and I am afraid she thinks I am too hard on all her friends. Indeed, I am sure I should never have dreamed of you in connection with this matter, but that some one in whom I have great confidence told me that he had seen you coming out of my study on the night on which I believe my papers were mislaid. We won't talk about the matter any more for the present, however. Possibly the letters will yet turn up, and it has been only my own carelessness that is responsible for the loss. There, do go up to your own room and lie down for a while, Angel. I assure you this conversation has been as distasteful to me as it has to you. It was only because the discovery of these letters is so important that I decided to talk to you. But don't think I am accusing you." Sympathetically and apologetically the Governor now smiled at his companion, the smile that had always changed his face so completely from a grave sternness to the utmost kindness and charm. But Angel would not be appeased. She had always a passionate temper inherited from her Latin ancestors, though she usually kept it well under control. "You mean your private secretary, Kenneth Helm, has suggested that you question me," she announced bitterly. "I knew he disliked me for some reason or other, but I did not know his dislike was as cruel as this. It was he who saw me sitting out here watching the people down-stairs the night of your Inaugural Ball, because I was too shy to go down alone." For an instant it occurred to Angel to say that she had seen Kenneth Helm enter the Governor's private study on this same evening. But what would have been the use? The Governor probably knew of it and certainly he had the utmost faith in his secretary. It would only look as if she were trying to be spiteful and turn the suspicion upon some one else. Besides, had she not promised Kenneth Helm not to tell? At least she would not condescend to break her word. Stumbling half blindly, Angel made her way out of the study. In the hall she found Bettina waiting for her. "You promised to come and play more secret with me. Will you come now, Angel? We can go up to the nursery and lock the door; there is no one to find us," Tina urged. But Angel could only shake her head, not daring to let the little girl see into her face. Nevertheless, outside her own bedroom door she had to meet an even greater strain upon her nerves. For there stood Faith Barton in a pretty house dress and with a box of candy in her hands. "May I come in and talk to you for a little while, Angel?" she asked, hesitating the least little bit. "Kenneth has just sent me a note and a box of candy, saying that he cannot keep his engagement with me tonight. He is so dreadfully busy, poor fellow! I don't believe Governor Graham works one-half so hard. So I thought maybe you would let me stay with you, as I am rather lonely. Besides, Angel, there isn't any sense in your treating me so coldly as you have lately. If I am doing wrong in keeping my engagement a secret, I am doing wrong, that's all. But I don't think you ought to be unkind to me. If I have been hateful to you about anything, truly I am sorry. You know I have always been awfully fond of you, dear, and wanted to be your friend ever so much more than you ever wished to be mine." But instead of answering Faith, the other girl had to push by her almost rudely, stammering: "I can't talk to you now, Faith. I've got the headache. I'm not very well; I must lie down." Then with Faith standing almost on her threshold, resolutely Angel closed the door in her face. If there was one person above all others at this moment with whom she could not bear to talk it was Faith Barton. CHAPTER XV WAITING TO FIND OUT AS the days passed on, the little French girl did not find her difficulties grow less. At the office she continued to hear veiled discussions of the seriousness of the lost letters. No one, of course, except a few persons in the Governor's confidence, knew exactly what information the letters contained, but there was no question of their political importance, for everybody could feel the atmosphere of strain and suspense. Yet for one thing at least Angelique Martins was grateful: no one had in any way associated her with the lost or stolen papers. For whatever Kenneth Helm suspected, or Governor Graham feared, they had both kept their own counsel. Yet this did not mean that they both considered her guiltless. Time and time again Angel tried to summon courage to speak directly to Kenneth Helm on the subject. She had frequent opportunities, for even if there was danger of notice or interruption at the office, he came very often to the Governor's mansion to see Faith or to dine with the family. However, she simply did not know what to do or say. To go to Kenneth and ask him why he had accused her seemed to the girl almost like a confession of wrongdoing. For oftentimes it appears preposterous in this world to be forced into denying an act that one could never have even dreamed of committing. How can one suddenly say, "I am _not_ a thief, I am _not_ a liar," when every thought and act of their lives has been pure and good? Neither could Angel persuade herself to tell Kenneth Helm that she felt just as suspicious of him as he could possibly feel of her. For she had no proof of any kind except her own dislike and distrust and the fact that she had seen him coming out of the Governor's private study on the same night on which he had suggested that she might have previously entered it. For of course the Governor's private secretary had a right to his chief's private papers at almost all times. No, Kenneth would only consider her accusation an expression of feeble revenge and be perhaps more convinced of her guilt in consequence. Therefore there was nothing to do but wait with the hope that everything would soon be cleared up and the lost letters either found or their thief discovered. Moreover, Angel was not even to have the satisfaction of talking the matter over with Betty, the one person in the world who could and would have helped her. For she had the Governor's strict command against this and did not dare disobey. Besides, Angel could see that Betty was unlike herself these days and so should not be troubled by any one else's trials. This, of course, was a mistaken point of view, as nothing would so have helped Betty Graham at this time as to have had some one to think about who really needed her. However, neither her friend nor her husband could have realized this. Nevertheless there was one consolation that the little French girl enjoyed during these days and that was "the secret" which she and Bettina had been cherishing so ardently for weeks. Every spare hour she had from her work she and Bettina had spent together in a big room at the top of the house, which was Bettina's own private play-room, sacred to her uses only. It was a lovely room with pale gray walls and warm, rose-colored curtains, and all about were pictures of girls and boys who had come straight out of fairyland and had their photographs taken by such wonderful fairy artists as Maxfield Parish and Elizabeth Shippen Greene. For you see Angelique was absolutely attempting to draw one of these fairy pictures herself, while Bettina was acting as her model. The picture was not to be a portrait, the artist had scarcely courage to have undertaken that, but it was to represent Bettina's favorite heroine, "Snow White and Rose Red." All her life, ever since she was a little girl of five or six, Angelique Martins had been drawing and painting whenever she had the least chance or excuse. Of course it was this same artistic gift that had showed in her clever fingers and sense of color through all the work which she had done in the Camp Fire Club. But of her actual talent as an artist Angelique had always been extremely shy. You see, she cared for art so much that she did not consider that she had any _real_ talent. But even confessing that she had the least little ability, of course it would take years of study and goodness knows how much money before she could have hoped to amount to anything. Nevertheless there was nothing to forbid the little lame French girl's amusing herself with her fancy whenever she had the chance. And ever since she could remember, Angel had been drawing pictures for Bettina. It had been their favorite amusement as soon as Tina passed beyond her babyhood, which was sooner than most children. Naturally Angel had drawn hundreds of pictures with Bettina as her model before, but never one half so ambitious as this. However, this last one represented about the sixth effort, and it was a great question even now whether this was to be the final one. For "Snow White and Rose Red" was not merely a play picture, one that had been painted merely for amusement; it had a most serious intention behind it. Weeks before in a magazine which the two friends had been looking over together they had come across an advertisement. A prize of two hundred dollars was offered for the best picture illustrating any fairy story. Moreover, no well-known artist was to be allowed to enter the competition; the drawings were all to be made by amateurs under twenty-five years of age. The first suggestion that Angel should take part in this wonderful contest had come, of course, from Bettina as soon as the older girl had read her the amazing announcement, for Tina's faith in her friend was without limit. Then just as naturally Angel first laughed at her suggestion and afterwards decided to try just for fun to see what she could do; and here at last was most furiously in earnest, although still undecided whether to send her picture to the competition or to throw it away. There were only a few days more before the time limit expired. Therefore, would it be possible for her to undertake an entirely new picture here at the very last? With these uncertainties weighing on her mind Angel was sitting in front of a small easel with a box of pastels on a table near by. Closer to the big nursery window Bettina was curled up in a white armchair, one foot tucked up under her in a favorite attitude and in her lap were half a dozen red roses. She was tired, for she had been quiet an unusually long time while Angel made slight changes in her work and then stopped to consider the whole thing disparagingly. But somehow her weariness made Bettina's pose even more charming. [Illustration: ANGEL HAD CAUGHT BETTINA'S ATTITUDE ALMOST EXACTLY] Her long yellow-brown hair hung over her shoulders down into her very lap, her eyes were wide open and yet were plainly not looking at any particular object. For Tina was making up stories to amuse herself while Angel worked. It was only in this way that she could manage to keep still for so long a time as Angel needed. But this was the picture that Bettina herself made; what of her friend's drawing of her? Naturally it was not so graceful or pretty as the little girl herself. Nevertheless, by some happy chance Angel had caught Bettina's attitude almost exactly. Then too she had drawn a little girl who did not look exactly like other children. There was a suggestion of poetry, almost of mystery, about her fairy tale girl, in the wide open blue-gray eyes, dreaming as Tina's so often were, and in the half uncurled lips. Of course the lines of the drawing were not so firm and clear as an experienced artist would have made them, yet glancing at the little picture, you felt something that made you wish to look at it again. However, Angel sighed so that Bettina came out of her dream story and stretched herself in the big chair. "What is the matter?" she inquired. "May I get up and walk about the room now?" The older girl nodded. "Thank you, dear. This is the last time I am going to trouble you to sit for this picture. I have just decided that I can't do any better by trying it over again, yet I don't know whether I shall send it to the competition after all." The next moment Angel was startled by something that sounded almost like a sob from Tina. Since the little girl was so seldom cross, she was surprised and a little frightened. "I am sorry you are so tired. Why didn't you tell me?" Angelique demanded. Bettina had crossed the nursery and was standing close beside her picture. "It isn't that, it is only that I do want you to send it so much," Bettina answered. "You see, I think it is the best picture anybody ever painted and we have both worked so hard and it has been such a nice secret," she said huskily. Angel put her arm about her. "Of course I'll send it, dear, if you feel that way," she conceded. "But you must not even dream that I shall get the prize and you must promise not to be disappointed if we never hear of the picture again." Bettina agreed and then there followed a most unexpected knocking at the locked nursery door. The two conspirators stared at each other in consternation. "Who is it, please?" Bettina demanded. "You know Angel and I are having our secret together and we can't let any one come in." Betty's voice replied: "Yes, I know; but I thought maybe the secret was over and you would like me to come and play too. I am feeling pretty lonesome." "Oh," Tina returned, and then she and Angel whispered together. Finally the little girl came over toward the closed door. "I wish you would not be lonesome just now, mother," she murmured, "just when we are most dreadfully busy. If you will only go away for a little while and then come back, why, Angel and I will love to play with you." "I am afraid I won't be here after a while," Betty answered and then walked slowly away. It was absurd for her to feel wounded by such a trifle, and yet recently it had looked as though Bettina preferred Angelique's company to hers. What a useless person she was growing to be! Well, at least she and Meg were going to a Suffrage meeting that afternoon! She had not intended going, but the baby was asleep and Anthony would not be home for hours. Perhaps after the talk ended she might drive by and get Anthony to return with her. She had not thought him looking very well that morning. CHAPTER XVI A TALK THAT WAS NOT AN EXPLANATION THE Suffrage meeting was fairly interesting, but then both Meg and Betty had been believers in equal rights for men and women ever since their Camp Fire days and there were few new arguments to be heard on the subject. When they came out from the crowded hall, however, it was still too early to call for Anthony. There could be no hope of getting hold of him before half-past five o'clock. So it was Meg Emmet's suggestion that she and Betty stop by and see her father for a few moments. Professor Everett had a slight cold and his daughter was a little uneasy about him. They found the old gentleman in his library sipping hot tea and re-reading a letter from his son, Horace, whom Betty could not ever think of by any more serious name than "Bumps." She always saw a vision of the small boy dragging around at his sister Meg's heels and tumbling over every object in their way. However, "Bumps" had grown up to be a very clever fellow and had a better record at college than his brother John ever had. The young man was to graduate in law at Cornell in the coming spring. The present letter was to say, however, that he expected to spend Christmas in Concord with his father. He had been doing some tutoring at Cornell and had earned the money for his trip himself. Plainly Professor Everett was much pleased by this news. He had always been a devoted father to all his three motherless children, but Horace was his "Benjamin." Moreover, they were still talking of "Bumps" when unexpectedly John Everett made his appearance. He was looking rather fagged, but explained that there was nothing going on at his office and so he had quit for the day. Nevertheless tea had a reviving effect upon him, as it had upon both Meg and Betty, so that Betty was surprised to discover that it was twenty minutes past five o'clock when her visit seemed scarcely to have begun. It was quite dark, however, as it was toward the middle of December when the days are short, so that John Everett insisted upon accompanying his sister and friend, even though they were in Betty's carriage. Meg's home was nearer. They drove there first and later John went on to the Capitol, where Betty sent in to inquire if the Governor were free to return home with her. There was a little time to wait before the answer came, so that in the meanwhile Betty and John continued talking. It was Betty who asked the first important question. "I do hope, John, that your new business is succeeding," she said carelessly, although of course she felt a friendly interest in John's success and in that of Meg's husband. However, John Everett hesitated a moment before replying. "Oh, our success depends on your Governor and so perhaps on you," he answered in a half joking tone. "I don't know whether you happen to have heard anything about it, but we are trying to get a bill through the Legislature this season which will give us the chance to build the new roads in the state of New Hampshire for the next few years. But we don't know just yet how the Governor feels about it, whether he is going to oppose our bill or work with us. He has a big lot of influence." "Oh," Betty replied vaguely. She sincerely hoped that John Everett was not going to try persuade her to ask her husband to assist him for the second time. Surely if he did she would refuse. For in the first place she did not wish to confess that she believed herself to have no real influence with her husband and in the second she wouldn't try to interfere in anything so important as a bill to be gotten through the Legislature unless she knew everything about it. Formerly she had taken an intense interest in all the political affairs that interested her husband, yet recently Anthony had not been discussing matters with her very often. Moreover, she had a sudden feeling that she did not wish to be mixed up again with John Everett's concerns. So fortunately before Betty had a chance to reply Anthony came down the length of stone steps to his wife's carriage. He seemed pleased at seeing her, but not very enthusiastic over her companion. However, John Everett said good-bye and left at once. They had only fairly started on the road toward home when Anthony said suddenly: "I do wish, Betty, that you would not be seen so often with John Everett. Oh, I know you don't realize it, but it seems to me that you are very often with him. I know he is Meg's brother and that you are devoted friends, but I tell you I don't like the fellow. The more I know him, the less I like him. So I simply won't have my wife in his society." Betty caught her breath and her cheeks flushed hotly in the darkness. How unkind Anthony was to her these days! Could it be possible that he did not love her any more? He certainly could not be jealous of John Everett; that idea was too absurd to be considered. For she never had cared for any one in her life except her husband and he must know it. However, she had no intention of being bullied. "Don't be silly, Anthony," Betty replied petulantly. "I don't see very much of John Everett. Besides, if I did what difference would it make? Of course, if you know anything actually against him you would tell me?" "So you no longer wish to do things just because I wish them? I'm sorry, Betty," Anthony returned. Then they drove the rest of the way home in silence, both behaving like sullen children in spite of the fact that they were entirely grown-up people, the Governor of the state and his clever and charming wife. For the truth was that Anthony Graham was jealous of John Everett and yet was ashamed to speak of it. He would never have dreamt of such a feeling if only he and Betty had not been estranged for the past few weeks. Besides, he was missing the opportunity to spend as much time with her as he formerly had before his election to office. Surely Betty must understand that. How could he help hating to have another fellow drinking tea with her on any number of afternoons when he was slaving at his office--especially a man like John Everett? Oh, of course Anthony realized that this was rather a dog-in-the-manger attitude on his part and that he ought to laugh over it with his wife. Moreover, if he had, Betty would have understood and forgiven him. She might even have been a little pleased, since she believed that Anthony did not miss the loss of her society half so much as she had the loss of his. If he had even told her the special reason he had for disliking John Everett doubtless she would have been convinced, in spite of her natural loyalty to her old friends. But Anthony did not even do this. He had an idea that he was saving Betty trouble by not telling her of the loss of the papers by which he could prove that the bill which ex-Governor Peyton, Jack Emmet and John Everett were trying to get through the Legislature was an effort to cheat the state. Yet in consequence Betty cried herself into a headache and was therefore unable to come down to dinner, while Anthony decided that she would not come simply because she was too angry with him. So can people in this world manage to misunderstand each other, even after they have been married a number of years and are very deeply and truly in love with each other. CHAPTER XVII CHRISTMAS STILL unreconciled, Anthony and Betty went together to spend their Christmas with Mrs. Ashton in Woodford in the old Ashton homestead. They took with them both Bettina and Tony and the nurse and Faith Barton. However, Faith was of course to stay with her foster parents, Doctor and Mrs. Barton. Only Angel refused to accompany the little party. She claimed not to be feeling well, to have some business that she must attend to, and indeed made so many excuses that Betty, seeing that she really did wish to be left behind, gave up arguing the matter with her. Moreover, Meg promised to look after Angel and see that she had her Christmas dinner with them, so that she would not be particularly lonely. It was in Angel's mind that perhaps during the family's absence something might occur which would relieve her from all suspicion in the Governor's sight. Yet if she thought that this would come about through Kenneth Helm she was mistaken, for Kenneth departed for Woodford on Christmas eve to spend the following day with Faith and her parents. Besides seeing her mother and giving her children the pleasure of a country Christmas Betty was chiefly looking forward to being with Polly. Somehow she felt that Polly would be sure to cheer her up and make her feel young again. They could take long walks through the woods and discover whether little Sunrise Cabin was still habitable. Billy and Mollie had always looked after it, carefully attending to whatever repairs were necessary, so doubtless it was as good as new. Nevertheless it was extremely difficult after her arrival for Betty and Polly to find time for the intimate hours that they both longed to have together, for there were so many other people about--old friends and relatives. Nan Graham came from Syracuse, where she had charge of the department of domestic science in the High School, in order to be with her brother Anthony, whom she had not seen since his election. Edith Norton with her husband and four children still lived in Woodford and claimed the intimacy of their Camp Fire days. Then, of course, there was Herr Krippen and Mrs. Krippen and Betty's small stepbrother to be considered, besides Mr. and Mrs. Wharton, Eleanor and Frank. But perhaps the most important and unexpected member of the Christmas gathering was the distinguished and eccentric Doctor Sylvia Wharton. Certainly it was Sylvia who kept Betty and Polly from being alone with each other during her own brief visit. The morning of the day before Christmas Mollie got a letter from Sylvia, who had charge of a hospital in Philadelphia, saying that much as she regretted it she would be unable to spend Christmas with them. During the late afternoon Polly, who had escaped from the noise and confusion going on inside Mollie's big house, was taking a walk up and down the bare wind-swept orchard to the left of the house. The ground was covered with hard white snow and the air stung with a kind of delicious cold freshness. It was a part of Polly's regular duty to stay out of doors for a certain number of hours each day, so she now stopped her walk for a moment and glanced ahead at some almost blue-black pine trees silhouetted against the twilight sky. Suddenly she became conscious of what sounded like a masculine step behind her, and before she could turn around felt her two arms firmly grasped by a pair of capable hands and herself swung slowly about. She faced a figure not so tall as her own, but broader, stronger and far more sturdy. The blue eyes looked at her through a pair of spectacles, the flaxen hair was parted in the middle and without the least sign of a crinkle drawn straight back on either side. The mouth was firm, but curiously kind. And just now it actually showed signs of trembling. "Why, Sylvia Wharton!" Polly said and straightway hid her face in the fur of her stepsister's long coat. Immediately she had a feeling of dependence on Sylvia's judgment and affection just as she had for so long a time, although she was several years the older. "Don't try to hide your face from me, Polly O'Neill. I want to see how you are looking before you get back into the house and do your best to deceive me. I can feel already that you are thin as a rail," Dr. Sylvia murmured severely. "You see if I don't straighten you out before you go back to that wretched work again!" "It was good of you to come, Sylvia; I was so disappointed over your letter this morning. Only I am not your patient, dear; I am quite all right. It is 'Bobbin,' my poor little girl, I want you to look after and find somebody to help," Polly returned with unaccustomed meekness. "Really she is interesting and unusual. Both Mollie and Billy Webster think so; it isn't only my foolishness. I suppose you thought my bringing her east with me was rather mad, didn't you, Sylvia?" Sylvia smiled the slow smile that had always beautified her plain face. "No, not mad, only Polly!" she answered dryly. "But of course I'll look the little girl over for you, and then I'll find the best person to see her and you can send her to me in Philadelphia. Only don't think you are going to escape by that method yourself." On Christmas Eve all the grown-up members of the Christmas party dined with Mrs. Ashton and Betty in the town of Woodford, since Mollie was to have the tree and Christmas dinner for them and the children on the farm the next day. It was an amusing change from the past to find that Anthony Graham and Sylvia Wharton were really the lions of the evening. How different it had been in the old days when Anthony was only an awkward, shabby, obscure boy and Sylvia the plainest and most unprepossessing of the Sunrise Hill Camp Fire girls! Polly and Betty too, in spite of her wounded feelings, were both immensely pleased and amused by it. Of course Sylvia would rather have died than have mentioned the fact, but quite by accident Anthony had read the previous day of Sylvia's election as President of the American Medical Society, the highest honor that had ever been paid a woman in the medical profession in the United States. Hearing the story at the dinner table, Sylvia was of course confused by the admiration and applause it excited, for she was still as shy and reserved about her own accomplishments as she had ever been as a young girl. Moreover, it was Polly who recalled having once predicted that Sylvia Wharton would become the most distinguished of the Camp Fire girls and who made a little speech in her honor, much to the confusion and disgust of Sylvia. Then Billy Webster offered their congratulations to Anthony, who was almost equally modest about his own attainments and insisted that his election as Governor was due to a happy accident and not to any possible ability of his own. The Christmas day following was even more crowded with people and excitement. Actually Mollie and Billy were to have thirty guests to dine at the farm at two o'clock and the Christmas tree for the children was to be given immediately after. Notwithstanding, Sylvia arranged to spend an hour alone with Polly and Bobbin in a room at the top of the house where there could be no interruption. She appeared to be deeply interested in Bobbin. She made Polly talk and then saw how easily Bobbin seemed to be able to understand. Then she asked questions herself which now and then the little girl was able to comprehend. Polly explained that perchance Bobbin understood her better than other people, because of her training as an actress, which of course required her to enunciate more distinctly. However, Dr. Wharton made no reply and after a time Bobbin was sent away to watch the children at play. Then Polly sat quietly in a big armchair, while Sylvia strode up and down the room with her hands clasped behind her. They were both silent for quite five minutes. Afterwards Sylvia spoke first. "I am by no means sure your little girl is entirely deaf, Polly," she remarked abruptly. "But I am not an expert in the matter and I don't want to trust my own judgment. I believe she hears indistinctly perhaps and so has never learned to talk. Yet it would not surprise me if a sudden shock of some kind might make her hear, and after that she would learn to talk easily enough. But I'll discuss her case and we can see about it later. Now you are to let me look you over." Of course Polly shrugged her shoulders and objected, insisting that she was entirely well and that it was absurd to waste Sylvia's time. Nevertheless, as usual, Dr. Wharton had her way and at the end of a half hour's examination Polly appeared pale and exhausted, while Sylvia looked more satisfied. "You are not to go back on the stage again this winter, Miss O'Neill," she announced decisively. "But you really are in better health than I expected to find you. If you only would behave with a little more sense!" Polly sighed, waving her accuser away. "Do go and let me rest now, please," she commanded. "You know I have promised to recite for the children for an hour or so after dinner. And I do wish my friends and family would stop asking me to behave with better sense. How can I if I haven't got it? Everybody ought to be sorry for me." Smiling, Sylvia departed. It was like old times to hear Polly talking in her old aggrieved fashion when she knew herself to be really in the wrong. But then Sylvia decided that she would probably always love Polly more than any one else in the world, even if they saw each other so seldom. For she never expected to marry herself and doubted now whether Polly ever would. There had been a scare years before about a Richard Hunt, but as Polly never mentioned his name now she must by this time have forgotten him. The Christmas dinner and tree were a great success. After Polly had made the children shriek with pleasure by playing a dozen characters from Mother Goose, and the older people cry by reciting several exquisite Christmas poems by Whitcomb Riley and Eugene Field, the guests then sang Camp Fire songs until darkness descended. It was a pity, however, that Esther and Dick and their children were in Boston and unable to come home for the holidays, for Esther's beautiful voice was sadly needed in the music. But at six o'clock Sylvia was forced to leave for Philadelphia, and so the other guests decided that it was time that the weary children should be taken home. However, for one minute Polly and Betty did manage to slip over into a corner and in that moment made an engagement to spend the whole of the next afternoon together. Moreover, in order to get away from every one else they planned to take a long walk to Sunrise Cabin. Nevertheless that same night each of the two friends lay awake for several hours, firmly resolving not to tell the other the trouble that lay nearest their hearts. For they both decided that they should have gotten beyond their old girlhood confidences and that there were certain things women should keep to themselves. CHAPTER XVIII THE STUPIDITY OF MEN "BUT, my dear, there isn't the least use of your denying it. The fact that you are unhappy is as plain as the nose on your face. Of course if you don't want to tell me the reason you need not, but don't expect me to be so stupid as not to see it," Polly concluded solemnly. Actually the two friends were in the time-honored old living room in Sunrise Cabin. With their own hands they had brought in twigs and logs from outdoors and lighted an enormous fire in the big fireplace. Then Polly had produced three candles from her handbag and had stuck them into the tarnished brass candlesticks that were still ornamenting the mantel, where they were now burning fitfully. With their coats off both of the old Camp Fire girls sat on rickety chairs before the fire, their chins resting in their hands and gazing none too happily into the flames. "But I tell you, you are mistaken, Polly. There is nothing the matter with me. Of course one can't expect to be happy when one grows older, as in our old irresponsible Camp Fire days. Maybe it is old age that is troubling me, for I am a most uninterestingly healthy person." In replying Betty tried to make her tones as light as possible; nevertheless her companion only frowned the more unbelievingly. "Our Camp Fire days were never irresponsible ones for me, Betty child," Polly responded, gazing thoughtfully around the dear, dismantled room. "Often I feel I never learned so much at any other time in my life as I did then. But the fact remains that you are not happy as I want you to be, and I wish with all my heart that you loved me enough to tell me the reason why. You see, Betty, I am rather a lonely, good-for-nothing old maid and I can't expect much for myself. But you have absolutely everything in the world any woman could wish. And I think it is positively wicked of you not to be the same gay, sweet Betty." At this Polly got out a small handkerchief and began dabbing her Irish blue eyes, that were shedding tears partly from the smoke of the fire and partly from a general sense of discouragement. In return Betty stared back at her with equal severity. "What a perfectly absurd fashion for you to talk, Polly O'Neill!" she replied. "You know perfectly well that if you had chosen to marry you might have had what I have. Only you didn't want to marry; you wanted a career and to be famous and to make money instead. Well, haven't you succeeded? Is that what you are crying about?" Polly nodded. "I expect there isn't any law about wanting everything, is there, Betty Ashton Graham? So long as women are women, no matter what they may try to do or be, there will be times when they cry for nice husbands and babies. But I wasn't crying about me, it was about you," she continued ungrammatically and with her usual logic. "Here you are growing more beautiful every day you live. Everybody loves you; you have hundreds of friends, the two most fascinating children in the world, except Mollie's, and a husband who is about the best and cleverest man in the state, and who simply adores you, and yet you are wretched and cross and unlike yourself. I watched you yesterday, Betty, and you never smiled a single time when you thought no one was looking and you never once spoke to Anthony. The poor fellow appeared dreadfully troubled too. Whatever is the matter, I am much sorrier for him than I am for you," Polly concluded somewhat vindictively. "Oh!" Betty faltered and then was so silent that Polly humped her stool nearer until her shoulder touched that of her friend. "That last remark wasn't true, of course, Betty," Polly apologized. "For if Anthony is really a snake in the grass and treats you badly when he looks so noble and kind, why, I shall simply come to Concord and tell him what I think of him right in the Governor's mansion. I don't care whether he puts me into the state prison or not." Then, although she had been tremblingly near tears herself the moment before, Betty was compelled to laugh. Whoever could do anything else in Polly O'Neill's society? The thought of Anthony's thrusting a very noisy and protesting Polly into prison was a picture to dispel almost any degree of gloom. Betty slipped her arm across her friend's shoulder. "No, dear, you must not think Anthony is unkind to me; it isn't that," she responded slowly. "Only I don't believe he exactly 'adores' me as much as he used to. Sometimes men get tired of their wives." "Nonsense, goose! What put that notion in your head?" Polly returned lightly, although she was a little frightened by her friend's reply. Really she had not believed that anything could have come between Anthony and Betty. Her suggestion had only been made in order to induce Betty to deny it. The next moment she leaned over and put several fresh logs on the fire. "Nothing and no one in this world could ever persuade me, Betty dearest, that Anthony does not adore you," Polly then continued with convincing earnestness. "You see, he began when you were sixteen years old and he never knew that any other girl lived in the world. He does not know it now, for he never even glanced at a single one of us yesterday, if he could help it. But you see Princess, dear, you are a good deal spoiled. You always have been ever since you were a baby, by your family and all your friends. Even the Camp Fire Club used to look up to you and be more devoted to you than any one else. Esther has always been your slave and now your little French girl seems to feel about you just as Esther used to do. Really, Betty, I expect you need discipline." Yet even as she spoke Betty's auburn hair glistened with such exquisite colors in the firelight that Polly stroked it softly with her slender fingers. The Governor's wife was thinking too deeply to notice her. "I wonder if things are my fault, Polly. I almost hope they are," she answered wistfully. "You see, it has seemed to me lately that Anthony has been dreadfully unreasonable. He won't do the things I ask him to and though he is too busy to be with me himself, he isn't willing for me to spend much time even with my oldest friends." "Oh, ho!" whistled Polly softly. "What friends, for instance, Princess?" "Oh, Meg Emmet and--John Everett. Isn't it absurd? But Anthony has always felt a prejudice against John ever since we were boys and girls together here in Woodford," Betty explained. "I don't care particularly for John now myself. He has grown kind of stupid and thinks too much about what he eats, but it would look utterly ridiculous of me to cut him for no reason except that Anthony is absurd." Polly dug her chin deeper into the palm of her hand as she so often did in moments of abstraction. "Seems like a little enough thing to do if Anthony wishes it and you could do it very gracefully you know, Princess dear," Polly replied. "Besides, I am not so sure Anthony has no reason for his prejudice. I never liked John Everett a cent myself when we were all young. He was always trying to lord it over the rest of us and pretend to be very rich and grand and superior. Besides, Betty Graham, I don't believe I should care to have a husband who would do every solitary thing I asked him to do. Somehow, I think I would like him to have a little judgment of his own now and then. So you really wish Anthony to do exactly as he is told. I wonder if your children are as obedient? But come along, dear, it is getting so late Mollie will be having fits about us. Fortunately you are a more sensible woman than I am. A perfectly obedient husband is about the last thing in this world I require. To what dreadful end would I bring him!" But Betty did not stir from her stool even when her companion had crossed over the room and now stood holding out her long fur coat, waiting for her to put her arms inside it. "Dear, if there is one thing I am more sure of at this moment than of anything else, it is that I am not _so_ sensible a woman as Polly O'Neill. Though goodness knows I never could have believed it!" Betty whispered, laughing and yet profoundly in earnest. "It was a most excellent sermon and I mean to do my best to profit by it. Truly I have been behaving like a spoiled child for weeks. I know Anthony has a great many things that trouble him and I ought to have been more considerate. Somehow I expect this marriage is really more the girl's business than the man's. He has to make the living for the family in most cases and the Camp Fire taught us that home making was a girl's highest privilege." Then Betty got up and slipped on her beautiful long coat and the two friends started back toward Mollie's big farm together. In all their girlhood they had never felt more intimate or more devoted. Yet neither one of them talked much during the long walk, just an occasional question now and then. The sun was going down, but there was an after-glow in the sky and because of the whiteness of the snow there was still sufficient light. At least Polly and Betty could see each other's faces with perfect distinctness. They had nearly reached the farm-house when Betty suddenly stopped and put both hands on Polly's shoulders. "Look me directly in the eyes, Polly," she commanded. And Polly attempted doing as she was bid, but her lashes drooped until they touched her cheeks. "Have you fallen in love with some one recently, Polly? Is that why you talked about yourself in such a discouraged fashion just now and lectured me so severely?" Betty inquired. Polly shook her head. "I don't know whether you would call it falling in love recently, Betty, or whether I have been in love for the last ten years. But I saw Richard Hunt again when I was in Colorado and he was even nicer than he used to be. He don't care a single thing about me any more, Betty. He hasn't even sent me a Christmas card! The letter I had from him a few days ago was all about Bobbin. He wasn't even interested enough to inquire if I was well." CHAPTER XIX A CRY IN THE NIGHT BECAUSE she was tired from her long walk and her conversation and from other reasons Polly went up-stairs to bed sooner than her sister and brother-in-law. As a special privilege the children had begged that Bobbin should be allowed to sleep in the nursery with them, and rather against her will Polly had consented. The little girl had previously occupied a small room connected with her own. However, she was too weary for argument, and besides Mollie's babies were cross and unreasonable. They had been playing all afternoon with the Christmas tree which stood in the big back parlor just under Polly's room. Anything to get them safely stowed in bed and the house quiet! For Polly had expected to lie awake for a number of hours, reflecting on many things, when in point of fact immediately after retiring she sank into a deep and dreamless sleep. Moreover, about ten o'clock Mollie and Billy also decided to follow their sister's example. And it was Billy himself who closed up the windows and made the house ready for the night. Only he failed to go into the back parlor where the Christmas tree stood and where the floor was now littered with discarded toys and games and the walls hung with dried-out evergreens. He was under the impression that the windows in this room had been closed and locked when the children departed to bed. Moreover, locking up at the farm-house was more of a custom than a necessity. No one had any real fear of burglars or tramps. Besides, the windows in the back parlor were locked and no danger was to come from the outside. But it must have been only about three hours later when Mollie suddenly awoke with a scream and start. A hand had passed lightly over her face. The next instant and Billy jumped up and seized hold of the intruder. Yet his hands clasped only a slight, childish form in a white gown. It was too dark in the room to see who it could be until Mollie lit the candle which stood always by their bedside. Then they both discovered Bobbin, not walking in her sleep as they supposed, but with her face very white and making queer little movements with her hands and lips. "The child is frightened; something must have to disturbed her," Billy suggested, still only half awake himself. But Mollie had jumped out of bed and was already on her way to the nursery. Naturally she presumed that something had happened to one of the children and that Bobbin had come to call her. Poor little girl, she had no other way of calling than to touch with her hands! However, half way down the hall Mollie turned and ran back into her own bedroom. "Get up please, Billy, in a hurry, won't you? I do believe I smell smoke somewhere in the house. Something must be on fire. Of course Bobbin could detect it before the rest of us; she is sure to have a keener sense of smell." A moment later and Billy had jumped almost all the way down the long flight of old-fashioned country stairs. "Don't be frightened, dear, but get the children up and put clothes on them," he shouted back. "It is too cold for you to go out in the snow undressed and we are miles from a neighbor. I will call the men and we will fight the fire. Don't forget to waken Polly!" With this last injunction in her mind Mollie stopped to hammer on her sister's door before she ran on to the nursery. She was certain that she heard Polly answer her. Besides, by this time the house was filled with an excited tumult, Mollie's little boys were dancing about in the hall, half pleased and half frightened with the excitement, their nurse was scolding and crying and vainly endeavoring to dress the small Polly. So it was plain enough that for the next few minutes Mollie had difficulty enough in keeping her wits about her and in quieting her family, especially as every now and then she could hear her husband's voice from below calling on her to hurry as quickly as possible. Only Bobbin at once slipped into a heavy, long coat and shoes and rushed back to Polly's room. The door was locked, but she pounded patiently and automatically on the outside, unable, of course, to hear the answering voice from within. Then there came a sudden hoarse shout from below stairs and in that instant Mr. Webster, dashing up a flight of steps almost at one bound, returned with the baby in his arms, while Mollie led one of the small boys and the nurse the other. "Come on, you and Polly, at once!" Mollie cried, waving her hands and pointing toward the great hall to show that there was no time for further delay. But this was evident enough to Bobbin without being told, for the smoke was pouring out of the parlor into the hall and coming up the stairs like a great advancing army. However, Bobbin would not leave her post. There was not the faintest thought in her brain of ever stirring from without that locked door until the one person whom she loved in the world should come forth from it. And she was not conscious of feeling particularly afraid, only she could not understand why Miss O'Neill would not hurry. A moment later, however, and Bobbin found herself outside standing alone in the snow. There had been no possible outcry on her part, no explanation and no argument, of course. Only when one of the farm laborers rushing up-stairs had seen the little girl loitering in the hall, without saying by your leave, he had seized her in his arms and borne her struggling through the now stifling smoke. Outside in the yard Bobbin for a moment felt weak and confused. For all at once the place seemed to be swarming with excited people. There were a dozen men and their families living on the big farm with houses of their own. And now the ringing of a great bell had brought them all out with their wives and children as well. The women were swarming about Mollie with their children, crying, gesticulating, talking. It was a clear, white night and Bobbin could see them easily. The men were engaged in rushing back and forth with pails of water, fearing that the water might freeze on the way. But there was nowhere any sign of Polly! Bobbin did not try to attract attention. In the instant it did not even occur to her that she might not have been able to make any one understand. Simply and without being seen she slipped into one of the big front windows, opened by the men as a passage-way, and started fighting her way again up the black, smoke-laden steps. There seemed to be no more air, it was all a thick, foggy substance that got into your throat and made you unable to breathe and into your eyes so that you could not see. But Bobbin went resolutely on. She clung to the banisters and dragged herself upward, either too stupid or too intent on her errand to suffer fear. Nevertheless, through the smoke she could see that long tongues of flame were bursting out of the doors of the back parlor into the hall beneath her. Only, once more at Polly's bedroom door Bobbin lost heart and the only real terror she ever remembered enduring seized hold on her. For Polly's door was still locked and she had no means of making her hear. All that she could accomplish by hammering and kicking she had done before. Of course, she tried this again, yet the door did not open and so far as Bobbin could know there was no movement from the inside. Yet next Miss O'Neill's room there was her own room and the door of this was unfastened. With a kind of half-blind impulse Bobbin staggered into it. She had no clear or definite idea of what she intended doing, yet fortunately this room was only partially filled with smoke so that she could in a measure see her way about. There in the corner stood an old-fashioned, heavy wooden chair. Almost instinctively Bobbin seized hold on it. She was curiously strong, doubly so to any other girl of her age, since she had lived outdoors always like a little barbarian. Besides, there was nothing else that could be done. She must break down Miss O'Neill's door. With all her force the girl hurled the heavy chair against the oak door. There were a few marks on its surface, yet the door remained absolutely firm, for the Webster house had been built in the days when wood had been plentiful in the New Hampshire hills and homes had been expected to endure. Nevertheless Bobbin pounded again and again, almost automatically her thin arms seemed to work, and yet all her effort was without avail. During these moments no one can guess exactly what emotions tore at the girl's heart. If only she could have cried out her alarm and her desire, surely she would have been answered! Bobbin's face worked strangely, there was a kind of throbbing in her ears and her lips moved. "Polly!" she called in a hoarse little whisper, and this was the first word she had ever spoken in her life. Inside in her smoke-filled room Polly O'Neill could not possibly have heard her. For the past fifteen minutes, during all the excitement due to the fire, she had been lying upon her bed in a stifled condition. For no one had realized that as Polly's room was immediately above the back parlor, where the fire had been smouldering ever since the children had gone up-stairs to bed, her room had been first to be filled with smoke. Yet the smoke had come so slowly, so gradually as she lay in a kind of exhausted sleep, that she had been stupefied rather than awakened by it. Now was it the miracle rather than the sound of Bobbin's speaking her name that penetrated slowly to Polly's consciousness, or was it the noise of the repeated pounding of the heavy chair against her door? Whatever the cause, she came back to the world, choking, blinded, fighting with her hands to keep off the black substance that was crowding into her lungs. Then somehow she managed to crawl across her room, remembering that the smoke would be denser higher up in the atmosphere. Unlocking the door, she turned the handle and Bobbin caught her as she half fell into the hall. With a quick movement the girl put her arm about the older woman's waist and started for the stairway, for the hall was dense with smoke and now and then a tongue of flame leaped up from below and seemed to dance for a moment in the air about them. It was overpowering, unendurable. Polly was already dazed and exhausted and her lungs were always delicate. At the top of the stairs she became a dead weight on her companion's arms. Besides, by this time Bobbin too was very weary. CHAPTER XX THE DISCOVERY A FEW moments after Bobbin's disappearance inside the house Mollie O'Neill had suddenly torn herself away from the people closed about her in their effort to hide from her eyes the possible destruction of her home. She looked searchingly around her. "Polly!" she called, "Polly!" For the first moment since the fire started, she seemed to be losing her self-control. For all at once it had come to her in a terrifying flash that she had not caught a glimpse of her sister since the moment when she had gone up-stairs at eight o'clock to retire to bed. Nevertheless Polly must be somewhere near by. She must have heard her calling and she had had plenty of time to escape, more than any one else, as she had no one else to look after save herself. Yet it was not like Polly not to have come at once to her aid with the children! Mollie ran here and there about the yard, still crying out her sister's name, horror and conviction growing upon her at every step. At last she caught sight of her husband directing half a dozen men and caught hold of his arm. "Billy, Polly is still inside the house, locked in her own room. Don't ask me how I know it, I do. We have got to go in and get her." And Mollie started quickly toward the front porch, until her husband flung his arms about her. "Wait here, Mollie," he said sternly. "You will do no good, only make things harder for me. If Polly is inside the house, as you say, I'll have her out in a jiffy." Then he called to one of the men. "Keep Mrs. Webster here. On no account let her follow me," he commanded, and glancing about in every direction as he ran, he too made for the house. Assuredly Mollie was right. Neither had he gotten even a passing glimpse of Polly since the alarm of fire. But was it going to be so simple a matter to rescue her as he had pretended to his wife? For certainly if Polly had heard nothing of the tumult and danger surrounding her she must be already hurt and unconscious. Once inside his own hall Billy Webster squared his great shoulders. The way ahead of him now looked like a pathway of flame and yet the smoke was harder to endure than the heat. Nevertheless go through it he must, since Polly's room lay at the head of the stairs. She must be saved. Billy had a sudden vision of Polly from her girlhood until now; her wilfulness, her charm and her great talent. How stupidly he had opposed her desire to be an actress in the days when he had supposed himself in love with Polly O'Neill instead of her twin sister! Well, now they understood each other and were friends and she should not come to grief in his house. In his pocket there was a wet handkerchief. Indeed, all his clothes were fortunately damp from the water that had been splashed upon him in the work outdoors. Quickly the man tied the handkerchief about his mouth. Then he took a few steps forward and paused. There was a noise of something falling from above; possibly some of the timbers of the old house were beginning to give way. Could they be under Polly's room? But even while he thought, Billy Webster fought his way deliberately forward until he at last reached the bottom of the stairs and then his feet struck something soft and yielding. Stooping down, he caught up two figures in his arms, not one! For in that moment at the head of the stairs when Polly had lost consciousness Bobbin had managed to half carry, half drag her on a part of the way. Then realizing that her own strength was failing, with instinctive good sense and courage she had flung them both forward, so that they both slid inertly down to the bottom of the stairs. Instantly and without feeling their weight the man carried the woman and girl out of doors. Poor Bobbin, whom in these last terrible moments they had forgotten! Yet she it was who had remembered better than them all! Nevertheless, although both Polly and Bobbin were unconscious, neither of them was seriously burned. Yet Mollie was dreadfully disturbed. Polly had come to visit them on account of her health, and there was no way of foretelling what effect this night's experience might have upon her. Here she was in her night dress, outdoors in the cold, when the rest of them were warmly clothed. However, in another moment Polly was comfortably wrapped in a long coat and carried to the nearest house of one of the farm assistants. Bobbin too was equally well looked after, and as soon as she had been in the fresh air for a few moments the girl's breath had come back to her and she was soon almost herself again. Yet by this time all the women and children had grown tired, for there was nothing that they could do. Five minutes before, Mollie's two boys and little girl and nurse had been taken away and put to bed by one of the farmer's wives. Moreover, real assistance was arriving at last. In the excitement some one had been intelligent enough to get to the telephone in the dining room before the fire had crept in that direction. The town of Woodford had promised to send help. Even now the volunteer fire department of the village with an engine and hose carriage was trampling over the snow-covered lawns of the old Webster homestead. A quarter of an hour later a physician appeared and also Betty and Anthony Graham. Afterwards actually there were dozens of Mollie's and Billy's friends who drove out in their motor cars to take the family home with them, or to do whatever was possible for their relief and comfort. By this time the fire in the old house had been vanquished and the earth was filled with the cold grayness of approaching dawn. Mollie would see no one but Betty, who stayed on with her and the physician in the room given up to Polly. Mrs. Wharton had been persuaded not to come, and Anthony Graham had gone back to town to make things clear to her. "It is just like Polly to be such a ridiculously long time in coming to herself," Betty explained to her frightened friend. "I don't think it means anything in the least alarming." Yet all the time she was wishing that the physician who held Polly's thin wrist, counting her pulse, would not look so deadly serious. However, no matter what she might fear herself, Mollie must be strengthened and comforted. Her nerves had given way under the recent strain and fright. It was almost impossible for her to keep her teeth from chattering and she was unable to stand up. Notwithstanding, nothing would persuade her to leave her sister's room. "For if anything serious is the matter with Polly, of course if will be my fault and I shall never forgive myself," she would repeat over and over. "You see, I forgot Polly; it was only Bobbin who remembered." Finally, however, there was a sign from the doctor by Polly's bedside which Betty managed to intercept. Without a word to Mollie she slipped across the room to find Polly's eyes wide open and staring in perplexity at her. "What on earth has happened, Betty?" she demanded impatiently, although her voice was so faint it was difficult to hear. "What are you and Mollie and I doing in a room I never saw before, with me feeling as if I had been out of the world and then gotten only half-way back into it again?" At the sound of her sister's voice Mollie had also moved toward the bed. She was distressingly white, her soft blue eyes had dark circles around them and she seemed utterly spent and exhausted. Quickly Polly reached out her weak hand. "What is it, Mollie Mavourneen?" she asked nervously, using the name of their childhood. Then before either woman replied: "Oh, I remember," she said faintly. "There was a dreadful lot of smoke in my room and I got to the door somehow. Bobbin was there and I can't recall anything else." This time Polly's fingers clung tightly. "Was any one injured? Was your lovely house burned down?" she inquired. But Mollie could only shake her head, while the tears ran slowly down her soft cheeks. However, Betty spoke reassuringly. "It is all right, Polly dear. No one is in the least hurt. We were afraid for a while you had been stifled by the smoke, but you are perfectly well now. And Billy says the house has been saved. Of course, it has been a good deal damaged inside, but that can soon be restored." Polly smiled. "Then for goodness sake do put Mollie to bed! She looks like a ghost and I am terribly sleepy myself. I have been ever since eight o'clock last night and I've no doubt it is now nearly morning." Yet, as her sister and friend were tiptoeing softly away, Polly beckoned Betty to come back to her. "Bobbin saved my life, didn't she?" she inquired gently. "I don't think I should ever have gotten down that dreadful smoke-filled hall except for her." Silently Betty nodded; for the moment she did not feel able to speak, because the story of Bobbin's courage and devotion had touched her very deeply. "It is like bread cast upon the waters, isn't it?" Polly murmured faintly. "It returns to one buttered." CHAPTER XXI ONCE MORE IN CONCORD BUT as Polly did not immediately recover from the shock and exposure of the fire, Betty Graham did not return home with her family to Concord. Anthony took the nurse and children and Faith Barton accompanied them, in order to keep Angelique from being lonely, she explained. However, her real desire, of course, was to be able to see as much as possible of Kenneth Helm. Nevertheless, the carrying on of her romance with the same secrecy as she had first observed was not so easy now, nor did it seem to Faith so desirable as in the beginning. Yet Kenneth still implored her to say nothing for a short while longer. In a few weeks perhaps things would be all right with him, so that he would have sufficient money not to worry over the future. Then, of course, they could explain the reason for their silence. In the meantime, however, perhaps they had best be a little more careful, for people were noticing their intimacy and beginning to talk. Indeed, Faith's chief difficulty was that her foster parents, Rose and Doctor Barton, had observed her marked interest in Kenneth Helm during his Christmas visit with them and had asked Faith if there was anything between them. Naturally this placed the girl in a painfully trying position. She was devotedly fond of both Rose and Doctor Barton, who were in reality not old enough to be her parents, although they had always treated her like an adored child, giving in to most of her whims and wishes. But while Faith was selfish and considered her own dreams and desires of the utmost importance, she was neither ungrateful nor unloving, nor fond of deceiving the people for whom she cared. The trouble was that she was too much under Kenneth Helm's influence, else she would never have consented to keeping their engagement a secret. Faith was not aware of the fact, but in reality it was Kenneth who had made the concealment of their affection for each other appear romantic and alluring to her eyes. Often she had longed to confide the news to Betty after Angel had proved so unexpectedly unsympathetic. However, having given her word to Kenneth, she felt in duty bound to keep it, and moreover she was the least bit afraid of him. The real truth of the matter was that Faith Barton was more in love with Kenneth than he was with her. Not that Faith was unattractive, but because Kenneth was incapable of caring a great deal for any one except himself. In the beginning he had been greatly interested, for Faith was pretty and full of a great many amusing ideas and ideals. Moreover, at the time she was a favored member of Governor Graham's family and might turn out to be useful. But Kenneth had no actual desire to marry any one for the present and had not at first taken their engagement seriously. Recently, however, discovering that Faith was desperately in earnest and that she might at any moment announce the fact to her family and friends, the young man had been extremely uncomfortable. More than once he had reproached himself for not having made a friend of Angelique instead of Faith. She was not nearly so pretty, but she was cleverer and she might have been more helpful. Indeed, Kenneth rather admired the fashion in which Angel had kept her word with him and had not reported the fact of his presence in the Governor's study on the night of the Inaugural Ball. Besides she had never referred to his accusation against her, so there was no doubt that the little French girl was a true sport, whatever else she might be. Moreover, when Governor Graham and his family returned to the Governor's mansion it was plain enough that Angel must have enjoyed some good fortune in their absence. She seemed to have cast off her embarrassment and chagrin over the suspicion which had rested upon her, and no one had ever seen her so happy or so gay. Before little Bettina had been at home five minutes she and Angelique had vanished up-stairs together and were soon locked fast in the big nursery. Then Angel straightway drew a large envelope out of her pocket and began waving it before Bettina's astonished eyes. Naturally the little girl had no idea that a letter could be so very important, not even so large a one as Angel's. An instant later and she was the more mystified, for her companion had slipped a long, rather narrow piece of paper, with queer scrawls written upon it, out of the envelope and was also holding it up for her audience to admire. Bettina smiled politely although a trifle wistfully. It was hard luck not being able to read anything except printed letters when one was as old as six. However, her mother and father did not wish her to become a student too early in life. "It is a very nice letter, Angel, if it makes you so glad," Bettina remarked gently; "only there does not seem to be a great deal of writing on it." Then the older girl threw her arm about her little friend's neck and hugged her close. "Of course you don't understand, darling, and it's hateful of me to tease you," she protested. "But that piece of paper is a check; it represents two hundred whole dollars, the most money I have ever had at once in my life. And do you know how I got it? Our little picture of 'Snow White and Rose Red' received the prize in the magazine contest. I had a letter, too, saying that though it was not the best drawing, it was the loveliest little girl. So you see it was really all because of you, Bettina, that I got the prize!" Then Angel did another mysterious thing. She made Bettina close her eyes very tight and while they were closed she clasped something around her neck which fastened with a tiny click. Then on opening them the little girl discovered a shining gold heart outside her white dress, and in the center of the heart a small, clear stone that glittered like a star. "I got it for you; it is your Christmas present from me, Bettina," Angel explained. "And I want you to try and keep it always so that you may not forget 'Snow White and Rose Red.' Only please don't tell any one of my having gotten the prize until your mother comes home; I want her to know first." Naturally Bettina promised and having promised she was not a child who ever broke her word. Perhaps the request was an unfortunate one under the circumstances, and yet how could Angel ever have imagined such a possibility? A few days later, coming into his wife's private sitting room, which was next her bedroom, quite by accident Governor Graham happened to catch sight of a beautiful new silver bowl which he did not recall having seen before. Then besides its newness it had a card lying inside which attracted his attention. "Some one has sent Betty a Christmas gift which she probably knows nothing of," Anthony thought carelessly. "I must write and tell her of it." Casually he picked up the card and saw Angelique Martins' name engraved upon it. The next moment he looked at the bowl more attentively. Of course he knew very little of these matters, yet this present struck him as being an exceedingly expensive one from a girl in Angelique's position. She received a very small salary for her work and she must have many needs of her own. Then Governor Graham frowned uneasily, for he had suddenly remembered that Bettina had exhibited a beautiful little gold chain and necklace which her adored Angel had recently given her. How had the girl acquired so much money all at once? Really he preferred not to have to consider such a question, and yet it might possibly become his duty. Sitting down in front of the fire, Anthony tried to forget his annoyances in smoking a cigar, but found it impossible. The close of the Christmas holidays had not made his responsibilities less; indeed, they were crowding more thickly upon him. The lost papers had not been found and in another week ex-Governor Peyton, Jack Emmet and John Everett would have their bill before the Legislature. They had many friends and unless he were able to prove their dishonesty the bill might be passed in spite of the Governor's objections. Finally Anthony glanced toward the mantel-piece where by chance his eyes rested upon a photograph of Betty. Immediately his expression changed. "I shall write Betty of this whole business tonight," he announced out loud, in his determination. "I have been an utter idiot to have kept the situation from her for so long a time. I have wondered recently if perhaps she was not quite so fond of me because I was taking her less into my confidence? Goodness knows, that is the only sensible thing for a man and wife to do! Besides, Betty seemed more like her old self when we were in Woodford and so perhaps I can make her understand how I hate to seem hard on her old friends. But in any case this suspicion that Kenneth Helm has fastened in my mind against Angel must be looked into by Betty. Angel is a young girl and Betty has been like her older sister. Whatever she has done, I don't know that I would have the courage to disgrace her, but perhaps Betty may be able to persuade the child to return the letters to us if she has taken them. Heigh-ho! It will be a relief to me at least to have the Princess take hold of this situation for me." And Governor Graham spent the entire evening in his sitting room writing to his wife until after midnight. CHAPTER XXII THINGS ARE CLEARED UP AS Polly was a little better, immediately upon receipt of her husband's letter Betty hurried home. First she and Anthony had a long talk together until things were once more quite clear and happy between them. Of course Anthony insisted that he had been unreasonable and that Betty was a "Counsel of Perfection" just as he had always believed her; nevertheless the Princess was by no means ready to agree with him; nor was Polly's little sermon in Sunrise Cabin ever entirely forgotten. Naturally Betty was grieved to hear that Anthony considered her old friend, John Everett, and also Meg's husband, Jack Emmet, dishonest; yet when he had carefully explained all his reasons for thinking so, she was finally convinced. Not for a single instant, however, would she consider the bare possibility of Angelique Martins' having had anything to do with the loss of the Governor's important letters. She had known Angel too long and too well and trusted her entirely. Besides, she had been one of her own Camp Fire girls who had kept the Camp Fire laws and gained its not easily acquired honors. So Betty Graham did the only intelligent thing in all such difficulties and suspicions--she went directly to Angel and told her that she believed in her, but asked that they might discuss the whole matter. She even told her that she and Governor Graham had both wondered at her having a sum of money which she could scarcely have earned through her work. The woman and the girl were in Betty's pretty sitting room when they had their long talk. It was their first meeting without other people being present since Mrs. Graham's return. And Angel sat on a little stool at her friend's feet with her dark eyes gazing directly into those of her dearest friend. It was good to have this opportunity for confidences. Angel breathed a sigh of relief when she learned that the Governor had confessed his own suspicion to his wife. For she had never a moment's fear that Betty might fail in faith toward her. Of course, she had never seen the missing letters and had no idea what could have become of them. Perhaps it was curious, yet not even to the Governor's wife did Angelique during this interview speak of her own distrust of Kenneth Helm. She was hardly conscious of the exact reasons for her reticence, except she had no possible proof against Kenneth, and Betty and the Governor were both fond of him. Moreover, it seemed a disloyalty to Faith Barton to suspect the man to whom Faith had given her affection. But Angel was very happy to explain where she had acquired her recent wealth and Betty was as happy and proud as only Betty Graham could be of her friends' good fortunes. She could hardly wait to see the picture, of course, and registered an unspoken vow that Angel should have art lessons when she had so much talent, no matter how much the girl herself might oppose the idea. Certainly she and Anthony would owe this much to their little friend for even the faintest doubt of her. But Angel had other information which she was even more shy in confessing. It did not amount to very much at present, only she and Horace Everett had taken a great fancy to each other during Horace's stay in Concord for the Christmas holidays. She had seen him nearly every day and Horace had made no secret of his liking for her. He had not exactly proposed, but had told her that he meant to as soon as he had known her long enough to make it proper. It was all very beautiful and unexpected to Angelique, for she had seldom dreamed of any one's caring for her in just this particular way. And that it should be so splendid a person as Horace Everett made everything more wonderful. Of course, Angel could not be so unhappy as she had been before Christmas; nevertheless, for Betty's and Governor Graham's sake she felt that the mystery of the lost letters must be cleared up within the next few days. There was only one piece of information, however, which Betty had given her that offered any possible clue to the enigma. Governor Graham believed that whoever had taken the letters had probably sold them to the three men who would most profit by their disappearance. Yet Angel had no experience in the work of a detective and could only hope to be of use, without the faintest idea of how she might manage it. There was one thing, however, which Angelique regarded as her absolute duty after her own talk with Betty Graham. She simply must endeavor to be better friends with Faith Barton. For somehow Betty's faith and affection for her had served to remind her of her almost forgotten Camp Fire loyalties. Kinder than any one else except Betty, Faith had certainly been to her long ago, when she had first come, ill and a stranger, to Sunrise Cabin. Besides, what had Faith ever done except be a little selfish and unreasonable of late, and Angel knew that she was troubled by her own affairs? It was only a few nights after her own interview with Betty, when one evening immediately after dinner, Angel went up alone to Faith's room for the first time since their misunderstanding. She did not know whether Faith would care to see her, but she meant to try. For Faith had not dined with the rest of the family; she had sent down word that she had a headache and desired to be left alone. Nevertheless, when she discovered who it was who was knocking at her door, she grudgingly said, "Come in." The truth was that Faith was unhappy and needed consolation. She had never had any trouble in her life before without some one to comfort her, and now possibly Angel was the only person who could be of service, since Angel alone knew her secret. Faith was sitting up in bed looking very pretty in a pale blue cashmere dressing gown with a cap of white muslin and lace on her fair hair. Yet she had plainly been crying, for her eyes and nose were both a little red. Moreover, she had eaten no dinner, as a tray of food sat untouched on a small table close beside her. So Angel's first effort was quietly to persuade Faith to have something to eat. Then she led her to talking of Woodford and the Christmas with Rose and Doctor Barton. And within a few moments Faith was again in tears. It could not be very wrong, she then decided, to confide what was worrying her to so insignificant a person as Angel. Surely even Kenneth could not resent this! So Faith revealed the fact that she had recently received a letter from Rose Barton and that Rose had asked her again if she felt any unusual interest in Kenneth Helm. Rose had been very kind and had said more than once that she did not wish to force Faith's confidence. Only she cared for her and her happiness so much that she hoped Faith would keep no secret of this kind from her. And Faith had gone immediately with this letter to Kenneth Helm, begging him that she at least be allowed to confess their engagement to the two friends who had been almost more than a father and mother to her. However, Kenneth had absolutely and flatly refused and Faith could not make up her mind what she should do. Without a word or a sign Angelique heard the entire story through, although she was secretly raging with indignation against Kenneth and wondering how Faith could possibly be so much under his influence that she seemed to have no mind or will of her own. Moreover, even after Faith had ended her story and sat evidently waiting for some comment from her companion, Angel could think of nothing to say that would be sufficiently circumspect. For if she even so much as breathed a word against Kenneth, Faith would probably be exceedingly angry and rally to his defence at once. So the little French girl sat motionless on the side of the bed, staring rather stupidly at the wall opposite her. By and by, however, Faith leaned over and put her arms about her. "Tell me, Angel, just what you would do if you were in my place?" the girl pleaded. "Really, I am so miserable I can't decide." Angel looked at her earnestly. "Do you really mean that?" she queried. And when Faith bowed her head, she answered decisively: "Why, if I were you, I should simply write to Kenneth Helm tonight and say to him that he was either to allow you to tell Rose and Doctor Barton of your engagement or else you would consider your engagement broken." Faith caught her breath and then her cheeks flushed. "Would you mind getting me some paper and the pen and ink out of my desk?" she returned quietly. And Angel, almost dazed by the quickness with which the other girl had accepted her suggestion, at once walked over to her desk. But the drawer of the desk which contained the paper had stuck and as she had only one hand (the other held her cane) she had to tug and tug at it before it would come loose. Then of course it behaved in the usual fashion. For suddenly the entire drawer plunged forward and every single thing it contained scattered over the floor. There were letters and papers and ribbons and photographs and pens and pencils and powder puffs. [Illustration: SHE SPRANG OUT OF BED HERSELF THE NEXT MOMENT] "Oh, I am so sorry, Faith dear! I am the most awkward person in the whole world," Angel apologized. "But if you'll just forgive me I'll clear up in half a minute." Faith smiled a little restlessly as her friend stooped to her task. However, she sprang out of bed herself the next moment, for Angel had picked up a package from the floor which had a blue paper and a rubber band about it and was also marked with the Governor's official seal. Faith tried to jerk the letters from her friend's hand. "Put those down at once, Angel!" she commanded angrily. "Why don't you do as I tell you? Those papers are not mine; I am keeping them for Kenneth Helm. He told me they were of the most private nature possible and that no one was to be allowed to see them." However, even after this stern injunction, the French girl did not give up the package of letters. Instead, without Faith's being aware of her intention, she kept edging nearer and nearer toward the door which led into the hall and so farther along to Betty's and Governor Graham's rooms. She remembered that they had also gone up-stairs together after dinner. And her hope was that they had not yet left the house. Then suddenly she turned, and running faster than she ever had since her lameness she got out of Faith's bedroom and was on her way to her desired destination. Moreover, for the moment Faith made no effort to follow her, for she believed Angel to have lost her senses. Why should she desire to run away with Kenneth Helm's private papers? Faith could even now hear Angel's cane tapping its way rapidly along the hall. Then she ran to the door and stuck her head out, calling the other girl to return. She didn't quite dare follow her, for she had on only her night-dress and dressing gown and the servants or Governor Graham might probably see her. For another half hour Faith had to remain in anger and suspense. Of course, she dressed as quickly as possible and went to Angel's room, but Angel was not there, neither could she be discovered in either of the children's nurseries or in any room on the ground floor. At last in desperation Faith knocked on Mrs. Graham's sitting room door. It was Betty herself who answered the knock, although Faith caught a glimpse of Angelique Martins standing with the Governor under a rose-colored electric light and thought they both looked unusually cheerful. Moreover, it was Betty and not Angel who returned to the bedroom with Faith. Just as carefully and as kindly as she could Betty then explained the importance of Angel's discovery to her guest. She said that it was very hard indeed for them to believe that Kenneth Helm had stolen these letters, since Governor Graham had felt every confidence in him. However, if Faith declared that Kenneth had given her the letters for safe-keeping, there was nothing else for them to believe. He must have demanded a larger sum of money for the papers than the other men were willing to pay him. Therefore, it had evidently been his intention to keep them until the last moment in order to accomplish his end. Of course, this statement of Betty Graham's at the time was only a surmise on the part of her husband, notwithstanding it turned out to be the correct one. For Kenneth Helm finally confessed the truth himself in the face of the evidence which Governor Graham held against him. His only excuse was the dangerous and disastrous one that he had longed to grow rich sooner than he could with the everyday grind of a business career. So, after all, Faith Barton wrote her letter on the same evening she had intended. Betty's and Angel's and Governor Graham's suspicions of Kenneth, besides the facts themselves, were more than enough to convince her judgment, especially when her heart had been having its own misgivings for some time past. It was in entire meekness of spirit and yet in thanksgiving that Faith Barton decided upon breaking off her engagement, which she was glad never to have acknowledged to any one save Angelique Martins. Angel, she knew, would never betray her. Nevertheless, before Faith had been at home twenty-four hours she had confessed the entire story to Rose Barton and together they had wept over her fortunate escape. CHAPTER XXIII FINIS POLLY O'NEILL was on her sister's front porch reading a letter from Doctor Sylvia Wharton. It was now spring time. Sylvia had written that Bobbin was getting on at school in the most amazing fashion. Not only could she now pronounce Polly's name but hundreds of others, and she could certainly hear better than she had several months before. Nevertheless, Polly let the letter slide out of her hand and the tears came to her eyes. She was not sad, however, only so extremely glad for Bobbin's sake and for her own. "After all, perhaps I am not so entirely selfish a human being as some persons believe me," she announced to herself with a shrug of her shoulders. "For at least one little girl in this world does not think so, and never shall." Then Polly closed her eyes and fell to dreaming. She was not really asleep, only resting. She had had rather a hard struggle after Mollie's fire and her own unfortunate part in it. That wretched cold she had taken settled on her lungs immediately afterwards and she was now only strong enough to lead an ordinary existence. There was no thought of her acting again until the next fall. She was not yet feeling particularly vigorous, so now although she plainly heard the sound of a man's footsteps approaching the veranda, she made no effort to open her eyes. It was probably Billy or one of his farm men. If a question should be asked of her then would come the time for answering it. Nevertheless, she had not expected that the man would walk deliberately up to her and then stand in front of her without saying a word. Miss O'Neill felt annoyed and her cheeks flamed with the two bright spots of color always characteristic of her. Notwithstanding, she opened her eyes coldly and calmly, haughtily she hoped. The intruder did not flinch. He merely continued gazing at her and still without speaking. But Polly's flush burned deeper, although she also said nothing. "I had to come, Miss Polly," Richard Hunt announced at last. Polly motioned to a chair near by. "You were good--to trouble," she returned slowly. "It has been four months since I saw you last and asked you to come; and since then I have very nearly died." Then she smiled and held out her hand with the utmost friendliness. "Forgive me," she begged. "I am glad to see you at any time. I am afraid I am behaving like the preacher who reproaches the members of his congregation for not doing their duty and attending service on the very Sundays when they have shown up." But Richard Hunt would not be frivolous. "Have you wanted to see me?" he asked gravely. Polly nodded. "Then why didn't you write or have some one tell me? I would have come across the world if I had known," he replied. In return Polly shrugged her shoulders. "I did everything I could when we were in Colorado to persuade you to be friends with me again. I behaved without the least pride; I almost begged you to be kind to me. Of course you were very nice then and interested in Bobbin, but I could not go on forever pleading for your friendship. Still I thought at least when you heard I was ill that you might be sorry." Then to her own complete chagrin Polly felt her eyes filling with tears. How big and strong and restful Richard Hunt looked! Why had she not had the sense to have married him in the days when he had cared for her? Somehow she believed that her life would have been ever so much happier and more satisfying. She could have gone on with her work too, because no one in the world except Richard Hunt had ever understood how much of her heart was wrapped up in it--perhaps because he was an actor himself and loved his own art. Notwithstanding, Polly realized that she could scarcely cry before her visitor for his affection, which she had so deliberately thrown away a good many years before. Moreover, what would Mollie think of her bad manners toward their guest? Slowly she got up from her chair. "Do come into the house with me and see my sister, Mr. Hunt?" she said graciously. "And you must stay and have lunch with us, or even longer if you will. I am sure my brother-in-law will be more than happy to meet you again." But Richard Hunt did not stir. "Please sit down again, Polly," he urged more gently. "You don't look strong enough to be walking about alone. I want to explain to you why I have seemed unappreciative of your friendliness. You will have to understand this in the future as well as now, for possibly after today I shall not see you again." "Oh!" Polly exclaimed a little huskily, and fortunately she could not see how white her own face had turned. However, at this moment her companion was not looking at her. "I can't be your friend, because I happen still to be too much in love with you for mere friendship," Richard Hunt continued in the quiet, self-contained fashion that had always made so strong an impression upon his companion. "I know that I have had many years to get over this feeling for you, Polly, and that I should not trouble you by mentioning my love again. Only I want you to forgive me and to realize why I may have seemed not to appreciate your wish to be friends." But Polly was now smiling through her tears and holding out both hands in her old irrepressible Irish fashion that neither the years nor circumstances could change. "But I don't want to be just friends with you either, Richard, if you are still willing for me to be something more after the way I have behaved," she whispered. "You see I only pretended I wanted to be your friend so you would not give me up altogether." * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Obvious punctuation errors repaired. Page 98, "Westen" changed to "Western" (famous Western resort) Page 110, repeated word "at" removed from text. Original read (taken her at at her word) Page 132 "a nold" changed to "an old" (an old red jacket) Page 140, "of" added to text (sides of the room) 
33532	----	THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS BEHIND THE LINES BY MARGARET VANDERCOOK Author of "The Ranch Girls" Series, "The Red Cross Girls" Series, etc. ILLUSTRATED PHILADELPHIA THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO. PUBLISHERS Copyright, 1918, by The John C. Winston Company [Illustration: A Sentry Ordered Dan to Stop His Car] CONTENTS I. "EL CAMINO REAL" II. THE LAND OF ROMANCE III. THE CALL TO SERVICE IV. THE CAMP AND TEMPERAMENTAL EXCURSIONS V. ABALONE SHELLS VI. "MY OWN WILL COME TO ME" VII. THE SACRIFICE OF YOUTH VIII. FELIPE IX. THE CANTONMENT X. PLANS XI. THE DANCE XII. "AS YOU LIKE IT" XIII. HUMAN PSYCHOLOGY XIV. THE NIGHT OF THE PLAY XV. "I WILL MARRY YOU, IF EVER I MARRY WOMAN" XVI. GERRY'S OPPORTUNITY XVII. FOLLY AND COURAGE XVIII. THE SUMMONS XIX. PLANS FOR THE FUTURE XX. BITTER WATERS ILLUSTRATIONS A SENTRY ORDERED DAN TO STOP HIS CAR THEIR HOST LED THE WAY THROUGH THE OUTER COURT INTO THE ENCLOSED ONE ON ONE OCCASION GERRY AND FELIPE DISCOVERED THAT THEY WERE ACTUALLY DANCING ALONE AS MRS. BURTON DREW NEAR SHE RECOGNIZED ONE OF THEM AS DAN WEBSTER The Camp Fire Girls Behind the Lines CHAPTER I "El Camino Real" A small cavalcade was slowly winding down a steep, white road. The bare, brown hills rose up on one side like the earth's friars of St. Francis, while on the other, at some distance away, the Pacific Ocean showed green and still. Near the shore the waves broke into white sprites of foam against the deep, incurving cliffs. A girl riding at the head of the column reined in her horse, afterwards making a mysterious sign in the air with one upraised hand. In answer to her signal the other riders, a group of Camp Fire girls, also stopped their horses. Across many miles sounded faintly the deep-toned voices of old mission bells. "I believe the mission is ringing a farewell to us," one of the girls remarked to the companion whose western pony had stopped nearest her own. "To me, of all the Spanish missions we have seen so far, Carmel was the loveliest. '_Carmelo_'--why, the very name has an enchanting sound! "Bells of the Past, whose long-forgotten music Still fills the wide expanse, Tingeing the sober twilight of the Present With colors of romance! "I hear you call, and see the sun descending On rock and wave and sand, As down the coast the mission voices, blending, Girdle the heathen land! "Borne on the swell 'of your long waves receding, I touch the farther Past-- I see the dying glow of Spanish glory, The sunset dream and last!" The girl who had been reciting possessed an odd, charming voice with a slightly hoarse note. She was small and had bright, almost copper-colored hair. Her slender nose, which had a queer little twist at the end, destroyed any claim she might otherwise have had to conventional beauty and yet curiously enough added to the fascination of her expression. The other girl shook her head. "I don't agree with you, Marta. You seem to me in as great a state of enthusiasm over everything we have seen in California as if you were a native. I confess to you I am a little weary of visiting old Spanish missions. Personally I shall be glad when we are in our summer camp. The missions are so empty and so sleepy these days with their queer, dreamy old gardens and no one to be seen except an occasional tourist and a few old monks. Nevertheless I liked your recitation. Sometimes I wonder, Marta, if you intend imitating our Camp Fire guardian's career?" Gerry Williams spoke in a voice of amused superiority she often employed in talking with other girls. Marta Clark's eyes, which had the strange characteristic of appearing to change in color according to her moods, now darkened slightly as she turned to gaze steadily at her companion. "Do you know, Gerry, I have an idea the old missions would never have bored you, if you had any thought that a prince might come and discover you in one of them!" "Certainly not," Gerry laughed. Gerry was alluring. Her hat was hanging over the pommel of her saddle so that her fair hair was blowing about her face. Now that the sun and wind had tanned her delicate skin, her blue eyes looked bluer than ever. Instead of replying, Marta Clark, at this instant, turned her horse with the intention of riding beside one of the other girls. Marta Clark was the latest addition to the new group of Sunrise Hill Camp Fire girls. The summer before she had met them in Arizona where they were camping at the "End of the Trail." At that time she was living nearby in a tent with her brother who had been seriously ill. Her brother's health had improved and he had written a successful play. Afterwards his marriage to Ellen Deal, one of the older Camp Fire girls, had made it possible for Marta Clark to accept Mrs. Burton's invitation to join her Camp Fire group. As her guests they were now traveling along the Pacific coast, visiting the old Spanish missions. The King's Highway, called in the old Spanish tongue, _El Camino Real_, stretches from northern California to the southernmost end. One of the other Camp Fire girls turned her head as Marta came near her. All the horses were moving on again. "I wonder why the automobile has not caught up with us?" Peggy Webster remarked. "I supposed the car would have passed us long ago. As it is time for tea, and I am already tired, I think it would have been more sensible if we had remained together." The little riding party of six girls was accompanied by a large wagon filled with a camping outfit. The wagon was drawn by a small pair of gray mules and driven by a tall, raw-boned man, a typical western plainsman. Beside him sat a young fellow about seventeen years old. The wagon was following a few yards behind the riders. "Then suppose we stop and have tea while we wait and watch for the others," Bettina Graham proposed, having overheard Peggy's lament. "I don't believe they could have lost their way, since one has only to follow the guide posts of the old mission bells. Nevertheless Tante has a most eccentric fashion of suddenly deciding to explore along small byways. But they must surely come along here finally." Peggy Webster shook her head. "We had best ride on for a little while longer in order to make the distance we planned to make today. Perhaps by that time the car will have joined us. In any case we can find a better place to watch and to prepare tea." At the present time on each side the road the mustard plants were blooming, making a broad field of the cloth of gold broken only by the long trail. Further along down the slope of a hillside a miniature orange grove had been planted with trees no larger than would have comfortably shaded dolls' houses. Then, as they rode on, the Camp Fire girls drew nearer to the fine of the coast. A fog was blowing in from the sea. Finally, standing up in her stirrups for an instant, Peggy Webster pointed ahead. "See those three rocks down there that look like 'the Big Bear, the Middle-Sized Bear and the Little Bear,' in the fairy story! Don't you think they would form a comfortable background for our tea party? At least they will be a protection from the wind. If we go on and the fog grows much thicker we shall not be able even to see each other." Soon after the horses and the wagon halted and Dan Webster climbed down, bearing the tea basket. Mr. Simpson, who was continuing to act as guide, took charge of the horses. The coast looked bare and wind-swept. There were no trees nearby and no driftwood along the shore. However, nearly two hundred years before, when Father Juniper Serra founded and built the Spanish missions of California, he and his brother monks left behind them a golden harvest. In all their pilgrimages from land's end to land's end they flung the seed of the mustard plant along their route. Leaving the other girls to unpack the tea basket, Marta Clark and Bettina walked quickly back along the road until not a quarter of a mile away they discovered another field of the omnipresent mustard. Then the two girls began searching for the dried stems of the mustard plant in order to start their camp fire. Bettina was standing with her arms filled with the long stems when Marta Clark came close up beside her. Both of the girls were knee deep among the golden flowers. "You look like Ruth among the corn, Bettina," Marta remarked, surveying the other girl with generous admiration. "Do you remember the story of Ruth in the Bible? 'So she gleaned in the field until even, and beat out that she had gleaned. And she took it up and went into the city.'" Bettina shook her head. "No, I do not remember. It is wonderful to me, your ability to quote so correctly. If ever you are able to do the thing you desire, your memory will be a wonderful help. But I am not going to talk about it. I know you feel as embarrassed over your ambition as I do over mine." In the past few weeks Marta Clark and Bettina were beginning to feel a deep interest in each other. This was but natural, for although they were unlike in character they had many tastes in common. Marta was quick and passionate, while Bettina was apt to appear almost too serene and self-controlled. Yet they both cared for books, for human beauty and the beauty of the great outdoors. During the few moments the girls were talking the fog had been closing in more thickly about them until it was only possible to see the road a few yards away through a cloak of mist. At this instant they distinctly heard the noise of an approaching motor car. Mrs. Richard Burton, better known to the world as the famous actress, Polly O'Neill Burton, and guardian to the group of Sunrise Hill Camp Fire girls, had chosen to make the journey down the California coast in her automobile. This afternoon her sister, Mrs. Webster, her nephew, Billy Webster, Vera Lagerloff and the maid, Marie, were traveling with her. The plan had been that the Camp Fire girls should start on their riding trip several hours ahead and that they meet later and camp for the night at some agreeable place along their journey. Marta and Bettina ran forward, intending to stop the approaching car. Both girls were thinking that the car was moving much more swiftly than usual. Almost immediately they saw that the automobile coming toward them was not Mrs. Burton's, but a small khaki-colored roadster driven by a United States officer with another soldier on the seat beside him. They were going along at full speed as if they were carrying information of great importance. Then suddenly, without Marta or Bettina recognizing the cause, the car swerved, made a wide detour and quickly overturned. A few seconds later when the two girls, hoping to be of service, had reached the car, the young United States officer was crawling slowly out from beneath the wreck. He tried to stand up and to smile reassuringly at Bettina, who chanced to be ahead, but the next moment if she had not put out her arm to steady him he would have fallen. A little while after he was sitting unheroically amid the dust of the roadside, smiling somewhat quizzically up at his rescuer. "I don't believe I am seriously hurt," he remarked cheerfully, "but as I know you are patriotic and would like to try your first-aid remedies upon me, please go ahead. I am Lieutenant Carson and at present I appear to be a somewhat unsuccessful Paul Revere. But would you mind explaining, while you are washing the dirt out of this plagued cut on my forehead, why you are wearing a costume that seems to suggest a combination of an Indian princess' outfit and a soldier's uniform?" Marta Clark was devoting her attention to the other soldier, who did not appear to be hurt but only slightly dazed from his mishap. Bettina for an instant regretted that she was unable to change places with Marta. She had studied first aid, of course, along with her Camp Fire work, but was not accustomed to masculine patients. Moreover, Bettina considered that the young officer was showing an unwarranted personal interest in his first war nurse. As a matter of fact, she entirely refused to pay any attention to his questioning. CHAPTER II The Land of Romance Two weeks later two women were walking up and down a garden path in the moonlight. Across from them stood a long, low adobe house of a single story. The veranda, extending from one end to the other, was so thickly covered with a flowering vine that even in the moonlight one could get the reflection of its brilliant color. The air was scented with the fragrant perfume of roses and the blossoms of orange and lemon trees. From behind the soft shading of the vine across the road came the brilliant twanging of a guitar and a mandolin. Two voices were singing a Spanish love song. Farther away under the deeper shadow of the moon a white cross arose above a mass of fallen stone. "I declare, Mollie, this is the old world, not the new, isn't it? I feel as if we had traveled away from our own country today into a foreign land; but what land I cannot say, because this place tonight must be more beautiful and more romantic than even Spain itself. Yet one is not sorry to forget for a little while the present world and its tragedies!" The other woman shook her head. The two sisters were the same height, had nearly the same character of features and the same coloring; nevertheless were curiously unlike. One conspicuous difference was in their voices. "Do you know, Polly, I think perhaps you have made a mistake in bringing the Camp Fire girls to spend the summer in so picturesque a place. We probably shall have a romance on our hands before the season is over," Mrs. Webster answered. "It is natural of course that _you_ should be affected by such surroundings. But when a night like this has an influence upon a woman of my age with an almost grown-up family, it makes me feel extremely nervous when I consider the girls." Mrs. Burton laughed. "Nevertheless, my beloved Mollie, even if you _have_ a grown-up family and I have no children, I don't see what difference the fact makes in our ages, as we happen to be twins. Besides, I never could see why age should destroy one's susceptibility to beauty! My only feeling is that perhaps we have no right to ease and enjoyment of any kind this summer, now that the United States has entered the war. I don't think I should have invited the girls on this long trip had I known beforehand. I feel I ought to be devoting all my energies to war work; however, we must do whatever we can out here. Richard seemed to think it impossible to have me near the southern camp where he is located." Mrs. Webster sighed gently in response. She was unhappy over the war, too, but not so inclined as her sister to take deeply to heart the sorrows of the world when they did not touch her personally. "Well, I am glad we can be together for a few months longer, Polly. I realize it is selfish of me, and yet I do rejoice that neither Dan nor Billy is old enough to be drafted. Dan's desire to volunteer is of course ridiculous! At least, I shall safe-guard my boys. I am also glad my husband is doing war work by increasing the amount of food raised upon our place, instead of entering the service as an ordnance officer as your husband has. Dear me, I really think it is very fine of Richard at his age!" Shrugging her shoulders, Mrs. Burton smiled a little ruefully. "You are determined to dwell upon our great age tonight, aren't you, Mollie mine? Please remember that your daughter Peggy bestowed her affections upon Ralph Marshall last summer when we were at the Grand Canyon and not in southern California. Yet I do feel that with the possibility of young soldiers and officers turning up at any moment in our midst, you and I will have to be unusually vigilant chaperons. "But do let us go now and find what has become of the girls. We have had a long journey and should soon be in bed." Mrs. Burton slipped her arm inside her sister's and drew her away from the old hotel garden across the gleaming road. To the right of them, bathed in the half-tropic moonlight, was the old Spanish mission of San Juan Capistrano, named in honor of a warrior-saint of the Crusades. It was the loveliest place in all California. As they walked slowly on Mrs. Burton recited in an undertone, and with the emotional sweetness which had captivated countless audiences and which never failed to thrill her sister: "Up from the south slow filed a train, Priests and soldiers of old Spain, Who through the sunlit country wound With cross and lance, intent to found A mission in that wild to John, Soldier saint of Capistran." They stopped a moment as if to let the beauty sink deep, and then the two women entered the gate of the old mission grounds. Early in the afternoon the Sunrise Camp Fire party had arrived at the little half-foreign town of Capistrano, set midway, like a link with the past, between the two modern cities of San Diego and Los Angeles. For hours they had been exploring the old mission. Then, after dinner, the Camp Fire girls, with Dan and Billy Webster to act as escorts had asked the privilege of returning to remain in the old mission garden until bedtime. Tonight, to Mrs. Burton's eyes at least, the mission looked like a half-ruined palace of dreams. Once the mission of San Juan Capistrano held a great stone church, a pillared court, a portico, a rectangle; here the Franciscan fathers had their cells, and many rooms for distinguished guests. It was the richest and most splendid mission in old California. But at present only the ruins of its past remained. Above, in one of the crumbling arches of the colonnade, an owl hooted so hoarsely that Mrs. Webster clutched her sister's arm in a tighter clasp. The greeting had sounded, not like a welcome, but a warning. There was no one to be seen and the place was wrapped in a kind of ghostly silence. "It is most extraordinary how the girls and Dan and Billy have disappeared," Mrs. Burton whispered plaintively, scarcely daring to speak in a natural tone. She and Mrs. Burton had passed through one of the colonnades and were now in the old court in the rear. Along one side ran a line of forsaken cloisters. "Wait a moment, Mollie, please," Mrs. Burton murmured. Adding to the enchantment of the present scene she could hear again the sound of music. The two musicians who had been singing on the veranda across from their hotel also must have wandered into the mission grounds. Then, almost at the same instant, Mrs. Burton and Mrs. Webster discovered the Camp Fire girls. Beyond the enclosed space of the old mission lay a broad piece of open ground. Over it tonight poured the unbroken radiance of the moon. In time long past this ground had been devoted to the use of the Indians who were being taught Christianity and the habits of civilization by the Spanish fathers. In those days this ground was encircled by a row of Indian huts. One part was set apart for the Indian women and girls, and here the Indian maiden remained in seclusion until her wedding day. But tonight, in some mysterious fashion, the past seemed to have came back, for a group of Indian maidens had returned to their former dwelling place. "The picture is too lovely to disturb," Mrs. Burton whispered irresolutely. In the moonlight one could not discern the differences in the costumes of the Camp Fire girls, nor their fairer coloring. Bettina, Marta, Peggy and Alice Ashton were seated upon the ground, forming a square, with Dan standing apparently hovering like a guardian angel above them. As usual, Billy Webster was lying gazing up at the sky and Vera Lagerloff was sitting beside him. A little apart from the others Gerry Williams and Sally Ashton were strolling up and down with their arms intertwined. "Do you think we should speak of our plan immediately?" Bettina Graham was inquiring of the other three girls. "Unless we can carry it out I don't feel that we have the right to our Camp Fire summer together." In the moonlight her yellow brown hair had turned a bright gold. Peggy, who was ever a direct and sensible person, shook her head. "We must wait until we have found the location for our camp and are fairly well settled," she replied. "At present our own ideas as to what we can do to help with the war work are much too vague. But I suppose we shall be near the great National Guard war training camp, and that in itself ought to be an inspiration. Have you ever heard from your wounded lieutenant, Bettina? It was amusing to have him and his friend to tea in so unexpected a fashion. I shall never forget how amazed the family was on discovering us with soldier guests. I am sorry we have never seen either of them again." "I have had one note from Lieutenant Carson, saying that he was all right," Bettina answered. "He will probably be stationed at the cantonment near here. I wish for your sake Ralph Marshall was to be there instead." There was no engagement existing between Peggy Webster and Ralph Marshall. But Peggy was too transparent a person to conceal her interest in Ralph after their past summer of misunderstanding and final reconciliation. As Ralph had volunteered and joined the aviation corps soon after the entry of the United States into the war, she had not seen him in many months. But it was understood that they wrote to each other and Peggy openly expressed her pride in Ralph's courage and ability. Ralph had been offered an opportunity to remain in his own country and act as an aviation instructor, but instead had chosen to go to France. At the present time he was in a camp on Long Island waiting his hour for sailing. Before Peggy could make a reply to Bettina's final speech, the four girls saw their Camp Fire guardians approaching and rose to greet them. "You girls look too picturesque to disturb, and yet we must not remain outdoors all night, no matter how the beauty of the night tempts us. I trust we may have many other nights as radiant as this before our summer is over," said Mrs. Burton, half apologizing for her own and her sister's intrusion. A few moments later the Sunrise Camp Fire girls were walking slowly away from the mission grounds to their own rose-covered hotel. Not by accident, but because of a common purpose, Sally and Gerry managed to linger a few yards behind the others. The singing which had so fascinated Mrs. Burton and added to the witchery of the night had also attracted the attention of the two girls. But it was not the music alone which had charmed them. In their careless strolling up and down apart from their companions, Sally and Gerry had dimly seen the figures of the two musicians. The mysterious singers had kept always in the background, only approaching sufficiently near for their songs to be heard; and yet, notwithstanding this, Sally and Gerry had managed to find out that they were two young men dressed in Mexican costumes. But whether they were Mexicans or Americans they could not guess, since it was impossible to see their faces and they seemed able to sing Spanish or English songs with equal ease. The fact was that Gerry and Sally had arranged a scheme between them by which they hoped to make a desired discovery. Their scheme would have appalled the other Camp Fire girls, but they chanced to have unlike views in regard to the agreeable adventures and experiences of life. Moreover, they often preferred bestowing their confidences only upon each other. As the rest of the Camp Fire party moved on, both Sally and Gerry became aware that the musicians were growing bolder and were drawing nearer. Both girls would have liked to turn round and deliberately look back. Yet they had scarcely the courage for this breach of taste, in spite of the fact that it was night and the redeeming grace of the moonlight rested over them. Sally was carrying a little beaded Indian bag which she managed to drop without any one, aside from Gerry, noticing. After going on a little further, unexpectedly they turned back to pick up the lost possession. The two young men were thus within only a few feet of them. There was but little satisfaction in the adventure, nevertheless, for although one of the musicians stepped forward and gravely presented Sally with the Indian bag he had observed on the ground between them; yet neither he nor his companion spoke and it was impossible, with their broad Mexican hats, to obtain a satisfactory view of their faces without revealing too great curiosity. As a matter of fact, the entire Camp Fire party was unaware of the interest their appearance in the little town of Capistrano during the afternoon had excited. There were always tourists visiting the old mission, especially at this season of the year. But the number and appearance of the girls, their picturesque, half Indian costumes, which always puzzled people unacquainted with the Camp Fire uniform, and the big wagon carrying their large camping outfit, gave them a unique distinction. CHAPTER III The Call to Service On a ledge of rock with the Pacific Ocean as a background a girl was standing, holding a bugle to her lips and with it sounding a clear, musical call. Not far off a number of persons were seated about a smouldering camp fire. All day the sun had been hot, almost as a tropic sun, but now with the coming of the late afternoon a cool breeze was blowing in from the sea. The feminine members of the little circle were knitting and sewing. One of the two young men was holding a hank of wool, which a brown-haired, brown-eyed girl was winding slowly and carefully into a great ball. The other was lying full length on the ground looking toward the water. "Why is my Sister Peggy sounding taps or a reveille, since at present it is neither morning nor night?" he questioned. "It seems impossible these days to get away from the sights and sounds which suggest war. I had hoped that when we were in camp out here in this far-away country we might at least have a _little_ rest." Billy Webster's manner was that of a spoiled and fretful boy; nevertheless an uncomfortable silence followed his speech. Ever it appears impossible in this world, even among a small group of persons, to preserve entire harmony! In spite of his youth and his fragility, in spite of his quiet voice and oftentimes gentle manner, Billy Webster, from the time he ceased wearing dresses, had been able to sow discord. The trouble was that Billy always refused to think like the people surrounding him. At present, when the entire Camp Fire party was interested heart and soul in the successful carrying on of the war, Billy had announced himself a pacifist. If he had contented himself with the mere announcement, his friends and family would have accepted his point of view with comparative equanimity. But with Billy the frequent exposition of his opinions was as the breath of life. At this moment Vera Lagerloff leaned over to say in a whisper: "For goodness' sake, Billy, please don't start an argument now on the subject of the war. You know how intensely Mrs. Burton disapproves of your ideas and how angry you make Dan." Peggy descended from her rocky platform at this instant and joined the group. She was wearing her workaday Camp Fire costume and had her dark hair braided in two braids with a red band about her forehead. "What is it, Peggy? You look as if you had something important to confide to us?" Mrs. Burton asked quickly, hoping to stem the flood of eloquence with which her nephew ordinarily met opposition. "I confess I am as curious as Billy to know why you sounded a bugle call at this hour of the afternoon." Peggy sat down in camp-fire fashion on the ground, frowning and looking extremely serious. A bunch of pale lavender sea verbena she had gathered nearer the shore, she dropped in her mother's lap. She did not know what Billy had been saying, but she was conscious that the atmosphere about her was uncomfortable. Dan had not moved from his patient attitude, in order that Sally Ashton might continue to unwind her wool, yet his expression was not like his usual sweet-tempered one. Peggy at once surmised that Billy was in some way responsible for the unrest. "Perhaps my bugle call was a little theatrical," she began; "nevertheless it was the call to service of our new order of 'Camp Fire Minute Girls.'" Mrs. Burton nodded. "Yes, I remember. The 'Camp Fire Minute Girls' are to pledge themselves to help in winning the war by food conservation, by praying for the triumph of the right, and by economizing in every possible way. I received a little booklet containing our new pledge and meant to speak of it to you." In spite of the fact that Mrs. Burton was talking, she was not actually interested in what she was saying at the moment. Somewhere in the last row of her knitting she had dropped a stitch and while she spoke she was endeavoring to find it. As head of their small Red Cross society, Mrs. Webster was determined that their work should come up to the required standard. Knitting was not a natural art with Mrs. Burton and she particularly disliked unraveling her work after she supposed it finished. Peggy reached over and quietly removed the gray sweater from her aunt's hands. "You cannot pay attention to what anyone is saying and knit at the same time, Tante; I have seen you make the attempt before," Peggy remarked persuasively, "so please cease your efforts for a moment, as we have something of the utmost importance to talk about. Bettina, now that I have prepared the way, suppose you make things clearer. I have not your gift of words." "It is only that we have been talking of the 'Camp Fire Minute Girls' and consider that we should follow the pledge very earnestly this summer," Bettina began. "We feel that really we ought to organize our camp fire on a new war basis. You have always been so generous to us, but this summer we wish to use only the new war recipes and to save and serve in every possible way. The advantage will be not only for the present time, but perhaps later with our own families. Peggy and I thought that we might even start a little garden near our camp, as vegetables grow so quickly in California. I suppose our ideas of helpfulness are rather vague and foolish, but that is why we wished to talk the situation over with you and Mrs. Webster and arrange some definite plan." Mrs. Burton nodded. "An excellent idea, Bettina, and the sooner we Americans learn some method of less extravagant living the nearer we are to victory and the ending of the war. I wish I were a more apt pupil myself. Of course I am willing to agree with whatever you girls think best." "Then we may help the soldiers in any way we like?" Sally Ashton inquired with such unexpected enthusiasm that everybody laughed. "I do not care for any too strikingly original ideas of first-aid service, Sally," Mrs. Burton remonstrated. Billy roused himself from his recumbent position and leaned forward. A single flame which had shot up from the smouldering fire cast a glow over his colorless face. "I have been traveling with the Camp Fire party now for a good many weeks," he remarked in the suspiciously gentle manner with which he often began his verbal attacks, "and I am yet to hear one single word about an immediate peace. I cannot see what difference it will make in the end which country is victor. What the whole world must attain to is justice for every human being. I thought women were supposed to be the natural peace makers." Billy smiled--a malicious little smile which was vaguely irritating. "Women never have been peace makers or peace lovers. If they had do you suppose men would have continued fighting one another forever?" "But, Billy--" Mrs. Burton began and suddenly ceased. A glance at her sister's face had been sufficient. Besides, Dan Webster, released from his attention to Sally, had walked over and stood facing his mother and brother. The two brothers, though, twins, were utterly unlike in appearance. For one thing, Dan was nearly six feet tall and splendidly built, with a vivid color and a suggestion of unusual physical health and power. "I am sorry, Mother," he said in the voice he kept especially for his mother, "but I can't stay here and listen to Billy's nonsense and disloyalty. He is simply in love with the sound of his own voice and always has been. He has not the faintest understanding of the big things he talks about. I have stood a good deal from Billy first and last from the time we were children, because he was little and delicate and I was not supposed to treat him as I would have treated other fellows. I tell you candidly what Billy needs right now and what he always has needed is to have his head punched. He always has taken refuge in his delicacy and hidden behind women. He is doing the same thing now with all this peace talk and half-baked socialism. I wonder how far socialism would have traveled if men had never fought for their rights and the rights of other people? I wish the socialists in this country would think of that little fact now and then. I suppose if no one had ever _fought_ for liberty, most of us would be slaves. But I seem to be talking as much as Billy! It is only this, Mother, don't you see that Billy and I cannot both remain with the Camp Fire party this summer? I don't wish it to happen, but I am afraid if he goes on as he has been doing--and you know nothing ever stops him--why, there will be trouble between us, that is all. If you will only give your consent I am sure I can persuade father to allow me to volunteer." Mrs. Webster's eyes filled with tears. Dan was too interested in watching his mother to pay any attention to Billy's good-natured drawl. "Good old Dan, there is some truth in what you say, I suppose. There is a little truth in most people's opinions. But what a story-book hero you will make some day! It is all right, your rubbing it in about my not being as strong as other fellows; I suppose you don't know that hurts a little." "My dear Dan, I did not dream you could be so unreasonable!" Mrs. Webster returned, having finally gained sufficient control of her voice to speak. "You know perfectly well I shall never give my consent to your volunteering for any branch of the army until you have reached the draft age. Moreover, if you have a difficulty with Billy you know how much sorrow that means for me. Besides, your aunt and the girls and I need you here with us at our camp fire this summer. If I could, I would send Billy back to the farm instead of you, but he still needs the benefit of this southern climate." Poor Mrs. Webster, like many other mothers, often found her children too great a problem for her solving. By this time Billy was again prostrate on the earth with his eyes fixed upon the sky and apparently perfectly serene. Even his mother's statement in regard to sending him home had not disturbed him, although he and his father chronically misunderstood each other. Dan was repentant. "Sorry, Mother," he said; "this was not the time or place for me to open this discussion with you. I am sure I beg everybody's pardon." Then he turned and walked away. CHAPTER IV The Camp and Temperamental Excursions This summer in California for the first time the Sunrise camp was located near the sea. After several days of investigating the countryside, in the meanwhile using the little mission town of Capistrano as their headquarters, the travelers discovered what they considered the ideal situation further south along the coast. Near the border of one of the immense ranches for which southern California is famous they came upon a little stream of water flowing inside a channel. The channel had been deepened in order that the supply might last through the dry season. Not far away stood a small frame house. In harvest times the laborers on the ranch occupied this small house as a lodging for the night when the distance made it impossible for them to return to their own homes. By a piece of rare good fortune Mrs. Burton was able for almost a nominal sum to rent this little place for her sister and herself. The shack was lightly built, the roof formed of dried palm branches laid the one upon the other until the effect was like a thatched roof, although neither so warm nor so secure. Since it never rains during the summer in southern California, one requires only protection from the sun and wind. Near the house the camp-fire tents were set up in the form of a crescent. Behind them the ranch stretched on for miles, a thousand-acre carpet of small green plants. For, as Marta Clark remarked when they were traveling down the state, it appeared as if California were preparing to provide the world with one gigantic bean feast. Several hundreds of yards away the beach was silver and purple and rose with the sea verbena and ice plants which spread like a colorful embroidery over the sands. Here and there were tiny coves and clumps of rocks. Near the camping site there was no main traveled road, but a small branch one which would improve with use. The closest place of human habitation was a seaside colony of artists, perhaps a mile or more beyond. Here Mrs. Burton was able to find a garage for her automobile. Partly because she was actually in need of his services and more to impress him with the idea, Mrs. Burton had persuaded Dan Webster to take charge of her car during the summer. As a matter of fact, aside from Billy, who did not always count, Dan was the only masculine person at the Sunrise camp, Mr. Jefferson Simpson having departed as casually as he originally had arrived, soon after the tents were set up. Mrs. Burton preferred being shut away from strangers during their holidays and presumed the girls shared her desire. Soon after their conversation about the camp fire a new régimé of war economy was established at Sunrise camp. There were uncomfortable moments when strange dishes of none too appetizing a character were produced. But always the cooks declared it the fault of the too particular persons who refused to partake of them and not of the food itself. They did acquire new methods of bread making, substituting bran and corn-meal for wheat flour which were really improvements on the old. Moreover, the summer before the Indian girl, Dawapa, had taught the Sunrise Camp Fire members a number of the old Indian uses of corn. With perishable fruits and vegetables so abundant, it was unnecessary, during the summer at least, to suffer any real discomfort from war economies. Now and then one of the girls would develop a too rigorous idea of self-denial to meet with the approval of her Camp Fire guardian. But after a time Mrs. Burton ceased to worry over original departures, permitting the girls to adjust matters for themselves. However, it is not the adjustment of mere material things which is the difficult problem with human beings in living together, but the adjustment of one unlike nature with another. As much as possible after his open disagreement with Billy, Dan Webster endeavored to avoid his brother's society. They never had been congenial or spent much time together since the days when they were children. But at present Dan and Billy were sleeping in the same tent at night and in the daytime Billy was always mooning about camp insisting upon one of the girls listening to him. He preferred Vera, but if she were too busy, any one of the other girls could substitute. This would have made no difference to Dan except that Billy blandly and serenely continued to expound his views upon peace in spite of the fact that every member of Sunrise camp disagreed with him. Hard as it was to endure, Dan's hands were tied, for he had solemnly promised his mother not to use physical violence with Billy, and nothing else would stop the flow of his misplaced eloquence. So, as Dan was an ardent fisherman, he used to spend days away from camp fishing and swimming. He was fond of the Camp Fire girls, especially of Marta Clark and of Sally Ashton, but he could not endure too large a diet of exclusively feminine society. Moreover, Dan was too accomplished an athlete and too fine a fellow all round not to make friends wherever he went among men. One afternoon it chanced that Dan was alone and preparing to go in swimming at a rather dangerous point about three miles below Sunrise camp. The spot was deserted and Dan was beginning to undress when he became conscious of the uncomfortable sensation that some one at no great distance off was watching him. Glancing about, Dan discovered the calm figure of his brother standing only a few yards away when he had sincerely hoped that at least several miles separated them. In reply to Billy's friendly "hello," his brother returned no answer. Nevertheless Billy strolled quietly across the space between them, taking a seat on the rocky cliff, apparently as cheerful and undisturbed as if he considered himself a welcome interruption. "Better not go in swimming from this cliff, Dan; this place looks pretty unsafe. The waves are so violent you might be thrown against the rocks," he began, offering his entirely unsolicited advice in the most affable manner. As a matter of fact, upon most occasions, Dan Webster was rather unusually sweet tempered. But at present, because of his own disappointment over not being allowed to volunteer for some branch of war service, and because of what he considered his brother's disloyal opinions, the very sight of Billy enraged him. "Billy Webster, I wonder if you are a coward about every mortal thing? I suppose you understand that cowardice is what I believe lies at the back of your pacifism. I suppose it is natural to wish to call an ugly fact by a pretty name. Besides, it is a lot pleasanter and easier to talk about the beauty and sacredness of peace and the rights of men than to fight and die for them. But please don't trouble about me and run along back to camp. I don't want to go into this subject with you again as I came away largely to get rid of your society." Dan made an effort to speak quietly. "All right, I'll be off in a moment; don't wish to worry you," Billy agreed, and, except for a slight flush which Dan did not observe, he appeared unmoved. "Do you know I am glad you reopened this subject. Ever since you spoke of the same thing the other day I have been wondering if what you said was true and I am a pacifist because I am a physical coward. Of course I know I am afraid of a lot of things that don't frighten you, but I believe you are mistaken about this business, Dan. If I were up against a stiff proposition I might still be afraid and yet go through with it. My feeling about peace really has nothing to do with the part I may some day be called upon to play in this war, a pretty poor part at best I expect. I wish you would believe this if you can. But good-by; I am off." Then, before Dan could make any response, Billy moved away. Once out of sight, he lay down upon the beach with his head propped on his slender hands, keeping a watchful outlook upon Dan, who was swimming nearly a mile out from the shore. When Dan had finished and climbed back up the cliff, then only did Billy set out for Sunrise camp. There were also temperamental difficulties, needing adjustment among the Camp Fire girls. Frankly, both Sally Ashton and Gerry Williams had been bored by their long journey down the California coast and their many pilgrimages to the old Spanish missions along their route. With their natures it was impossible for either of them to understand how any human being could obtain a great deal of pleasure from mere scenery and what persons were pleased to call romantic atmosphere. To Sally and Gerry romance took shape in a very different guise. During the trip they were at least sustained by the hope that, once settled in their summer camp, they would begin making agreeable acquaintances, notwithstanding, up to the present time, Sunrise camp had developed about as many social opportunities as a desert island. Therefore, one morning, with the perfectly definite plan of going forth in search of adventure, Sally and Gerry set out upon a little temperamental excursion. CHAPTER V Abalone Shells After their summer holiday together at the Grand Canyon the Sunrise Camp Fire girls had been separated during the previous winter, returning to their own homes. Nevertheless, they kept in touch with one another and, as a matter of fact, among the seven girls only Gerry Williams' history had remained a mystery to the others. From the moment of her appearance upon the west-bound train with Mrs. Burton, who had introduced her as the new member of their Camp Fire group, not a word had been spoken concerning Gerry's past. Mrs. Burton must have regarded her friendship as a sufficient guarantee, since ever afterwards she and Gerry had continued equally reticent, not even confiding under what circumstances they originally had learned to know each other. Naturally such secrecy aroused a certain degree of curiosity, and now and then one of the Camp Fire girls would ask Gerry a question, thinking her answer must betray some small fact in her past. But either she would evade the question or else politely decline to answer. She was poor--no one could continue blind to this actuality--but whether her parents were living or dead, whether she had any other relatives, no one could find out from Gerry herself or from her Camp Fire guardian. In truth, Gerry made no effort to conceal how intensely disagreeable she considered a lack of money, freely announcing that poverty always had been the bane of her past existence and that she asked nothing more from the future than to be safely delivered from it. Occasionally some one would whisperingly question whether Mrs. Burton would continue her bounty to Gerry when the Camp Fire holidays were over; yet no one had sufficiently bad taste to make this inquiry. Mrs. Webster knew no more than the others. She made no effort to keep up with her Sister Polly's many generosities, which were frequently as erratic as the lady herself. Only to her husband would Mrs. Burton confide the extent of her efforts to help other people. She preferred doing things in her own way. One circumstance was freely discussed between Mrs. Burton and her protégé. During the past winter Gerry had developed a desire to study art and Mrs. Burton had arranged for her lessons. Yet Gerry made no pretense of having any especial talent or of being very deeply interested in her work. She was also frank in stating that she did not care a great deal for the outdoor camping life, aside from the fact that Mrs. Burton considered the influence of living with the other Camp Fire girls of value to her. The great attraction in the experience for Gerry, as she freely stated, was the opportunity it offered to be near her famous friend. Nevertheless, after a winter's study at the Art Institute in Chicago, Gerry had learned to make pretty outdoor studies of flowers and other small objects. She had a good deal of feeling for color and design, which she declared due to her interest in clothes. Her Camp Fire guardian encouraged her attention to art as much as possible, often excusing Gerry from everyday tasks, that she might give more time to her sketching. Just why she should be thus favored the other Camp Fire girls did not understand, yet Gerry appreciated the reason. Also less was always expected of her, and her weaknesses were more readily forgiven. The one foolish act of revenge upon Bettina had caused the only serious difficulty with her Camp Fire guardian, and apparently even this had been forgotten. On the morning of their excursion Gerry had announced that she wished to spend the day sketching along the coast and that Sally had been kind enough to agree to accompany her. The greater part of the time the two girls were extremely intimate and if now and then a slight coolness arose between them it never continued long, as they had too many common bonds of interest. Both girls were charmingly pretty and an entire contrast. Sally Ashton's eyes and hair were brown, her lips full with an up-ward curve and her skin, which the sun and wind never seemed to tan, as soft and white as a baby's. She was small and plump and her figure had no angles. One might have been deluded by Sally's yielding and feminine appearance into the impression that she could be easily influenced by stronger natures than her own. The fact is that Sally was never really influenced except when she chose to be. Realizing this, Mrs. Burton made no effort to interrupt her friendship with Gerry Williams, which was just as well since nothing is more difficult than to interfere with a friendship between two girls who feel a mutual attraction and see each other frequently. Gerry Williams' prettiness was of a more unusual character. She had the delicate fairness which one so rarely sees in its perfection. Her hair was a pale gold, yet the gold was undeniably there. Her eyes were light blue and held the clearness, the indelible, transparent blueness of certain pieces of rare old china. Her small head was set upon a rather long fair throat and as she walked with a peculiar lightness and grace it was almost as if she might at any moment break into dancing steps. About Gerry's nature there were elements which were frankly commonplace, nevertheless her appearance suggested one of the dancing figures upon an ancient Greek frieze. This morning she and Sally wore their everyday Camp Fire costumes, and because it was cool their Navajo sweater coats, Gerry's a bright scarlet and Sally's an Oxford blue. They intended being away all day, and besides Gerry's sketching outfit they carried their luncheon. The girls had chosen to go in the direction of the artists' colony only a few miles away. Over both the water and land there was the haze of the early hours at the seaside, and yet the mist was only a light one and more agreeable than the hot sun which would come later in the day. The land was gay with flowers. On the hillside there were tall bunches of cacti, one variety bearing a bright yellow flower like a silken poppy. The ordinary jimson weed grew so large that each blossom looked like a great white lily. On the side toward the beach the tiny beads of water glistening amid the rose color of the ice plants shone like tiny fairy jewels. Past the groups of houses which presumably sheltered famous artists as well as amateurs, perhaps with no more ability than Gerry, the two girls wandered on, absorbed in their own conversation. They were not especially disappointed at finding no one in the neighborhood of the colony who seemed to be of interest. There were three or four girls idling in one of the yards who stared curiously as the Camp Fire girls passed, but Sally and Gerry paid but slight attention to them in return, having previously confessed to each other that they were a little tired of so much feminine society. A tall old gentleman with a white, closely trimmed beard strode by, carrying a large canvas under his arm. He frowned portentously, as if he would have the girls appreciate that he was a genius in the grasp of a creative impulse and so must not be disturbed. Neither Sally nor Gerry had the faintest impulse toward disturbing him, yet his appearance suggested a train of thought to Sally. "I wonder, Gerry, why you decided so suddenly that you wished to study art?" she said. "Until this summer I have never even heard you mention the subject. Do you intend making a business of it some day? You won't mind my speaking of this, but you have always said you had to do something or other to make your own living." Instead of replying at once Gerry hummed the first line of a song, also moving on so quickly that Sally, who was averse to violent exercise, had difficulty in keeping up with her. "Certainly not, Sally," she answered finally. "Besides, if I ever should develop such a foolish idea, who do you think would buy my silly little pictures, except perhaps Mrs. Burton? I do wish she were my real aunt; I am oftentimes jealous of Peggy. But really I began studying art last winter chiefly on her account. She insisted that I should not idle away all my time, so I concluded that I would prefer being an art student to attending a regular school. "Mrs. Burton was delighted, because she thinks it would be a good plan for me to become a dressmaker or a designer. I am so fond of clothes and she believes the art lessons will be of value to my future work. However, my dear Sally, nothing is further from my own expectations. You and I for different reasons must make marriage our career. You were created for domesticity and I, well, I simply must marry some one with money. I used to hope that Mrs. Burton might do a great deal for me some day, before I knew about her own family and her Camp Fire group. Now I realize that she only intends helping me to help myself, as the highly moral phrase goes." "But haven't you any people of your own, or any close friends?" Sally demanded with the persistency which belonged to her disposition. Half a dozen times before she had asked this same question without receiving a satisfactory reply. Gerry only laughed good naturedly. Sally's curiosity amused her. "_No_ people and _no_ friends I care to talk about, my dear. You know I have told you this several times before." In spite of the fact that by this time the girls had walked for three or four miles, up until now Gerry had not suggested sitting down to begin her sketching. At this moment she moved over to the edge of a cliff, glancing down at the beach below. "Come, Sally, see what a fascinating place I have discovered. Suppose we climb down to the beach; you must be tired and I may be able to work for a little while. I do want to have something to show Mrs. Burton as a result of our day." On the beach the girls saw a little wooden hut with a huge kettle filled with boiling water standing before the door. Half a mile or more out in the ocean two Japanese fishermen were diving for the famous abalone shells, while on the sands a dozen of the shells, having been thoroughly cleansed, now lay drying in the sun; their inner surfaces of mother-of-pearl held all the colors of the dawn. CHAPTER VI "My Own Will Come to Me" Whether consciously or unconsciously, the thing we most desire in this world will come to us in the end. Rather precipitately Sally and Gerry climbed down the side of the cliff to the beach. The way was steep and now and then Sally had to be encouraged and assisted until both girls finally arrived on the sands a little out of breath. The beach stretched on further than one could see, a pale golden carpet now that the mists were clearing. It was divided at this point by a narrow gully. On one side of the gully were uneven platforms of rocks and between these rocks ran little streams of salt water from the ocean, creating tiny tidal lakes and rivulets. Up and down these rocks, sometimes disappearing inside the water, at others clinging perilously above its edge, or hiding behind sprays of sea lichen or fern, were innumerable small sea monsters. At times the sides of the rocks were alive with hundreds, even thousands, of tiny crabs; then one single unexpected noise and off they scuttled like an army, not in dignified retreat but in utter rout. The girls having descended the cliff, rested for a few moments and then wandered along these ledges. They were not of a dangerous character, for most of the stones were flat and not too far apart to be safely crossed. Yet they walked slowly. Occasionally they stopped to watch two fishermen at work. The men were Japanese divers, and it was fascinating to see them swim with quiet, even strokes out into the deep water and then dive down heads first to remain under a terrifying length of time. Yet as each man rose again usually he had secured one or more of the large abalone shells. In spite of their interest, Sally Ashton pleaded that they remain at a safe distance from the two men. As a matter of fact, Sally frequently suffered from the small timidities which belonged to her particular type of intensely feminine character. Although not in the least timid herself, Gerry agreed, it being a wise custom of hers to give way to her companion in unimportant matters. Moreover, she really intended working seriously for a few hours. Now that she and Sally were both weary, this sheltered place along the beach would be as suitable as any other to begin her painting. Finding a comfortable surface of clean sand on a broad ledge of rock, with other rocks in the background, Gerry sat down. Here there was less wind than in other places and sufficient room for Sally to lie close beside her. At about the correct distance away, a small boat moored to some hidden anchor moved back and forth with the movement of the waves. This boat appeared a suitable subject to Gerry for her sketch. She had no idea of making a success of so ambitious a subject, but since all that Mrs. Burton asked of her was industry and not high artistry, Gerry was willing to work now and then. She really did wish to please her Camp Fire guardian, and if her motives were a little mixed and not all of them of the noblest character, well, there are others of us in this world who have mixed motives beside Gerry Williams! After the first few moments of settling down to her task, Gerry began to feel mildly interested in her effort. Her surroundings were in themselves an inspiration. Nearby, and using her friend's crimson sweater as a pillow, Sally Ashton had curled herself up in the sunshine. She was wearing her own blue one for warmth. There was but little breeze stirring and the sun had grown suddenly hot, but Sally had a passionate affection for warmth. She had also an endless capacity for sleeping when there was nothing of interest in life to make wakefulness worth while. For a few moments she watched Gerry at work, thinking she had never seen her look so pretty or labor so industriously. Then Sally viewed the small boat whose continuous movement impressed her like the sleepy swaying of a cradle. Afterwards she fell into a state of semi-conscious dreaming. But Gerry kept on with her sketching certainly for more than an hour. By the end of that time she was surprised to find what a lovely sketch she had made. In spite of the fact that her boat was out of drawing, the color in her sky line was beautiful and the waves of the sea suggested real water and a real ocean. After gazing at her painting with wholly unexpected admiration, Gerry put it carefully away in her sketch book. She was feeling a little tired, but her act was inspired more by discretion than weariness. To work upon her sketch any longer would probably destroy the value it at present possessed and Mrs. Burton would be pleased by her success. Believing Sally to be fast asleep and not wishing to disturb her for a time, Gerry, leaning forward and resting her chin on her two folded hands, fell to dreaming. For the past ten days or more, ever since her arrival in southern California, it seemed to Gerry Williams that never had her dreams and her desires been so insistent. She did not know that this was the influence of the semi-tropical climate upon her physical and spiritual development. In truth, Gerry's past life had been a trying one and there was no reason why she should have been content with it, or why she should not hope for a happier future. These summers in Arcady with Mrs. Burton--for they had been as summers in Arcady to the Sunrise Hill Camp Fire girls--had been the fairest experiences in Gerry's history. Yet she professed no ardent love for the outdoors as the other girls did. Neither was she so young as some of them, since within a few weeks she would be eighteen. There would be other summers to come, Gerry realized, when she would not be Mrs. Burton's guest. Indeed, the Camp Fire guardian had frankly stated that if the war continued they would not be able to have their holidays together. In the future she must devote her money, her time and her energy to war service. So today, looking out over the water, but now that her sketching was over, no longer interested in the view, Gerry faced what seemed to her an interminable number of lonely summers and winters and springs and autumns. In her earlier acquaintance with Mrs. Burton, when the great lady had revealed an unexpected interest in her, Gerry, as she had lately confessed to Sally Ashton, had dreamed impossible dreams. In those days she had imagined herself as Mrs. Burton's ward, living in her home, or traveling about with her over the world meeting rich and famous people. Then at the last Gerry's vision had always been a wealthy marriage. A foolish dream perhaps, and yet not original or uncommon! She did not think of her marriage as bringing her love or spiritual happiness, only wealth and social prominence. But at this time in her life Gerry of course believed that the last two possessions represented the character of happiness she sought. Having awakened to reality with regard to Mrs. Burton's attitude, appreciating that she felt for her only a kindly interest and a moderate affection, Gerry was the more intent upon discovering some immediate solution for her own future. From this summer in California she had hoped a great deal. She had thought through Mrs. Burton's prominence that it might be possible to make wealthy and worth-while friends. Now it appeared that the Camp Fire guardian intended to have her group of girls spend a secluded summer, deriving their entertainment from their life together outdoors in this beautiful place. In consequence Gerry was deeply disappointed. Today she felt that the prospect ahead was dreary and dissatisfying. Mrs. Burton expected her to work and had no notion of assisting her toward any other fate. She had made her own way in the world and believed that work brought one the finest satisfaction. But Gerry recognized her own commonplaceness and understood that unconsciously Mrs. Burton was not altogether fair. Of course, if one possessed great talent, then work lifted you above dullness and routine, brought you beauty and joy. Yet she could only picture herself pursuing some stupid task, since she had neither education nor especial ability in any direction. Her only gifts, prettiness and her desire for the refinements of life which always had been denied her, little in truth to offer when there was no one to help! Then, intending to banish her attack of blues, Gerry jumped up hurriedly. As she did so she noticed the two Japanese divers. They had left their work and had come softly over the sands until at the present moment they were only a few feet off. They were talking in excited voices, holding up the deep-bowled abalone shells, now polished and shining, and evidently trying to attract attention. For an instant Gerry was puzzled. Then, before she could speak or even stir again, Sally, startled from sleep, also leaped to her feet. She may have been frightened by Gerry's sudden movement and now, catching sight of the Japanese fishermen, may have been under the impression that they had frightened Gerry. Whatever the cause, with an exclamation of terror, she started running, uttering funny little cries of alarm. First Gerry merely called out reassuringly, then, perceiving that Sally would not stop, she ran after her. Sally was awkward; she kept stumbling and sliding over the ledges of rock, making no effort to be sure of her foothold or to choose the easiest way. In the beginning Gerry was amused, then she grew a little nervous. Sally was always the least athletic of the Camp Fire girls. "Do be careful; the men are only trying to sell us their shells. They have no idea of frightening you," Gerry expostulated. She expected to reach Sally in time to keep her from injuring herself. But suddenly Sally gave an exclamation both of fright and pain; having made a false estimate of the space between two ledges of rock, she found herself falling into a small ravine. The ravine was not deep; nevertheless Sally's rescue was not simple, since she would not help herself. Finally Gerry had to summon to her assistance the two Japanese, who had innocently caused the catastrophe. At last a bruised and tearful Sally was deposited upon a comfortable resting place. But here Sally declared she must remain indefinitely, as she was "far too seriously hurt ever to walk again." The situation was trying, and Gerry was at her wits' end till one small inspiration came to her. Since food had ever a reviving effect upon Sally, they could have their luncheon and perhaps afterwards she would feel stronger. But although her appetite remained unaffected by her accident, the afternoon wore on with Sally still insisting that she could not stir one step. Moreover, any suggestion of Gerry's leaving to find help always reduced her to tears. Yet something must be done! Long ago the little Japanese fishermen had returned to their tasks. Sitting cross-legged on the sand at some distance off, Gerry could see them patiently at work cleaning and polishing their shells. She remembered that they had seemed to understand what she had said, although speaking only a few English words. Walking over to them Gerry as simply as possible presented their predicament. When she had finished speaking the small bright-eyed men glanced at each other and nodded. "Alle-ight," one of them answered for both. Then off they trotted, this time disappearing inside their small hut. Next moment they returned carrying on their shoulders a flat straw basket set upon two long poles. It was scarcely a basket, so much as a woven straw mat, which the divers probably used at odd times for transporting their sea merchandise. Ultimately Sally was persuaded to allow herself to be hoisted upon this mat, which was fairly strong since it suffered her weight. Then the two little men bore her off, swinging easily between them. They ran lightly from rock to rock until climbing up the cliff they reached the road at the summit, with Gerry following as swiftly as possible. They had arranged not to attempt to carry Sally to camp but to some place nearer at hand, where she could receive aid. Originally when they had made this plan it appeared to Gerry as a reasonable one and not one to cause anxiety. Now as she pursued the two strange little men, who were carrying Sally with such ease and quickness to a perfectly unknown destination she had a curious sensation more of bewilderment than fear. However, one had to keep moving so rapidly that there was small opportunity for clear thinking. Leaving the main road, the little men struck into another, which went first up a bare brown hill and then down again. The second hill was green with a crop of the ever-present beans. Finally they climbed to the top of a mesa and brought Sally to a resting place before a clump of dusty, gray-green pepper trees. On their left was a hedge of untrimmed shrubs and in front an open court. Beyond stood an old Spanish ranch house. After whispering together, one of the little men rang a bell, which hung on a stand outside this court. A few moments later a Japanese servant appeared and the three men spoke to one another in Japanese. Then the servant turned away. It was all very unusual and puzzling. Before Sally and Gerry could be overwhelmed by uneasiness, to their relief they observed an older man and two young men approaching. They were obviously gentlemen, and one of them Gerry thought the most attractive fellow she had ever seen in her life. Yet he did not look like an American, but what her imagination had pictured as a Spaniard. He must have been about twenty-two or three and possessed unusually dark hair and eyes and skin. When Gerry had explained their difficulty and apologized for their intrusion, their host led the way through the outer court into the enclosed one. [Illustration: Their Host Led the Way Through the Outer Court into the Enclosed One] Sally continued to be borne aloft like a foreign princess upon the shoulders of her faithful Caryatids. The inside court was a miniature fairyland. Like all really old Spanish ranch houses, this house was built in the form of a square with the garden in the center. It was of one story with the veranda also on the inside and running the entire length of the house. In days long past this veranda would have been filled with people, for when the Spanish ranch houses were the center of California's social life all the play and work of the Spanish families, their friends and servants took place outdoors. Now the two Camp Fire girls saw no one save their hosts and the one man servant; there was no faintest suggestion of the presence of a woman. The place looked old and ramshackle, as if its owners had preferred to enjoy life rather than to improve their estate. Even the enclosed garden, notwithstanding it was a sheer glory of flowers, showed neglect. A bougainvillea vine had been allowed to grow so large that it covered one-third of the veranda, hanging like a flowery canopy above one portion of the garden. Along the paths oleanders were set out in unpainted wooden tubs and the rose bushes had gone so long untrimmed that they were now of great size and covered with tiny white and yellow flowers. Once this garden had been carefully planned and cared for, yet, perhaps, at present it held an even deeper charm. Naturally, soon after their arrival their host, Mr. Philip Morris, had introduced himself and his younger companions, and Gerry Williams had given her own and Sally's name. Gerry also had explained the circumstances of Sally's accident and the fact that they were members of a camping party who were spending the summer on the California coast. The young man who had originally attracted her attention proved to be the son of Mr. Morris. In introducing him the father accorded the Spanish pronunciation to his name, "Felipe," which he had not used with his own. Later it developed that Felipe's mother had been Spanish and the old ranch the property of her family from the days when California was a province of Spain. But as she was dead it was true that at present no woman was a member of their household. The other young fellow, Merton Anderson, was the son of a neighbor and a guest. As he had ridden over to the Morris ranch on horseback he offered to take back any message Sally and Gerry might care to send their friends, for Mr. Morris insisted that Sally must not be moved again until she had seen a physician. At last Gerry wrote a note to Mrs. Burton explaining what had occurred and asking advice. If it were possible would she not drive over to the ranch in her automobile and bear Sally safely back to camp? CHAPTER VII The Sacrifice of Youth About ten o'clock on the evening of the same day Mrs. Burton and Mr. Morris were sitting before the open door of the old Spanish house looking out over the countryside. In the neighborhood of the California coast the moonlight has a rare brilliancy. The mists of the early morning and late afternoons usually disappear and seem to float overhead in white and silver clouds. "You are very kind to allow us to impose upon your hospitality in this fashion, Mr. Morris," Mrs. Burton declared, in the voice whose rare quality gave even to her ordinary statements a charm beyond other persons. "I don't believe I have ever seen so beautiful a view in California as I am having from your house tonight, and yet a few hours ago I would not have believed this possible." Immediately upon receipt of Gerry Williams' note Mrs. Burton had motored over to the Morris ranch, using Merton Anderson as her guide. She was anxious, of course, in regard to Sally's injuries, but anxious also to learn the character of her rescuers. Naturally the girls could not be allowed to remain alone over night with strangers. Unless Sally were in a really critical condition, she could certainly be moved without danger. Within a few minutes after Mrs. Burton's arrival at the ranch, the physician who had been telephoned for some time before, appeared in answer to the summons. After seeing Sally he announced that she was not seriously hurt, only bruised and shaken, and could be moved without difficulty. Despite this assurance, the two girls and Mrs. Burton were spending the night at the ranch. "I don't believe you appreciate, Mrs. Burton, how great a pleasure and an honor your presence in our home is both to my son and me. We are so far out of the world and with no women in our family are often extremely lonely. However, we are not so remote that we have not heard of Mrs. Burton's distinguished reputation." Mr. Morris spoke with an old-fashioned courtesy and admiration which no one could fail to appreciate. His guest preferred not to talk of her professional life during her summer holidays with the Camp Fire girls. "At least I am sure we shall never forget our own pleasure," Mrs. Burton returned. "The fact of the matter was I discovered at once that Sally and Gerry were determined upon remaining as soon as you and your son were kind enough to invite us. It is my private belief that Sally even pretended to be more seriously hurt in order to influence my decision. She appears to be enjoying the rôle of injured heroine, and yet I can scarcely criticise the girls, as I did not require a great deal of persuasion." As a matter of fact, soon after her arrival she also had fallen a victim to the beauty and romantic aspect of the old Spanish estate and to the charm and hospitality of its owners. Moreover, Mrs. Burton realized that Mr. Morris and his son were sincerely desirous of having them as guests. Their invitation had not been merely a conventional one and the old house seemed to possess an almost indefinite number of shabby bedrooms. With an expressive gesture of her hands Mrs. Burton suddenly arose and walked with her host to the edge of the hill which sloped down from the front of his house. "You are not very far out of the world when, as you tell me, the new National Guard camp is being built on the broad mesa below you. Is it where I see the little row of lights? Wherever our soldiers are is the only world that is of much importance these days! I am to drive over soon and see the new cantonment. My Camp Fire girls and I are anxious to find out if we can be of the least possible service. Recently, for the first time in my life, there have been moments when I was sorry to be a woman." "And yet it is a sadder thing to be an old man, Mrs. Burton. I offered my services at the beginning, but I am past sixty and--well--well, they were right, of course; I am not a trained soldier and not even a competent business man and I should only have been a nuisance." In the impetuous fashion which had always been characteristic of her girlhood as Polly O'Neill and which she had never lost, Mrs. Burton turned around. "Yes, it is hard. Women are not soldiers at heart, in spite of those thrilling Russian women and their great 'Battalion of Death.' We are not intended for the actual fighting and can only do our work behind the lines until the world is purified forever from the scourge of war. But you have your son to take your place." For a few moments Mr. Morris made no reply. Then he replied slowly in a tone of hesitation and of embarrassment: "I wonder if you will allow me to make a confidant of you? I am in great trouble, Mrs. Burton, and although we were strangers before this evening I know your life must have taught you to understand human nature. My son does not wish to enter the war. I tried to persuade him to volunteer. He refused. Now the draft has come and his number has been called, he is still making every effort to escape military service, pleading exemption upon entirely unnecessary grounds. The fact is inexplicable to me. When my son was born my wife and I were no longer young and she died a short time after. Felipe has grown up here with me, with his friends and his flowers and his music, to which he is sincerely devoted, and nothing has ever been required of him. I knew he was indolent and selfish perhaps, but until the United States entered the war I failed to appreciate that Felipe was not a man. Another circumstance which has added to our difficulty, instead of clearing it away, is that Felipe and I have recently inherited a large sum of money. Until recently, as our home must have revealed to you, we have been poor and not very industrious. Now our inheritance has made my son more than ever eager for a life of ease and pleasure. He has been planning to fix up the old place until it looks as it did many years ago. He wishes also to study singing, as he has a really beautiful voice, and has been talking of going to Spain, now that the other European countries are at present out of the question. You can see I scarcely know what to do. Felipe's exemption claim is almost sure to be denied, and yet I cannot discuss the matter with our friends and neighbors. I do not wish to prejudice them against my boy. What is it I can do, Mrs. Burton, when I confess to you that I appear to have no influence with my son upon the subject of his responsibility to his country?" Mrs. Burton continued looking down upon the extraordinary view. The hills toward the east were black and eerie, the sea to the west a shining mirror, with the valleys like shadows in between. "Mr. Morris, I wish you and your son would come over to our camp some day soon," she remarked later with apparent irrelevance. "Of course I wish you to know my sister, but I should also like you to meet her sons. One of them, Dan Webster, is one of the finest type of American boys. He is strong and clean and good looking and has no dearer wish in life than to be allowed to volunteer. In another year I presume my sister will be forced to give her consent--Dan is only seventeen at present. My other nephew, Billy--well, I hardly know how to describe Billy, because he is like no other human being I have ever known. He is one of the most impossible and obstinate boys in the world, and one never knows from one moment to the next what he is going to do or say. At present he is the trial of all our lives at Sunrise camp; he has proclaimed himself a pacifist, and feels called upon to convert everybody he meets. He is filled with Tolstoi's beautiful theories of universal peace. As he is still too young for the draft his ideas so far have not proved a serious menace, and yet I worry over him a good deal. Nevertheless, do you know I am not sure Billy would not be as heroic as Dan if the test ever comes and he is once convinced peace can only follow the tragic sacrifice of war. "I am not saying all this to you, Mr. Morris, because I am unsympathetic about your son. It is perhaps because I believe I may understand his attitude. Forgive me if you do not agree with me, but I wonder if we older people are fully appreciating what tremendous sacrifices this war is demanding of youth. We have no right to expect all of them to give up their individual hopes and dreams for the future without hesitating and without flinching. They cannot all be made of the blood of heroes. The amazing fact is that so many of them have been. Personally I cannot help being a little sorry for your son. He will do the right thing in time, I am sure, but it cannot be easy to surrender this exquisite home and his ambition for a musical life. Felipe is probably afflicted with the artistic temperament, or else inspired by it, and the ways of the artistic temperament are past finding out," Mrs. Burton concluded, endeavoring to add a somewhat lighter tone to the conversation. Her host shook his head gravely. "You are very kind, Madame, and yet I am afraid I cannot accept your defense of my son. His ancestors were Spanish adventurers and soldiers and my own fought with Washington. However, I shall be delighted to visit your camp. One of the many reasons I wished to persuade you to remain over night with us was in order that Felipe might learn to know the girls who are with you. I fancied that he was immediately interested in one of them. Perhaps later she may prove an inspiration, a spur to him. American girls must have no patience with slackers these days. But suppose we cease talking about the war which haunts us all so everlastingly. Won't you walk with me and look at some of the other views about the old place by moonlight?" Mrs. Burton and her host entered the front door of the house, crossed the large sitting room and came out upon one of the paths of the enclosed garden. Now the air was almost suffocatingly sweet with the night fragrances of the semi-tropical flowers. Under the deep magenta canopy of the bougainvillea vine the older woman discovered Gerry and her younger host. Felipe Morris was holding a guitar, but for the moment he and Gerry were quietly talking. Feeling too shaken and uncomfortable to remain out of bed, and realizing by feminine intuition that Felipe would prefer to be alone with Gerry, Sally Ashton had retired some time before. Now, although Mrs. Burton made no effort to interrupt Gerry's whispered conversation with Felipe Morris, she did wonder a little curiously what her influence upon the young man would be, if by chance he had been attracted by her. There was no denying Gerry's exquisite prettiness; tonight with her pale gold hair, her fairness and grace she seemed in tune with the beauty of this old-world garden. Yet Mrs. Burton believed that Gerry was shallow and vain and that her ideas of life included less of devotion to duty and self-sacrifice than Felipe's. It was difficult to conceive of her acting as a motive force to high endeavor, Gerry, who dreamed only of money and pretty clothes and what she was pleased to consider "society." Then Mrs. Burton sighed as she followed her host into the land which lay on the other side of the hedge. Had one the right to demand that Gerry and Felipe think of war tonight in a shrine, dedicated like this enclosed garden, to the service of youth and romance? CHAPTER VIII Felipe As soon as Mrs. Burton and his father were out of sight Felipe began singing: "I will make you brooches and toys for your delight Of bird-song at morning and star-shine at night. I will make a palace fit for you and me, Of green days in forests and blue days at sea. "I will make my kitchen and you shall keep your room Where white flows the river and bright blows the broom And you shall wash your linen and keep your body white In rainfall at morning and dewfall at night. "And this shall be for music when no one else is near, The fine song for singing, the rare song to hear! That only I remember, that only you admire, On the broad road that stretches and the roadside fire." Then Felipe's song ended, and yet it seemed to Gerry that she could still hear the inflections of his voice. "Thank you; that was lovely. I did not know I cared so much for music before," the girl answered simply and without the least touch of coquetry which one might have expected of a girl like Gerry in such surroundings. "But what an exquisite voice you have and what a beautiful night it is! I am sure I do not remember another half so lovely." Then Gerry leaned forward a little so that she could see more clearly out into the garden. "I don't wonder you feel that you cannot give all this up," she continued, with a graceful movement of her hand. "It seems to me wicked that you should be forced into the war, hating it as you do and perhaps spoiling your future as a singer. I agree with you, one ought to live his own life. All men are not equally fitted to be soldiers." Gerry spoke with an unexpected vehemence which rather surprised her. For the past hour Felipe Morris had been pouring forth his side of the war problem to her, but as he was an entire stranger there was no especial reason why she should be so disturbed over the thought of his being forced to enter the army. "I suppose I understand why you so hate giving up your home and your life here on the ranch and your music and all the rest, because I have never had a home of my own, or any possessions of much value," Gerry ended in a quieter voice and manner. "You possess nothing of value!" Felipe Morris repeated, and although he said nothing more Gerry felt oddly flattered and happy. Then Felipe laughed unexpectedly. "I wonder if you realize, Miss Williams, that we have seen each other before tonight, probably about ten days or more ago? My friend Merton Anderson and I chanced to be spending the night at San Juan Capistrano when you and your friends rode into the old mission town. You don't know how much curiosity your appearance excited. You gave the old town the greatest thrill it has had in a long time. You see the little town is more than half foreign; there are Spaniards and Mexicans and half-breed Indians. You were dressed in a kind of compromise Indian costume, and down there we had never seen or heard of the Camp Fire. Merton and I hid ourselves on one of the verandas and sang a duet for your benefit. Then later, when it was too dark for us to see one another distinctly, we followed your party about the mission grounds." Gerry frowned and then blushed a little from embarrassment. "Were you wearing Mexican costumes? I confess Sally and I did become interested in you, but we supposed of course that you were either Mexicans or Spaniards. Your song was in Spanish so that we could not understand it." "Shall I sing to you in Spanish now?" Felipe returned. "I speak the language as readily as I do English. You see my mother was of Spanish origin and she and an old nurse who lives near here always spoke in Spanish to me when I was a kid. You were right about the Mexican costumes. Anderson and I had been over into Mexico for a few days and were on our way home. I like to escape over there now and then when life at the ranch becomes too slow. I can be mistaken for a Mexican when I wish and it is sometimes amusing." Gerry nodded, preferring to have Felipe talk to her rather than to offer him confidences. Oddly she was wishing tonight that she had read as many books as the other Camp Fire girls and had enjoyed the same advantages. "Then you saw all seven of us at Capistrano?" she asked at length; adding, "There are five other girls in our Camp Fire group." Felipe laughed. "Yes, I saw all of you, yet it was you alone I remembered," he murmured with true Spanish gallantry. "Thank you for that compliment, although obviously I fished for it," Gerry returned, smiling. "But won't you tell me, now that the draft has been ordered and your number called, how are you going to manage to escape? Of course I shall not speak to any one else of what you tell me." "I am glad enough to tell you," Felipe Morris continued boyishly. "You can't imagine how hard it has been to have no one to sympathize with me. I have wished many times since war was declared that my mother was alive and I could have talked the situation over with her. My father, as I told you, is dead against me. He thinks I am a renegade and a disgrace to him and to his name, and a lot of stuff like that. It seems his brothers all fought in the Civil War and were officers and it has been the regret of his life he was too young. I wish he had the chance offered him now instead of me," he concluded like a surly boy, with all his gallantry departed. "But what are you going to do?" Gerry insisted, her interest in him remaining so far unaffected by his attitude. "Oh, I am too plagued healthy, so the doctor won't help me out. I hoped to be released on the score of ill health at first. But later I sent in a claim saying I could not be released for war service because I was the sole support of my parent and had to be left here to look after the ranch. I don't see why raising beans cannot be considered war work? Father insists he can run the place himself and I am afraid he won't stand by me when the exemption board asks him concerning the truth of my claim. Pretty tough when a fellow's own father is anxious to get him off his hands to the extent of possibly being killed." Felipe laid his guitar down on the piazza and in spite of the fact that he must have been at least twenty-two or twenty-three years old, Gerry found herself with a ridiculous desire to comfort him. "It is just a difference of opinion," she said softly. "I don't believe if I were you I would blame my father, and he should have the same respect for you. I never thought of the question before, but I have decided tonight I do not believe in the draft. Isn't there anything else you can do, if this one exemption claim fails?" Felipe Morris rose up, shrugging his shoulders impatiently. He was so foreign in his appearance that the movement seemed natural. "Oh, yes, I can slip away into Mexico and remain until the war is over. I have been thinking of it as a possibility. But of course if I am caught I shall be put into prison as a deserter." Then he stood gazing down upon Gerry with a bewildered expression. "I wonder why I have entrusted my fate to you in this fashion? You understand that if you should ever tell what I have confided to you, things would be all over with me." Gerry also rose. "Shall we walk about your garden for a little?" she said. "I am tired of sitting still so long. I expect Mrs. Burton will be here in a little time and think we should go to bed. But you need not worry with regard to my ever mentioning a word of what you have said to me--not under any possible circumstances." Then as they wandered about the tiny garden Felipe gathered a bunch of the small white and yellow roses. "Keep these in your room tonight." Afterwards discovering that Mrs. Burton and his father had returned to the garden and were coming toward them, he added hurriedly: "Tell me, please, when and where I can see you again, alone? It has meant so much to me to be able to talk to you so freely and I have an idea we are going to be friends." "But you have agreed to come over to our camp," Gerry answered, feeling at the same time that she would like selfishly to preserve Felipe's interest entirely for herself. Of course when he was introduced to the other Camp Fire girls he would naturally take less pleasure in her society. "Oh, yes, indeed, I am coming to your camp. Anderson and I would not miss the opportunity for a good deal. But I want to see you by yourself, not with a dozen other people chattering around. Surely you can manage to make an engagement to see me alone. You would if you liked me half as much as I do you." Again Felipe spoke like a spoiled boy, but Gerry had no time to reply, for at this instant Mrs. Burton and Mr. Morris reached them. Truth to tell, she had a distinct sense of relief as, slipping her arm inside her Camp Fire guardian's, together they said their formal good-nights. Already Felipe Morris was demanding more of Gerry than either of them realized. CHAPTER IX The Cantonment A few days after their visit at the ranch, arrangements were made for Mrs. Burton and members of her party to drive over to the new cantonment which was situated on a broad mesa not many miles away. Gerry Williams announced that because of the dust and discomfort she preferred being left behind. Sally Ashton also declined, stating that she was not well enough to consider undertaking the long drive and then being forced to walk about over whatever portion of the camp they were permitted to inspect. After her mishap, which Sally considered no one had regarded with sufficient seriousness, she had acquired a prejudice against excursions of any character. Sally's attitude the Camp Fire guardian understood, although she was somewhat puzzled by Gerry Williams, as always before Gerry had been enthusiastic over change and excitement. One would have supposed that among all the girls she would have been most interested in the new war camp and the possibility of seeing and meeting the young American soldiers. Mrs. Webster would not consider the trip, feeling that her heart would only be torn by the sight of so many war preparations, and more if she should chance to come in contact with an unusually homesick boy. Her sister could bring back word of whatever she could actually _do_ to be of service, since often enough she was the pioneer who went forth in search of new ideas which Mrs. Webster put into execution. Dan Webster was of course essential to the expedition, as he was chauffeur. Billy was not only invited, but Mrs. Burton insisted upon his accompanying them after he had very generously demurred, saying there was no reason why he should crowd the others when he really was not interested in war camps. She hoped, however, that the sight of the cantonment might exert either a mental or a spiritual influence upon him. It was possible to manage eight in the car, although ordinarily it held but seven, yet one was willing to be a little inconvenienced under the circumstances, so the five girls, Vera Lagerloff, Bettina Graham, Alice Ashton, Marta Clark and Peggy Webster also accompanied Mrs. Burton. The first part of the drive followed the now familiar line of the shore. Yet the outlook was never the same! Now and then one would see a heron or sand crane standing upon one leg near the water, apparently lost in immortal thought; sea gulls were dipping in and out, or else riding serenely on the waves; occasionally a buzzard, grim as Odin, soared overhead. Once Marta Clark, who was on the front seat with Dan, gave a cry of surprise. She had discovered that what she supposed a great bird winging its flight over their car, was in reality an aeroplane on a long practice flight from North Island. Finally leaving the coast, the automobile began a long climb over an undulating line of hills. The hills were bare except for occasional bunches of cacti and bushes of bright yellow tar weed. There were acres and acres of sage brush, sometimes a field of wild buckwheat and once in a while a small grove of live oak shrubs or of red and blue gum trees. The mesa upon which the new cantonment was springing up like a magic city was a great desert of sand and sage. For years the thousands of acres had been of no use because of the lack of water. Now great irrigating ditches had been laid and the camp was being plentifully supplied with water by the city of San Diego. The surroundings of the camp were cheerless enough, it is true, yet there was nothing cheerless in the atmosphere of the place itself. Even as the Camp Fire party approached they felt the undercurrent of the fine new force, the splendid vitality which the war has awakened in the world. A sentry ordered Dan to stop his car within a few yards of the officers' quarters and Mrs. Burton was told that she must receive an official permit for their inspection of certain features of the camp. From inside the little house, which looked like a miniature bungalow of unpainted pine, one heard the noise, not of the rattle of musketry, but the endless tip, tap, tap of many typewriters. Captain Mason, who had been told of Mrs. Burton's intended visit, came out to greet her and her party. He explained that just at present there were only a few hundred soldiers within the cantonment, although they were expecting many thousands within the next few weeks. An army of workmen were at present engaged in preparing the way for the coming of the soldiers and the big artillery. Strolling apart from the other laborers and still carrying a large hammer, Mr. Jefferson Simpson, the late Camp Fire guide, philosopher and friend, walked over to speak to Mrs. Burton and her companions. He offered no explanation for his presence at the camp, but it was obvious he had concluded that his efforts here were of more importance than his previous occupation. The Sunrise Camp Fire had always considered his remaining with them for so long a time an obvious absurdity and presumed that it was because of Mr. Simpson's continuing interest in Marie, although he had paid no attention to her since the breaking of their engagement. But apparently his leading motive in life was to discover the number and variety of vocations in which he could engage. After receiving a written order from the commanding officer for the day, Captain Mason led the way with Mrs. Burton walking beside him. They were to be allowed to see only places of minor importance, the temporary tents and mess room, the Y. M. C. A. quarters. Mrs. Burton had explained that one of the chief reasons for their visit was a desire to find out how they might be of service in even the smallest possible way. "You see, Captain Mason," she suggested, "we are living for the present not far behind the lines of this American war camp. In a different sense every woman and girl in our country should be a reserve soldier behind the lines until the war is over. One need not wear a uniform, or carry a gun to serve! Our American Camp Fire girls feel that they ought to be able to give as valuable service to the country as the Boy Scouts. I confess we have not yet altogether found our way." By this time Mrs. Burton and Captain Mason had reached the Red Cross tent and now had paused for a moment outside to wait for the five girls and Dan and Billy Webster to join them. Captain Mason nodded, waving his hand toward the open flap of the tent. "You can help us keep our boys amused. I tell you that is the greatest problem we older officers have to meet with young, untrained soldiers. Discipline is comparatively easy, for few of the boys resent it; but look in there!" Mrs. Burton did look, while Bettina and Marta and Peggy, who were nearest, also gazed in over her shoulders. Several soldiers were sitting by a long board table looking at a pile of magazines, not because they were interested, but plainly because they had nothing else on earth they could think of to do. On a raised platform a phonograph was playing an Italian love song. Some one must have started it, although at present no one apparently was listening to the music. Several of the soldiers were writing letters, others were yawning and half lying down on the hard wooden benches, bored and listless and homesick. Hearing voices outside the Y.M.C.A. tent, one young officer, who also had been writing, lifted his eyes. The same instant Bettina Graham walked quickly inside the tent, holding out her hand. "Why, here is my lieutenant!" she exclaimed. "May I call you my lieutenant, although Marta Clark will dispute the title? For I did reach you first after your accident and it is my first-aid treatment you seem to have survived. I did not know you had arrived at this cantonment, Lieutenant Carson. I do hope you have entirely recovered." CHAPTER X Plans One afternoon, after resting for an hour or more, Mrs. Burton appeared at her little front door, wondering why she was encompassed by so unusual a silence. The fact that at present the Sunrise camp was situated several miles from any other human habitation, with the sea stretching before it and a great ranch as its background, did not ordinarily insure it an essential silence. As a matter of fact, there were generally nine youthful persons, engaged in strenuous occupations of one kind or another, in its immediate vicinity. This afternoon Mrs. Burton discovered that they had withdrawn to some distance from the camping grounds. A camp fire was burning and the girls were seated about it in ceremonial fashion, with Mrs. Webster also forming one of the group. A little further off her two sons were characteristically engaged, Dan in bringing small pieces of driftwood up from the shore and Billy in lying upon his back, gazing toward the sky. In truth only their Camp Fire guardian appeared deliberately to have been left out of the gathering. Mrs. Burton suffered a distinct sensation of aggrievement. Evidently the Sunrise Hill Camp Fire girls were deep in a consultation of some important character, so that it seemed scarcely fair that they should have ignored her completely. Not wishing to go back into her room, which had grown a little close, and yet not desiring to interrupt the proceedings, from which her presence had been so carefully excluded, Mrs. Burton hesitated a moment just outside her house. If she were seen wandering about nearby, as a matter of good manners she would have to be invited to the camp fire. With Mrs. Webster already there, she had not the excuse that her presence might be necessary. Often the girls seemed to prefer giving her sister their confidence. At this instant one of the Camp Fire group observed her and gave the information to the others. Peggy began beckoning violently, while Bettina Graham and Marta Clark both jumped up and were coming toward her. "You are lazy, Tante, we have been waiting for you to wake up for ages!" Bettina remarked, slipping her arm through the older woman's. She was several inches taller than her Camp Fire guardian, and oftentimes at a distance Mrs. Burton was mistaken for another girl, she was so slender and so youthfully and ardently alive both in body and spirit. "Yes, you seem to have been tremendously anxious for my society," she returned in the voice and manner both Bettina and Peggy understood. If the other Camp Fire girls were at times a little in awe of their famous guardian, Peggy and Bettina appreciated that she was much like other persons and now and then behaved like a somewhat spoiled young girl. Certainly she never regarded her own achievements as placing her upon a pedestal. From her present speech and manner Bettina realized that she was both jealous and hurt over their apparent disregard of her, for she had an almost ridiculous craving for affection as an ordinary human being, caring but little for the admiration which was a tribute to her as an artist rather than a woman. Nevertheless Bettina laughed in an entirely unsympathetic fashion. "Well, we did wish to discuss something before you put in an appearance, but now the discussion has been over for some time, we very much desire your society. Yet only if you are amiable, because just at this time it is enormously important that you should be." Mrs. Burton frowned and then laughed, a little teased by Bettina's too evident understanding of her state of mind. Marta Clark said nothing. She had not yet acquired the habit of regarding her Camp Fire guardian in any spirit save one of devoted admiration. But Marta was the latest of the group of Sunrise Camp Fire girls and of necessity knew her less well than the others. Moreover, Marta also dreamed of a future dramatic career and it was not so easy to take simply the one woman who personified her own ideals. In the circle on the ground Peggy Webster had arranged a leather cushion ornamented with Camp Fire designs as a seat of honor for their guardian when she finally arrived. Sitting down, Mrs. Burton clasped her hands over her knees, gazing curiously around. "Is this a conspiracy or rebellion, or a plot?" she demanded. "It seems to me, Mollie Webster, not only because you are my sister, but because we alone belong to the same generation, that you at least should not have been one of the conspirators." Like the proverbial Charlotte in "Wilhelm Meister," who went on cutting bread and butter, Mrs. Webster, without replying, continued knitting. "Oh, our plot is not dangerous, or at least we do not think it is, although you may feel differently," Peggy Webster announced, to whom the task of imparting the information evidently had been awarded. "We have merely been discussing the idea of forming a Camp Fire branch to the War Camp Recreation League. You remember this League is to do whatever is possible for the entertainment of the soldiers and we talked of our share in it after our visit to the war camp the other day." Mrs. Burton appeared slightly suspicious. "I also remember, Peggy, that it was agreed I was to be allowed to choose what form our activities should take. Moreover, whatever plan presented itself to us was first to be submitted to an officer at camp to find out if the plan met with military approval. Camp Fire girls, however clever, are scarcely the proper persons to decide upon the ways and means for providing entertainment for our American soldiers, valuable as their aid may be in the entertainment itself. But there, forgive me, I do not intend being disagreeable, and I have no doubt you have thought up some thrilling scheme! Only why not wait until our little dinner party and dance for the soldiers tomorrow evening is over before we precipitate ourselves into a fresh undertaking?" "Oh, our party is just a _small_ matter compared to the plan we have been working out this afternoon," Peggy continued, refusing to be snubbed or argued into silence. "Our idea is that if we are to become a branch of the War Recreation Fund Committee we must raise money for the organization. We wish to give a play and present to the fund whatever money we make." Mrs. Burton shook her head. "Give a play out here in this semi-wilderness? Well, the idea is agreeable enough if you wish to amuse yourselves, but how you expect to make money or secure an audience is beyond my imagination! However, if you have set your hearts upon the scheme and think it would amuse you, do as you like. I only ask to be left out altogether. Remember, I am resting from a histrionic career." Mrs. Burton made a movement as if she contemplated leaving, but Peggy resolutely held her in her place. "We _do_ expect you to help; more, we expect you to be almost the entire thing!" Bettina interrupted with more vigor than clearness. "We are not contemplating a silly little amateur performance here at camp; we have more important things to interest us. We wish to give a real play at that exquisite open-air theater near the seaside resort that we saw the other day on our drive. Ever since then Marta and Peggy and I have been dreaming of little else and talking of little else to the other girls until now they are as enthusiastic as we are. It was Marta Clark who actually put our present scheme into our minds, and she merely spoke of how much she would enjoy seeing you act outdoors in so lovely a place." "I am sure Marta is very kind," Mrs. Burton answered, but without revealing a profound appreciation of the compliment. "But don't be foolish, please. You know I try to do whatever is possible toward making our summers together happy and satisfying. Yet one of my chief reasons for living outdoors is to have a complete rest from my work and to get away from the whole thought of it as much as possible. I have given all the money to war causes I can afford at present. Later I shall do more, of course----" "That is just the point," Peggy interrupted. "If people out here in California learn you are to appear in an outdoor performance, they will positively flock to see you. You know you could earn a lot of money for the Recreation Fund, besides we all think it would be great fun to act with you and have already selected the play that would be the most interesting to produce." "Really, Peggy, I think you have gone somewhat too far," Mrs. Burton answered, although with a slightly dazed expression. "I don't believe I have ever had a theatrical manager who made every arrangement, even to selecting the play in which I was to appear, without consulting me. The whole thing is preposterous. Mollie, I really cannot understand your allowing the girls to become so absorbed in such a nonsensical project! I think you might have spared me the difficulty of refusing." "But you don't appear to be having any difficulty in refusing, Polly," Mrs. Webster answered with her usual placidity. Nevertheless, she realized how greatly this same placidity annoyed her beloved twin sister in moments of agitation. "Yet I am sorry that I agreed to permit the girls to broach the subject to you, since the idea seems to trouble you so much. Personally I am afraid I also found the idea charming. You have not acted for a long time and many of your friends are giving theatrical benefits for the Red Cross or some war need. The girls thought they would like to present 'As You Like It,' with you as _Rosalind_; you know you have played _Rosalind_ dozens of times before. The open-air theater would make an exquisite Forest of Arden. Besides, I am sure our present group of Camp Fire girls could not act, so poorly as you used to, now and then, in private theatricals in the old days. You know, my dear, none of us imagined then that you were to turn out a genius." Mrs. Burton flushed. "No one imagines it now, Mollie." She answered with obvious irritability. Then her manner became more apologetic: "You girls are not angry with me for refusing?" Wisely Peggy shook her head, "No, we are only disappointed." Then everybody in the little company remained silent for several moments, which was a most unusual state of affairs among the Sunrise Hill Camp Fire girls. Plainly Mrs. Burton suffered from the depressing influence, for suddenly she got up. "Please leave me alone for a little while. I must think the question over?" she announced, as if she had not already issued her ultimatum. The next moment she turned away and walked down toward the beach. "What do you think Tante will decide, Mother?" Peggy anxiously inquired. Mrs. Webster shook her head. "My dear, Polly and I are twins, and I have known her ever since I have known anything. But to tell beforehand how she will make up her mind upon any subject is beyond me. I am a little sorry we have made this request of her. She takes her work so seriously, and after all she is doing so much for us without the addition of this." At this instant a cool voice was heard speaking in the background. The voice was Billy Webster's. "I believe Tante will have the time of her life acting with you girls, of course she will consent, although probably no one else on earth with her reputation would take such a risk." CHAPTER XI The Dance The next day Mrs. Burton announced that having written her husband she would await his reply before reaching an absolutely definite decision in regard to their presentation of "As You Like It." In the meantime she insisted that the whole question of the performance be neither thought of nor discussed. Appreciating that he had grown too old to make a valuable soldier and yet unwilling to be left out of war service, Mrs. Burton's husband, Richard Burton, had taken the necessary examinations and had received a commission in the Ordnance Department. He was now stationed at a southern camp. Despite the Camp Fire guardian's request, there was a good deal of speculation among the girls concerning the possible outcome of their hopes. During the following day they were too much absorbed by the prospect immediately before them to give much time to the consideration of the future. Having arranged a small dance and invited a number of soldiers from the nearby camp to be their guests, the girls had promised to do whatever work was necessary for their entertainment. This included the cooking of the party food as well as the other arrangements. But by this time, after several summers of camping life, each girl considered that she had become an artist in the preparation of one or more superior dishes. Ordinarily the most indolent of the girls, on occasions of especial festivity Sally Ashton always assumed supreme command of the cooking. It was Sally who, with Gerry and Vera as her assistants, made both the bread and cake, articles of food of particular importance. In the present ménu she was especially interested, as recently she had been experimenting with a number of new war recipes, finding them extremely successful. Now Sally wished to repeat the recipes for a larger company than their Camp Fire group. Having by this time recovered from her accident, secretly Sally Ashton felt that she was being repaid for what she had suffered. She had secured a very agreeable new acquaintance, who showed the symptoms Sally so well understood of becoming one of her many admirers. The young man was Merton Anderson, who had been a guest at the Morris ranch and had ridden over to camp with the news of the accident. Since then, with Mr. Morris and Felipe Morris, he had made several calls upon Mrs. Burton and ostensibly upon her group of Camp Fire girls. However, after Merton Anderson's first visit, Sally appreciated that the rest of his calls were due to her presence. No one could have explained how she managed, not even Sally herself, yet she had a fashion of seeing and conquering almost immediately both young men and old. No one ever observed her making an effort to attract attention. She was even unusually demure; nevertheless the attraction was going on in a subtle and scientific fashion. Of Felipe Morris' attitude toward her, Gerry Williams was by no means so assured. Not since their original meeting at his home had she an opportunity of speaking to him alone, nor had she made the effort to secure such an opportunity. For some reason Gerry felt a certain shyness toward her new acquaintance, almost as if she were afraid of the influence he might be able to exert upon her. Certainly she had no idea of making an appointment to meet him anywhere alone. Apart from the fact that Mrs. Burton would not approve, Gerry had been trained in a sufficiently hard school of experience to recognize the lack of wisdom in such a proceeding. If she wished Felipe to like her especially, and she was by no means sure at this time that she did wish it, then she must not allow herself to become cheapened in his eyes. Social conventions Gerry understood were of value and more especially to a girl in her position. However, Felipe had appeared to be courteous, although extraordinarily determined upon securing his own way. In return for their kindness and also because she liked both young men, Mrs. Burton had invited Felipe Morris and Merton Anderson to their Camp Fire entertainment. The entertainment was to be more than an ordinary dance, since the guests had been invited to a swimming party in the afternoon, then dinner and the dance later. Since the girls were to spend a portion of the afternoon in swimming, most of the preparations for their party necessarily had to be made beforehand. Mrs. Webster had promised to look after final details, and also there was Marie, who was temperamental, but who could be relied upon to accomplish marvels when she was in the proper mood. Since the entry of the United States into the war, Marie, who was an ardent French woman, had adopted the American soldier as her especial protégé. Moreover, on the morning before their dance Alice Ashton and Peggy Webster had motored into town, purchasing the provisions they considered too troublesome to prepare. They bought two roast hams and a roast of beef and half a dozen varieties of fruit. Their ménu was to consist of cold meats, baked beans, which were a Camp Fire speciality, roast potatoes and corn, which could be cooked over the outdoor fire, cornbread, fruit salad, coffee and cake. In the afternoon the girls were to wear their Camp Fire bathing suits, but at night they had concluded to appear in white dresses, with their honor beads, almost as beautiful and as effective as jewels. The ceremonial Camp Fire costumes were somewhat too heavy and too warm for dancing on a midsummer night in a semi-tropical land. The girls were naturally a trifle shy over the prospect of guests, nearly all of whom were complete strangers. Among them were only two with whom they had any previous acquaintance. They were Lieutenant Geoffrey Carson and Private George Ferguson, the soldiers who were aided after an accident in their motor car, by the Camp Fire girls during their riding trip down the coast. Two of the soldiers were members of one of the regimental bands and had promised to play for the dancers, since the girls possessed only a much-used victrola and were too far off in the country to be able to engage the services of professional musicians. No dance could have been less conventional, when for one thing the white, smooth sands of the beach below the camp were to serve as the ballroom floor. Truly here indeed were the colors of romance, the moon and the sea, youth and a wind-swept shore! That night, dancing with Felipe Morris, Gerry believed that she had never been so happy. With his Southern ancestry and musical gifts, naturally Felipe was a wonderful dancer, possessing an almost perfect sense of rhythm and time. On one occasion Gerry and Felipe discovered that they were actually dancing alone, their companions having stopped for a moment to watch them. Then they were only brought to a realization of what had taken place by hearing Mrs. Burton cry: "Bravo!" and afterwards the applause of a dozen pairs of hands. [Illustration: On One Occasion Gerry and Felipe Discovered that They were Actually Dancing Alone] A little while before Felipe had lifted their right arms and he and Gerry had danced in and out in semi-circles until they formed the petals of a flower; reaching the center they revolved slowly in a circle, until almost ceasing to move. Mrs. Burton decided that seldom had she seen a more enchanting picture--Gerry with her delicate blonde prettiness, Felipe Morris so complete a contrast. But then a great deal may have been due to the effect of the outdoor scene and the moonlight! Before midnight, after dancing for several hours and after their long afternoon swim, the dancers must have grown weary, for they wandered off and sat down in little groups on the sand. This was Gerry's and Felipe's opportunity, for at once Felipe led her to a place where they were in sight of the others and yet where they could not be overheard. The rock Felipe had chosen rose above an amethyst carpet of sea verbena where Gerry sat enthroned while he lay down on the floral carpet. Felipe could adopt an attitude of careless grace with more assurance than the usual American youth. Indeed, he looked utterly unlike any of the other young men who were the guests of the Camp Fire girls this night. They wore their uniforms and were bronzed and fit. At this time the soldiers of the National Guard were beginning slowly to fill their new military camps, as they were to be the first regiments ordered to France after the regular army had crossed. The drafted men were not yet ready for service. During this memorable first summer, after the entry of the United States into the war, the lists of the drafted men were being prepared with great difficulty. Therefore no one of the soldier guests questioned Felipe Morris' position. It was presumed that he and Merton Anderson were in the attitude of waiting for their call to the colors. Among the small company only Gerry and Mrs. Burton and Merton Anderson were aware of Felipe's attempt to claim exemption. Naturally the matter was not one that he cared to discuss with strangers, and more especially not with young men near his own age, who had volunteered rather than wait for the drafting. However, Felipe was at present pleasantly sure of Gerry's sympathy. "Fine looking soldiers, our American warriors!" he began in a lazy, good-humored tone, which nevertheless held a slight suggestion of disparagement. "I suppose one ought to rejoice that there are some men among us who have the masculine passion for fighting so long as the Kaiser's Huns are still abroad in the world. But personally I don't feel I should make a success as a soldier." Such a conversation would not have made the slightest impression upon any one of the Sunrise Hill Camp Fire girls except Gerry. It was obvious that Felipe preferred some one else to shoulder his responsibility and do his duty. Selfishness is neither original nor unique! But Gerry was not given to deep reflection and was already more under her companion's influence than she realized. "When are we going to have a meeting together somewhere off to ourselves?" Felipe asked. "There are so many things I want to talk to you about; it is tantalizing to see you for only a few moments at a time now and then. Why can't you come over and stay again at the ranch? My father does nothing but read war news all day and either Shakespeare or Cervantes in the evening, so we would be virtually alone." The prospect sounded alluring to Gerry, nevertheless she slowly shook her head. "I should like it, of course," she answered, smiling and showing her small but very regular white teeth, "only, like a good many other pleasant things in this world, it is out of the question for me. I cannot stay at your home alone with just your father and yourself. Besides, your father would never think of inviting me, and although I should enjoy seeing you alone at some other time, I am afraid even that is impossible. Mrs. Burton would not----" Here Felipe laughed in a teasing fashion. "Is this the vaunted freedom of the American girl? I thought only the other evening you confided to me that you had always been forced to depend upon yourself ever since you were a little girl and that there had been no one in your life who had ever influenced your decisions! Now you speak of Mrs. Burton as if you were a tiny school girl. Let me assure you--if assurance be necessary--that I intended nothing wicked or even unconventional. I only wished you to take a walk with me some afternoon, or a sail. I have a motor boat, and there are hours when the sea is not rough. As a matter of fact, I meant to ask Mrs. Burton's permission, in case I had your consent first. Mrs. Burton strikes me as a charming person and not one who would be too strict a chaperon. Naturally, as I have spent all my life in this neighborhood, I know the attractive parts of the country." Felipe's tone was not so much annoyed as it was patronizing, and Gerry accepted it in this spirit. She disliked making social mistakes, and she had had so little social training and experience that she was apt to regard her mistakes as of more importance than they actually were. Now she supposed that she had misunderstood Felipe from the beginning and that her own stupidity had been at fault. So she replied somewhat humbly: "I am sorry. If Mrs. Burton is willing, of course I shall enjoy walking or sailing with you. But don't let me keep you away from the other girls too long tonight. Suppose we walk over and join Mrs. Burton." As if she intended rising, Gerry made a slight movement. Her companion did not stir. "Sit down, please, I am afraid you are angry," he returned. "I do wish I had my guitar with me; I should like to sing to you. Mrs. Burton asked me to bring it over tonight, but I had rather not sing before the others." So Gerry stayed on and allowed Felipe to talk, while she said little in reply, only glancing now and then from the figure at her feet to the beauty of the moonlit ocean. Vaguely she wondered why she had always been convinced she did not care for the outdoor world. It was stupid never to have realized its loveliness until tonight! But, while Gerry and Felipe were having their talk together, only a short distance away Lieutenant Geoffrey Carson and Bettina Graham were engaged in a very different character of conversation. It chanced that Lieutenant Carson, who was a Virginian, had an uncle who had been a representative in Congress for a number of years. Having visited his uncle, Lieutenant Carson had not only heard of Bettina's distinguished father, but had met him and knew of his effort to persuade his country to take her high place among the nations in the fight for a world-wide democracy. So, since Bettina Graham's father was her idol, she experienced none of her customary shyness in talking to the young National Guard officer. She had liked him in their former meetings, not resenting his quiet sense of humor, a contrast to her own seriousness. "Then you are in absolute sympathy with our having entered the war, Lieutenant Carson?" Bettina inquired, adding: "I think I always have been--and yet now and then one cannot help feeling that all war must be wrong." Before the young officer could reply, they heard some one approaching and glancing up Bettina discovered Billy Webster. The next moment, without awaiting their invitation, Billy took a seat on the sands beside them. Bettina was not surprised, for few persons who knew Billy intimately continued to be surprised by his unexpected actions. Indeed, they would have been surprised had he behaved otherwise. Now, although Bettina was a little annoyed at having her conversation interrupted, she made no effort to interfere with his intention. The turning of Billy Webster from the accomplishment of his desire required a tremendous amount of energy which the result scarcely ever justified. So far as Lieutenant Carson was concerned, because Billy looked so much younger than he actually was, he regarded him merely as a presuming small boy. Moreover, at the beginning of their talk, certainly Billy behaved like one. First he stared at Lieutenant Carson's dress uniform, with the single bar on his collar and sleeve and then up into the officer's firm, smooth-shaven face. Finally, leaning over close to his companion, he fastened his large visionary blue eyes upon the officer's steadfast brown ones. "Why did you do it?" Billy inquired. Then, because he was accustomed to being compelled to explain himself, he continued: "I mean why did you volunteer, why go through all the hard work and rigmarole to be appointed an officer in the army? You look as if you had an unusual lot of sense, so I cannot imagine that you do not understand there are finer things to do with one's life than killing people. I should think _you_ could see how much more men are called upon to conquer poverty and injustice and the crime that comes of it, than they are called upon to conquer one another. Of course if you had been drafted that would have been a different matter. Most people do what other people tell them to do. That is why I believe if all the leaders of the world would preach peace, all war would end." Instead of appearing to take the youthful pacifist seriously, Lieutenant Carson smiled. Billy was a little offensive and misguided, nevertheless there was something interesting about the boy; he had such an intense manner, such an appearance of being convinced of his own point of view. And Billy's personality suggested the thinker, not the man of action. "Then you are under the impression we are over there in our encampment for the fun of it and in order to kill time which we might be spending in better ways?" he inquired, thinking that perhaps he might answer Bettina's anxious questionings and Billy's impertinence at the same time. "Well, as a matter of fact, our encampment is not a very attractive place up to the present. Did you think so when you made us the visit? One job we have been tackling recently is to clear away the underbrush from a good many thousands of acres of desert which have remained undisturbed from the year one until now. We killed ninety rattlesnakes as a part of the first day's work. Later on we are going to drive artillery across those wastes of sand. Does not sound like play, does it?" "No," Billy returned patiently, wondering why people would not sometimes answer his questions directly, without first preaching long sermons which seemed to have but little bearing upon them. "It is because I think a soldier's life is so hard and must be so distasteful to a lot of men that I wonder why you would rather give your energy to fighting than to trying to make the world happier and wiser in other ways." Lieutenant Carson frowned. He knew the things Billy was saying were being said by a good many people the world over, who were older and wiser, or who should have been wiser, than Billy. But he also realized that these same sentiments were not easy to answer, because they had in them so much of the germ of truth, which was to blossom and flower at some future day. Moreover, unexpectedly he experienced an impulse to help the boy to see the present world struggle in a clearer light. "Billy," he added, "you will agree with me, won't you, that pretty nearly everybody is saying the same thing these days? We all claim that we wish the world to enjoy universal peace, that we long for greater justice and happiness and a deeper sense of brotherhood. There is only one point that divides you and me just at present. We all want peace, but some of us want it so much that we are willing to pay for it by the final last sacrifice of our youth and our blood. There are others who think it may be obtained, and apparently you are one of them, simply by sitting still and talking the whole subject over. This is pretty difficult as things are at present. So long as the devil is such a scrapper, those of us who believe in the triumph of right have got to learn to fight back harder and even more successfully than he can fight." Billy was silent for a moment, then with an egotism which was eminently characteristic, he remarked: "Well, perhaps that is the way some people must see the thing. Do you know I have always believed that some day I am going to have a tremendous influence upon people just through talking to them." Then, by the time Lieutenant Carson had recovered from his surprise at Billy's audacity, he had made up his mind that the hour had arrived for their return to camp. CHAPTER XII "As You Like It" The more Mrs. Burton dwelt upon the idea of giving a play for the recreation fund of the soldiers, the more the idea pleased her. Upon going more deeply into the subject she discovered that an effort was being made to secure funds for the building of a theater in each war camp in the United States. To initiate the movement and to be the first contributor to the fund here in their immediate neighborhood, Mrs. Burton realized would give her great pleasure. If her fellow players were offering to act at these theaters, traveling from one to the other in a regular circuit during the coming winter, then surely the theaters should be provided! Moreover, after having first suffered a natural objection to acting with novices, Mrs. Burton changed her point of view to the extent of considering that it might be rather charming to play with her own Camp Fire girls in a comedy fresh and sparkling as Shakespeare's "As You Like It." The play itself was in the spirit of a summer vacation, full of the outdoors and delicious improbabilities. Besides the effort would be a valuable experience for her Camp Fire girls. Captain Burton had written, expressing not only his approval of the suggestion, but a real enthusiasm, provided Mrs. Burton felt well enough to undertake it. Also he suggested that Mrs. Burton find some professional actor in California who would play _Orlando_ to her _Rosalind_. Then the contrast between her acting and that of her amateur company need not be so conspicuous. He also proposed that she secure the assistance of a professional stage manager to assist in the training of her players. In the beginning of their discussion concerning the production of "As You Like It," Mrs. Burton had announced as insurmountable the obstacle that the cast required a greater number of men than of women characters. It appeared that the girls already had considered this fact and were prepared with a proposal. Peggy and Bettina had talked the matter over quietly with Lieutenant Carson on the night of their dance, begging him not to speak of it if nothing came of their idea. But they were thus able to report that Lieutenant Carson believed his commanding officer would permit a few of the soldiers to act with them in "As You Like It," provided the rehearsals did not interfere with their army work. Later, when the performance became an actual possibility, Lieutenant Carson inquired among his soldier companions until he discovered the men who had some past dramatic experience and would also be acceptable in a social way. Besides the soldiers Mrs. Burton later on invited Felipe Morris and Merton Anderson to become members of her cast. Merton Anderson declined. No one knew the reason for his refusal except Sally Ashton, who, as a matter of fact, had begged him not to take part. Personally she did not approve of the outdoor play and had no idea of making the effort necessary to portray the least important character. Therefore Sally did not wish her latest admirer to become involved in an interest which would separate him from her society. Felipe Morris appeared delighted to take part, and it was his aid which Mrs. Burton desired. She was confident that he would be able to act with unusual grace and self-assurance for a novice, and at least he possessed good looks and a naturally artistic temperament. Moreover, Mrs. Burton and Felipe's father had become good friends, so that she believed that Mr. Morris would be pleased to have Felipe drawn into an intimate association with certain of the soldiers of the National Guard, trusting that they might influence him. Personally Mrs. Burton thought the one thing necessary was to entice Felipe away from his music and his indolent dreaming into the world of real men where he would awaken to his duty. She knew of his friendship with Gerry and of the somewhat marked interest they apparently felt in each other, but she did not take the fact seriously. Already he had asked several times that he and Gerry be allowed to spend an afternoon together and Mrs. Burton had promptly consented. No longer did she cherish the illusion that she could hide away her Camp Fire girls in even the remotest corners of the globe without their being discovered. Therefore, after her foolish alarm over Bettina and her unconventional Indian friendship, she had concluded not to be so nervous a second time, but to trust to the discretion of the girls themselves. Among the seven Camp Fire girls Gerry was exceptionally pretty and so could not fail to receive attention. But not for a single moment did Mrs. Burton dream that there was anything more than a superficial attraction between Gerry and Felipe. Of course she considered Gerry too young, not realizing that Felipe Morris was four years her senior and that Gerry's history had made her older than most girls of her age. Yet after the verdict was reached and the actors secured, there still remained many details to be settled, the most important being the selection of the characters for the production of the Shakespearean comedy. Then, although there was a good deal of discussion, and Mrs. Burton allowed a free expression of opinion, in each choice she remained the court of final decision. It was she who at the beginning of the discussion settled upon Marta Clark for the character of _Celia_, sweet cousin to _Rosalind_ and second only in importance. In consequence Marta, who had not expected the honor, suffered a confusion of emotions, surprise, pleasure, alarm! Mrs. Burton had not forgotten their absurd first meeting, nor Marta's shy confession of an ambition to follow in her footsteps. If she had ability--and it was more than probable since her brother had lately written a clever play showing a dramatic gift in the family--Mrs. Burton had every intention of aiding Marta in her desire when the right moment arrived. This would be but a slight return in memory of the friend who so generously had helped her in the old days. Moreover, Mrs. Burton felt that she and Marta must learn to know each other better. To play beside her as _Celia_, to be with each other constantly at rehearsals would not only afford her the chance to test Marta's talent, but would give them an opportunity to become better friends. Marta possessed vivacity, a love of poetry and of nature; these things Mrs. Burton had found out. Also her face depended upon the passing mood for its charm, a superior gift to beauty in an emotional actress. Gerry Williams and Peggy were to impersonate _Phebe_, a shepherdess, and _Audrey_, a country wench, after a good-natured argument in which Peggy insisted upon this division of honors because of Gerry's superior prettiness. _Touchstone_, the gay clown in "As You Like It," sings several of the most charming ballads in all Shakespeare. Because of his beautiful voice and his grace as a dancer Mrs. Burton begged Felipe Morris to play _Touchstone_, and he appeared pleased to accept. Lieutenant Carson agreed to portray _Jaques_, whose soliloquy, "All the world's a stage," is one of the greatest speeches in English literature. Dan Webster determined upon the character of _Adam_, servant to _Orlando_, while Billy Webster together with Sally Ashton refused to show the slightest interest in the approaching performance. The other members of the cast were the officers and soldiers from the nearby cantonment. They expressed a great deal of enthusiasm over the relief the rehearsals afforded from the hard physical labor of these early days of their army training. Moreover, they would not even attempt to express their pleasure in associating so informally with a number of agreeable girls. Bettina, Alice and Vera Lagerloff were to be ladies-in-waiting at the court of the _Duke_. If Sally Ashton's refusal to play any part was due to her inherent indolence, Billy's lack of interest was ascribable to the wholly opposite cause. Now and then for a passing moment when she had time to think of her always erratic nephew, Mrs. Burton wished that Billy had been yielding to his usual slothfulness. But recently he had awakened to an amazing energy and was working as he never had worked in his life. After his brief conversation with Lieutenant Carson, for no reason which he chose to explain, Billy proceeded to find out whatever was possible in regard to the details of the new war camps. The monthly magazines and newspapers to which his aunt, or any one else at Sunrise camp subscribed, he searched diligently for all war information. Then he would disappear on long walks, announcing on his return that he had been over in the direction of the new National Guard cantonment, following the railroad tracks which had recently been laid from the city. Finally he imparted the surprising information that he had secured work as a day laborer at the war camp, Mr. Jefferson Simpson having vouched for him. Moreover, Billy declared that he had given his aunt's name as a security for his trustworthiness and that Captain Mason had remembered his original visit to camp with Mrs. Burton's party. Of Billy's value as a day laborer his family and friends felt extremely uncertain. But Billy explained that he was only expected to stand around and to hand the carpenters who were at work the tools they happened to need at the moment. He also carried buckets of water back and forth and in short did whatever chores he was ordered to do. Mrs. Webster and Peggy were touched by Billy's unexpected display of patriotism, knowing how abhorrent labor of this kind had always been to him. Never, except under absolute coercion, had Billy ever performed the slightest manual work upon their own farm! Mrs. Burton, Dan Webster and even the usually trustful Vera were not so enthusiastic over Billy's latest departure. Without confessing the fact, they suffered vague discomfort. What possible plan had Billy in mind? If one only could believe he had chosen this method of "doing his bit!" But this would have been a commonplace attitude, and Billy was never commonplace. There were moments when Mrs. Burton wondered if Billy were intent upon preaching his childish ideas upon pacifism and had chosen the one place where they would be most troublesome and dangerous! However, she was too deeply absorbed in making a success of the play which she and the Camp Fire girls had undertaken to allow much time to the consideration of her nephew. The Camp Fire girls were learning to know their guardian in a new light. Under ordinary circumstances she was extremely lenient and more than willing to allow them to do as they liked. But now they were to see her not in a holiday mood, but as an artist at work at her task. Since they had insisted upon the production of "As You Like It," the penalty rested upon them. Therefore she would suffer no idleness and accept no excuses for delay or carelessness. At one of the rehearsals, Peggy having appeared uncertain of her lines, was publicly lectured and sent back to her tent with the suggestion that if she were unwilling to do her duty, some one else had best take her place. CHAPTER XIII Human Psychology Billy Webster, who had difficulty in living peacefully and happily with the people in his own walk of life, possessed a curious genius for making himself popular with the so-called "working classes." At first the workmen at the new National Guard camp paid no especial attention to the delicate looking boy who suddenly appeared among them. But in a short time Billy proved unexpectedly useful. For one thing he made no effort to talk. He merely stood about in places where he thought he might be of service, doing what he was told and asking no questions. Several times he displayed an intelligent initiative. And when each man is trying to do the work of two or three, every small saving of unnecessary effort through some one else counts. At the present time there were fifteen hundred laborers employed on the cantonment. They were building barracks and small wooden bungalows and large store-houses for provisions and supplies from the ordnance and quartermaster departments. Every hour or so freight had to be unloaded from cars, so that they might be removed from the tracks and others take their place. The soldiers were more often employed in the construction of roads and the clearing away of a century's growth of underbrush. There was little in the camp that escaped Billy's quiet observation. The very fact that he did not talk, when ordinarily he had a passion as well as a gift for conversation was in itself a suspicious circumstance. For once in his life Billy was finding it more worth while to listen and receive information rather than to impart his own ideas. At first the great drawback was that the laborers did not have time, or else they did not feel the inclination to talk at all seriously. They would simply exchange jokes with one another, or sing snatches of popular songs. The laborers belonged to a company under bond to the government that there would be no traitors employed at the war camps. Therefore if the men held any views connected with the war, they gave no expression to them. Moreover, the officers and soldiers were constantly in and out among the men at all hours. Nevertheless, Billy became more and more convinced that if a man were willing to sacrifice his own life in case he were discovered, it was impossible even with the strictest regulations to avoid the peril of a spy. One day at lunch time the boy was sitting alone in the shadow made by a pile of lumber, which afforded a little relief from the heat of the noon sun, when two of his fellow laborers came and sat down only a few feet away. They saw him, of course, but seemed not to resent his presence; so, after smiling with the innocent, boyish expression peculiar to him, Billy continued eating. He brought his lunch with him every day in a basket as the other laborers did. One of the two men, whom he thought a Swede, was rather an especial friend, although the only fashion in which they so far had expressed their friendliness was by smiling whenever they met. He was a dull, good-natured fellow, blond and mild of manner. "Seems a pity to have to bring all these boys away from their homes and their mothers and sweethearts to plant them down in this desert in the heat of summer," he remarked to his companion, after he had bitten off a large hunk of sour bread and was slowly chewing on it like a cud. Finally, taking out his soiled handkerchief, he wiped the perspiration from his forehead. "I have not been in the West very long, and it is sure enough God's country?" the blond workman went on. "But what a lot of waste land waiting for men to water and then plough and sow it! I thought all this desert land was soon to be redeemed and now all the young men have to go away from their own country into another land to fight. Sometimes it's a hard thing for a dull, common man to understand the good of war." Billy stopped eating and slid over a few feet nearer. His blue eyes were beginning to shine. "Wouldn't it be great if each man who has pledged his life to serve his country would do some deed which would _save_ life instead of _taking_ it?" he demanded. Then Billy paused and grew hot and cold by turns. He was not very sure of what he was trying to argue except in a vague fashion, and there was something about his last remark which held a suggestion of treason. He did not intend being disloyal. It was only that his preconceived ideas of right and wrong had been greatly troubled by the present war, and Billy was not willing to accept conditions as he found them, possessing the spirit which must solve its own problems. He reddened as he found his new acquaintances staring at him suspiciously. "Then you think peace brings the great mass of the people better fortune than war?" asked the other man, who had been quiet until now. He was a little, dark man, probably of Italian origin. Billy hesitated. "I don't know," he answered, "I only believe peace should make men wiser and kinder to each other. But recently everything has gotten so dreadfully mixed in my mind, I can't be sure of anything. Perhaps I am mistaken." "War has to be, young man," Billy's mild-mannered friend announced, nodding his head. "Yes, that is what everybody says," the boy agreed. Then the somewhat pointless conversation was obliged to end, as the hour for lunch had passed. Among the experiences which Billy Webster was particularly enjoying at this time were his long walks back and forth from the place where he was spending his nights to the scene of his daily labors. For, literally, he only spent his nights at the Sunrise camp. He arrived at home after the others had finished dinner, and rose and went away each morning just after daylight. But instead of the long, fatiguing walks, added to the unusual work of the war camp, injuring Billy's health--never had he appeared so strong and well. Not that any one, aside from his mother, was paying particular attention to Billy's vagaries. Even Vera Lagerloff, for the first time in their long friendship, temporarily was neglecting Billy's welfare in her enthusiasm over the approaching production of "As You Like It." However, Billy rejoiced in his new freedom. He took pleasure in slipping out of his tent in the early morning, leaving Dan still asleep. Then he would prepare his own breakfast of coffee, fruit and eggs which were always left where he could readily find them. Afterwards, with his basket of lunch that his mother made ready the night before, Billy would move quietly off. Even the dawns in this southwestern world were unlike the dawns Billy remembered in his own New Hampshire hills. Not that he would have claimed the New Hampshire hills as his possession because of a mere accident of birth. Billy cared infinitely more for the softness, the warmth and strangeness of this new country and climate than he had ever cared for the austerity of New England. It was awakening in him new strength and new purposes which so far he scarcely understood. The way the dawn broke here in the western coast Billy particularly loved; it was so serene. There was not the drear, melancholy darkness and then the swift coming of light. But first a pearl-gray mist covered the sky, afterwards lavender and rose shone behind it and finally a pure gold, with the ocean as a mirror of the sky. A part of the trip he could make by street car, nevertheless this left many miles to be traveled at either end of the line. However, as Billy wished to think things out for himself, these walks afforded a wonderful opportunity. The difficulty of his life had always been due to his refusal to accept any judgment except his own. He honestly could not understand why his family even thought they had the right to interfere with him. Yet now he was up against the great fact of human discipline, the law which so often forces us to submit to a higher power. The boys at the National Guard camp were not much older than himself, at least some of them were not. Nevertheless they were engaged upon tasks which he knew must be hard and distasteful and were prepared to face far worse things later on. Some of them had thought the question over for a long time, nearly three years in fact, until they were prepared to fight the enemy, body and soul, to a finish. Others of the soldiers were not given to thinking, but were obeying a good fighting instinct. All of them, however, were acknowledging an authority higher than their own and obeying a higher will. Often Billy wondered how he should feel if the war lasted long enough to make the same demand upon him? Would he give up his belief in peace and the unrighteousness of war to serve as a common soldier in the ranks? And even if he did do this, was it in him to make a good soldier, to sacrifice himself for a common cause? Sometimes Billy prayed to be delivered from the test. Yet whatever his own mental problems, there was one big fact of which Billy became daily more assured and that was his tremendous personal admiration for the new National Guard soldiers. Certainly theirs was the road of heroism and self-sacrifice, while the pacifists, even if right in principle, were skulking behind the protection the soldiers gave to them. There were moments when Billy became a little scornful of the pacifists, himself included, who preferred the easiest way. Ordinarily the boy took his long tramps to and from camp alone, but on the day after his brief conversation with the two workmen, the men joined him at the close of the day, walking for a short distance one on either side. Billy felt absurdly proud, as if the men at last regarded him as one of them. They even spoke of labor unions in his presence and Billy was glad to announce that he approved of unions. Afterwards, perhaps four or five days later, Billy did not return to the Sunrise camp, even at the comparatively late hour which had become his habit. Mrs. Webster suffered a good deal of uneasiness. Billy explained that he had been compelled to go into the nearest town on important business, so she was not to worry. One could scarcely say beforehand what demands war work might make upon one's time and strength. Mrs. Webster steeled herself to bear the strain, even when Billy's new passion for helping to win the war kept him away from the Sunrise camp until nearly midnight for several nights in succession. Just at this time she was extremely busy assisting with the preparation of the costumes for the Sunrise Camp Fire production of "As You Like It." In spite of the fact that Mrs. Burton had sent east for several trunks of costumes, there were many alterations to be made, and every member of the entire cast, maid and man, asked of Mrs. Webster either advice or aid, or both. No matter how great her weariness, Mrs. Webster always remained awake until her son's return, in order that she might know he was well and have him eat a carefully saved-over dinner. Gently Billy endeavored to persuade his mother to give up this plan, insisting that he always had food in town. But although Mrs. Webster made no effort to interfere with his actions, on this one point she was adamant. She must be sure that her son was safely at camp in order to be able to sleep. Realizing this to be true, for several nights Billy returned to camp at the usual time. Then a night arrived when he reached home even later than before. It chanced that on this night, without Billy's being aware of the fact, Mrs. Burton and her cast had been going through a dress rehearsal of their play. When Billy finally reached camp, the Sunrise Hill tents were dark and still. Yet to the left a camp fire was burning and a woman's figure was seated near it. A pang of remorse stirred Billy, in spite of his own weariness. Coming forward with his arms outstretched, instead of his mother, he discovered Vera Lagerloff. "Goodness, Vera, I never saw you look so wonderful!" Billy exclaimed, bowing with the air of a courtier and a grace which he knew well how to assume. For Vera was wearing a court costume, a skirt of a deep rose-colored satin and a polonaise and basque of white with a design of roses. Her dark hair was piled high on her head and her cheeks were slightly rouged, since every preparation for the actual stage performance had been made. Billy had never seen Vera so handsome, nor dreamed it possible that she could ever look as she did tonight. But then Billy had thought little of Vera's appearance, or of that of any other girl. He had simply cared for her with a curious boyish selfishness and affection. Unconsciously he always planned his future with Vera beside him to hear of his trials and conquests, but had never thought of how this could be managed. Yet tonight Vera paid no attention to his unusual flattery. Her expression suggested annoyance and reproach. "Wait here, Billy, I'll find you something to eat. I made your mother go to bed and she and Mrs. Burton agreed that I might wait for you." But Billy would not let her go. "I'm not hungry, Vera. Besides you look like a queen, not a kitchen maid. What's up? Fire away." "That is what I wish to have you tell _me_," Vera returned, with the deep and abiding gentleness, which usually overcame Billy's obstinacy where other people and other methods failed. He laughed. "I thought as much. Nothing doing, Vera. I am not going to tell anybody anything. Yes, I know I promised not to get into mischief again, after that last escapade of mine. But what did it amount to, going to jail for a little while, it was merely an interesting experience!" Billy took Vera's hand in his own almost equally slender one, since Vera's was the hand of a peasant ancestry and Billy's the opposite. "See here, dear, I am not sorry to have you and mother and Tante begin worrying about me, fearing I am going to do something foolish. You never seem to think me capable of anything else. But this time, between you and me, Vera, if I could tell you what is interesting me right now--and I confess it is not only my work at the war camp, although it has a close connection--well, I don't believe you would consider me foolish." "Then, why won't you tell me what is interesting you, Billy? You know I don't always think ideas are foolish, but oftentimes I don't think your judgment wise. Besides, I am afraid something may happen to you!" Billy shook his head, still holding her hand with boyish affection. "These are war times, Vera. You and I used to disagree on the subject--one of the first questions we have ever seriously disagreed upon since we were little children. Anyhow, what I am interested in at present has something to do with the war. I cannot tell you details, as I must not confide in any one just now. Only promise me you'll see that mother does not worry and that neither she nor Tante makes a scene to try to force me into giving up my present work. I should simply go on with it anyhow, Vera." Vera sighed. The problem of Billy Webster had always been too much for other people. Was he in the future to become a problem too big for her? CHAPTER XIV The Night of the Play During the weeks of rehearsal before the performance of "As You Like It," the Camp Fire girls and the young officers and soldiers from the National Guard camp had delightful opportunities for developing new friendships. When the emotion which existed between Felipe Morris and Gerry Williams became more than an ordinary friendship, the chances for exchanging confidences were more frequent than one would readily guess. Felipe possessed a talent for pursuing the ends he desired in a quiet, unostentatious fashion. There were moments when merely passing by Gerry with other people near, he would whisper a few words which only she could hear. Then, when neither of them expected to be called for their share in a rehearsal, they used to slip away together to some secluded place for more intimate conversations. The final rehearsals took place at the open-air theater near one of the most fashionable seaside resorts in southern California, and Felipe was familiar with the coast and the surrounding country. There were no long, dull waits for them between the moments when they were actually upon the stage, no sense of fatigue and boredom of which the other amateur players occasionally complained. Gerry appeared to be happy to listen and Felipe to talk to her indefinitely. Of course the other actors were aware of Gerry's and Felipe's interest in each other and tried teasing them now and then, but since neither denied the fact, the effort lost its piquancy. Nor were Mrs. Burton and Mrs. Webster entirely blind, although they did not accept the situation seriously. It was ridiculous to presume that every friendship between a girl and a man must be regarded with solemnity. Nevertheless it is more than possible that if Mrs. Burton had not been so absorbed in the coming performance she would have noticed some tell-tale circumstances. Her extreme preoccupation was her chief excuse. She did mention to her sister several times that she never had seen Gerry look so pretty or appear as happy as she had for the past few weeks. "Why, the child is like a field of wild flowers; her hair is the color of buttercups, her eyes are cornflowers and her cheeks----" But here Mrs. Burton's flow of imagery had been stopped by Mrs. Webster's protest. "Please don't be so absurd, Polly. You know conversation of that character merely strikes me as foolish." So Mrs. Burton had laughed and the subject of Gerry was dismissed. Gerry was becoming aware of a change in her own life, not in her mere appearance, but in a way far deeper. There were moments when she even hoped her own drab, lonely existence was past forever and that a life as radiant as these past weeks would endure. She tried not to hope too much from Felipe's manner and the kind things he said to her now and then. Of course she was too young for him to think of seriously. Nevertheless Gerry could not refrain from occasionally seeing a happy image of herself at the old ranch with Felipe and his father! In her dream the old house was not in its present dilapidated condition, but had been made beautiful and luxurious following the plans which Felipe had more than once confided to her. For always he talked of beautifying his old home and of his music and travel and of other delightful things, but never of war, or self-sacrifice, or hard work. Felipe had not been informed whether his claim for exemption from war service had been accepted, and yet he seemed to regard the matter as settled. So Gerry also forgot what was going on in the world about them, forgot what was being required of other young men, even though she had daily talks with the soldiers. But at last the night for the public performance of "As You Like It" arrived. The Camp Fire girls had not erred in their prediction that their guardian's reputation was sufficient to insure them a large audience. Mrs. Burton had secured the aid of a well-known California actor, Arthur Whitney, to play _Orlando_ to her _Rosalind_. For the past two weeks he had been living in one of the hotels near the open-air theater, where he had many friends. In the neighboring cities and towns the newspapers had devoted columns of unpaid advertising to notices of the play and the opportunity it afforded for seeing the famous American actress. Added to this was the fact that the proceeds from the performance were to be devoted to the recreation fund for the boys in the southern California cantonment. Long before the night of the performance, every ticket of admission to the theater had been sold, and as much standing room as possible. Fronting the entrance to the open-air theater stood three or four palm trees so trimmed as to give the effect of a green canopy. Inside the theater were rows of rustic benches and in the foreground the open-air stage surrounded by a background of shrubs. Around the enclosure was a thick hedge. Once inside the little theater and one was in so unique a setting, it was as if one were shut away in an enchanted world. No more charming place could have been discovered for the performance of Shakespeare's comedy. The atmosphere and the scenery of the "Forest of Arden" were already secure. A thrill of anticipation ran through the audience with the tinkling of a number of bells to announce the opening of the play. Then the actors entered from behind a screen of shrubs to the left of the stage. The first conversation is between _Orlando_ and old _Adam_. The real interest of the audience waited, of course, upon the appearance of the star, and soon after _Rosalind_ and _Celia_ appeared on the lawn before the _Duke's_ palace. Mrs. Burton had played the character of _Rosalind_ many times; the courage and gaiety of one of the most charming of all Shakespeare's heroines were essentially her own characteristics. Tonight, on making her entrance, she had to pause for a moment to acknowledge the storm of applause. The first speech was _Marta's_, and Mrs. Burton was glad of the respite, remembering her own tragic first appearance and wondering if Marta could be suffering half so much. Several times before the actual performance, she had been afraid that her solicitude for her amateur company would seriously interfere with her own acting. Marta managed her first speech as _Celia_ bravely. If one recalls her line, it is a brief one: "I pray thee, Rosalind, sweet my coz, be merry." Then _Rosalind_ takes the center of the stage and while she is there, but few eyes are turned away from her. All the grace and charm of the one-time Polly O'Neill returned to the great actress in the hours when she was playing, and now added to her natural gifts were the long years of experience and training. Tonight Mrs. Burton's voice charmed her audience with its peculiar magic, her every movement kept one fascinated. Marta Clark too scored a distinct success as _Celia_. She had been awkward and self-conscious at rehearsals and no one had believed in her. But whether she needed the spur of the actual production, or had learned more than any one realized from playing with Mrs. Burton, certainly she showed unusual ease and pliancy for an amateur actress. More than once during the performance Mrs. Burton managed to whisper her congratulations, stirring Marta to fresh efforts. Gerry did not do a great deal of acting, but as _Phebe_ she was such a ravishingly pretty shepherdess that one thought of little else. Peggy's character study of _Audrey_, the country wench, showed such an amusing combination of stupidity and common sense that in spite of the unimportance of the part, she won a real triumph. Lieutenant Carson at least presented a fine appearance as the melancholy _Jaques_. The one failure among the company of youthful artists was Felipe Morris, upon whose natural ability Mrs. Burton and all the other players had depended. It was surprising, for during all the rehearsals Felipe had always acted so agreeably that even the stage manager had only words of praise for him. Yet the _Touchstone_ who danced gracefully out before the footlights on the occasion of the real performance was a different _Touchstone_. By a kind of natural instinct Mrs. Burton instantly recognized the fact. Even through his make-up and his motley costume of stripes and caps and bells, one could discern that Felipe's thoughts were not concentrated upon his performance. _Touchstone_ spoke his lines with the proper combination of drollery and impertinence, yet there was no suggestion of real wit or merriment. The very jangling of his bells was depressing. Once in a hurried moment behind the scenes Mrs. Burton managed to inquire: "Is there anything the matter, Felipe? Are you not well?" Felipe only laughed and shook his head. "What should be the matter? Am I falling down on my part? I shall try and brace up in the next act." If _Touchstone_ was a failure in his acting, Felipe sang as never before. It was not Gerry alone, listening behind the scenes, who was completely fascinated. One of _Touchstone's_ ballads is of the eternal romance of love and spring time. Felipe's voice held a freshness, a clear sweetness that went straight to the hearts of his audience. "It was a lover and his lass, With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, That o'er the green corn-field did pass In the spring time, the only pretty ring time, When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding; Sweet lovers love the spring." The play was finally over, and if the curtain could not be rung down, at least the players bowed their thanks and farewells, standing together in a long line with Mrs. Burton in the center. In order that they might avoid the confusion and fatigue of meeting so many strangers and receiving their congratulations after the play had ended, Mrs. Burton previously had invited her company of actors to motor over to Sunrise camp to a supper party as soon as they could slip away. Gerry was returning in the motor with Mrs. Burton. She chanced to be standing alone for a moment waiting for the others who were shaking hands with some new acquaintances, when Felipe Morris touched her upon the arm. "Gerry, I must speak to you by yourself tonight after we reach the Sunrise camp. Please, no matter what happens, let nothing interfere with my seeing you. I have something to tell you and something to ask you which will affect all our future." CHAPTER XV "I Will Marry You, if Ever I Marry Woman" To Gerry Williams it seemed as if their long supper party would never end. The supper was served outdoors on a number of small tables. Through an accident Gerry was seated at so great a distance from Felipe that it was not possible to see his face and so guess from his expression something of what he desired to tell her. Gerry was puzzled. If what he wished to say had to do with their future happiness, why had he looked so disturbed? And why should it be imperative that he make his confession tonight? Already it was late, past midnight, and they were both weary. There would be tomorrow and other days. Really she would have preferred not to talk with Felipe alone tonight. To slip away from the others would be difficult, and without Mrs. Burton's consent Gerry did not like the idea. Yet she did not dare ask for permission, being convinced that because of the lateness of the hour her request would be refused. She felt that she must do what Felipe had begged of her. There had been something in his manner at once imperative and beseeching. An unaccustomed shyness, almost a sense of fear, had seized upon Gerry; nevertheless she was prepared to follow Felipe's bidding, no matter how difficult. To eat or talk gaily to the others was hard. In a half-hearted fashion, Gerry accomplished both results. Immediately after the supper was finished the guests began saying their farewells. The hour was long past the one when the young officers and soldiers were required to return to the cantonment. But owing to the play and Mrs. Burton's efforts in their behalf, they had received a special permit from the officer in command of their camp to remain away several hours later than their regulations demanded. In the midst of the good-bys Gerry and Felipe moved swiftly toward each other. "We must get away _now_, Felipe, while no one is thinking of us. I can only talk to you for a moment." Even as she spoke Gerry was walking toward the beach with the young man following. In this way at least what they had to say to each other would not be overheard. There was no nearby place where they could actually escape observation. In front of Sunrise camp the beach stretched long and level, broken only by small rocks, which afforded a shadow, not a shelter. Behind the little group of tents and Mrs. Burton's house were the level fields of a great ranch. There were no trees worthy of the name in sight. "But I can't say what I must to you in _one_ minute, Gerry. I must have time to explain many things. Surely you will go somewhere else with me. Here on the open beach we may be interrupted at any moment." Gerry only moved on more rapidly. "I don't know where else to go, Felipe. We can walk along the beach until perhaps we are out of sight of the others. Then afterwards I can tell Mrs. Burton that we only intended taking a short walk." "Very well," Felipe murmured, but Gerry could guess that he was annoyed. "I suppose to a girl, Gerry, conventions are dearer than anything else in life. So since what I intend is to ask you to break one of them, perhaps I might as well not speak to you," he began, when they had nearly reached the water. The ocean was not so calm as usual tonight on this particular line of coast. Great waves were rolling in, breaking and curling in white spirals of foam. If there had been a storm, it was somewhere out in the ocean, for although there was no moon the stars were everywhere a shining glory. "I don't know what you mean, Felipe," Gerry answered quietly. She was still wearing her lovely shepherdess costume of pale blue and white, the pointed bodice and panniers of blue satin, the skirt and sleeves of muslin and lace. Mrs. Burton had insisted on Gerry's using a long white coat which was her property, so coming back in the motor she had slipped this on over her dress. Now the wind was blowing the coat open, revealing the soft comeliness of the satin and lace costume beneath. Her shepherdess hat she had discarded and instead had tied a blue chiffon scarf around her hair. Nevertheless, in spite of her frivolous and charming costume, Gerry Williams' expression was entirely serious. "No, of course you do not understand. I am sorry," Felipe apologized. "You see, it has been such a horrible evening for me with all the foolishness of the play and my acting a clown's part, when I have been wishing every minute to get you away and tell you what has happened." "But what _has_ happened?" Gerry inquired anxiously and yet with patience. "The exemption board has refused my claim. I only heard the pleasant news late this afternoon," Felipe answered. Gerry's first sensation was one of intense personal sympathy. Simply and naturally she slipped her hand inside Felipe's. "I don't know what to say to you. I am so grieved for you. It is too dreadful, your being forced to join the army when you so hate the whole idea. Can't something more be done? Surely you and your father must have influence out here!" Felipe shook his head. "Influence does not count; besides, if father has any influence he would not use it in my behalf, not in this connection. When I told him this afternoon what had occurred he merely said: 'I wish you had done your duty in the beginning, my son, without bringing the stigma of disgrace upon our name by trying to escape your responsibility. I did not suppose your claim for exemption would be considered, as your excuse was too flimsy.'" For an instant Gerry hesitated, then she said, her voice shaking. "I do not mean to be rude, but I can not understand your father. You are his only son and are no relation to me, and yet it does not seem to me I can bear your going over to France, where you will be so unhappy, where you may be wounded. But I must not talk of these things. How soon must you begin your training, Felipe, and do you think you will be in a camp near your home?" Until this instant Gerry had not considered herself, had not realized the failure of her dream. Now she had a little sinking sense of loneliness and disappointment. Nevertheless Felipe was still first in her thoughts. "I wish I could do something to help you." "You can, Gerry," Felipe returned, strengthening his hold on her hand. "I am not going to be drafted, Gerry. I am going over the border into Mexico tomorrow to remain until the war is over. I told you that I had no difficulty in being taken for a Mexican. I can speak the language and I don't look unlike one. This isn't an entirely new idea on my part, for I have been thinking and planning what I should do if my exemption claim were refused. I tell you I can not endure a soldier's existence, the dirt and the hard work and the discipline and then worse, blood and suffering and death. For even if all this does not come to me, I must see it. Oh, I know I am not a _man_, Gerry, and you probably despise me for feeling like this. But I can not help it. I was born for beauty and happiness, for music and--well, we are not all made alike." "No, Felipe, I don't despise you; I think I understand," Gerry replied instantly. But there was no question with her of understanding. She was thinking of Felipe's happiness, of his safety. "Isn't it pretty dangerous what you are planning to do? If you are caught won't you be imprisoned?" she asked. Felipe nodded. "Yes, but I am going to take the chance. It is worth the danger to me." "You are intending to say good-by to me tonight then?" Gerry questioned. "I am glad you told me. No one in the world will ever be able to force your secret from me." "Then you could be brave for my sake?" Felipe demanded. But when Gerry did not answer, he began walking impatiently up and down within a few feet of her. "I don't know what to say or do, Gerry," he continued after a moment. "I am not a rogue and I do not want to do you an injustice. But you told me once that you had no people of your own, that your father is dead and that your mother always has left you in common boarding houses, with no one to look after you, since you were a tiny girl. You told me that you had no real friend until Mrs. Burton took a fancy to you and has tried to give you some happiness. Now I can't bear the thought of your going so far away to live by yourself when I care for you so much. After tonight we may never even be able to see each other again in many years. Still I realize that you are very young, Gerry, and the fact that I am four or five years older makes the whole thing much more my responsibility than yours. Besides there is the danger of your crossing into Mexico with me and being forced to live there, one cannot say how long." Gerry appeared utterly bewildered and unhappy. "But what do you mean, Felipe? I don't think I understand you." "I mean I am asking you to marry me, Gerry." Felipe answered with an entire softening of his manner and expression. "But I realize I am asking you more than that, because I want you to marry me without telling any one and then slip over the border into Mexico with me to live until the war is past. If anything happens and I am caught, why, at least you will be safe, for my father will look after you. I did not want to ask you to marry me in this way, Gerry, I do not like the idea any more than you do. I had planned to tell you I cared for you and to tell Mrs. Burton also. I was even willing to wait for a year or more if you both thought it necessary. But now this difficulty of mine alters everything, and these are war times, when one is not expected to behave in an ordinary fashion." In order to insure his own way, Felipe was in truth a good pleader. Besides, Gerry was already deeply under his influence. Now Felipe's unexpected request made her both happy and unhappy, for she could not fail to be glad that he cared for her, although she knew she had no right to agree to his request. The ethical side of the question of Felipe's intention to escape military service apparently made no impression upon Gerry one way or the other; the question seemed so entirely his to decide. Her feeling was merely that she could not bear to marry him and not tell even Mrs. Burton until afterwards. If she were a little older she believed the situation would have appeared less formidable, then she would have had a clearer right to decide for herself. Under the circumstances she must not consider Felipe's suggestion even for a moment. Yet she had only to answer, "No," and things would be as before. For Felipe himself was uncertain and frightened of what he was asking. If he did not appreciate the full selfishness and wrong of it, nevertheless he did realize it in part. Gerry faced the alternative before replying. If she refused Felipe's offer, in a little while she must return to Chicago to take up her old existence in a common boarding house with nothing in her future except to learn to make her own living. But these things were no longer so important, the one important fact was that she might be losing Felipe forever. Gerry cherished few illusions. If Felipe were successful in escaping military service they could not meet again until the war was over and in that time many changes would have occurred. Would Felipe remember her, or would he be less lonely in his self-imposed exile if she were to spend it with him? Whatever trouble she and Felipe might have to face, would she not prefer to face it with him rather than have him leave her alone? "I cannot bear to deceive Mrs. Burton, Felipe. I owe her so much; she has been kinder than I have ever told you, kinder than perhaps you imagine. Besides, I care for her a great deal and I don't see how such a difficult idea as you have suggested can ever be arranged." In Gerry's last words lay her confession. Felipe had triumphed. Had she tried she might have persuaded him to face his obligation, to make the sacrifice of himself which his country demanded. She was not equal to the test. "But I do know how to manage," Felipe answered. "And I shall be very careful. I understand certain things better than you do. I have an old nurse who is married and lives not far away. She will come with us and stay with you until the ceremony is over. Afterwards she will return and explain what we have done to Mrs. Burton and my father. You can write and beg Mrs. Burton to forgive you; she will after a time, I am sure. We will be so happy, Gerry dear. I have plenty of money, as I drew all I possessed out of the bank this afternoon. I am sure it will last us for a time and then I can get hold of more." The thing which Gerry and Felipe were planning to do was not only a foolish thing; it held dishonor and sorrow, and yet neither of them at the time seemed to appreciate this. "Be ready the day after tomorrow, please, Gerry. I'll ask Mrs. Burton to allow you to go for a walk or a drive with me. I promise you there shall be no difficulties. But, quick, good-night; some one is coming." Mrs. Burton herself was walking down the beach toward them. "Come, Gerry, please, it is time you were in bed. I was frightened when I found you were not with the other girls. Felipe, I don't think it quite fair of you to have kept Gerry away from us so long. Will you thank your father for the roses he sent me tonight?" Felipe held out his hand. "You are awfully kind, Mrs. Burton, and I do deserve a scolding. Gerry and I had not realized how long we had been talking, as there are so many things we like saying to each other. Will you forgive me and let me come back soon again?" Mrs. Burton put her arm about Gerry. "Not too soon, please, Felipe. Goodnight." CHAPTER XVI Gerry's Opportunity The next day, weary from the long strain of the rehearsals and the final production of their play, and feeling a comfortable sense of relaxation following a labor well accomplished, the Sunrise Camp Fire members spent an unusually quiet day. Mrs. Burton remained in her little house resting and reading. After accomplishing the necessary domestic tasks, Mrs. Webster and the girls sat about in little groups, knitting and talking over the unexpectedly brilliant success of their play. Of the Camp Fire girls, Gerry Williams alone kept apart from the others for the greater part of the day. Now and then she would appear with her knitting and dropping down beside some one would remain for perhaps half an hour, but seldom longer. By the end of that time she seemed to grow restless and would start off on walks by herself, but never a great distance from camp. Once disappearing inside her sleeping tent, which was unoccupied, she stayed there alone for several hours. No one paid any particular attention to Gerry or realized that she was in an unusual frame of mind. The Camp Fire girls had spent so many months together that they did not take one another's moods seriously; besides, Gerry was not an especial favorite or intimate with any one of the girls except Sally Ashton. And Sally frequently considered Gerry far too addicted to moods, which were disturbing to her own comfortable placidity. Indeed, Gerry's only real friend in the Sunrise Camp Fire, the only person who in any way understood her temperament and the circumstances of her past sufficiently well to offer her real sympathy and affection, was Mrs. Burton. On this same day it chanced that Dan Webster was away looking after a small business matter. Billy was engaged with his labors at the war camp. But now that the play was over Mrs. Webster was beginning to concern herself more seriously with the behavior of her erratic son. Billy had taken advantage of the absorption of his family and friends to continue to pursue his own way in an even more determined and secretive fashion. If Mrs. Burton had not spent the day inside her house, whether or not she would have observed Gerry's restlessness, her troubled expression, her moments of pallor and the swift flush succeeding them, no one can say. Certainly all that day never for long did Gerry have Mrs. Burton out of her mind. First she would think of Felipe and what he had asked of her and then immediately after of Mrs. Burton's friendship and kindness. The facts of Gerry's life were commonplace enough, but for that reason they seemed to Gerry the harder to endure. Her mother and father had married when they were young and clerking together in a small village store. After Gerry's birth they conceived the idea of becoming traveling sales people. When Gerry was a tiny child they tried taking her about with them, often leaving her alone for long, lonely hours in strange hotel rooms. After she grew older, arrangements were made for her to board in Chicago, the city her parents visited oftener than any other. But when Gerry was fourteen her father died and a year later her mother married a little town store keeper. It was at this time Gerry Williams realized she would be forced to face the future for herself. It is true her mother and stepfather offered her a home with them and the opportunity to work in their shop. But Gerry had never cared for her mother and now hated her stepfather, while the thought of the little town store was abhorrent. Yet there was no particular reason for this attitude save that Gerry had always been antagonistic to her environment for as long as she could remember. She was so utterly unlike her own people both in appearance, manner and nature that she was a puzzle to all of them. No one of them could have told from whom she inherited her delicate prettiness, her love of luxury and refinement. One day, learning of Mrs. Burton's presence in Chicago, suddenly Gerry conceived the idea of going to her and applying for the position of maid. If she must work she thought that she would like better than most things to live with a famous woman and perhaps travel with her and see something of the world. At the moment of Gerry's arrival it chanced that by accident Mrs. Burton was at home and free from other engagements, so she decided to see and talk to her. Naturally Gerry was too young and untrained for the position she desired; moreover, Mrs. Burton had no need for the services of a maid, since Marie had been living with her a number of years. But she grew interested in her pretty guest, and feeling the need of sympathy, Gerry was glad to pour forth her story. Ever after this visit, although no member of her family aside from her husband had been informed of the fact, Mrs. Burton had been paying Gerry's board in Chicago during the winters, only urging her to try to educate herself for some work in the future. For several summers, as we know, Gerry had been invited to be a member of the Sunrise Camp Fire group. Therefore in a measure Gerry realized how poor a return she would be offering should she slip away with Felipe without confessing her intention to Mrs. Burton. Not once, but perhaps a dozen times, her mind was almost made up to find Mrs. Burton and tell her everything. For Gerry believed that by some method she could induce her friend to understand how deeply she cared for Felipe. There would be the argument of youth against their immediate marriage; but youth is not always _only_ a question of the number of years one has lived, and Gerry felt convinced that she suddenly had grown old. Nevertheless there was always this stumbling block. How could she acknowledge her own intention and Felipe's without betraying Felipe's secret? To divulge the fact that he was planning to escape military service by crossing over the border into Mexico and hiding there was out of the question. Undoubtedly Gerry should have more fully appreciated the enormity of Felipe's purpose, his selfishness and disloyalty. Strange that she should expect to find happiness with a man who wished to begin their life together by an act of deception and cowardice! Nevertheless, by this time one must have learned to understand Gerry's disposition sufficiently well to accept the fact that she did not _fully_ understand, so completely was she under Felipe's influence. Yet Felipe must not be allowed to bear the entire burden of their wrong doing. Certainly Gerry was not marrying Felipe for his sake only, but also for the happiness and the ease which she believed the future would insure her. Notwithstanding this, since life is seldom guided by one clear motive, but by many mixed ones, Gerry was also ardently and sincerely in love. Her failure to grasp the extent of the danger she and Felipe were facing and the possible injury to her own reputation was due to three causes. The first of these was sheer stupidity, the second an actual lack of education and the third Gerry's conviction that this was her solitary chance for saving Felipe from the difficulties and dangers of a soldier's life and at the same time securing him for herself. In the end, as one might have guessed, Gerry Williams made no confession. Instead, in the hours when she had remained alone in her sleeping tent, she had packed a few possessions in her satchel, hiding the bag under her bed and wondering at the same time how she would ever manage to get it away the next day without exciting comment. The next day Fortune appeared to favor Gerry, as the fickle Dame does now and then, when one had best be thwarted. Immediately after their luncheon the Camp Fire girls decided to go upon a long walk. So much time had been given to the rehearsals of "As You Like It" that they had been exercising far less than usual in the past weeks. The wool for knitting and materials for making bandages having recently given out, Mrs. Webster offered to go into town with Dan to buy whatever was required. So, through a combination of quite ordinary circumstances, Sunrise camp was deserted except by Mrs. Burton, Marie and Gerry. Mrs. Burton did not feel equal to the long hike and Gerry simply declined without giving a reason. Since her farewell to Felipe about thirty hours before, she had received no word from him and yet this afternoon Gerry knew he would appear. Now and then she even hoped he would not come, at least not until the next day, or even the one after that. Soon after the other girls departed, Mrs. Burton asked Gerry to sit beside her and talk while she rested in the sunshine. A small fire was always kept burning at Sunrise camp, no matter how warm the day, for the small amount of heat made no appreciable difference and the fire was always being needed for cooking. So Marie arranged an Indian blanket upon the ground away from the windward side of the fire and then went into her tent to write letters. Afterwards Mrs. Burton lay down in such a position that she could look closely at Gerry. In the few minutes they had been together without the others, she had noticed that Gerry looked pale and depressed. "You are not worrying over anything, Gerry?" Mrs. Burton asked. Gerry shook her head. "Certainly not. What have I to worry about--except everything?" Perhaps it was unfortunate that Mrs. Burton chose this time to talk to Gerry about her future, although, since her mind really was made up, probably nothing would have altered her decision. "I don't want to worry you, or to have you worry, dear," Mrs. Burton began, "but I do wish it were possible for you to find some occupation that would interest you. It would make you ever so much happier! Forgive me if I have seen that you are more restless, less content than the other Camp Fire girls. And whatever work you wish to do, I do not wish you to go into it unprepared, a woman needs more training these days to make a success than a man. It has meant so much to me to give my time and energy to the art I love. I want you to have the same luck, Gerry." Then Mrs. Burton reached out her hand, but her companion did not seem to observe it. "I am sorry, I know I am a disappointment," she answered. "But the trouble with me is that I am stupid and no work of any character interests me. I might as well tell you the truth." For a moment Mrs. Burton did not reply. Gerry's answer had made her impatient, and for this reason she felt it best not to argue. "Very well, perhaps the interest will come later. You are young enough to wait, Gerry, and please do not think I am not more than anxious to help you. You know it is only on your account I worry. I so wish the circumstances of your life were happier, my dear. I hate your being lonely." Then as Gerry's eyes were filling with tears and when she was having a struggle not to break down entirely and make her confession, she and Mrs. Burton both heard at the same instant a gay voice singing as it approached nearer to them: "It was a lover and his lass, With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino." "Here comes _Touchstone_, Gerry! What a charming voice Felipe has! I know you must feel relieved to be released from such a prosy talk as we were having." If Felipe had not been a particularly successful actor at the production of their play, Gerry was amazed by his present acting. He had suggested that they were either to motor or to drive away from Sunrise camp. Now he appeared on foot in the most casual fashion with his guitar swung over his shoulder. After bowing politely to Gerry, he immediately dropped down upon the ground beside Mrs. Burton and finished his song: "And therefore take the present time, With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino; For love is crowned with the prime In springtime...." Nor did Felipe rise, or ask that Gerry be allowed to walk with him after his song was concluded. He merely continued talking in a casual fashion with Mrs. Burton. In half an hour, having finished their errands unexpectedly early, Mrs. Webster and Dan returned to camp. Dan went away immediately to put up the car and Mrs. Burton arose to go indoors with her sister. Not until then did Felipe ask that Gerry be allowed to walk with him. He made the request with apparent indifference. Mrs. Burton hesitated. "Gerry thought she was too tired to walk with the girls! But never mind. If you won't go very far or stay too long, I suppose I must pay my actors in some fashion for their services, and I have had no opportunity to thank you." Then, as she moved away, she called back: "Don't forget to take your coat or a sweater with you, Gerry; it may turn unexpectedly cool." So Gerry, feeling that her face was flushing crimson and her hands becoming like ice, was able to disappear inside her tent at the moment she desired. When she came out with her satchel the coat was hanging over it; besides, there was no one in sight to observe her own and Felipe's departure. But the moment they started Felipe said quickly: "Don't be worried, Gerry darling. I have a motor waiting for us about a mile away and my old nurse is there to take care of you. Her husband is with her and they are perfectly respectable and devoted to me. They will come back as soon as we are safely married and let Mrs. Burton and father know. They can't tell them _where_ we have gone, of course. They can simply say we have gone on a honeymoon. It will be all right. Lots of people run away and are married; it saves such a lot of fuss for one thing. Later on, if you like, we can write where we are, because neither Mrs. Burton nor father would betray us. I want, if possible, to cross over the border into Mexico tonight at dusk." The rest of the afternoon passed like a strange and not a happy dream to Gerry. But whatever arrangements were necessary, whatever the law required of them, Felipe seemed to have managed all the formalities. As they drove from one place to another Gerry sat in the back of the automobile next to Felipe's old nurse, not even making an effort to talk to her and saying nothing to Felipe. Now and then Felipe made little anxious inquiries to find out if she were all right and Gerry only nodded her head in reply. In the house of a clergyman in a small town not many miles away the ceremony was finally performed. Gerry declared that her parents had given their consent, knowing well enough they would be delighted to hear of her marriage. Felipe Morris was of course several years more than the legal age. Besides Felipe's nurse and her husband the wife and daughter of the clergyman also appeared as witnesses. But when the moment came for parting with their companions, Gerry begged that she be allowed to write a note to Mrs. Burton. The note was very short; Gerry scarcely understood what she was writing, nevertheless it said a great deal: "DEAR MRS. BURTON: "You will never be able to forgive me and I know I do not deserve that you should. Only pray I may be happy, because now the wedding ceremony is over and Felipe Morris and I are married, I am dreadfully frightened. "Yours with all love, "GERRY." The rest of the late afternoon was even more like a strange dream. At the border between Mexico and the United States Felipe managed successfully to deceive the guard. He had changed his costume and wore a Mexican one, he spoke Spanish and gave a name which was not his own. Gerry, who was wearing a veil tied closely about her head, the guard scarcely noticed. Felipe explained that he and his wife had driven over into California earlier in the day and were now on their way back to their home in Mexico. By a stroke of good fortune the guard had only been on duty a few hours, having changed places with another soldier. Therefore he had no way of disproving Felipe's story; moreover, he happened to be new to his work. Never so long as she lived was Gerry to forget her first sight of the strange desert land of Mexico, which she saw when dusk was falling. The earth was a sea of sand with funny little hut-like houses sprinkled here and there, hung with gay signs written in a language Gerry did not comprehend. Beyond them was a fringe of high bare hills, now purple in the evening shadows. Suddenly she realized her own and Felipe's exile. They were without home or country; worse, they were deserters. For fear he was suffering an even deeper regret and remorse than had laid hold upon her, Gerry dared not look or speak to Felipe as their car carried them further and further away from their friends. CHAPTER XVII Folly and Courage Before information of any kind concerning her mysterious disappearance was received from Gerry Williams, every member of the Sunrise Camp Fire had become alarmed. But it must be confessed that the girls were more annoyed than they were agitated. Mrs. Burton and Mrs. Webster were necessarily anxious, yet as Mrs. Webster had never felt an especial interest or affection for Gerry, she was less so than her sister. The Camp Fire girls had returned from their walk in time for a late afternoon tea. They were just finishing when Marta Clark inquired what had become of Gerry, and why she was not having tea with them? Then for the first time Mrs. Burton mentioned that Gerry had gone away from camp with Felipe Morris several hours before. But as she had promised to return in a short time, already she was beginning to feel worried for fear something had happened. Then another hour went by and the dusk began to descend. But since it was late summer and the days were long, some time would still elapse before actual darkness. Nevertheless Mrs. Burton at first betrayed her nervousness by walking alone up and down the little traveled road beyond the camp. Finally she came back to the group of girls, who were still loitering about their camp fire before clearing away the tea things. "Do be good to me, Peggy. I know you are already tired from your long walk and I won't go far," she promised. "But somehow I am so uncomfortable about Gerry I cannot keep still. I know I am absurd, but I have one of those ridiculous premonitions which never amount to anything. If she does not come back in another hour, I shall motor over to the ranch to inquire if Mr. Morris has received any word from Felipe." In spite of the fact that Peggy was tired and also annoyed at what she presumed to be Gerry's selfish unconcern, she got up instantly at Mrs. Burton's request, and as they started off on their walk placed her arm affectionately inside her aunt's. "I don't see why you allow yourself to become so worked up over Gerry's staying away from camp with Felipe longer than you approve," said Peggy with her usual directness. "If you do not realize how much she is interested in him, you are the only one of us who is blind. Gerry has not cared for anything except her friendship with Felipe all this summer. She has an affection for you, but except for you everything in our Camp Fire life has bored her." Knowing by her aunt's expression that she was annoyed by her critical attitude, nevertheless Peggy, who was not in a good humor, went on with her plain speaking. "Sometimes I have thought Gerry was really in love with Felipe; at other times I have simply thought she liked him just because he was a man and showed her some attention. Gerry is the type of girl who has not the faintest interest in other girls." "Is this your opinion alone, or the opinion of all the Camp Fire girls?" Mrs. Burton inquired in a tone it was difficult to translate. Peggy flushed. "Perhaps it is my opinion alone, since it sounds rather hateful. In any case, I have no right to speak except for myself. But if you wish to know the truth, the opinion is pretty general." "Have the girls the same attitude toward you, Peggy, because of your interest in Ralph Marshall?" Mrs. Burton demanded. "You know how much of your time and thought you give to him these days, even though you rarely mention his name, and you have many more people to care for than Gerry, who is rather singularly alone. If you girls are not fond of her I am not surprised that she prefers Felipe Morris, who, after all, is exceptionally attractive." Peggy was suddenly upon the defensive. "I don't think I have allowed my interest in Ralph to interfere with my friendships with the Camp Fire girls," she argued defensively. "But I did not intend being disagreeable about Gerry. She is always amiable and sweet, only it is difficult not to resent her indifference and her absorption in herself." After this speech Mrs. Burton and Peggy continued their walk in silence for a few moments. Then Mrs. Burton said in a different tone: "When Gerry comes back this evening, Peggy, I wish you would try to be particularly nice to her. If she has become too much interested in Felipe I cannot help being sorry for her. I have never told you girls much of Gerry's history because she preferred my not telling. But she has had a hard time and no one has ever really cared for her. Her father is dead and her mother an impossibly common person without any good traits of character, so far as I have been able to discover, which would redeem her commonness. So things will be all the more difficult for Gerry if she is under the impression she cares for Felipe. In a little time our Camp Fire summer will be over and they will be separated." Peggy nodded. "I will do my best. I am sorry to have been so critical. At least Gerry does not make disagreeable speeches about other people! But you are mistaken if you think any of us has ever been unkind to her; it is only that we have found it impossible to become intimate. Of course she and Sally like each other. But if there are facts in Gerry's life she does not wish to discuss, I can understand why she prefers not to develop too close an intimacy with the rest of us, who know almost everything about one another. But don't worry, I presume some accident has delayed Gerry and Felipe. Suppose we return to camp? They may have taken some other route and arrived by this time." But of course Gerry was not at the Sunrise camp. Within five minutes after Mrs. Burton's and Peggy's return, an automobile appeared containing an unknown man and woman. The woman asked to be permitted to speak to Mrs. Burton alone. Then, as she stood hesitating, trying to make up her mind what to say first, suddenly she remembered Gerry's crumpled little note. For Gerry's sake it was as well that the news of her runaway marriage was imparted to her Camp Fire guardian and friend in this fashion, for the note revealed infinitely more than Gerry realized. With Mrs. Burton's understanding of human nature she understood something of the struggle, something of the temptation to which Gerry had yielded. Therefore in the midst of her surprise and anger she could not forget the note's final pathetic appeal. Neither the woman nor man would tell much more than the bare facts of Gerry's and Felipe's marriage. They insisted that the ceremony was entirely legal and that immediately afterwards the young couple had gone away. In truth, they could not tell more, since as a matter of precaution Felipe had not informed either his nurse or her husband of his plans. After appreciating that the marriage had become a reality and that there was nothing she could do or say which would make any difference, Mrs. Burton asked but few questions. She knew that Felipe's father would come to her as soon as he learned what had taken place and she preferred to discuss the situation with him and not with strangers. Of necessity it was Mrs. Burton who imparted the information to the Camp Fire girls, but she merely told what she knew as briefly as possible, adding no comment. Then she went away to be alone. She was not thinking of Gerry's ingratitude, of the poor return she had made for her interest and assistance, but she was thinking of Gerry herself. Gerry was so young and she and Felipe knew each other so slightly. Then, as Mrs. Burton knew nothing at present of Felipe's attempt to hide in Mexico, it also occurred to her that he might soon be forced to join the army. Left to themselves, the Camp Fire girls were not so lenient in their condemnation. It was Alice Ashton who chanced to voice the general sentiment. "I cannot understand how any human being could behave as Gerry has done! Certainly she has proved how little the Camp Fire influence has meant to her! But there is no point in our criticising her, because some day Gerry will have to pay dearly enough." CHAPTER XVIII The Summons Later in the same night, being unable to sleep, Mrs. Burton was aroused by hearing the approach of another motor car. It must have been between two and three o'clock in the dark hours before dawn when the earth is so strangely quiet. Moreover, cars were not in the habit of passing Sunrise camp at any hour, as it was too far from the main road to allure travelers. Mrs. Burton quietly slipped on her dressing gown and slippers in order not to disturb her sister, who slept in the room with her. As she walked to the front door she was under the impression that Gerry must have returned home to camp and would wish to see her. But outside it was so dark that for a moment she could see nothing. Then at a little distance off she discovered two figures standing close together. As Mrs. Burton drew nearer she recognized one of them as Dan Webster, and as Dan was fully dressed he could not have been in bed during the night. The other man was Lieutenant Carson. [Illustration: As Mrs. Burton Drew Near She Recognized One of Them as Dan Webster] "Yes, I have been worried all night," she overheard Dan say. "I persuaded mother to go to bed fairly early by telling her I would wait for Billy. But after midnight when he did not come I have not known what to do. I had no idea where to go to look for him. I was afraid something had happened. Is the accident serious?" "If it were not I would never have wakened you at such an hour," Lieutenant Carson answered. "Please break the news to your mother and sister as quickly as you can and ask them to hurry. I brought over one of our army cars, so there need be no delay. On the way to camp I will tell you as much as I know." Then Mrs. Burton stepped out of the shadow. "Billy is hurt," she began, not asking a question, but stating a conviction. "What has he done?" she hesitated, her voice breaking. "He has done something so wonderful there is not a soldier in camp who would not be proud to accomplish one-half so much. But he has been injured and----" Lieutenant Carson tried to keep his own tones from becoming husky. "I'll see your mother, Dan," said Mrs. Burton. "Will you please waken Vera and Peggy? If Billy is conscious when we arrive he will wish to have Vera near him." Within ten minutes the four women and Dan were on their way with Lieutenant Carson to the army cantonment. The lieutenant had asked Dan to drive the car during the first part of the journey so that he might explain what had occurred. "Yes, Mrs. Webster, your son is in our Red Cross hospital and everything possible is being done for him. A doctor reached him almost at once. But I wish I could tell you exactly what happened. As it is I can only repeat the story the little chap told himself. No one knows anything else, but he has been perfectly conscious all along and I am told is not suffering a great deal," Lieutenant Carson faltered, wishing that the task in which he was engaged had fallen to some one else. "Please tell us everything you can," Peggy urged. "I feel my mother had best know the truth before we reach Billy." "As far as I could find out there have been two laborers employed at our camp who are traitors. In spite of all the official red tape and investigations, your son Billy seems to have been the only person who discovered the fact. The little fellow apparently called himself a pacifist and made friends with the men. Anyhow they must have believed he sympathized with them, for he has been watching them for some time. I don't know how long, I am having to guess a part of this. But they must have finally decided he was one of them, as they allowed him to find out their secrets. It is amazing. I don't see how he managed!" "But you have not yet told us how Billy chanced to be at your camp tonight and how he came to be hurt, Lieutenant Carson," Peggy pleaded, knowing that the same thought was in all their minds. "Billy knew there was mischief brewing without knowing exactly what the ruffians were planning to do, at least, that is the way I understand the facts," the young officer continued. "But it seems that when he had followed them to their meeting place earlier in the evening, he found out they had placed a bomb in one of our big buildings at camp which was set to go off at a certain hour tonight. Billy says he made the men believe he considered this a great idea, otherwise they would never have allowed him to escape. He seems to have had the nerve to get up and spout a little speech on pacifism before about half a dozen of them. I believe he said that if only the men managed to destroy our war camps, the United States would never be able to enter the war in Europe and so peace would soon have to be declared as the Allies couldn't go on without America's aid. Anyhow, after a while they let the little fellow go and he pretended to be starting for home. But instead he made for our camp. "Perhaps he could have managed better. What I should have done in his place I don't know; but he was a little chap up against a pretty big proposition. He did not know how to get the news to camp unless he told some one out here what was about to take place. He was trying to slip into camp with his news when one of our sentries shot him. He was just able to tell the soldier who picked him up what his business was and--well, we found the infernal machine where he told us to look for it. And God only knows how many lives Billy has saved!" "But my son will live?" Mrs. Webster inquired, with the quiet fortitude which comes now and then to some of us in the really great moments of our lives. "I don't know, Mrs. Webster," Lieutenant Carson answered honestly. "I was only ordered to bring you to camp as quickly as possible." Then the young officer took charge of the car, as he was more familiar with the road than Dan. The southern dawn which Billy had learned to love in these past weeks was breaking into pale lavender and rose when the army automobile arrived at camp. A good many of the soldiers were walking about, not caring to go back to sleep after what had occurred. More of them than one would imagine remembered seeing Billy about camp in the past few weeks, the delicate young fellow with the extraordinary blue eyes. Lucky thing for them that he had been around, but hard on him! Captain Mason and Major Anderson, two of the officers who were friends of Mrs. Burton's, came forward to meet her and Mrs. Webster. They led the way to the hospital, with the girls and Dan and Lieutenant Carson following. "Your son has been asking for you, Mrs. Webster, only he said you were not to be frightened about him and we were not to let you know what had happened until breakfast time," Major Anderson remarked with that same huskiness in his voice which Lieutenant Carson had been unable to conceal. "This war has made many heroes and will make many more, but I don't know of a finer thing than your son has done. He must have known the risk he ran when he came out here alone tonight on such an errand." At the door of the hospital, which was only a wooden house with a Red Cross flag outside, the doctor met the little company. "You will be as quiet as you can and try not to excite him," he said, and there was something in his voice which made all questioning impossible. Then Mrs. Webster and Dan and Peggy went inside the little hospital. Within a few moments Dan came out again with his head bowed and went away by himself without speaking. "Will it be many hours, Doctor?" Mrs. Burton inquired. The doctor shook his head. "Not many." Mrs. Burton was standing with her arm about Vera Lagerloff, feeling Vera's grief almost as deeply as her own. Without a tie of blood, without the right to be near him which his family had, Vera was yet closer to Billy in many ways than any other human being in the world. "You shall see him soon, dear," Mrs. Burton murmured. Vera nodded. "Billy will send for me; there will be so many things he will wish to say," she replied and her tone was one of love and understanding. "I don't think I can get on without Billy afterwards, Mrs. Burton. No one else has realized how wonderful he was, what beautiful things he was planning to do with his life." Vera was shivering so Mrs. Burton could only hold her more closely. "I know, dear, and yet how could one do more than Billy has done? Greater love hath no man than this that he lay down his life for his friend. Billy's friends, remember, were never merely the few people he knew; his idea of friendship was a bigger thing than ours." "Billy wishes to speak to you, Tante, and to Vera," Peggy said at this instant appearing at the open door. "Don't be unhappy at seeing him. He is not frightened and yet he understands perfectly he has only a little while." Billy was lying on a cot with a nurse on one side of him and his mother on the other, but, except for this, looking much as he usually did. His face was paler and the blue eyes even wider open, yet for once in his life they seemed to have lost their questioning look. "I promised you not to get into mischief, Tante. Well, this is the last time; at least, I suppose it is my last. But after all one does not know; there may be other chances over there." Billy was trying to smile and Mrs. Burton leaned over and kissed him. "I know there will be, Billy, and you will take them as gallantly as you have done this one. Don't worry, old chap, I'll look after your mother and Peggy." Then she turned away. Vera had kneeled down and was hiding her face in the bed clothes. It was to her Billy turned like a little boy. "Please look at me, Vera, and tell me you are sorry. It was like me to do the right thing in the wrong way, wasn't it? Yet there are so many things I want to say, want to explain to people. You see it is all a question of our learning to understand each other better to end fighting and all the rest of it. You believed in me, didn't you, Vera? Yet you understand that I could not let the soldiers out here be killed when they are getting ready to give their lives for ours. What is that we read about Christ the other day, Vera?" Vera held Billy's two hands folded closely in her own. "Listen, dear, and remember this: "'Christ is courage, Christ is adventure, he fights for us and with us against death.'" CHAPTER XIX Plans for the Future In a large hotel sitting-room a number of girls were grouped in various attitudes, discussing a question which evidently interested them. "Does any one know _why_ we are _not_ to start east tomorrow as we planned?" Marta Clark inquired, glancing up from a city map which she had been studying. "Why, no, not exactly," Bettina Graham answered her. "Tante did not tell us definitely. She merely said that something had occurred which made her feel it would be wiser for her to remain in California a few days longer, unless we were compelled to leave for home at once. Personally I cannot imagine what is keeping her here, as I know she is anxious to go home, now that our Camp Fire summer is over and Peggy and Aunt Mollie and Dan Webster have gone. I think it was wonderfully good of her to continue with our camping party after Billy's death, when she must have wished to leave with the others." "I think _I_ know why she seemed to change her mind so unexpectedly yesterday and canceled all our reservations for berths," Sally Ashton announced in the mysterious manner which Sally often assumed to the annoyance of the other girls. Since her arrival in the city, Sally temporarily had forsworn her war and Camp Fire abstinence and was at this moment engaged in eating chocolates which had just arrived by parcel post from Merton Anderson. "How absurd you are, Sally! You know no more than the rest of us!" Alice Ashton argued with sisterly frankness. Instead of replying, sanctimoniously tightening her lips, Sally added nothing to her original statement. "Nevertheless, won't you _please_ tell us what you think, Sally?" Vera Lagerloff requested, and because it was Vera who made the request Sally agreed. Since Billy's death the Camp Fire girls had been as unobtrusively kind to Vera as they knew how to be. In a measure they appreciated what his loss must mean to her, although it was out of the question that they could fully understand the extent of Vera's loneliness, the feeling of emptiness which the future now seemed to offer her. Vera's long and devoted friendship with Billy had separated her from the usual intimacy with other girls, nevertheless she was a general favorite. For a good many years Billy had required whatever time and thought she could spare from her ordinary duties and affections. "I think, Vera, that Tante recently has heard some unexpected news of Gerry," Sally finally announced with the proper degree of solemnity and with a due sense of dramatic values. At least she was a dramatic success to the extent of surprising her audience. "What authority have you for such a statement, Sally?" Alice Ashton demanded in the superior voice and manner which Alice now and then affected. Sally shrugged her shoulders. "I haven't any authority, I have a 'hunch'," she returned, appreciating how painfully her slang would annoy her intellectual sister. "But how is it possible that Gerry could have written? Don't you think she and Felipe are still hiding in Mexico? We know that much from what Mr. Morris has told us! If Gerry should write to Mrs. Burton she might betray her own and Felipe's secret and she would not do that," Marta Clark protested. "I did not say Gerry had written, I only said that I believed Tante had received some information concerning her," Sally answered, undisturbed by criticism. In response to this speech the expressions on the faces of the four other girls became curiously alike. "I don't believe if I were Mrs. Burton I should ever take an interest in Gerry again," Marta Clark announced. "Perhaps I am more in a position to say this than any of the rest of you, because all of you have some past association with Mrs. Burton; she was an intimate friend of your mothers. She simply chose to be kind to me and to invite me to spend this summer with her Camp Fire group without any especial reason, just as she has been good to Gerry. If I should repay her kindness as Gerry has done, I should never dare make the effort to see her again, or to ask her forgiveness, no matter how greatly I might desire it." "I feel just as you do, Marta," Bettina Graham agreed. But Sally gave a little protesting cough, holding a chocolate drop suspended in the air for an instant. "Judge not, lest ye be judged," she declared sententiously, and then with a somewhat less self-righteous expression, "Was that quotation from the Bible or Shakespeare and did I quote correctly? The truth is I wish that all of you would not be so hard upon Gerry. I know you think it silly and impossible for a girl not yet eighteen to be _really_ in love, but just the same Gerry is in love with Felipe. As she is in love with him and he has been a coward and is now a fugitive from his own country, I don't suppose Gerry is so happy that all of you need be disagreeable about her. Personally I am perfectly sure that if Gerry wishes Tante's sympathy and help again, Tante would be sure to do whatever she could to help her." "Hats off to Sally!" Bettina Graham remarked and no one disputed the suggestion. "Still of course, Sally dear, it is impossible that any news could have been received from Gerry, since she and Felipe must remain out of the country until the war is over and the whole circumstance of Felipe is forgotten," Bettina continued. "But suppose when Tante returns we inquire why we are to wait over in Los Angeles a few days more? I presume she would not object to explaining. I believe no one asked her the direct question." "Yes, but she would have volunteered to tell had she wished us to know," Alice Ashton argued. Vera Lagerloff, who had been sitting by an open window looking out toward a circle of hills which were like giant amethysts in the afternoon light, turned toward the other girls. "Suppose if we have no other plans we spend tomorrow on Mount Lowe and give Mrs. Burton the opportunity to be alone," she suggested. "We have been at the seashore so long I am anxious for a day among the hills." Then she addressed Marta Clark. "You are mistaken, Marta, if you think all of us here, aside from you, have some past association with Mrs. Burton. I have none except that Billy and I always have been friends and he asked his aunt to take an interest in me. Now Mrs. Burton is going to do something for me which seems more wonderful than anything she has ever done for any one else, although I know she has been a fairy godmother to a good many people. But she is to pay my expenses and allow me to go to France to work in the devastated country which has lately been cleared of the Germans. 'The Field of Honor' is the name for this part of France which I like best. I hope to work among the homeless children. But in any case I have been brought up on a farm and can do farming work, which I have heard is especially needed. I am to study in New York City before I sail. Courses of study are being given there under the auspices of the French Huguenot societies." An unusual silence followed Vera's long speech and then it was Sally Ashton who spoke first. "For your sake, Vera, I am so glad, for I know the new life and the new work will mean a great deal to you just now. I only wish I were going with you." "But you, Sally, what on earth could you do that would be useful in France?" Alice remonstrated, not because she wished to be disagreeable but to relieve the little tension which Vera's confidence had wrought. "At least I can cook, which is a more useful accomplishment than any you can offer, Alice," Sally returned with such ridiculous spitefulness that the other girls laughed. "I believe I am also envious of you, Vera," Bettina remarked. "All summer I have been feeling that we were not doing enough to help with the war merely by economizing and sewing and knitting, all the hundred and one small things we have tried to do. If we were boys we would be going through at least a little military training and in a few years would be able to volunteer. It is simply amazing what the girls and women are doing in England. So far we have not nearly approached their efforts. Do you know there is a 'Woman's Army Auxiliary Corps' already in France working directly behind the lines. I believe the Tommies call them 'The Tommy-waacs.' We have been talking about being behind the lines this summer, but I wish we could be more directly there." "But what is the exact work the English girls are doing?" Alice demanded, as if she were seriously weighing a problem in her mind. "I am sure we can do the same things if they become necessary." "I don't know all the varieties of war work of course, Alice," Bettina returned. "In Great Britain women and girls have taken the places of the men in more departments of labor than we can imagine. Of course we know they are working in munition shops and aeroplane factories and in ship building, and are telephone and telegraph operators. Now they are also working among the blind, being specially trained for the work, of course, and are actually driving ambulances and motor trucks near the fighting line. But I will bore you if I go on enumerating even the little I know. Personally I agree with, Vera, I should prefer to work among the children. Madame Montessori, the great Italian teacher, has been in the United States this summer trying to establish what she calls the order of the 'White Cross.' The members of the White Cross are to devote themselves to the care of the children who have suffered from the war. She says there is no hope of their growing into healthy and normal men and women unless they receive special care." "Is there an organization anything like our own Camp Fire girls in France?" Sally Ashton demanded unexpectedly. "I know there is in England where they call themselves the 'Girl Scouts.' But I should think that young girls living and working together in France as we have been trying to do, might help each other and be useful to other people as well." "I quite agree with you, Sally," Bettina returned. "Odd, that no one of us can answer your question! But as soon as we return East I mean to make it my business to find out if there is a French Camp Fire. At least we could write to the French Camp Fire girls if they exist." At this instant the girls' conversation was interrupted by the sudden opening of a door and Mrs. Burton's entrance. She was not in mourning but was wearing a black dress and hat which were unbecoming and made her look older. "Why is everybody so serious?" she instantly demanded. Before any one else could reply Sally Ashton answered: "We are serious because we are thinking that some day we may ask you to take us to France to form Camp Fire clubs over there and to do whatever we can to help. Oh, of course I know we must learn more of what will be required of us and be prepared to make all kinds of sacrifices." Flinging her hat on the bed with as great carelessness as if she were a girl and also as if she were pleased to be rid of it, Mrs. Burton replied: "You are an amazing child, Sally. Even if I had the courage for such an undertaking, which I have not, do you suppose I would have sufficient influence with the parents of any one of you to persuade them to allow you to stir one foot away from your own land at a time like this? But I understand you have been hearing Vera's news. The circumstances with Vera are exceptional. Wait here another moment, there is something I have to tell you." Then Mrs. Burton disappeared into her bedroom which adjoined their hotel sitting-room. Their hotel was not in the center of the city but in a suburb a few miles out. A few moments later she returned wearing a lavender crepe dressing gown and looking younger and more attractive. For some reason she sat down next to Sally and put her arm about Sally's shoulders. "I hope my information may interest you," she began with a slight suggestion of appeal in her voice, glancing from one of the girls to the other. "Two days ago I received a letter from Mr. Morris telling me that Felipe had been arrested by the United States authorities. He had crossed over into California for the day in order to attend to some private business. I believe he wished to get some money from his father. He trusted, of course, in not being discovered, but was arrested within an hour." "I suppose I ought to say I am sorry, if that is what you wish, Tante? But really I cannot. It seems to me exactly the fate that Felipe Morris deserves," Bettina Graham answered coldly. "What will be done to Felipe as a punishment for having tried to escape the draft?" asked Alice Ashton. "I believe the punishment is very severe, is it not?" "His father is afraid he will receive three years' imprisonment," Mrs. Burton replied without comment. Then she heard a little horrified exclamation from the girl nearest her and Sally's face had whitened and her expression changed. "But Gerry! What is to become of Gerry?" she demanded. "I know that she behaved very badly and that she ought to have persuaded Felipe to do his duty, instead of helping him to run away from it. But Gerry was dreadfully under Felipe's influence, and, anyhow, I don't care, I _am_ terribly sorry for her," Sally ended incoherently, hiding her brown eyes behind her hand. "I also am very sorry, Sally," Mrs. Burton added. "The fact of having done a wrong has never yet made any human being's punishment easier to bear. But I can tell you one thing about Gerry, Sally dear, since you alone seem interested. She is in California and is coming to see me tomorrow. She returned to California as soon as she received word of Felipe's arrest. She has been with Mr. Morris, and they of course will do whatever is in their power to have Felipe's sentence made as light as possible. I am afraid they cannot do very much. In all probability an example will be made of him." CHAPTER XX Bitter Waters Following Vera's suggestion, the next morning the five girls decided that they would spend the day in making the journey up the famous Mount Lowe, a few miles away. Afterwards they intended taking one of the long trail trips over the mountain, so that it would be impossible for them to return to their hotel until late afternoon. For many reasons it seemed best that Mrs. Burton should be alone when she received the visit from Gerry. Surely Gerry would wish to have at least this first interview without interruption! Believing it impossible that her guest could arrive before noon, Mrs. Burton spent the early hours of the morning in writing letters to her husband and sister, including several business notes as well. She would not confess it to herself; nevertheless she felt nervous over her first meeting with Gerry, for although only a few weeks had passed they had been crowded so tragically close with events in Gerry's life and in her own. There had been the unexpected tragedy of Billy's death, Billy who had been so unlike other boys in his life and in his final beautiful surrender of life. Therefore when a knock came at her sitting-room door at some time between half-past ten and eleven, presuming one of the hotel servants was outside, Mrs. Burton said, "Come in," without raising her eyes from the paper upon which she was writing. Afterwards the door opened softly and the next instant some one had entered the room, but instead of attending to whatever duty had made the intrusion necessary, the figure stood hesitating just inside the threshold. After a little while, becoming vaguely conscious of this fact, Mrs. Burton glanced up. "Gerry, you poor child!" she exclaimed with such sudden, warm sympathy and with such an utter lack of criticism or reproach that any human being would have been moved to gratitude and remorse. Gerry stumbled forward. Poor Gerry, who had changed so completely in the past few weeks that even her delicate prettiness seemed to have vanished forever! She was so white and worn looking, so thin and unhappy. "Then you forgive me?" she began. Mrs. Burton took both her hands. "We are not going to talk about forgiveness. You had your own life to live, Gerry, and it was natural that you should do the thing you supposed to be for your happiness without thinking of your gratitude or obligation to me. If it had been for your happiness I should not have expected you to think of me, although it would have been kinder of you. But of course, dear, when girls do reckless things, the reason older persons are grieved and angry is because of the consequences they are sure to bring upon themselves. Being young you cannot understand this! Yet it seems to me that you are having to pay rather more than other people. Do sit down, dear; the other girls have gone away for the day so we shall be entirely alone." As if she were really too tired to stand, Gerry sank into the nearest chair. "I am sorry; I have not been able to sleep since Felipe was arrested. I am told he keeps asking for me and I am not allowed to see him. He thinks he has done me a great injustice, but that is not true and besides I do not care." Gerry spoke with entire self-forgetfulness. "Mrs. Burton, I don't think you or perhaps anyone can understand, although I have tried to make Mr. Morris see. But Felipe and I have been perfectly miserable ever since we were married. Oh, it is not because we do not care for each other, because we do care very, very deeply! Only neither Felipe nor I seemed to realize the weakness and wrong of what we were doing until we were safely out of our own country and had time to face the truth. Then Felipe confessed to me he had been a coward. He seemed to think that no matter what happened in our future together, I must always think of him as a coward and compare him with other men who had done their duty. I don't know why he did not think of all this before. But Felipe has written me that he is almost glad he has been arrested. Anything which may happen to him will be better than having to live as a fugitive until the war is over. Besides, even afterwards, he could never look another American fellow in the face, remembering his own weakness! Can you understand how anyone could change a point of view so quickly, Mrs. Burton?" Gerry inquired wistfully. "It is hard even for me, and yet I realize that Felipe and I simply woke up from our selfish dream of happiness to realizing we had been traitors and cowards." "I can understand almost any weakness and almost any strength in human beings, Gerry dear, after the years I have lived and the men and women I have known," Mrs. Burton answered, forgetting for the moment Gerry's youth. But the bitter waters of experience and regret having passed over Gerry, she was no longer young. Suddenly Mrs. Burton got up and began walking up and down the room with the graceful impatience which was ever characteristic of her. For a moment, watching her, Gerry felt her old charm so deeply that temporarily she forgot her own sorrow. The peculiar shining quality which Polly O'Neill had revealed as a girl in times of keen emotion she had never lost. "I declare, Gerry, I cannot endure the thought that you and Felipe have so spoiled your lives at the age when you should have been happiest. If anything happens, if Felipe is kept in prison for a time, what do you intend to do?" Gerry glanced down apparently at her hands which were lightly clasped together in her lap. When she looked up at her companion she was smiling, even if somewhat tremulously. "I am going to _work_, Mrs. Burton, although it may be difficult for you to believe after the effort I have made to escape even the thought of work. But I think at last I have found something which will interest me. Mr. Morris is very kind; of course he must dislike me under the circumstances and feel I influenced Felipe, nevertheless he has asked me to live with him at the ranch indefinitely. But I won't do that, not after Felipe's trial is over. I shall do some kind of war work and I don't care now how menial or how humble it is. After a time perhaps I may learn to be useful. Felipe and I have talked things over and we want to do whatever is possible to atone for our mistake. If we only had it all to do over again! But then, of course, I realize what a foolish thing that is to say!" "It may be foolish, Gerry, but it is universal." After this remark Mrs. Burton did not sit down, nor did she speak again for several moments. Instead she stood, frowning and looking peculiarly determined and intense. "Gerry, if Felipe were released from prison, do you think he would be willing to go into the army and do whatever he could to make himself a good soldier? I don't believe Felipe is a physical coward, he was merely a spiritual one. He is rash and impetuous and in a moment of actual fighting no one would be braver or perhaps more reckless. What he dreaded was the discipline, the _thought_ of war, the having to relinquish the ease and beauty and pleasure of his daily life. Well, there must have been other boys like him, boys who fought with their own disinclination more gallantly than Felipe! Yet it would be foolish for the United States to lose a soldier for her army in order to gain a prisoner. Don't you think Mr. Morris and you also, Gerry, can persuade Felipe's judges to view the situation in this light? Let him accept whatever punishment they see fit to bestow, only they must not spoil his one chance of redeeming his mistake by fighting for his country." Mrs. Burton might have been pleading with a court instead of addressing the solitary figure of one unhappy girl. However, she was merely thinking aloud. "Mr. Morris is to make that plea for Felipe, although he has very little hope," Gerry answered. "Felipe would be willing to give even his life now to blot out the past." Mrs. Burton walked over and placed her hands on Gerry's shoulders. "My dear," she said, "I am going to stay here in California with you for a time at least and see what I can do to help. I may not have much influence, but I shall do my best. The girls can go home alone; they do not require me to chaperon them. I have no doubt they will have more pleasure in traveling without me. Besides, it seems to me that no one at present has the same need for me that you have, Gerry!" Slowly in these past few weeks Gerry's soul had been coming to the light. The revelation of it now shone through her eyes, yet she made no effort to express her thanks in words. "When the time arrives and Felipe _is_ allowed to go to France to fight, perhaps I shall have learned to be useful. Do you think they will ever allow American girls to work behind the lines?" Mrs. Burton shook her head. "I don't know. Yet the call of France rings in all our ears and all our hearts today, Gerry. We can only answer the call when our opportunity arises." * * * * * The next volume in the Camp Fire series will deal with the work of the Camp Fire girls in France. They will establish Camp Fires among the young French girls. The old care-free days having passed away, they will also devote their energies to aiding the children of France and to doing "their bit" toward the restoration of that land of our affection, France, where, in the future as in the past, Beauty and Liberty must walk hand in hand. The title will be "The Camp Fire Girls on the Field of Honor." STORIES ABOUT CAMP FIRE GIRLS The Camp Fire Girls at Sunrise Hill The Camp Fire Girls Amid the Snows The Camp Fire Girls in the Outside World The Camp Fire Girls Across the Sea The Camp Fire Girls' Careers The Camp Fire Girls in After Years The Camp Fire Girls at the Edge of the Desert The Camp Fire Girls at the End of the Trail The Camp Fire Girls Behind the Lines The Camp Fire Girls on the Field of Honor 
34443	----	The Camp Fire Girls at the Seashore Or, Bessie King's Happiness Camp Fire Girls Series, Volume VI By JANE L. STEWART The Saalfield Publishing Company Chicago Akron, Ohio New York Copyright, 1914 By The Saalfield Publishing Company [Illustration: They had hearty appetites for the camp breakfast.] The Camp Fire Girls at the Seashore CHAPTER I FROM THE ASHES The sun rose over Plum Beach to shine down on a scene of confusion and wreckage that might have caused girls less determined and courageous than those who belonged to the Manasquan Camp Fire of the Camp Fire Girls of America to feel that there was only one thing to do--pack up and move away. But, though the camp itself was in ruins, there were no signs of discouragement among the girls themselves. Merry laughter vied with the sound of the waves, and the confusion among the girls was more apparent than real. "Have you got everything sorted, Margery--the things that are completely ruined and those that are worth saving?" asked Eleanor Mercer, the Guardian of the Camp Fire. "Yes, and there's more here that we can save and still use than anyone would have dreamed just after we got the fire put out," replied Margery Burton, one of the older girls, who was a Fire-Maker. In the Camp Fire there are three ranks--the Wood-Gatherers, to which all girls belong when they join; the Fire-Makers, next in order, and, finally, the Torch-Bearers, of which Manasquan Camp Fire had none. These rank next to the Guardian in a Camp Fire, and, as a rule, there is only one in each Camp Fire. She is a sort of assistant to the Guardian, and, as the name of the rank implies, she is supposed to hand on the light of what the Camp Fire has given her, by becoming a Guardian of a new Camp Fire as soon as she is qualified. "What's next?" cried Bessie King, who had been working with some of the other girls in sorting out the things which could be used, despite the damage done by the fire that had almost wiped out the camp during the night. "Why, we'll start a fire of our own!" said Eleanor. "There's no sort of use in keeping any of this rubbish, and the best way to get rid of it is just to burn it. All hands to work now, piling it up and seeing that there is a good draught underneath, so that it will burn up. We can get rid of ashes easily, but half-burned things are a nuisance." "Where are we going to sleep to-night?" asked Dolly Ransom, ruefully surveying the places where the tents had stood. Only two remained, which were used for sleeping quarters by some of the girls. "I'm more bothered about what we're going to eat," said Eleanor, with a laugh. "Do you realize that we've been so excited that we haven't had any breakfast? I should think you'd be starved, Dolly. You've had a busier morning than the rest of us, even." "I _am_ hungry, when I'm reminded of it," said Dolly, with a comical gesture. "Whatever are we going to do, Miss Eleanor?" "I'm just teasing you, Dolly," said Eleanor. "Mr. Salters came over from Green Cove in his boat, when he saw the fire, to see if he couldn't help in some way, and he's gone in to Bay City. He'll be out pretty soon with a load of provisions, and as many other things as he can stuff into the _Sally S_." "Then we're really going to stay here?" said Bessie King. "We certainly are!" said Eleanor, her eyes flashing. "I don't see why we should let a little thing like this fire drive us away! We are going to stay here, and, what's more, we're going to have just as good a time as we planned to have when we came here--if not a better one!" "Good!" cried half a dozen of the girls together. Soon all the rubbish was collected, and a fire had been built. And, while Margery Burton applied a light to it, the girls formed a circle about it, and danced around, singing the while the most popular of Camp Fire songs, Wo-he-lo. "That's like burning all the unpleasant things that have happened to us, isn't it?" said Eleanor. "We just toss them into the flames, and--they're gone! What's left is clean and good and useful, and we will make all the better use of it for having lost what is burning now." "Isn't it strange, Miss Eleanor," said Bessie King, "that this should have happened to us so soon after the fire that burned up the Pratt's farm?" "Yes, it is," replied Eleanor. "And there's a lesson in it for us, just as there was for them in their fire. We didn't expect to find them in such trouble when we started to walk there, but we were able to help them, and to show them that there was a way of rising from the ruin of their home, and being happier and more prosperous than they had been before." "We're going to do that, too," said Dolly, with spirit. "I felt terrible when I first saw the place in the light, after the fire was all out, but it looks different already." "Mr. Salters will be here soon," said Eleanor. "And now there's nothing more to do until he comes. We'll have a fine meal--and if you're half as hungry as I am you'll be glad of that--and we'll spend the afternoon in getting the place to rights. But just now the best thing for all of us to do is to rest." "I'll be glad to do that," said Dolly Ransom, as she linked her arm with Bessie's and drew her away. "I am pretty tired." "I should think you would be, Dolly. I haven't had a chance to thank you yet for what you did for me." "Oh, nonsense, Bessie!" said Dolly, flushing. "You'd have done it for me, wouldn't you? I'm only just as glad as I can be that I was able to do anything to get you away from Mr. Holmes--you and Zara." "Zara's gone to pieces completely, Dolly. She was terribly frightened--more than I was, I think, and yet I don't see how that can be, because I was as frightened as I think anyone could have been." "I never saw them get hold of you at all, Bessie. How did it happen?" "Well, that's pretty hard to say, Bessie. You know, after we found out that that yacht was here just to watch us, I was nervous, and so were you." "I think we had reason to be nervous, don't you?" "I should say so! Well, anyhow, as soon as I saw that the tents were on fire, I was sure that the men on the yacht had had something to do with it. But, of course, there wasn't anything to do but try as hard I could to help put out the fire, and it was so exciting that I didn't think about any other danger until I saw a man from the boat that had come ashore pick Zara up and start to carry her out to it." "They pretended to be helping us with the fire, and they really did help, Bessie. I guess we wouldn't have saved any of the tents at all if it hadn't been for them." "Oh, I saw what they were doing! When I saw the man pick Zara up, though, I knew right away what their plan was. And I was just going to scream when another man got hold of me, and he kept me from shouting, and carried me off to the yacht in the boat. Zara had fainted, and they kept us down below in a cabin and said they were going to take us along the coast until we came to the coast of the state Zara and I were in when we met you girls first." "We guessed that, Bessie. That was one of the things we were all worrying about when we came here--that they might try to carry you two off that way. I don't see how it can be that you're all right as long as you're in this state, and in danger as soon as you go back to the one you came from." "Well, you see, Zara and I really did run away, I suppose. Zara's father is in prison, so they said she had to have a guardian, and I left the Hoovers. So that old Farmer Weeks--you know about him, don't you?--is our guardian in that state, and he's got an order from the judge near Hedgeville putting us in his care until we are twenty-one." "But that order's no good in this state?" "No, because here Miss Mercer is our guardian. But if they can get us into that other state, no matter how, they can hold us." "Oh, I see! And, of course, Miss Eleanor understood right away. When we told the men who had helped us with the fire that you were missing, they said they were afraid you must have been caught in the fire, but Miss Eleanor said she was sure you were on the yacht. And they just laughed." "I heard that big man, Jeff, talking to her when she went aboard the yacht." "Yes. They wouldn't let her look for you, and he threatened to put her off if she didn't come ashore. You heard that, didn't you?" "Oh, yes! Zara and I could hear everything she said when she was in the cabin on the yacht. But we couldn't let her know where we were." "Well, just as soon as she could get to a telephone, Miss Eleanor called up Bay City, and asked them to send policemen or some sort of officers who could search the yacht. But we were terribly afraid that they would sail away before those men could get here, and then, you see, we couldn't have done a thing. There wouldn't have been any way of catching them." "And they'd have done it, too, if it hadn't been for you, Dolly! I don't see how you ever thought of it, and how you were brave enough to do what you did when you did think of it." "Oh, pshaw, Bessie--it was easy! I knew enough about yachts to understand that if their screw was twisted up with rope it wouldn't turn, and that would keep them there for a little while, anyhow. And they never seemed to think of that possibility at all. So I swam out there, and, of course, I could dive and stay down for a few seconds at a time. It was easier, because I had something to hold on to." "It was mighty clever, and mighty plucky of you, too, Dolly." "There was only one thing I regretted, Bessie. I wish I'd been able to hear what they said when they found out they couldn't get away!" "I wish you'd been there, too, Dolly," said Bessie, laughing. "They were perfectly furious, and everyone on board blamed everyone else. It took them quite a while to find out what was the matter, and then even after they found out, it meant a long delay before they could clear the screw and get moving." "I never was so glad of anything in my life, Bessie, as when we saw the men from Bay City coming while that yacht was still here! We kept watching it all the time, of course, and we saw them send the sailor over to dive down and find out what was wrong. Then we could see him going down and coming up, time after time, and it seemed as if he would get it done in time." "It must have been exciting, Dolly." "I guess it was just as exciting for you, wasn't it? But it would have been dreadful if, after having held them so long, it hadn't been quite long enough." "Well, it _was_ long enough, Dolly, thanks to you! I hate to think of where I would be now if you hadn't managed it so cleverly." "What will they do to those men on the yacht, do you suppose?" "I don't know. Miss Eleanor wants to prove that it was Mr. Holmes who got them to do it, I think. But that won't be decided until her cousin, Mr. Jamieson, the lawyer, comes. He'll know what we'd better do, and I'm sure Miss Eleanor will leave it to him to decide." "I tell you one thing, Bessie. This sort of persecution of you and Zara has got to be stopped. I really do believe they've gone too far this time. Of course, if they had got you away, they'd have been all right, because in that other state where you two came from what they did was all right. But they got caught at it. I certainly do hope that Mr. Jamieson will be able to find some way to stop them." "I'm glad we're going to stay here, aren't you, Dolly? Do you know, I really feel that we'll be safer here now than if we went somewhere else? They've tried their best to get at us here, and they couldn't manage it. Perhaps now they'll think that we'll be on our guard too much, and leave us alone." "I hope so, Bessie. But look here, there were two girls on guard last night, and what good did it do us?" "You don't think they were asleep, do you, Dolly?" "No, I'm sure they weren't. But they just didn't have a chance to do anything. What happened was this. Margery and Mary were sitting back to back, so that one could watch the yacht and the other the path that leads up to the spring on top of the bluff, where those two men we had seen were sitting." "That was a good idea, Dolly." "First rate, but those people were too clever. They didn't row ashore in a boat--not here, at least. And no one came down the path, until later, anyhow. The first thing that made Margery think there was anything wrong was when she smelt smoke and then, a second later, the big living tent was all ablaze." "It might have been an accident, Dolly, I suppose--" "Oh, yes, it might have been, but it wasn't! They were here too soon, and it fitted in too well with their plans. Miss Eleanor thinks she knows how they started the fire." "But how could they have done that, if there were none of them here on the beach, Dolly?" "She says that if they were on the bluff, above the tents, they could very easily have thrown down bombs that would smoulder, and soon set the canvas on fire. And there was a high wind last night, and it wouldn't have taken long, once a spark had touched the canvas, for everything to blaze up. They couldn't have picked a much better night." "I don't suppose that can be proved, though, Dolly." "I'm afraid not. That's what Miss Eleanor says, too. She says you can often be so sure of a thing yourself that it seems that it must have happened, without being able to prove it to someone else. That's where they are so clever, and that's what makes them so dangerous. They can hide their tracks splendidly." "I don't see why men who can do such things couldn't keep straight, and really make more money honestly than they can by being crooked." "It does seem strange, doesn't it, Bessie? Oh, look, there's the _Sally S._ with our breakfast--and there's another boat coming in. I wonder if Mr. Jamieson can be here already?" In a moment his voice proved that it _was_ possible, and a few minutes later, while the girls were helping Captain Salters to unload the stores he had brought with him, Eleanor was greeting her attorney from Bay City. CHAPTER II A NEW ALLY "I guess you haven't met Billy Trenwith properly yet, Eleanor," said Charlie Jamieson, smiling. "Maybe not," said Eleanor, returning the smile, "but I regard him as a friend already, Charlie. He was splendid this morning. If he hadn't understood so quickly, and acted at once, the way he did, I don't know what would have happened." "I'm afraid I didn't really understand at all, Miss Mercer," said Trenwith, a good looking young fellow, with light brown hair and grey blue eyes, that, although mild and pleasant enough now, had been as cold as steel when Bessie had seen him on the yacht. "But I could understand readily enough that you were in trouble, and I knew that Charlie's cousin wouldn't appeal to me unless there was a good reason. So I didn't feel that I was taking many chances in doing what you wished." "I'm afraid you took more chances than you know about, Billy," said Charlie, gravely. "You're in politics, aren't you? And you have ambitions for more of a job than you've got now?" "Oh, yes, I'm in politics, after a fashion," admitted Trenwith. "But I guess I could manage to keep alive if I never got another political office. I had a bit of a practice before I became district attorney, and I think I could build it up again." "Well, I hope this isn't going to make any difference, Billy. But it's only fair for you to know the sort of game you're running into. I don't want to feel that you're going ahead to help us without understanding the situation just as it is." "You talk as if this might be a pretty complicated bit of business, Charlie. Suppose you loosen up and tell me about it. Then I may be able to figure better on how I can help you." "That's just what I'm going to do, old man. I want you to meet two of cousin's protegees here--Bessie King and Zara, the mysterious. If we knew more about Zara and her affairs this wouldn't be such a Chinese puzzle. But here goes! Ask me all the questions you like. And you girls--if I go wrong, stop me. "In the first place, Miss Mercer here took a party of her Camp Fire Girls, these same ones that you can see there so busy about getting breakfast, over the state line, and they went to a camp on a lake a little way from a village called Hedgeville." "I know the place," nodded Trenwith. "Never been there, but I know where it is." "Well, one morning they discovered these two--Bessie and Zara. And they'd had a strange experience. They were running away!" "Bad business, as a rule," commented Trenwith. "But I suppose there was a good reason?" "You bet there was, old chap! Bessie had lived for a good many years with an old farmer called Hoover and his wife. They had a son, too, a worthless young scamp named Jake, lazy and ready for any sort of mischief that turned up." "Is she related to them in any way, Charlie?" "Not a bit of it! When she was a little bit of a kid her parents left her there as a boarder, and they were supposed to send money to pay for her keep until they came back to get her. For a while they did, but then the money stopped coming." "But they kept her on, just the same?" "Yes, as a sort of unpaid servant. She did all the work she could manage, and she didn't have a very good time. Zara, here, has a father. How long ago did Zara and her father come to Hedgeville, Bessie?" "They'd been there about two years when we--we had to run away, Mr. Jamieson. They came from some foreign country, you know." "Yes. And the people around Hedgeville couldn't make much out about them, so they decided, of course, being unable to understand them, that there must be something wrong about Zara's dad. No real reason at all, except that he only spoke a little English, and liked to keep his business to himself." Trenwith laughed. "I know," he said. "I see a lot of that sort of thing." "Well, the day before the two of them ran away--or the day before they found the girls, rather--there'd been a fine shindy at the Hoovers. Zara went over to see Bessie, and Jake Hoover locked her in a tool shed. Then he managed, without meaning to do it, to set the tool shed afire, and said he was going to say that Bessie had done it." "Fine young pup, he must be!" "Yes--worth knowing! Anyhow, Bessie had only too good reason to know that his mother would believe him and take his word, no matter what she and Zara said. So, being scared, she just ran. I don't blame her; I'd have done the same thing myself. You and I both know that knowing he's innocent doesn't keep a man who is unjustly accused from being afraid." "No," said Trenwith, thoughtfully. "I've had to learn that it doesn't pay to think a man's guilty because he's scared and confused. It's an old theory that innocence shows in a prisoner's eyes, and it's very pretty--only it isn't true." "Well, even so, they might not have run away if it hadn't happened that that was the day Zara's father was arrested. Apparently with an old miser and money lender called Weeks as the moving spirit, a charge of counterfeiting was cooked up against him, and they took him off to my town to jail." "But it's in another state!" "United States case, you see. My town's the centre of the Federal district. Zara and Bessie happened to get on to this, and when they crept up to Zara's house to find out if it was true, they overheard enough to show them that it was--and, what was more, that old Weeks meant to get himself appointed Zara's guardian, and take her home with him." "Oh, that was his game, eh?" "Yes, and if you'd ever seen him, you wouldn't blame Zara for being ready to run away before she went with him. He's the meanest old codger you ever saw. But he had a big pull in that region, because he held mortgages on about all the farms, and he could do about as he liked." "Well, I don't see why they didn't have a perfect right to run away," said Trenwith, "legally and morally. They didn't owe anything in the way of gratitude to any of these people." "That's just what I said!" declared Eleanor, vehemently. "I looked into the story they told me, and I found out it was perfectly true. So we helped them, and took them into this state." "Yes. And old Weeks chased them, and got Zara away from them once. Bessie tricked him and got her back," said Jamieson. "And then the old rip got a court order making him Zara's guardian, but he tried to serve it across the state line, and got dished for his trouble. So it looked as if they'd shaken him pretty well." "I should say so! Do you mean that he kept it up after that?" "He certainly did! And he got pretty powerful help too. Here's where the part of it that ought to interest you really begins. Miss Mercer took the two girls home with her, and almost at once, in the middle of the night, Zara was spirited away. At first we thought she'd been kidnapped but later it turned out that she'd been deceived, and gone with them willingly." "This is beginning to sound pretty exciting, Charlie." "I got interested in the case, Billy, and I tried to do what I could for Zara's father. He didn't trust me much, and I had a dickens of a time persuading him to talk. And then, just as I was about on the point of succeeding, he shut up like a clam, fired me as his lawyer, and hired Isaac Brack!" "That little shyster? Good Heavens!" "Right! Well, she--Zara, I mean--seemed to have vanished into thin air. We couldn't get any trace of her at all, until Bessie here dug up a wild idea that it was in Morton Holmes's car she'd been taken off." "Holmes, the big dry goods merchant?" said Trenwith, with a laugh. "How in the world did she ever get such a wild idea as that? He wouldn't be mixed up in anything shady!" "Just what we told her," said Charlie, unsmilingly, "but she insisted she was right. And, a little while later, after Miss Mercer had taken the girls to her father's farm, Holmes came along, tricked her into getting in his car with another girl, and ran them over the state line. He met Weeks and this Jake Hoover--but Bessie was too smart for them, and got back over the state line safely. And the same day, putting two and two together, I found Zara, held a prisoner in an old house that Holmes had bought!" "Good Lord!" said Trenwith, blankly. "So Holmes had been in it from the start?" "I don't know how long he's been mixed up in it, but he was in it then, with both feet. He was hand in glove with old Weeks, and for some reason he was mighty anxious to get both the girls across the state line and into old Weeks's care as guardian appointed by one of their courts over there." "But why, Charlie--why?" "I wish I knew. I've been cudgelling my brains for weeks to get the answer to that question, Billy. It's kept me awake nights, and I'm no nearer to it now than I was at the beginning. But hold on, you haven't heard it all yet, by a good deal!" "What? Do you mean they weren't content with that?" "Not so that you could notice it, they weren't! The girls went to Long Lake, up in the woods, and while they were there, a gypsy tried to carry them off. He mixed them up a bit, and, partly by good luck, and partly by Bessie's good nerve and pluck, he was caught and landed in jail at Hamilton, the county seat up there." "Was Holmes mixed up in that?" "Yes. He'd been fool enough to write a letter to the gypsy, and sign his own name to it. He hired lawyers to defend the gypsy, too, but that letter smashed his case, and the gypsy went to jail. They were afraid of Holmes, though, at Hamilton and we couldn't touch him. He's got a whole lot of money and power, too, especially in politics. So he can get away with things that would land a smaller man in jail in a jiffy." "His money and pull won't do him any good down here," said Trenwith, his eyes snapping. "Have you any reason to think he was mixed up in this outrage here this morning and last night, Charlie?" "Every reason to think so, Billy, but mighty little proof to back up what I think. There's the rub. Still--well, we'll see what we see later. I'll give you some of the reasons." "You'd better," said Trenwith, grimly. "I think it's pretty nearly time for me to take a hand in this." He shot a look at Eleanor that Bessie did not fail to notice. Evidently her charms had already made an impression on him. "Yesterday, when Miss Mercer brought the girls down to Bay City from Windsor," Jamieson went on, "the train was to stop for a minute at Canton, which, though they had none of them thought of it, is in Weeks's state. And Bessie happened to discover that Jake Hoover was spying on them. She stayed behind the others at Windsor, discovered that he was telegraphing the news to Holmes, and guessed the plot." "Good for her!" exclaimed Trenwith. "So she got a message through to Miss Mercer on the train, and, being warned, Zara was able to elude the people who searched the train for her at Canton. Bessie went on a later train that didn't stop at Canton at all, so they were all right." "That looks like pretty good evidence," said Trenwith, frowning. "He knew they were coming here and he'd made one attempt to get hold of them on the way." "Yes, and there's more. When this yacht turned up here last night, Miss Mercer and the girls were nervous. And Bessie and her chum Dolly Ransom happened to overhear two men who were put at the top of that bluff to watch the camp. They talked about 'the boss' and how he meant to get those girls and had been 'stung once too often.' But they didn't mention Holmes by name." "Too bad. Still, that fire was too timely to have been accidental. I think maybe we can convict them of starting it. Then if these fellows think they're in danger of going to prison, we might offer them a chance of liberty if they confess and implicate Holmes, do you see?" "It would be a good bargain, Billy." "That's what I think. I'd let the tool escape any time to get hold of the man who was using him. They and the yacht are held safely at Bay City, in any case, and we have plenty of time to decide what's best to be done there." "If I know Holmes, he'll show you his hand pretty soon, Billy. I believe he thinks that every man has his price, and he probably has an idea that he can get you on his side if he works it right and offers you enough." "He's got several more thinks coming on that," said Trenwith, angrily. "What a hound he must be! We've got to get to the bottom of this business, Charlie. That's all there is to it!" "Won't Jake Hoover help, Charlie?" suggested Eleanor. "He told Bessie he would go in to see you." "He did come, but I was called away, and meant to talk to him again this morning, Nell. Then of course I had to come down here when I got this news from you and so I didn't have a chance. But I may get something out of him yet." "We've decided, Mr. Trenwith," Eleanor explained, "that the reason Jake is doing just what they want is that he's afraid of them--that they know of some wrong thing he has done, and have been threatening to expose him if he doesn't obey them." "Well, if they're scaring him," said Charlie, "the thing for us to do is to scare him worse than they can. He'll stick to the side he's most afraid of." "Let's get him down here," said Trenwith. "Then we can not only handle him better, but we can keep an eye on him. I'm with you in this, Charlie, for anything I can do." "Good man!" said Charlie. "Then you're not afraid of Holmes? He's pretty powerful, you know." Trenwith looked at Eleanor. And when he saw the smile she gave him, and her look of liking and of confidence, he laughed. "I guess I can look after myself," he said. "No, I'm not afraid of him, old man! We'll fight this out together." CHAPTER III AN UNEXPECTED REUNION "I like that Mr. Trenwith, Bessie," said Dolly, when the meal was over and she and Bessie were working together. They usually managed to arrange their work so that they could be together at it. "So do I, Dolly. He doesn't seem to be a bit afraid of Mr. Holmes, and I do believe he will help Mr. Jamieson an awful lot." "I guess he'll need help, all right," said Dolly, gravely. "The more I think about that fire, the more scared I get. Why, how did those wretches know that some of us wouldn't be hurt?" "I guess they didn't, Dolly." "Then they simply didn't care, that's all. And isn't that dreadful, Bessie? The idea of doing such a thing!" "I wish we knew why they did it, or why Mr. Holmes wants them to do such things. It's easy enough to see why _they_ did it--they wanted the money he had promised to pay if they got Zara and me away from here." "You remember what I told you. Mr. Holmes expects to make a lot of money out of you two, in some fashion. I know you laughed at me when I said that before, and said he had so much money already that that couldn't be the reason. But there simply can't be any other, Bessie; that's all there is to it." Bessie sighed wearily. "I wish it was all over," she said. "Sometimes I'm sorry they haven't caught me and taken me back." "Why, Bessie, that's an awful thing for you to say! Don't you want to be with us?" "Of course I do, Dolly! I've never been so happy in my whole life as I have been since that morning when I saw you girls for the first time. But I hate to think of the trouble my staying makes, and when I think that maybe there's danger for the rest of you, as there was last night--" "Don't you worry about that, Bessie! I guess we can stand it if you can. That's what friends are for--to share your troubles. You musn't get to feeling that way--it's silly." "Well, it doesn't make much difference, Dolly. I don't seem to be able to help it. But I wish it was all over. And do you know what worries me most of all?" "No. What?" "Why, what that nasty lawyer, Isaac Brack, said to me one time. Do you remember my telling you? That unless I went with him, and did what he and his friends wanted, I'd never find out about my father and my mother." "I don't believe it, Bessie! I don't believe he knows anything at all about them, and I don't believe, either, that that's the only way you'll ever hear anything about them." "But it might be true!" "Oh, come on, Bessie, cheer up! You're going to be all right. And I'll bet that when you do find out about your parents, and why they left you with Maw Hoover so long, you'll be glad you had to wait so long, because it will make you so happy when you do know." Just then Eleanor's voice called the girls together. "All hands to work rebuilding the camp," she said. "We want to have the new tents set up, and everything ready for the night. I'd like those people to know, if they come snooping around here again, that it takes more than a fire to put the Camp Fire Girls out of business!" "My, but you're a slave driver, Nell," said Charlie Jamieson, jovially. He winked in the direction of Trenwith. "I'm sorry for your husband when you get married. You'll keep him busy, all right!" Hearing the remark, Trenwith grinned, while Eleanor flushed. His look said pretty plainly that he wouldn't waste any sympathy on the man lucky enough to marry Eleanor Mercer, and Dolly, catching the look, drew Bessie aside. Her observation in such matters was amazingly keen. "Did you see that!" she whispered, excitedly. "Why, Bessie, I do believe he's fallen in love with her already!" "Well, I should think he would!" said Bessie, surprisingly. "I wouldn't think much of any man who didn't! She's the nicest girl I ever saw or dreamed of seeing." "Oh, she's all of that," agreed Dolly, loyally. "You can't tell me anything nice about Miss Eleanor that I haven't found out for myself long ago. But Mr. Jamieson isn't in love with her--and he's known her much longer than Mr. Trenwith has." "That hasn't got anything at all to do with it," declared Bessie. "People don't have to know one another a long time to fall in love--though sometimes they don't always know about it themselves right away. And, besides, I think she and Mr. Jamieson are just like brother and sister. They're only cousins, of course, but they've sort of grown up together, and they know one another awfully well." "You may know more about things like that than I do," agreed Dolly, dubiously. "But I know this much, anyhow. If I were a man, I'd certainly be in love with Miss Eleanor, if I knew her at all." She stopped for a moment to look at Eleanor. "Better not let her catch us whispering about her," she went on. "She wouldn't like it a little bit." "It isn't a nice thing to do anyhow, Dolly. You're perfectly right. I do think Mr. Trenwith's a nice man. Maybe he's good enough for her. But I think I'll always like Mr. Jamieson better, because he's been so nice to us from the very start, when he knew that we couldn't pay him, the way people usually do lawyers who work so hard for them." "He certainly is a nice man, Bessie. But then so is Mr. Trenwith." "Look out, Dolly!" cautioned Bessie, with a low laugh. "You'll be getting jealous and losing your temper first thing you know." "Oh, I guess not. Talking about losing one's temper, I wonder if Gladys Cooper is still mad at us?" "Oh, I hope not! That was sort of funny, wasn't it, as well as unpleasant? Why do you suppose she was so angry, and got the other girls in their camp at Lake Dean to hating us so much when we first went there?" "Oh, she couldn't help it, Bessie, I guess. It's the way she's been brought up. Her people have lots of money, and they've let her think that just because of that she is better than girls whose parents are poor." "Well, the rest of them certainly changed their minds about us, didn't they?" "Yes, and it was a fine thing! I guess they realized that we were better than they thought, when Gladys and Marcia Bates got lost in the woods that time, and you and I happened to find them, and get them home safely." "I think they were mighty nice girls, Dolly--much nicer than you would ever have thought they could be from the way they acted when we first met them, and they ordered us off their ground, just as if we were going to hurt it. When they found out that they'd been in the wrong, and hadn't behaved nicely, they said they were sorry, and admitted that they hadn't been nice. And I think that's a pretty hard thing for anyone to do." "Oh, it is, Bessie. I know, because I've found out so often that I'd been mean to people who were ever so much nicer than I. But there's one thing about it--it makes you feel sort of good all over when you have owned up that way. I wish Gladys Cooper had acted like the rest of them. But she was still mad." "Oh, I think you'll find she's all right when you see her again, Dolly. I guess she's just as nice as the rest of them, really." "That's one reason I'm sorry she acted that way. Because she's as nice as any girl you ever saw when she wants to be. I was awfully mad at her when it happened, but now, somehow, I've got over feeling that way about her, altogether, and I just want to be good friends with her again." "You lose your temper pretty quickly, Dolly, but you get over being angry just as quickly as you get mad, don't you?" "I seem to, Bessie. And I guess that's helping me not to get angry at people so much, anyhow. I'm always sorry when I do get into one of my rages, and if I'm going to be sorry, it's easier not to get mad in the first place." While they talked, Bessie and Dolly were not idle, by any means. There was plenty of work for everyone to do, for the fire had made a pretty clean sweep, after all, and to put the whole camp in good shape, so that they could sleep there that night, was something of a task. Trenwith and Jamieson, laughing a good deal, and enjoying themselves immensely, insisted on doing the heavy work of setting up the ridge poles, and laying down the floors of the new tents, but when it came to stretching the canvas over the framework, they were not in it with the girls. "You men mean well, but I never saw anything so clumsy in my life!" declared Eleanor, laughingly. "It's a wonder to me how you ever come home alive when you go out camping by yourselves." "Oh, we manage somehow," boasted Charlie Jamieson. "That's just about what you do do! You manage--somehow! And, yet, when this Camp Fire movement started, all the men I knew sat around and jeered, and said that girls were just jealous of the good times the Boy Scouts had, and predicted that unless we took men along to look after us, we'd be in all sorts of trouble the first time we ever undertook to spend a night in camp!" Charlie shook his head at Trenwith in mock alarm. "Getting pretty independent, aren't they?" he said to his friend. "You mark my words, Billy, the old-fashioned women don't exist any more!" "And it's a good thing if they don't!" Eleanor flashed back at him. "They do, though, only you men don't know the real thing when you see it. You have an idea that a woman ought to be helpless and clinging. Maybe that was all right in the old days, when there were always plenty of men to look after a woman. But how about the way things are now? Women have to go into shops and offices and factories to earn a living, don't they, just the way men do?" "They do--more's the pity!" said Trenwith. Eleanor looked at him as if she understood just what he meant. "Maybe it isn't so much of a pity, though," she said. "I tell you one thing--a girl isn't going to make any the worse wife for being self-reliant, and knowing how to take care of herself a little bit. And that's what we want to make of our Camp Fire Girls--girls who can help themselves if there's need for it, and who don't need to have a man wasting a lot of time doing things for them that he ought to be spending in serious work--things that she can do just as well for herself." She stood before them as she spoke, a splendid figure of youth, and health and strength. And, as she spoke, she plunged her hand into a capacious pocket in her skirt. "There!" she said, "that's one of the things that has kept women helpless. It wasn't fashionable to have pockets, so men got one great advantage just in their clothes. Camp Fire Girls have pockets!" "You say that as if it was some sort of a motto," said Charlie, laughing, but impressed. "It is!" she replied. "Camp Fire Girls have pockets! That's one of the things you'll see in any Camp Fire book you read--any of the books that the National Council issues, I mean." "I surrender! I'm converted--absolutely!" said Jamieson, with a laugh. "I'll admit right now that no lot of men or boys I know could have put this camp up in this shape in such a time. Why, hullo--what's that? Looks as if you were going to have neighbors, Nell." His exclamation drew all eyes to the other end of the cove, and the surprise was general when a string of wagons was seen coming down a road that led to the beach from the bluff at that point. "Looks like a camping party, all right," said Trenwith. "Wonder who they can be?" Eleanor looked annoyed. She remembered only too well and too vividly the disturbance that had followed the coming of the yacht, and she wondered if this new invasion of the peace of Plum Beach might not likewise be the forerunner of something unpleasant. "They've got tents," she said, peering curiously at the wagons. "See--they're stopping there, and beginning to unload." "They're doing themselves very well, whoever they are," said Trenwith. "That's a pretty luxurious looking camp outfit. And they're having their work done for them by men who know the business, too." "Yes, and they're not making a much better job of it than these girls did," said Charlie. "Great Scott! Look at those cases of canned goods! They've got enough stuff there to feed a regiment." "Oh, I'm sorry they're coming!" said Eleanor, "whoever they are! I don't want to seem nasty, but we were ever so happy last summer when we we were here quite alone." "These people won't bother you, Nell," said Jamieson. "You don't suppose this could be another trick of Mr. Holmes's, do you, Charlie?" "Hardly--so soon," he said, frowning. "He didn't leave us in peace very long after we got here, you know. We only arrived yesterday--and see what happened to us last night!" "Well, we might stroll over and have a look," suggested Trenwith. "I guess there aren't any private property rights on this beach. We'll just look them over." "All right," said Eleanor. "Want to come, Dolly and Bessie? I see you've finished your share of the work before the others." So the five of them walked over. "Who's going to camp here?" Trenwith asked one of the workmen. "I don't know, sir. We just got orders to set up the tents. That's all we know about it." The three girls exchanged glances. That sounded as if it might indeed be Mr. Holmes who was coming. But before any more questions could be asked, there was a sudden peal of girlish laughter from above and a wild rush down from the bluff. "Dolly Ransom! Isn't this a surprise? And didn't we tell you we had a surprise for you?" "Why, Marcia Bates!" cried Dolly and Bessie, in one breath, as the newcomer reached them. "I didn't know you were going to leave Lake Dean so soon." "Well, we did! And we're all here--Gladys Cooper, and all the Halsted Camp Girls!" CHAPTER IV ONE FRIEND LESS In a moment the rest of the Halsted girls had reached the beach and were gathered about Bessie and Dolly. There was a lot of laughter and excitement, but it was plain that the girls who had once so utterly despised the members of the Camp Fire were now heartily and enthusiastically glad to see them. And suddenly Eleanor gave a glad cry. "Why, Mary Turner!" she said. "Whatever are you doing here? I thought you were going to Europe!" "I was, until this cousin of mine"--she playfully tapped Marcia on the shoulder--"made me change my plans. I'll have you to understand that you're not the only girl who can be a Camp Fire Guardian, Eleanor Mercer!" "Well," gasped Eleanor, "of all things! Do you mean that you've organized a new Camp Fire?" "We certainly have--the Halsted Camp Fire, if you please! We're not really all in yet, but we've got permission now from the National Council, and the girls are to get their rings to-night at our first ceremonial camp fire. Won't you girls come over and help us?" "I should say we would!" said Eleanor. "Why, this is fine, Mary! Tell me how it happened, won't you?" "It's all your fault--you must know that. The girls have told me all about the horrid way they acted at Lake Dean, but really, you can't blame them so much, can you, Nell? It's the way they're brought up--and, well, you went to the school, too, just as I did!" "I know what you mean," said Eleanor. "It's a fine school, but--" "That's it exactly--that _but_. The school has got into bad ways, and these girls were in a fair way to be snobs. Well, Marcia and some of the others got to thinking things over, and they decided that if the Camp Fire had done so much for Dolly Ransom and a lot of your girls, it would be a good thing for them, too." "They're perfectly right, Mary. Oh, I'm ever so glad!" "So they came to me, and asked me if I wouldn't be their Guardian. I didn't want to at first--and then I was afraid I wouldn't be any good. But I promised to talk to Mrs. Chester, and get her to suggest someone who would do, and--" "You needn't tell me the rest," laughed Eleanor. "I know just what happened. Mrs. Chester just talked to you in that sweet, gentle way of hers, and the first thing you knew you felt about as small as a pint of peanuts, and as if refusing to do the work would be about as mean as stealing sheep. Now, didn't you?" Mary laughed a little ruefully. "You're just right! That's exactly how it happened," she said. "She told me that no one would be able to do as much with these girls as I could, and then, when she had me feeling properly ashamed of myself, she turned right around and began to make me see how much fun I would have out of it myself. So I talked to Miss Halsted, and made her go to see Mrs. Chester--and here we are!" Suddenly Eleanor collapsed weakly against one of the empty packing boxes that littered the place, and began to laugh. "Oh, my dear," she exclaimed, "if you only knew the awful things we were thinking about you before we knew who you were!" "Why? Do you mean to say that you're snobbish, too, and didn't want neighbors you didn't know? Like my girls at Lake Dean?" "No, but we thought you might be kidnappers, or murderers, or fire-bugs, like our last neighbors!" "Eleanor! Are you crazy--and if you're not, what on earth are you talking about?" "I'm not as crazy as I seem to be, Mary. It's only fair to tell you now that this beach may be a pretty troubled spot while we're here. We seem to attract trouble just as a magnet attracts iron." "I think you _are_ crazy, Nell. If you're not, won't you explain what you mean?" "Look at our camp over there, Mary. It's pretty solid and complete, isn't it?" "I only hope ours looks half as well." "Well, this morning at sunrise there were just two tents standing. Everything else had been burnt. And I was doing my best to get the police or someone from Bay City to rescue two of my girls who were prisoners on a yacht out there in the cove!" Mary Turner appealed whimsically to Charlie Jamieson. "Does she mean it, Charlie?" she begged. "Or is she just trying to string me?" "I'm afraid she means it, and I happen to know it's all true, Mary," said Charlie, enjoying her bewilderment. "But it's a long story. Perhaps you'd better let it keep until you have put things to rights." "We'll help in doing that," said Eleanor. "Dolly, run over and get the other girls, won't you? Then we'll all turn in and lend a hand, and it will all be done in no time at all." "Indeed you won't!" said Marcia. "We're going to do everything ourselves, just to show that we can." "There isn't much to do," said Mary Turner, with a laugh. "So you needn't act as if that were something to be proud of, Marcia. You see, I thought it was better to take things easily at the start, Eleanor. They wanted to come here with all the tents and things and set up the camp by themselves, but I decided it was better to have the harder work done by men who knew their business." "You were quite right, too," agreed Eleanor. "That's the way I arranged things for our own camp the day we came. To-day we did do the work ourselves, but there was a reason for the girls were so excited and nervous about the fire that I thought it was better to give them a chance to work off their excitement that way." "I'm dying to hear all about the fire and what has happened here," said Mary. "But I suppose we'd better get everything put to rights first." And, though the girls of the new Camp Fire insisted on doing all the actual work themselves, they were glad enough to take the advice of the Manasquan girls in innumerable small matters. Comfort, and even safety from illness, in camp life, depends upon the observance of many seemingly trifling rules. Gladys Cooper, who, more than any of her companions at Camp Halsted, had tried to make things unpleasant for the Manasquan girls at Lake Dean, had not been with the first section of the new Camp Fire to reach the beach. Dolly had inquired about her rather anxiously, for Gladys had not taken part in the general reconciliation between the two parties of girls. "Gladys?" Marcia said. "Oh, yes, she's coming. She's back in the wagon that's bringing our suit cases. We appointed her a sort of rear guard. It wouldn't do to lose those things, you know." "I was afraid--I sort of thought she might not want to come here if she knew we were here, Marcia. You know--" "Yes, I _do_ know, Dolly. She behaved worse than any of us, and she wasn't ready to admit it when you girls left Lake Dean. But she's come to her senses since then, I'm sure. The rest of us made her do that." Bessie King looked a little dubious. "I hope you didn't bother her about it, Marcia," she said. "You know we haven't anything against her. We were sorry she didn't like us, and understand that we only wanted to be friends, but we certainly didn't feel angry." "If she was bothered, as you call it, Bessie, it served her good and right," said Marcia, crisply. "We've had about enough of Gladys and her superior ways. She isn't any better or cleverer or prettier than anyone else, and it's time she stopped giving herself airs." "You don't understand," said Bessie, with a smile. "She's one of you, and if you don't like the way she acts, you've got a perfect right to let her know it, and make her just as uncomfortable as you like." "We did," said Marcia. "I guess she's had a lesson that will teach her it doesn't pay to be a snob." "Yes, but don't you think that's something a person has to learn for herself, without anyone to teach her, Marcia? I mean, there's only one reason why she could be nice to us, and that's because she likes us. And you can't make her like us by punishing her for not liking us. You'll only make her hate us more than ever." "She'll behave herself, anyhow, Bessie. And that's more than she did before." "That's true enough. But really, it would be better, if she didn't like us, for her to show it frankly than to go around with a grudge against us she's afraid to show. Don't you see that she'll blame us for making trouble between you girls and her? She'll think that we've set her own friends against her. Really, Marcia, I think all the trouble would be ended sooner, in the long run, if you just let her alone until she changed her mind. She'll do it, too, sooner or later." "I guess Bessie's right, Marcia," said Dolly, thoughtfully. "I don't see why Gladys acts this way, but I do think that the only thing that will make her act differently will be for her to feel differently, and nothing you can do will do that." "Well, it's too late now, anyhow," said Marcia. "I see what you mean, and I suppose you really are right. But it's done. You'll be nice to her, won't you? She's promised to be pleasant when she sees you--to talk to you, and all that. I don't know how well she'll manage, but I guess she'll do her best." "There's no reason why we shouldn't be nice to her," said Bessie. "She isn't hurting us. I only hope that something will happen so that we can be good friends." "She really is a nice girl," said Marcia, "and I'm awfully fond of her when she isn't in one of her tantrums. But she is certainly hard to get along with when everything isn't going just to suit her little whims." "Here she comes now," said Dolly. "I'm going to meet her." "Well, you certainly did give us a surprise, Gladys," cried Dolly. "You sinner, why didn't you tell us what you were going to do?" "Oh, hello, Dolly!" said Gladys, coolly. "I didn't see much of you at Lake Dean, you know. You were too busy with your--new friends." "Oh, come off, Gladys!" said Dolly, irritated despite her determination to go more than half way in re-establishing friendly relations with Gladys. "Why can't you be sensible? We've got more to forgive than you have, and we're willing to be friends. Aren't you going to behave decently?" "I don't think I know just what you mean, Dolly," said Gladys, stiffly. "As long as the other girls have decided to be friendly with your--friends, I am not going to make myself unpleasant. But you can hardly expect me to like people just because you do. I must say that I get along better with girls of my own class." "I ought to be mad at you, Gladys," said Dolly, with a peal of laughter. "But you're too funny! What do you mean by girls of your own class? Girls whose parents have as much money as yours? Mine haven't. So I suppose I'm not in your class." "Nonsense, Dolly!" said Gladys, angrily. "You know perfectly well I don't mean anything of the sort. I--I can't explain just what I mean by my own class--but you know it just as well as I do." "I think I know it better, Gladys," said Dolly, gravely. "Now don't get angry, because I'm not saying this to be mean. If you had to go about with girls of your own class you couldn't stand them for a week! Because they'd be snobbish and mean. They'd be thinking all the time about how much nicer their clothes were than yours, or the other way around. They wouldn't have a good word for anyone--they'd just be trying to think about the mean things they could say!" "Why, Dolly! What do you mean?" "I mean that that's your class--the sort you are. Our girls, in the Manasquan Camp Fire, and most of the Halsted girls, are in a class a whole lot better than yours, Gladys. They spend their time trying to be nice, and to make other people happy. There isn't any reason why you shouldn't improve, and get into their class, but you're not in it now." "I never heard of such a thing, Dolly! Do you mean to tell me that you and I aren't in a better class socially than these girls you're camping with?" "I'm not talking about society--and you haven't any business to be. You don't know anything about it. But if people are divided into real classes, the two big classes are nice people and people who aren't nice. And each of those classes is divided up again into a lot of other classes. I hope I'm in as good a class as Bessie King and Margery Burton, but I'm pretty sure I'm not. And I know you're not." "There's no use talking to you, Dolly," said Gladys, furiously. "I thought you'd had time to get over all that nonsense, but I see you're worse than ever. I'm perfectly willing to be friends with you, and I've forgiven you for throwing those mice at us at Lake Dean, but I certainly don't see why I should be friendly with all those common girls in your camp." "They're not common--and don't you dare to say they are! And you certainly can't be my friend if you're going to talk about them that way." "All right!" snapped Gladys. "I guess I can get along without your friendship if you can get along without mine!" "I didn't mean to," she said, disgustedly, to Bessie and Marcia, "but I'm afraid I've simply made her madder than ever. And there's no telling what she'll do now!" "Oh, I guess there's nothing to worry about," said Marcia, cheerfully enough. "We can keep her in order all right, and if she doesn't behave herself decently I guess you'll find that Miss Turner will send her home in a hurry." "Oh, I hope not," said Bessie. "That wouldn't really do any good, would it? We want to be friends with her--not to have any more trouble." "I wish I'd kept out of it," said Dolly, dolefully. "I think I can keep my temper, and then I go off and make things worse than ever! I ought to know enough not to interfere. I'm like the elephant that killed a little mother bird by accident, and he was so sorry that he sat on its nest to hatch the eggs!" "Maybe it's a good thing," said Marcia, laughing at the picture of the elephant. "After all, isn't it a good deal as Bessie said? If there's bad feeling, it's better to have it open and aboveboard. We all know where we are now, anyhow. And I certainly hope that something will turn up to change her mind." CHAPTER V THE COUNCIL FIRE "I hope it will, Bessie," said Dolly. "But you know what a nasty temper I've got. If she keeps on talking the way she has, I don't know what I'll say." "Well, you might as well say what you like, Dolly. I believe she wants a good quarrel with someone--and it might as well be you." "You mean you think she likes me to get angry?" "Of course she does! There wouldn't be any fun in it for her if you didn't. Can't you see that?" Dolly looked very thoughtful. "Then I won't give her the satisfaction of getting angry!" she declared, finally. "Of course you're right, Bessie. If we didn't pay any attention at all to her it wouldn't do her a bit of good to get angry, would it?" "I wondered how long it would take you to see that, Dolly." They were walking back to their own tents as they spoke. Once arrived there, neither said anything about the spirit Gladys had shown. They both felt that it would be as well to let the other girls think that Gladys shared the friendly feelings of the other Halsted girls. And since Bessie and Dolly happened to be the only ones who knew that Gladys had been the prime mover in the trouble that had been made at Lake Dean, it was easy enough to conceal the true facts. "She can't do anything by herself," said Dolly. "Up at Lake Dean nothing would have happened unless the rest of those girls had taken her part against us." "I'm going to try to forget about her altogether, Dolly," said Bessie. "I'm not a bit angry at her, but if she won't be friends, she won't and that's all there is to it. And I don't see why I should worry about her when there are so many nice girls who _do_ want to be friendly. Why, what are you laughing at?" "I'm just thinking of how mad Gladys would be if she really understood! She's made herself think that she is doing a great favor to people when she makes friends of them--and, if she only knew it, she would have a hard time having us for friends now." * * * * * Charlie Jamieson and Billy Trenwith accepted Eleanor's pressing invitation to stay for the evening meal, but Trenwith seemed to feel that they were wasting time that might be better spent. "Not wasting it exactly," he said, however, when Eleanor laughingly accused him of feeling so. "But I do sort of think that Charlie and I ought to keep after this man Holmes. He seems to be a tough customer, and I'll bet he's busy, all right." "The only point, Billy," said Charlie, "is that, no matter how busy we were, there's mighty little we could do. We don't know enough, you see. But maybe when I get up to the city, I'll find out more. I'll go over the facts with you in Bay City to-night, and then I'll go up to town and see what I can do with Jake Hoover and Zara's father." "Well, let's do something, for Heaven's sake!" said Trenwith. "I hate to think that all you girls out here are in danger as a result of this man's villainy. If he does anything rotten, I can see that he's punished but that might not do you much good." "I tell you what would do some good, and that's to let Holmes know that you will punish him, if he exposes himself to punishment," said Charlie Jamieson. "That's the chief reason he's so bold. He thinks he's above the law--that he can do anything, and escape the consequences." "Well, of course," said Trenwith, "it may enlighten him a bit when he finds that those rascals we caught to-day will have to stand trial, just as if they were friendless criminals. If what you say about him is so, he'll be after me to-morrow, trying to call me off. And I guess he'll find that he's up against the law for once." "Did they get that telephone fixed up, Nell?" asked Charlie. "You're a whole lot safer with a telephone right here on the beach. Being half a mile from the nearest place where you can ever call for help is bad business." Eleanor pointed to a row of poles, on which a wire was strung, leading into the main living tent. "There it is," she said, gaily. "I don't see how you got them to do it so fast, though." "Billy's a sort of political boss round here, as well as district attorney," laughed Jamieson. "When he says a thing's to be done, and done in a hurry, he usually has his way." Eleanor looked curiously at Trenwith, and Charlie, catching the glance, winked broadly at Dolly Ransom. It was perfectly plain that the young District Attorney interested Eleanor a good deal. His quiet efficiency appealed to her. She liked men who did things, and Trenwith was essentially of that type. He didn't talk much about his plans; he let results speak for him. And, at the same time, when there was a question of something to be done, what he did say showed a quiet confidence, which, while not a bit boastful, proved that he was as sure of himself as are most competent men. Also, his admiration for Eleanor was plain and undisguised. Charlie Jamieson, who was almost like a brother in his relations with Eleanor, was hugely amused by this. Somehow cousins who are so intimate with a girl that they take a brother's place, never do seem able to understand that she may have the same attraction for other men that the sisters and the cousins of the other men have for them. The idea that their friends may fall in love with the girls they regard in such a perfectly matter-of-fact way strikes them, when it reaches them at all, as a huge joke. All the girls were sorry to see the two men who had helped them so much go away after dinner, but of course their departure was necessary. Just now, after the exciting events of the previous night, there seemed a reasonable chance of a little peace, but the price of freedom from the annoyance caused by Holmes was constant vigilance, and there was work for both the men to do. Moreover, the sight of the cheerful fire from the other camp, and the thought of the great camp fire they were presently to enjoy in common consoled them. "The Halsted girls are going to build the fire," said Eleanor. "It's their first ceremonial camp fire, so I told Miss Turner they were welcome to do it. They're all Wood-Gatherers, you see. So we'll have to light the fire for them, anyhow. See, they're at work already, bringing in the wood. Margery, suppose you go over and make sure that they're building the fire properly, with plenty of room for a good draught underneath." "Who's going to take them in, and give them their rings, Miss Eleanor?" asked Dolly. "You, or Miss Turner?" "Why, Miss Turner wants me to do it, Dolly, because I'm older in the Camp Fire than she is. She's given me the rings. I think it's quite exciting, really, taking so many new girls in all at once." "Come on," cried Margery Burton, then. "They're all ready and they want us to form the procession now, and go over there." "You are to light the fire, Margery. Are you all ready?" "Yes, indeed, Miss Eleanor. Shall I go ahead, and start the flame?" "Yes, do!" Then while Margery disappeared, Eleanor, at the head of the girls, started moving in the stately Indian measure toward the dark pile of wood that represented the fire that was so soon to blaze up. As they walked they sang in low tones, so that the melody rose and mingled with the waves and the sighing of the wind. Just as the first spark answered Margery's efforts with her fire-making sticks, they reached the fire, and sat down in a great circle, with a good deal of space between each pair of girls. Eleanor took her place in the centre, facing Margery, who now stood up, lifting a torch that she had lighted above her head. As she touched the tinder beneath the fire Eleanor raised her hand, and, as the flames began to crackle, she lowered it, and at once the girls began the song of Wo-he-lo: Wo-he-lo means love. Wo-he-lo, wo-he-lo, wo-he-lo. We love love, for love is the heart of life. It is light and joy and sweetness, Comradeship and all dear kinship. Love is the joy of service so deep That self is forgotten. Wo-he-lo means love. Outside the circle now other and unseen voices joined them in the chorus: Wo-he-lo for aye, Wo-he-lo for aye, Wo-he-lo, wo-he-lo, wo-he-lo for aye! Then for a moment utter silence, so that the murmur of the waves seemed amazingly loud. Then, their voices hushed, half the Manasquan girls chanted: Wo-he-lo for work! And the others, their voices rising gradually, answered with: Wo-he-lo for health! And without a break in the rhythm, all the girls joined in the final Wo-he-lo, wo-he-lo, wo-he-lo for love! Then Margery, her torch still raised above her head, while she swung it slowly in time to the music of her song, sang alone: O Fire! Long years ago when our fathers fought with great animals you were their great protection. When they fought the cold of the cruel winter you saved them. When they needed food you changed the flesh of beasts into savory meat for them. During all the ages your mysterious flame has been a symbol to them for Spirit, So, to-night, we light our fire in grateful remembrance of the Great Spirit who gave you to us. Then Margery took her place in the circle, and Eleanor called the roll, giving each girl the name she had chosen as her fire name. Then Mary Turner, in her new ceremonial robe, fringed with beads, slipped into the circle of the firelight, bright and vivid now. "Oh, Wanaka," she said, calling Eleanor by her ceremonial name, "I bring to-night these newcomers to the Camp Fire, to tell you their Desire, and to receive from you their rings." One by one the girls of the Halsted Camp Fire stepped forward, and each repeated her Desire to be a Wood-Gatherer, and was received by Eleanor, who explained to each some new point of the Law of the Fire, so that all might learn. And to each, separately, as she slipped the silver ring of the Camp Fire on her finger, she repeated the beautiful exhortation: Firmly held by the sinews which bind them, As fagots are brought from the forest So cleave to these others, your sisters, Whenever, wherever you find them. Be strong as the fagots are sturdy; Be pure in your deepest desire; Be true to the truth that is in you; And--follow the law of the Fire! One by one as they received their rings, the newcomers slipped into seats about the fire, each one finding a place between two of the Manasquan girls. Marcia Bates, flushed with pleasure, took a seat between Bessie and Dolly. "Oh, how beautiful it all is!" she said. "I don't see how any of us could ever have laughed at the Camp Fire! But, of course, we didn't know about all this, or we never would have laughed as we did." "I love the part about 'So cleave to these others, your sisters,'" said Dolly. "It's so fine to feel that wherever you go, you'll find friends wherever there's a Camp Fire--that you can show your ring, and be sure that there'll be someone who knows the same thing you know, and believes in the same sort of things!" "Yes, that's lovely, Dolly. Of course, we've all read about this, but you have to do it to know how beautiful it is. I'm so glad you girls were here for this first Council Fire of ours. You know how everything should be done, and that seems to make it so much better." "It would have pleased you just as much, and been just as lovely if you'd done it all by yourselves, Marcia. It's the words, and the ceremony that are so beautiful--not the way we do it. Every Camp Fire has its own way of doing things. For instance, some Camp Fires sing the Ode to Fire all together, but we have Margery do it alone because she has such a lovely voice." "I think it was splendid. I never had any idea she could sing so well." "Her voice is lovely, but it sounds particularly soft and true out in the open air this way, and without a piano to accompany her. Mine doesn't--I'm all right to sing in a crowd, but when I try to sing by myself, it's just a sort of screech. There isn't any beauty to my tones at all, and I know it and don't try to sing alone." "Aren't they all in now?" asked Bessie. There had been a break in the steady appearance of new candidates before Eleanor. But, even as she spoke, another figure glided into the light. "No. There's Gladys Cooper," said Marcia, with a little start. "I wonder if she sees what there is to the Camp Fire now," said Dolly, speculatively. "What is your desire?" asked Eleanor. "I desire to become a Camp Fire Girl and to obey the law of the Camp Fire," said Gladys, in a mechanical, sing-song voice, entirely different from the serious tones of those who had preceded her. "She's laughing to herself," said Marcia, indignantly. "Just listen! She's repeating the Desire as if it were a bit of doggerel." They heard her saying: "Seek beauty, Give service, Pursue knowledge, Hold on to health, Glorify work, Be happy. This law of the Camp Fire I will strive to follow." "Give service," repeated Eleanor slowly. "You have heard what I said to the other girls, Gladys. I want you to understand this point of the law. It is the most important of all, perhaps. It means that you must be friendly to your sisters of the Camp Fire; that you must love them, and put them above yourself." "I must do all that for my chums--the girls in our Camp Fire, you mean, I suppose?" said Gladys. "I don't care anything about these other girls. And, Miss Mercer, all that you're going to say in a minute--'So cleave to these others, your sisters'--that doesn't mean the girls in any old Camp Fire, does it?" Startled, Eleanor was silent for a moment. Mary Turner looked at Gladys indignantly. "It means every girl in every Camp Fire," said Eleanor, finally. "And more than that, you must serve others, in or out of the Camp Fire." "Oh, that's nonsense!" said Gladys. "I couldn't do that." "Then you are not fit to receive your ring," said Eleanor. CHAPTER VI AN UNHAPPY ENDING There was a gasp of astonishment and dismay from the girls. Somehow all seemed to feel as if Eleanor's reproach were directed at them instead of at the pale and angry Gladys, who stood, scarcely able to believe her ears, looking at the Guardian. There had been no anger in Eleanor's voice, only sorrow and distress. "Why, what do you mean, Miss Mercer?" Gladys gasped. "Exactly what I say, Gladys," said Eleanor, in the same level voice. "You are not fit to be one of us unless you mean sincerely and earnestly to keep the Law of the Fire. We are a sisterhood; no girl who is not only willing, but eager, to become our sister, may join us." Slowly the meaning of her rejection seemed to sink into the mind of Gladys. "Do you mean that you're not going to let me join?" she asked in a shrill, high pitched voice that showed she was on the verge of giving way to an outbreak of hysterical anger. "For your own sake it is better that you should not join now, Gladys. Listen to me. I do not blame you greatly for this. I would rather have you act this way than be a hypocrite, pretending to believe in our law when you do not." "Oh, I hate you! I hate the Camp Fire! I wouldn't join for anything in the world, after this!" "There will be time to settle that when we are ready to let you join, Gladys," said Eleanor, a little sternness creeping into her voice, as if she was growing angry for the first time. "To join the Camp Fire is a privilege. Remember this--no girl does the Camp Fire a favor by joining it. The Camp Fire does not need any one girl, no matter how clever, or how pretty, or how able she may be, as much as that girl needs the Camp Fire. The Camp Fire, as a whole, is a much greater, finer thing than any single member." Sobs of anger were choking Gladys when she tried to answer. She could not form intelligible words. Eleanor glanced at Mary Turner, and the Guardian of the new Camp Fire, on the hint, put her arm about Gladys. "I think you'd better go back to the camp now, dear," she said, very gently. "You and I will have a talk presently, when you feel better, and perhaps you will see that you are wrong." All the life and spirit seemed to have left the girls as Gladys, her head bowed, the sound of her sobs still plainly to be heard, left the circle of the firelight and made her lonely way over the beach toward the tents of her own camp. For a few moments silence reigned. Then Eleanor spoke, coolly and steadily, although Mary Turner, who was close to her, knew what an effort her seeming calm represented. "We have had a hard thing to do to-night," she said. "I know that none of you will add to what Gladys has made herself suffer. She is in the wrong, but I think that very few of us will have any difficulty in remembering many times when we have been wrong, and have been sure that we were right. Gladys thinks now that we are all against her--that we wanted to humiliate her. We must make her understand that she is wrong. Remember, Wo-he-lo means love." She paused for a moment. "Wo-he-lo means love," she repeated. "And not love for those whom we cannot help loving. The love that is worth while is that we give to those who repel us, who do not want our love. It is easy to love those who love us. But in time we can make Gladys love us by showing that we want to love her and do what we can to make her happy. And now, since I think none of us feel like staying here, we will sing our good-night song and disperse." And the soft voices rose like a benediction, mingling in the lovely strains of that most beautiful of all the Camp Fire songs. Silently, and without the usual glad talk that followed the ending of a Council Fire, the circle broke up, and the girls, in twos and threes, spread over the beach. "Walk over with me, won't you?" Marcia Bates begged Dolly and Bessie. "Oh, I'm so ashamed! I never thought Gladys would act like that!" "It isn't your fault, Marcia," said Dolly. "Don't be silly about it. And, do you know, I'm not angry a bit! Just at first I thought I was going to be furious. But--well, somehow I can't help admiring Gladys! I like her better than I ever did before, I really do believe!" "Oh, I do!" said Bessie, her eyes glowing. "Wasn't she splendid? Of course, she's all wrong, but she had to be plucky to stand up there like that, when she knew everyone was against her!" "But she had no right to insult all you girls, Bessie." "I don't believe she meant to insult us a bit," said Dolly. "I don't think she thought much about us. It's just that she has always been brought up to feel a certain way about things, and she couldn't change all at once. A whole lot of girls, while they believed just what she did, and hated the whole idea just as much, would never have dared to say so, when they knew no one agreed with them." "Yes, it's just as Miss Eleanor said," said Bessie. "She's not a hypocrite, no matter what her other faults are. She's not afraid to say just what she thinks--and that's pretty fine, after all." "I wish she could hear you," said Marcia, indignantly. "Oh, it's splendid of you, but I can't feel that way, and there's no use pretending. I suppose the real reason I'm so angry is that I'm really very fond of Gladys, and I hate to see her acting this way. She's making a perfect fool of herself, I think." "But just think of how splendid it will be when she sees she is wrong, Marcia," said Bessie. "Because you want to remember if she's plucky enough to hold out against all her friends this way she will be plucky enough to own up when she sees the truth, too." "Yes, and she'll be a convert worth making, too," said Dolly. "There's just one thing I'm thinking of, Marcia. Will she stay here? Don't you suppose she'll go home right away? I know I would. I wouldn't want to stay around this beach after what happened at the Council Fire to-night." They never heard Marcia's answer to that question, for in the darkness, Gladys herself, shaking with anger, rose and confronted them. "You bet I'm going to stay!" she declared, furiously. "And I'll get even with you, Dolly Ransom, and your nasty old Miss Mercer, and the whole crew of you! Maybe you've been able to set all my friends against me--I'm glad of it!" "No one is set against you, Gladys," said Marcia, gently. "Maybe you don't call it that, Marcia Bates, but I've got my own opinion of a lot of girls who call themselves my friends and side against me the way you've done!" "Why, Gladys, I haven't done a thing--" "That's just it, you sneak! Why, do you suppose I'd have let them treat you as I was treated to-night? If it had happened to you, and I'd joined before, I'd have got up and thrown their nasty old ring back at them! I don't want their old ring! I've got much prettier ones of my own--gold, and set with sapphires and diamonds!" "I'm very glad you're going to stay, Gladys!" said Dolly. "I'm sorry I've been cross when I spoke to you lately two or three times, and I hope you'll forgive me. And I think you'll see soon that we're not at all what you think we are in the Camp Fire." "Oh, you needn't talk that way to me, Dolly Ransom! You can pretend all you like to be a saint, but I've known you too long to swallow all that! You've done just as many mean things as anyone else! And now you stand around and act as if you were ashamed to know me. Just you wait! I'll get even with you, and all the rest of your new friends, if it's the last thing I ever do!" Bessie's hand reached out for Dolly's. She knew her chum well enough to understand that if Dolly controlled her temper now it would only be by the exercise of the grimmest determination. Sure enough, Dolly's hand was trembling, and Bessie could almost feel the hot anger that was swelling up in her. But Dolly mastered herself nobly. "You can't make me angry now, Gladys," said Dolly, finally. "You're perfectly right; I've done things that are meaner than anything you did at Lake Dean. And I'm just as sorry for them now as you will be when you understand better." "Well, you needn't preach to me!" said Gladys, fiercely. "And you can give up expecting me to run away. I'm not a coward, whatever else I may be! And I'd never be able to hold up my head if I thought a lot of common girls had frightened me into running away from this place. I'm going to stay here, and I'm going to have a good time, and you'd better look out for yourselves--that's all I can say! Maybe I know more about you than you think." And then she turned on her heel and left them. "Whew!" said Marcia. "I don't see how you kept your temper, Dolly. If she'd said half as much to me as she did to you, I never could have stood it, I can tell you! Whatever did she mean by what she said just then about knowing more than we thought?" "I don't know," said Dolly, rather anxiously. "But look here, Marcia, I might as well tell you now. There's likely to be a good deal of excitement here." "Yes," said Bessie, rather bitterly. "And it's all my fault--mine and Zara's, that is." "I don't see what you can mean," said Marcia, mystified. "Well, it's quite a long story, but I really think you'd better know all about it, Marcia," said Dolly. And so, with occasional help from Bessie herself, when Dolly forgot something, or when Bessie's ideas disagreed with hers, Dolly poured the story of the adventures of Bessie and Zara since their flight from Hedgeville into Marcia's ears. "Why, I never heard of such a thing!" Marcia exclaimed, when the story was told. "So that fire last night wasn't an accident at all?" "We're quite sure it wasn't, Marcia. And don't you think it looks as if we were right?" "It certainly does, and I think it's dreadful, Dolly--just dreadful. Oh, Bessie, I am so sorry for you!" She threw her arms about Bessie impulsively and kissed her, while Dolly, delighted, looked on. "Doesn't it make you love her more than ever?" she said. "And Bessie is so foolish about it sometimes. She seems to think that girls won't want to have anything to do with her, because she hasn't had a home and parents like the rest of us--or like most of us." "That _is_ awfully silly, Bessie," said Marcia. "As if it was your fault! People are going to like you for what you are, and for the way you behave--not on account of things that you really haven't a thing to do with. Sensible people, I mean. Of course, if they're like Gladys--but then most people aren't, I think." "Of course they're not!" said Dolly, stoutly. "And, besides, I'm just sure that Bessie is going to find out about her father and mother some day. I don't believe Mr. Holmes would be taking all the trouble he has about her unless there were something very surprising about her history that we don't know anything about. Do you, Marcia?" "Of course not! He's got something up his sleeve. Probably she is heiress to a fortune, or something like that, and he wants to get hold of it. He's a very rich man, isn't he, Dolly?" "Yes. You know he's the owner of a great big department store at home. And Bessie says that it can't be any question of money that makes him so anxious to get hold of her and of Zara, because he has so much already." "H'm! I guess people who have money like to make more, Dolly. I've heard my father talk about that. He says they're never content, and that's one reason why so many men work themselves to death, simply because they haven't got sense enough to stop and rest when they have enough money to live comfortably for the rest of their lives." "That's another thing I've told her. And she says that can't be the reason, but just the same she never suggests a better one to take its place." "Look here," said Marcia, thoughtfully. "If Mr. Holmes is spending so much money, doesn't it cost a whole lot to stop him from doing what he's trying to do, whatever that is? I'm just thinking--my father has ever so much, you know, and I know if I told him, he'd be glad to spend whatever was needed--" Bessie flushed unhappily. "Oh, that's one thing that is worrying me terribly!" she cried. "I just know that Miss Eleanor and Mr. Jamieson must have spent a terrible lot on my affairs already, and I don't see how I'm ever going to pay them back! And if I ever mention it, Miss Eleanor gets almost angry, and says I mustn't talk about it at all, even think of it." "Why, of course you mustn't. It would be awful to think that those horrid people were able to get hold of you and make you unhappy just because they had money and you didn't, Bessie." And Dolly echoed her exclamation. Naturally enough, Marcia, whose parents were among the richest people in the state, thought little of money, and Dolly, who had always had plenty, even though her family was by no means as rich as Marcia's, felt the same way about the matter. Neither of them valued money particularly; but Bessie, because she had lived ever since she could remember in a family where the pinch of actual poverty was always felt, had a much truer appreciation of the value of money. She did not want to possess money, but she had a good deal of native pride, and it worried her constantly to think that her good friends were spending money that she could see no prospect, however remote, of repaying. "I wish there was some way to keep me from having to take all the money they spend on me," she said, wistfully. "As soon as we get back to the city, I'm going to find some work to do, so that I can support myself." She half expected Marcia to assail that idea, for it seemed to her that, nice as she was, she belonged, like Gladys Cooper, to the class that looked down on work and workers. But to her surprise, Marcia gave a cry of admiration. "It's splendid for you to feel that way, Bessie!" she said. "But, just the same, I believe you'll have to wait until things are more settled. It would be so much easier for Mr. Holmes to get hold of you if you were working, you know." "She's going to come and stay with me just as long as she wants to," said Dolly. "And, anyhow, I really believe things are going to be settled for her. Perhaps I've heard something, too!" CHAPTER VII THE CHALLENGE When Bessie and Dolly returned to their own camp they found Eleanor Mercer waiting for them, and as soon as she was alone with them, she did something that, for her, was very rare. She asked them about their talk with Marcia Bates. "You know that as a rule I don't interfere," she said. "Unless there is something that makes it positively necessary for me to intrude myself, I leave you to yourselves." "Why, we would have told you all about it, anyhow, Miss Eleanor," said Dolly, surprised. "Yes, but even so, I want you to know that I'm sorry to feel that I should ask you to tell me. As a rule, I would rather let you girls work all these things out by yourselves, even if I see very plainly that you are making mistakes. I think you can sometimes learn more by doing a thing wrong, provided that you are following your own ideas, than by doing it right when you are simply doing what someone else tells you." "I see what you mean, Miss Eleanor," said Bessie. "But this time we really haven't done anything. We saw Gladys, too, and--" She went on to tell of their talk with Marcia and of the unpleasant episode created by Gladys when she had overheard them talking. "I think you've done very well indeed," said Eleanor, with a sigh of relief, when she had heard the story. "I was so afraid that you would lose your temper, Dolly. Not that I could really have blamed you if you had, but, oh, it's so much better that you didn't. So Gladys has decided to stay, has she?" "Yes," said Dolly. "But Marcia seemed to think Miss Turner might make her go home." "She won't," said Eleanor. "She was thinking of it, but I have had a talk with her, and we both decided that that wouldn't do much good. It might save us some trouble, but it wouldn't do Gladys any good, and, after all, she's the one we've got to consider." Dolly didn't say anything, but it was plain from her look that she did not understand. "What I mean is," Eleanor went on, "that there's a chance here for us to make a real convert--one who will count. It's easy enough to make girls understand our Camp Fire idea when they want to like it, and feel sure that they're going to. The hard cases are the girls like Gladys, who have a prejudice against the Camp Fire without really knowing anything at all about it. And if the Camp Fire idea is the fine, strong, splendid thing we all believe, why, this is a good time to prove it. If it is, Gladys won't be able to hold out against it." "That's what I've thought from the first, Miss Eleanor," said Bessie. "And I'm sure she will like us better presently." "Well, if she is willing to stay, she is to stay," said Eleanor. "And she is to be allowed to do everything the other girls do, except, of course, she can't actually take part in a Council Fire until she's a member. We don't want her to feel that she is being punished, and Miss Turner is going to try to make her girls treat her just as if nothing had happened. That's what I want our Manasquan girls to do, too." "They will, then, if I've got anything to say," declared Dolly, vehemently. "And I guess I've got more reason to be down on her than any of the others except Bessie. So if I'm willing to be nice to her, I certainly don't see why the others should hesitate." "Remember this, Dolly. You're willing to be nice to her now, but she may make it pretty hard. You're going to have a stiff test of your self-control and your temper for the next few days. When people are in the wrong and know it, but aren't ready to admit it and be sorry, they usually go out of their way to be nasty to those they have injured--" "Oh, I don't care what she says or does now," said Dolly. "If I could talk to her to-night without getting angry, I think I'm safe. I never came so near to losing my temper without really doing it in my whole life before." "Well, that's fine, Dolly. Keep it up. Remember this is pretty hard for poor Miss Turner. Here she is, just starting in as a Camp Fire Guardian, and at the very beginning she has this trouble! But if she does make Gladys come around, it will be a great victory for her, and I want you and all of our girls to do everything you can to help." Then with a hearty good-night she turned away, and it was plain that she was greatly relieved by what Bessie and Dolly had told her. "Well, I don't know what you're going to do, Bessie," said Dolly, "but I'm going to turn in and sleep! I'm just beginning to realize how tired I am." "I'm tired, too. We've really had enough to make us pretty tired, haven't we?" And this time they were able to sleep through the whole night without interruption. The peace and calm of Plum Beach were disturbed by nothing more noisy than gentle waves, and the whole camp awoke in the morning vastly refreshed. The sun shone down gloriously, and the cloud-less sky proclaimed that it was to be a day fit for any form of sport. A gentle breeze blew in from the sea, dying away to nothing sometimes, and the water inside the sand bar was so smooth and inviting that half a dozen of the girls, with Dolly at their head, scampered in for a plunge before breakfast. "They're swimming over at the other camp, too," cried Dolly. "See? Oh, I bet we'll have some good times with them. We ought to be able to have all sorts of fun in the water." "Aren't there any boats here beside that old flat bottom skiff?" asked Bessie. "Aren't there? Just wait till you see! If we hadn't had all that excitement yesterday Captain Salters would have brought the _Eleanor_ over. He will to-day, too, and then you'll see!" "What will I see, Dolly? Remember I haven't been here before, like you." "Oh, she's the dandiest little boat, Bessie--a little sloop, and as fast as a steamboat, if she's handled right." "Now we'll never hear the end of her," said Margery Burton, with a comical gesture of despair. "You've touched the button, Bessie, and Dolly will keep on telling us about the _Eleanor_, and how fast she is, until someone sits on her!" "You're jealous, Margery," laughed Dolly, in high good humor. "Margery's pretty clever, Bessie, and when it comes to cooking--my!" She smacked her lips loudly, as if to express her sense of how well Margery could cook. "But she can't sail a boat!" "Here's Captain Salters now--and he's towing the _Eleanor_, all right, Dolly," cried one of the other girls. "Oh, I'm so glad!" cried Dolly. "Bessie, you've never been in a sail boat, have you? I'll have to show you how everything is done, and then we'll have some bully fine times together. You'll love it, I know." "She won't if she's inclined to be seasick," said Margery. "The trouble with Dolly is that she can never have enough of a good thing. The higher the wind, the happier Dolly is. She'll keep on until the boat heels away over, and until you think you're going over the next minute--and she calls that having a good time!" "Well, I never heard you begging me to quit, Margery Burton!" said Dolly. "You're an old fraud--that's what you are! You pretend you are terribly frightened, and all the time you're enjoying it just as much as I am. I wish there was some way we could have a race. That's where the real fun comes in with a sail boat." "You could get all the racing you want over at Bay City, Dolly. The yacht club there has races every week, I think." "But Miss Eleanor would never let me sail in one of those races, Margery. I guess she's right, too. I may be pretty good for a girl, but I'm afraid I wouldn't have a chance with those men." Margery pretended to faint. "Listen to that, will you?" she exclaimed. "Here's Dolly actually saying that someone might be able to do something better than she could! I'll believe in almost anything after that!" "Well, you can laugh all you like," said Dolly, with spirit. "But if we should have a race, I'll be captain, and I know some people who won't get a chance to be even on the crew. They'll feel pretty sorry they were so fresh, I guess, when they have to stay ashore cooking dinner while I and my crew are out in the sloop!" Then from the beach came the primitive call to breakfast--made by the simple process of pounding very hard on the bottom of a frying pan with a big tin spoon. That ended the talk about Dolly's qualifications as a yacht captain, and there was a wild rush to the beach, and to the tents, since those who had been in for an early swim could not sit down to breakfast in their wet bathing suits. But no one took any great length of time to dress, since here the utmost simplicity ruled in clothes. "Well, what's the programme for to-day, girls?" asked Eleanor, after the meal was over. "Each for herself!" cried half a dozen voices. And a broken chorus rose in agreement. "I want to fish!" cried one. "A long walk for me!" said another. "I'd like to make up a party to go over to Bay City and buy things. We haven't been near a store for weeks!" suggested another. "All right," said Eleanor. "Everyone can do exactly what she likes between the time we finish clearing up after lunch and dinner. I think we'll have the same rule we did at Long Lake--four girls attend to the camp work each day, while the other eight do as they like. You can draw lots or arrange it among yourselves, I don't care." "Yes, that's a fine arrangement," said Dolly. "It's a little harder for the four who work than it would be if we all pitched in, but no one really has to work any harder, for all that." "It's even in the long run," said Eleanor. "And it gives some of you a chance to do things that call for a whole afternoon. All agreed to that, are you?" It was Eleanor's habit, whenever possible, to submit such minor details of camp life to a vote of the girls. Her authority, of course, was complete. If she gave an order, it had to be obeyed, and she had the right, if she decided it was best, to send any or all of the girls home. But--and many guardians find it a good plan--she preferred to give the girls a good deal of latitude and real independence. One result was that, whenever she did give a positive order, it was obeyed unquestioningly. The girls knew by experience that usually she was content to suggest things, and even agree to methods that she would not herself have chosen, and, as they were not accustomed to receiving positive orders on all sorts of subjects, they understood without being told that there was a good reason for those that were issued. Another result, of course, and the most important, was that the girls, growing used to governing themselves, grew more self-reliant, and better fitted to cope with emergencies. The girls were still washing the breakfast dishes when Marcia Bates walked along the beach and was greeted with a merry hail by Dolly and the others. "I'm here as an ambassador or something like that," she announced. "That little sloop out there is yours, isn't she?" "Well, we'll have ours here as soon as it's towed over from Bay City. And we want to challenge you to a regular yacht race. I asked Miss Turner if we might, and she said yes." "I think that would be fine sport," said Eleanor. "Dolly Ransom is skipper of our sloop. Suppose you talk it over with her." "I think it would be fine, Marcia!" said Dolly, with shining eyes. "I was just wishing for a race this morning. When shall we have it?" "Why not this afternoon?" asked Marcia. "We could race out to the lighthouse on the rock out there and back. That's not very far, but it's far enough to make a good race, I should think." "Splendid!" said Dolly. "What sort of a boat is yours?" "Just the same as yours, I think. We can see when they come, and if one is bigger than the other, we can arrange about a handicap. Miss Turner said she thought she ought to be in one boat, and Miss Mercer in the other." "Yes, I think so, too. And I'll be skipper of our boat, and have Bessie King and Margery Burton for a crew. Who is your skipper?" "Gladys Cooper," answered Marcia, after a slight pause. "Bully for her! Just you tell her I'm going to beat her so badly she won't even know she's in a race." Marcia laughed. "All right," she said. "I'll let you know when we're ready." "Now, then, Bessie," said Dolly, "just you come out with me to the sloop in that skiff, and I'll show you just what you'll have to do. It won't be hard--you'll only have to obey orders. But you'd better know the names of the ropes, so that you'll understand my orders when I give them." So for an hour Bessie, delighted with the appearance of the trim little sloop, took lessons from Dolly in the art of handling small sailing craft. "You'll get along all right," said Dolly, as they pulled back to the beach. "Don't get excited. That's the only thing to remember. We'll wear our bathing suits, of course, so that if we get spilled into the water, there'll be no harm done." "We've got a good chance of being spilled, too," said Margery. "I know how Dolly likes to sail a boat. So if you don't want a ducking, you'd better make her take someone else in your place." "I wouldn't miss it for anything," said Bessie, happily. "I've never even seen a yacht race. I bet it must be lots of fun." "It won't be rough, anyhow," said Eleanor, after they had landed. She looked out to sea. "It's pretty hazy out there, Dolly. Think there'll be enough wind?" "Oh, yes," said Dolly. "Plenty! It won't be stiff, of course, and we won't make good time, but that doesn't make any difference. It's as good for them as for us--and the other way round." CHAPTER VIII THE RACE The sloop that was to represent the Halsted Camp Fire in the race arrived in the cove late in the morning, and from the shore there seemed to be no difference in size between the two little craft. They were different, and one might prove swifter than the other, for no two boats of that sort were ever exactly alike. But so far as could be judged, the race was likely to be a test rather of how the boats were sailed than of their speed, boat for boat. "I think you can sail on even terms, Dolly," said Eleanor. "I don't believe there'll be any need for either of you to give away any time to the other." "I'm glad of that, Miss Eleanor," said Dolly. "It seems much nicer when you're exactly even at the start." "Here's Miss Turner now," said Bessie. "I guess they must be about ready to start. I hope I'll do the right thing when you tell me, Dolly, but I'm dreadfully afraid I won't." "Don't worry about it, and you'll be much more likely to get along well," said Margery Burton, calmly. "And remember that this race isn't the most important thing in the world, even if Dolly thinks it is." "Oh, it's all right for you to talk that way now," said Dolly. "But wait till we're racing, Bessie. You'll find she's just as much worked up about it then as I am--and probably more so." "Well, all ready, Nell?" asked Mary Turner, coming up to them then. "Gladys seems to think she's about ready to start, so I thought I'd walk over and arrange about the details." "I think the best way to fix up the start will be for the two sloops to reach the opening in the bar together," said Eleanor. "They can start there and finish there, you see, and that will save the need of having someone to take the time. We really haven't anyone who can do that properly. If we're close together at the start you and I can call to one another and agree upon the moment when the race has actually begun." "All right," said Miss Turner. "I'd thought of that myself." She lowered her voice. "I didn't like to oppose this race, Nell," she said, speaking so that only Eleanor could hear her, "but I'm not at all sure that it's going to be a good thing." "Why not? I thought it would be good sport." "It ought to be, but I don't know how good a sportsman Gladys is. If she wins, it will probably make her feel a lot better. But if she loses--!" "I hadn't thought of that side of it," said Eleanor. "But--oh, well, even so, I think it will probably be a good thing. Gladys has got a lot of hard lessons to learn, and if this is one of them, the sooner she learns it, the better. You and I will be along to see fair play. That will keep her from having anything to say if she does lose, you see." "We're in for it, anyhow, so I didn't mean to have you worry about it. I think anything that I might have done to stop the race would have done more harm than the race itself can possibly do, in any case." "I'm quite sure of that, Mary. Well, we'll get aboard our yacht and you'd better do the same. They're probably waiting impatiently for you." The flat-bottomed skiff that Bessie had despised proved handy for carrying the _Eleanor's_ crew out to her. While the others climbed aboard, Dolly, who insisted upon attending to everything herself, when she possibly could, arranged a floating anchor that would keep the boat in place against their return, and a few moments later the _Eleanor's_ snowy sails rose, flapping idly in the faint breeze. "Get up that anchor!" directed Dolly. "Bessie, you help Margery. She'll show you what to do." Then a shiver shook the little craft, the wind filled the sails, and in a few moments they were creeping slowly toward the opening in the bar. Seated at the helm, Dolly looked over toward the other camp and saw that the other yacht was also under weigh. "What do they call their boat?" she asked. "The _Defiance_," said Eleanor. Dolly laughed at the answer. "I bet I know who named her!" she said, merrily. "If that isn't just like Gladys Cooper! Well, I want a good race, and I can have just as much fun if we're beaten, as long as I can feel that I haven't made any mistakes in sailing the _Eleanor_. But--well, I guess I would like to beat Gladys. I bet she's awfully sure of winning!" "She's had more experience in sailing boats like these than you have, Dolly," said Eleanor. "She's welcome to it," said Dolly. "I shan't make any excuses if I lose. I'll be ready to admit that she's better than I am." The two boats converged together upon the opening in the bar, and soon those on one could see everything aboard the other. Gladys Cooper, like Dolly, sat at the helm, steering her boat, and a look of grim determination was in her eyes and on her unsmiling face. "She certainly does want to win," said Margery. "She's taking this too seriously--score one for Dolly." "You think she'd do better if she weren't so worked up, Margery?" "Of course she would! There are just two ways to take a race or a sporting contest of any sort--as a game or as a bit of serious work. If you do the very best you can and forget about winning, you'll win a good deal oftener than you lose, if your best is any good at all. It's that way in football. I've heard boys say that when they have played against certain teams, they've known right after the start that they were going to win, because the other team's players would lose their tempers the first time anything went wrong." "We seem to be on even terms now," said Eleanor, and, cupping her hands, she hailed Mary Turner. "All ready? We might as well call this a start." "All right," said Mary. "Shall I give the word?" "Go ahead!" said Eleanor. Instantly Dolly, with a quick look at her sails, which were hanging limp again, since she had altered the course a trifle, became all attention. "One--two--three--go!" called Miss Turner, clapping her hands at the word 'go.' And instantly Dolly shifted her helm once more, so that the wind filled the sails, and the _Eleanor_ shot for the opening in the bar. Quick as she had been, however, she was no quicker than Gladys, and the _Defiance_ and the _Eleanor_ passed through the bar and out into the open sea together. Here there was more motion, since the short, choppy waves outside the bar were never wholly still, no matter how calm the sea might seem to be. But Bessie, who had been rather nervous as to the effect of this motion, which she had been warned to dread, found it by no means unpleasant. For a few moments Dolly's orders flew sharply. Although the wind was very light, there was enough of it to give fair speed, and the sails had to be trimmed to get the utmost possible out of it while it lasted. Both boats tacked to starboard, sailing along a slanting line that seemed likely to carry them far to one side of the lighthouse that was their destination, and Bessie wondered at this. "We're not sailing straight for the lighthouse," she said. "Isn't that supposed to be where we turn? Don't we have to sail around it?" "Yes, but we can't go straight there, because the wind isn't right," explained Dolly. "We'll keep on this way for a spell; then we'll come about and tack to port, and then to starboard again. In that way we can beat the wind, you see, and make it work for us, even if it doesn't want to." Half way to the lighthouse there was less than a hundred feet between the boats. The _Defiance_ seemed to be a little ahead, but the advantage, if she really had one at all, was not enough to have any real effect on the race. "Going out isn't going to give either of us much chance to gain, I guess," said Dolly. "The real race will be when we're going back, with what wind there is behind us." But soon it seemed that Dolly had made a rash prediction, for when she came about and started to beat up to port, the _Defiance_ held to her course. "Well, she can do that if she wants to," said Dolly. "Just the same, I think she's going too far." "It looks to me as if she were pretty sure of what she's doing though, Dolly," said Margery, anxiously. "Don't you think you tacked a little too soon?" "If I thought that I wouldn't have done it, Margery," said Dolly. "Don't bother me with silly questions now I've got to figure on tacking again so as to make that turn with the least possible waste of time." "Don't talk to the 'man' at the wheel," advised Eleanor, with a laugh. "She's irritable." A good many of the nautical terms used so freely by the others might have been so much Greek for all Bessie could understand of them, but the race itself had awakened her interest and now held it as scarcely anything she had ever done had been able to do. She kept her eyes fixed on the other boat, and at last she gave a cry. "Look! They're going to turn now." "Score one for Gladys, Margery," said Dolly, quietly. "She's certainly stolen a march on me. Do you see that? She's going to make her turn on the next tack, and I believe she'll gain nearly five minutes on us. That was clever, and it was good work." "Never mind, Dolly," said Margery. "You've still got a chance to catch her going home before the wind. I know how fast the _Eleanor_ is at that sort of work. If the _Defiance_ is any better, she ought to be racing for some real cups." "Oh, don't try to cheer me up! I made an awful mess of that, Margery, and I know it. Gladys had more nerve than I, that's all. She deserves the lead she's got. It isn't a question of the boats, at all. The _Defiance_ is being sailed better than the _Eleanor_." "Margery's right, though, Dolly," said Eleanor. "The race isn't over yet. You haven't given up hope, have you?" "Given up?" cried Dolly, scornfully, through set teeth. "Just you watch, that's all! I'm going to get home ahead if I have to swamp us all." "That's more like her," Margery whispered to Bessie. And now even Bessie could see that the _Defiance_ had gained a big advantage. Before her eyes, not so well trained as those of the others to weigh every consideration in such a contest, had not seen what was really happening. But it was plain enough now. Even while the _Defiance_ was holding on for the lighthouse, on a straight course, the _Eleanor_ had to come about and start beating up toward it, and the _Defiance_ made the turn, and, with spinnaker set, was skimming gaily for home a full five minutes before the _Eleanor_ circled the lighthouse. In fact, the _Defiance_, homeward bound, passed them, and Mary Turner laughed gaily as she hailed Eleanor. "This is pretty bad," she called. "Better luck next time, Nell!" Marcia Bates waved her hand gaily to them, but Gladys Cooper, her eyes straight ahead, her hand on the tiller, paid no attention to them. There was no mistaking the look of triumph on her face, however. She was sure she was going to win, and she was glorying in her victory already. "I'll make her smile on the other side of her face yet," said Dolly, viciously. "She might have waved her hand, at least. If we're good enough to race with, we're good enough for her to be decently polite to us, I should think." "Easy, Dolly!" said Margery. "It won't help any for you to lose your temper, you know. Remember you've still got to sail your boat." The _Defiance_ was far ahead when, at last, after a wait that seemed to those on board interminable, the _Eleanor_ rounded the lighthouse in her turn. "Lively now!" commanded Dolly. "Shake out the spinnaker! We're going to need all the sail we've got. There isn't enough wind now to make a flag stand out properly." "And they got the best of it, too," lamented Margery. "You see, Bessie, the good wind there was when they started back carried them well along. We won't get that, and we'll keep falling further and further behind, because they've probably still got more wind than we have. It'll die out here before it does where they are." Dolly stood up now, and cast her eyes behind her on the horizon, and all about. And suddenly, without warning, she put the helm over, and the _Eleanor_ stood off to port, heading, as it seemed, far from the opening in the bar that was the finishing line. "Dolly, are you crazy!" exclaimed Margery. "This is a straight run before the wind!" "Suppose there isn't any wind?" asked Dolly. The strained, anxious look had left her eyes, and she seemed calm now, almost elated. "Margery, you're a fine cook, but you've got a lot to learn yet about sailing a boat!" Bessie was completely mystified, and a look at Margery showed her that she, too, although silenced, was far from being satisfied. But now Margery suddenly looked off on the surface of the water, and gave a glad cry. "Oh, fine, Dolly!" she exclaimed. "I see what you're up to--and I bet Gladys thinks you're perfectly insane, too!" "She'll soon know I'm not," said Dolly, grimly. "I only hope she doesn't know enough to do the same thing. I don't see how she can miss, though, unless she can't see in time." Still Bessie was mystified, and she did not like to ask for an explanation, especially since she felt certain that one would be forthcoming anyhow in a few moments. And, sure enough, it was. For suddenly she felt a breath of wind, and, at the same instant Dolly brought the _Eleanor_ up before the wind again, and for the first time Bessie understood what the little sloop's real speed was. "You see, Bessie," said Margery, "Dolly knew that the wind was dying. It's a puffy, uncertain sort of wind, and very often, on a day like this, there'll be plenty of breeze in one spot, and none at all in another." "Oh, so we came over here to find this breeze!" said Bessie. "Yes. It was the only chance. If we had stayed on the other course we might have found enough breeze to carry us home, but we would have gone at a snail's pace, just as we were doing, and there was no chance at all to catch Gladys and the _Defiance_ that way." "We haven't caught them yet, you know," said Dolly. "But we're catching them," said Bessie, exultingly. "Even I can see that. Look! They're just crawling along." "Still, even at the rate they're going, ten minutes more will bring them to the finish," said Margery, anxiously. "Do you think she can make it, Dolly?" "I don't know," said Dolly. "I've done all I can, anyhow. There isn't a thing to do now but hold her steady and trust to this shift of the wind to last long enough to carry us home." Now the _Eleanor_ was catching the _Defiance_ fast, and nearing her more and more rapidly. It was a strange and mysterious thing to Bessie to see that of two yachts so close together--there was less than a quarter of a mile between them now--one could have her sails filled with a good breeze while the other seemed to have none at all. But it was so. The _Defiance_ was barely moving; she seemed as far from the finish now as she had been when Margery spoke. "They're stuck--they're becalmed," said Margery, finally, when five minutes of steady gazing hadn't shown the slightest apparent advance by the _Defiance_. "Oh, Dolly, we're going to beat them!" "I guess we are," said Dolly, with a sigh of satisfaction. "It was about the most hopeless looking race I ever saw twenty minutes ago, but you never can tell." And now every minute seemed to make the issue more and more certain. Sometimes a little puff of wind would strike the _Defiance_, fill her sails, and push her a little nearer her goal, but the hopes that those puffs must have raised in Dolly's rival and her crew were false, for each died away before the _Defiance_ really got moving again. And at last, passing within a hundred yards, so that they could see poor Gladys, her eyes filled with tears, the _Eleanor_ slipped by the _Defiance_ and took the lead. And then, by some strange irony of fate, the wind came to the _Defiance_--but it came too late. For the _Eleanor_, slipping through the water as if some invisible force had been dragging her, passed through the opening and into the still waters of the cove fully two hundred feet in the lead. "That certainly was your victory, Dolly," said Eleanor. "If you hadn't found that wind, we'd still be floundering around somewhere near the lighthouse." "I do feel sorry for Gladys, though," said Dolly. "It must have been hard--when she was so sure that she had won." CHAPTER IX THE SPY "That was bad luck. You really deserved to win that race, Gladys," Dolly called out, as the _Defiance_ came within hailing distance of the _Eleanor_ again. Gladys looked at her old friend but said not a word. It was very plain that the loss of the race, which she had considered already won, was a severe blow to her, and she was not yet able, even had she been willing, to say anything. "That's very nice of you, Dolly," called Mary Turner. "But it isn't so at all. You sailed your boat very cleverly. We didn't think of going off after the wind until it was too late. I think it was mighty plucky of you to keep on when we had such a big lead. Congratulations!" "Oh, what's the use of talking like that?" cried Gladys, furiously. "It was a trick--that was all it was! If we had had a real wind all the way, we'd have beaten you by half a mile!" "I know it, Gladys. It was a trick," said Dolly, cheerfully. "That's just what I said. We'll have another race, won't we? And we'll pick out a day when the wind is good and strong, so that it will be just the same for both boats." "Oh, you'd find some other trick to help you win," said Gladys, sulkily. "Don't act like that--it's easy enough for you to be pleasant. They'll all be laughing at me now for not being able to win when I had such a lead." "I'm ashamed of you, Gladys," said Mary Turner, blushing scarlet. "Dolly, please don't think that any of the rest of us feel as Gladys does. If I'd known she was such a poor loser, I wouldn't have let her race with you at all. And there won't be another race, Gladys doesn't deserve another chance." "Gladys is quite right," said Dolly, soberly. "It's very easy to be nice and generous when you've won; it's much harder to be fair when you've lost. And it was a trick, after all." "No, it wasn't, Dolly," said Eleanor, seriously. "It was perfectly fair. It was good strategy, but it wasn't tricky at all. Gladys knew just as much about the wind as you did. If she had done as you did in time, instead of waiting until after she'd seen you do it, she would have won the race." "We're going to have trouble with that Gladys Cooper yet," said Margery. "She's spoiled, and she's got a nasty disposition to start with, anyhow. You'd better look out, Dolly. She'll do anything she can to get even." "I think this race was one of the things she thought would help her to get even," said Bessie. "She was awfully sure she was going to be able to beat you, Dolly." "I almost wish she had," said Dolly. "I don't mean that I would have done anything to let her win, of course, because there wouldn't be any fun about that. But what's an old race, anyhow?" "That's the right spirit, Dolly," said Eleanor. "It's the game that counts, not the result. We ought to play to win, of course, but we ought to play fair first of all. And I think that means not doing anything at all that would spoil the other side's chances." "Oh, that's all right," said Margery, "but I'm glad we won." "I'm glad," said Dolly. "And I'm sorry, too. That sounds silly, doesn't it, but it's what I mean. Maybe if Gladys had won, we could have patched things up. And now there'll be more trouble than ever." While they talked they were furling the _Eleanor's_ sails, and soon they were ready to go ashore. Dolly had brought them up cleverly beside the skiff, and, once the anchor was dropped and everything on board the swift little sloop had been made snug for the night, they dropped over into the skiff and rowed to the beach. There the other girls, who had been greatly excited during the race, and were overjoyed by the result, greeted them with the Wo-he-lo song. Zara, especially, seemed delighted. "I felt so bad that I cried when I thought you were going to be beaten," she said. "Oh, Bessie, I'm glad you won! And I bet it was because you were on board." Bessie laughed. "You'd better not let Dolly hear you say that," she said. "I didn't have a thing to do with it, Zara. It was all Dolly's cleverness that won that race." "I'm awfully glad you're back, Bessie. I've had the strangest feeling this afternoon--as if someone were watching me." Bessie grew grave at once. Although she never shared them, she had grown chary of laughing at Zara's premonitions and feelings. They had been justified too often by what happened after she spoke of them. "What do you mean, dear?" she asked. "I don't see how anyone could be around without being seen. It's very open." "I don't know, but I've had the feeling, I'm sure of that. It's just as if someone had known exactly what I was doing, as long as I was out here on the beach. But when I went into the tent, it stopped. That made me feel that I must be right." "Well, maybe you're mistaken, Zara. You know we've had so many strange things happen to us lately that it would be funny if it hadn't made you nervous. You're probably imagining this." Though Bessie tried thus to disarm Zara's suspicions, she was by no means easy in her own mind. She felt that it would be a good thing to induce Zara to forget her presentiment, or feeling, or whatever it was, if she could. But, just the same, she determined to be on her guard, and she spoke to Dolly. "She's a queer case, that Zara," said Dolly, with a little shiver. "If any other girl I knew said anything like that, I'd just laugh at her. But Zara's different, somehow. She seems sort of mysterious. Perhaps it's just because she's a foreigner--I don't know." "I spoke to you so that we could be on the look-out, Dolly. And I guess we'd better not say anything to anyone else. I think a lot of the girls would laugh at Zara if they knew that she had such ideas." Bessie and Dolly managed to find occasion to cover most of the beach before supper, and they went up to the spring at the top of the bluff that overlooked the beach. The water had been piped down, and there was no longer any need of carrying pails up there to get water, but it was still a pleasant little walk, for the view from the top of the path was delightful. And Bessie and Dolly remembered, moreover, that it was there that the men who had watched the camp on the night of the fire had hidden themselves. But this time they found no one there. Supper was a merry meal. The race of the afternoon was, of course, the principal topic of conversation, and in addition there were adventures to be told by those who had missed it and gone into Bay City to shop. But Bessie, watching Zara, noticed toward the end of the meal that her strange little friend, who happened to be sitting near the entrance of the tent in which they ate, was nervous and kept looking behind her out into the darkness as if she saw something. And so, with a whispered explanation to Dolly, she rose and crept very silently toward the door. As she passed Zara, she let her hand fall reassuringly on her shoulder, and then, gathering herself, sprang out into the night. And, so completely surprised by her sudden appearance that he could not get out of the way, there was Jake Hoover! Jake Hoover, who was supposed to be in the city, telling his story to Charlie Jamieson! Jake Hoover, who, after having done all sorts of dirty work for Holmes and his fellow-conspirators, had told Bessie that he was sorry and was going to change sides! "Jake!" said Bessie, sternly. "You miserable sneak! What are you doing here?" No wonder poor Zara had had that feeling of being watched. Jake's work for Holmes right along had been mostly that of the spy, and here he was once more engaged in it. Bessie was furious at her discovery. Big and strong as Jake was, he was whimpering now, and Bessie seized him and shook him by the shoulders. "Tell me what you're doing here right away!" commanded Bessie. Gone were the days when she had feared him--the well-remembered days of her bondage on the Hoover farm, when his word had always been enough to secure her punishment at the hands of his mother, who had never been able to see the evil nature of her boy. "I ain't doin' no harm--honest I ain't, Bessie," he whined. "I--jest wanted--I jest wanted to see you and Miss Mercer--honest, that's why I'm here!" "That's a likely story, isn't it?" said Bessie, scornfully. "If that was so, why did you come sneaking around like this? Why didn't you come right out and ask for us? You didn't think we were going to eat you, did you?" "I--I didn't want them to know I was doin' it, Bess," he said. "I'm scared, Bessie--I'm afraid of what they'd do to me, if they found out I was takin' your side agin' them." Despite herself, Bessie felt a certain pity for the coward coming over her. She released his shoulder, and stood looking at him with infinite scorn in her eyes. "And to think I was ever afraid of you!" she said, aloud. "That's right, Bess," he said, pleadingly. "I wouldn't hurt you--you know that, don't you? I used to like to tease you and worry you a bit, but I never meant any real harm. I was always good to you, mostly, wasn't I?" "Dolly!" called Bessie, sharply. She didn't know just what to do, and she felt that, having Jake here, he should be held. It had been plain that Charlie Jamieson had considered what he had to tell valuable. "Hello! Did you call me, Bessie?" said Dolly, coming out of the tent. "Oh!" The exclamation was wrung out of her as she saw and recognized Jake. "So he's spying around here now, is he?" she said. "I told you he was a bad lot when you let him go at Windsor, didn't I? I knew he'd be up to his old tricks again just as soon as he got half a chance." "Never mind that, Dolly. Tell Miss Eleanor he's here, will you, and ask her to come out? I think she'd better see him, now that he's here." "That's right--and, say, tell her to hurry, will you?" begged Jake. "I can't stay here--I'm afraid they'll catch me." Dolly went into the tent again, and in a moment Eleanor Mercer came out. She had never seen Jake before, but she knew all about him for Bessie and Zara had told her enough of his history for her to be more intimate with his life than his own parents. "Good evening, Jake," she said, as she saw him. "So you decided to talk to us instead of to Mr. Jamieson? Well, I'm glad you're here. I'll have to keep you waiting a minute, but I shan't be long. Stay right there till I come back." "Yes, ma'am," whined Jake. "But do hurry, please, ma'am! I'm afraid of what they'll do to me if they find I'm here." Eleanor was gone only a few minutes, and when she returned she was smiling, as if at some joke that she shared with no one. "I'm sure you haven't had any supper, Jake," she said. "The girls have finished. See, they're coming out now. Come inside, and I'll see that you get a good meal. You'll be able to talk better when you've eaten." Jake hesitated, plainly struggling between his hunger and his fear. But hunger won, and he went into the tent, followed by Bessie and Dolly, who, although the service was reluctant on Dolly's part, at least, saw to it that he had plenty to eat. "Just forget your troubles and pitch into that food, Jake," said Eleanor, kindly. "You'll be able to talk much better on a full stomach, you know." And whenever Jake seemed inclined to stop eating, and to break out with new evidences of his alarm, they forced more food on him. At last, however, he was so full that he could eat no more, and he rose nervously. "I've got to be going now," he said. "Honest, I'm afraid to stay here any longer--" "Oh, but you came here to tell us something, you know," said Eleanor. "Surely you're not going away without doing that, are you?" "I did think you'd keep your word, Jake," said Bessie, reproachfully. "I can't! I've got to go, I tell you!" Jake broke out. His fright was not assumed; it was plain that he was terrified. "If they was after you, I guess you'd know--here, I'm going--" "Not so fast, young man!" said a stern voice in the door of the tent, and Jake almost collapsed as Bill Trenwith, a policeman in uniform at his back, came in. "There you are, Jones, there's your man! Arrest him on a charge of having no means of support--that will hold him for the present. We can decide later on what we want to send him to prison for. He's done enough to get him twenty years." Jake gave a shriek of terror and fell to the ground, grovelling at the lawyer's feet. "Oh, don't arrest me!" he begged. "I'll tell you everything I know. Don't arrest me!" "It's the only way to hold you," said Trenwith. "You've got to learn to be more afraid of us than of Holmes." CHAPTER X JAKE HOOVER'S CAPTURE "You're a fine lot," declared Jake, something about Trenwith's manner seeming to steady him so that he could talk intelligibly. "You tell me I won't get into any trouble if I come here, and then I find it's a trap!" "No one told you anything of the sort, my lad," said Trenwith, sharply. "You promised to go to Mr. Jamieson and tell him what you knew. No one made you any promises at all, except that you were told you wouldn't have any reason to regret doing it." Jake looked at Eleanor balefully. "She's too sharp, that's what she is," he complained bitterly. "I might ha' known she was playing a trick on me--gettin' me to stay here and eat a fine supper. I suppose she went and sent word to you while I was doing it." "Of course I did, Jake," said Eleanor quietly. "I telephoned to Mr. Trenwith even before you had your supper because I knew that if I didn't do something to keep you here with us, you'd run away again. But I did it as much for your sake as for Bessie's." "Yes, you did--not!" said Jake. "Why shouldn't you let me go now, then, if that is so?" "Listen to me, my buck," said Trenwith, sternly. "You're not going to do yourself any good by getting fresh to this lady, I can tell you that. You're pretty well scared, aren't you? You told her that you were afraid of what Holmes would do to you?" But Jake, alarmed by Trenwith's mention of the name of the man he feared, shut his lips obstinately, and wouldn't say a word in answer. Trenwith smiled cheerfully. "Oh, you needn't talk now, unless you want to," he said. "I know all you could tell me about that, anyhow. You've been up to some mischief, and they've kept on telling you that if you didn't behave yourself they'd give you away." Jake's hangdog look showed that to be true, although he still maintained his obstinate silence. "Well, I happen to be charged with enforcing the law around here, and it's my duty to see that criminals are brought to justice. I don't know just what you've done, but I'll find out, and I'll see that you are turned over to the proper authorities--unless you can do something that will make it worth while to let you off. So, you see, you've got just as much reason to be afraid of us as of the gang you've been training with. "They won't be able to help you now, either, even if they should want to--and I don't believe they want to, when it comes to that, I've always found that crooks will desert their best friends if it seems to them that they'll get something out of doing it. So if you're trusting to them to get you out of this scrape, you're making a big mistake." "You'd better listen to what Mr. Trenwith says, Jake," said Eleanor. "You think I've led you into a trap here. Well, I have, in a way. You'll have to go to jail for a little while, anyhow. But you're safer there than you would be if you were free. We're all willing to be your friends, for your father's sake. If we can, we'll get you out of this trouble you are in. But you will have to help us. Think it over." "What's the use?" said Jake, sullenly. "I ain't got nothin' to tell you, because I don't know nothin'. An' if I did--" "You'd better take him along, Jones," said Trenwith to the policeman. "It's quite evident that we'll get nothing out of him to-night. And I don't see any use wasting time on him while he's in this frame of mind." And so Jake, whining and protesting, was taken away. As soon as he was out of sight and hearing Trenwith's manner changed. "By George," he said, excitedly, "that's a good piece of work! There's something mighty interesting coming off here pretty soon. I'm not at liberty to tell you what it is yet, but I had a long talk on the telephone with Charlie just before you called me, Eleanor, and there are going to be ructions!" "Oh, I suppose we mustn't ask you to tell us, if you've promised not to do it," said Eleanor, "but I do wish we knew!" She didn't seem to notice that he had called her by her first name--a privilege that was not accorded, as a rule, to those who had no more of an acquaintance with her than Billy Trenwith. But he had done it so naturally, and with so little thought, that she could hardly have resented it, anyway. But Dolly noticed it, and nudged Bessie mischievously. "Then you really think we're going to find something out from Jake, Mr. Trenwith?" asked Dolly. "We'll find a way to make him talk, never fear," said Trenwith. "The boy's a natural born coward. He'll do anything to save his own skin if he finds he's in real trouble and that the others of his gang can't help him. I don't think he's naturally bad or vicious--I think he's just weak. He was spoiled by his mother, wasn't he? He acts the way a good many boys do who have been treated that way. He's not got enough strength of character to keep him from taking the easiest path. If a thing seems safe, he's willing to do it to avoid trouble." "You know there's just one thing that occurs to me," said Eleanor, looking worried. "Jake may have come here with some vague idea of telling us what he knew. But suppose he has seen Holmes or some of the others since Bessie got him to promise to go to Charlie Jamieson in the city?" "I hoped you wouldn't think of that," said Trenwith, gravely. "I thought of it, too. You mean he might have been here just as a spy, with no idea of showing himself at all?" "The way he acted makes it look as if that was just why he was here, too," said Dolly. "He was sneaking around, and he certainly didn't seem very pleased when Bessie found him." "He did his best to squirm away," said Bessie. "If Zara hadn't been so nervous while we were eating supper I would never have thought of going after him, either. But she seems to be able to see things and hear things, in some queer fashion, when no one else can." "That's a good thing for the rest of us," said Trenwith with a smile. "She's a useful person to have around at a time like this. I'm going to have a couple of my men--detectives--stay around here to-night to keep an eye on things. It's likely, of course, that there's nothing to be afraid of, but just the same, we don't want to take any chances." "I'm glad you've done that," said Eleanor. "I don't think I'm the ordinary type of timid woman, but I must confess that all these things worry me, and I'll feel a lot safer if I know that we are not entirely at the mercy of any trick they try to play on us to-night. They seem to be getting bolder all the time." "Well, after all you know, that's one of the most hopeful things about the whole business. It means that they're getting desperate--that their time is getting short. They feel that if they don't succeed soon they never will, because it will be too late. All we've got to do is to stand them off a little longer, and the whole business will be settled and done with. "I've got to get back to Bay City to-night. If anything happens, don't hesitate to call me up, no matter what time it is. If I'm out at any time you do have to call me, I'll leave word where I'm going, so that if you tell them at my house who you are, they'll find me. Good-night!" Neither Dolly nor Bessie slept well that night. Jake's appearance had been disturbing; it seemed to both of them much more likely that his coming heralded some new attempt by Holmes, rather than a desire on his part to confess. But the night passed without anything to rouse them, and in the morning their fears seemed rather foolish, as fears are apt to do when they are examined in the sunlight of a new day. "I don't see what they can do, after all," said Dolly. "There aren't any woods around here as there were at Long Lake. We're all in sight of the camp and of one another all the time, and they certainly won't be able to work that trick of setting the tents on fire again." "I guess you're right," said Bessie. "It seems different this morning, somehow. I was worried enough last night but I feel a whole lot better now. I'm glad it's such a beautiful day. The weather makes a lot of difference in the way you feel. It always does with me, I know." "I'm going out in the sloop after breakfast," said Dolly. "That is, if Miss Eleanor says it's all right. There's a lot more wind than there was yesterday, and we can have some good fun." "Can I go, too?" asked Bessie. "You were quite right when you told me I'd love the seashore, Dolly. Do you remember how I said I was sorry we were leaving the mountains?" "Oh, I knew it would fascinate you, just as it does me. So you've given up your love for the mountains?" "Not a bit of it! I love them as much as ever, but I've found out that the seashore has attractive things about it, too. And I think sailing, the way we did yesterday, is about the nicest of all." "Then you just wait until we get out there to-day, with a real breeze, and a good sea running. That's going to be something you've never even dreamed of." They had hearty appetites for breakfast in spite of their restless and disturbed sleep, for the bracing effects of their swim, taken before the meal, more than made up for the lack of proper rest. And after breakfast Dolly asked permission to go out in the sloop, since one of the very few rules of the Camp Fire, and one strictly enforced, had to do with water sports. None of the girls were ever allowed to go in swimming unless the Guardian was present, and the same rules applied to boating and sailing--with the added restriction that no girl who did not know how to swim well enough to pass certain tests was allowed to go in a boat at all. Moreover, bathing suits had always to be worn when in a boat. "Indeed you may," said Eleanor, when Dolly asked her question. "And will you take me with you? I'd like to be out on that sea to-day. It looks glorious." "We'll love to have you along," said Dolly. "How soon may we start?" "It's eight o'clock," said Eleanor, looking at her watch. "We can start at ten. That will allow plenty of time after eating. Of course, we don't intend to go in the water, but you never can tell--it's squally to-day, and we might be upset. And that's one thing I don't believe in taking chances with. A cramp will make the best swimmer in the world perfectly helpless in the water, and about every case of cramps I ever heard of came from going in the water too soon after a meal." When they were aboard the _Eleanor_ and scooting through the opening in the bar, Bessie found that the conditions were indeed very different from those of the previous afternoon. The wind had changed and become much heavier, and as the _Eleanor_ went along, she dipped her bow continually, so that the spray rose and drenched all on board. But there was something splendidly exciting and invigorating about it, and she loved every new sensation that came to her. "Here's the _Defiance_ coming out," said Eleanor, after they had been enjoying the sport for half an hour. "Gladys must like this sort of a breeze, too." "She does, but she's never had as much of it as I have," said Dolly. "I hope she understands it well enough not to make any mistakes. A boat like this takes a good deal of handling in a heavy breeze, and it seems to me that she's carrying a good deal of sail." "She seems to be getting along all right, though," said Eleanor, after watching the _Defiance_ for a few minutes. "Why, Dolly, I wonder what she's doing now." The maneuvres of the _Defiance_ seemed strange enough to prompt Eleanor's question, for, no matter how Dolly tacked, the _Defiance_ followed her, drawing nearer all the time. Since Dolly had no sort of definite purpose in mind, it was plain that Gladys was simply following her. And soon the reason was apparent. "She's trying to race; she wants to show that she can beat us to-day when there's plenty of wind," said Dolly. "If she wanted to race, why didn't she say so?" "Well, give her her way, Dolly," said Eleanor. "Keep straight on now for a little while and see if she can beat you. We're just about on even terms now." And on even terms they stayed. Sometimes one, sometimes the other seemed to gain a little advantage, but it was plain that the boats, as well as the skippers, were very evenly matched. Since there was no agreement to race, Dolly had the choice of courses, and in a spirit of mischief she came about frequently. And every time she changed her course Gladys followed suit. Although the boats were often within easy hailing distance, Gladys avoided Dolly's eyes, and nothing was said by those on either sloop. They were satisfied with the fun of this impromptu racing. But at last, when they were perhaps a mile from the opening in the bar, and very close together, Eleanor, looking at her watch, saw that it was nearly time for lunch. "You'd better turn for home now, Dolly," she said. "Suppose I give Gladys a hail and suggest a race to the bar?" "All right," agreed Dolly. "Gladys!" Eleanor sent her clear voice across the water, and Gladys answered with a wave of her hands. She seemed in better humor than she had been the day before. "We're going in now. Want to race to the bar?" "All right!" called Gladys, in answer, and came about smartly. She had been quick, but Dolly was just as quick, and they were on the most even terms imaginable as the race began. But Dolly and the _Eleanor_ had one advantage that Gladys was not slow to recognize. The _Eleanor_ had the inside course. In a close finish that would be very likely to spell the difference between victory and defeat, since, to reach the opening, Gladys would either have to get far enough ahead to cross the _Eleanor's_ bows or else to cross behind her, which would entail so much loss of time that Dolly would be certain to bring her craft home a winner. But since the previous racing had shown the _Defiance_ to be just a trifle swifter before the wind, that advantage seemed to be one that Gladys could easily overcome. Now that she was racing, however, Dolly changed her tactics. Fresh as the wind was, she shook out a reef in her mainsail, and as they neared the bar the _Eleanor_ actually carried more canvas than Gladys dared to keep on the _Defiance_. Being less used to heavy going than Dolly, she was not so sure of the strength of her sticks, and reckless though she was, she was too wise to be willing to take a chance of being dismasted. And so the advantage that Gladys had to gain to be able to cross the _Eleanor's_ bows seemed to be impossible for her to attain. The _Eleanor_ did not go ahead, but she held her own, and she had the right of way. "You're going to beat her again, and fair and square this time," said Eleanor, excitedly. "She won't be able to say a word to this!" "Look!" said Dolly, suddenly. "She's going to cross me--and she's got no right to do it!" She shouted loudly. "Gladys! Gladys! I'll run you down! Don't do that! I've got the right of way!" But Gladys kept on with a mocking laugh. Furious at the trick, Dolly put her helm hard over, and the _Eleanor_ came up in the wind. "That's a mean trick, if you like!" cried Dolly, indignantly. "In a regular race, if she did a thing like that, the other boat would run her down, and would win on a foul. But she knew very well I'd give up the position rather than cause an accident!" The check to the _Eleanor_ was only for a moment, but it was enough to throw her off her course and make it certain that the _Defiance_ would reach the bar first. "Never mind, Dolly. You did the right thing," said Eleanor, quietly. "I think she's quite welcome to the race, if she cares enough about winning it to play a trick like that!" Bessie was up in the bow, looking intently at the _Defiance_. And now as Gladys came up to get the straight course again, something went wrong. By some mistaken handling of her helm she had lost her proper direction, and to her amazement Bessie saw the boom come over sharply. She saw it, too, strike Gladys on the head--and the next moment the _Defiance_ gybed helplessly, while Gladys was swept overboard. Bessie did not hesitate a moment. She had seen that blow struck by the boom, and with a cry of warning she plunged overboard as they swept by the helpless _Defiance_, and with powerful strokes made for the place where Gladys had gone overboard. Gladys had gone straight down, but Bessie had marked the spot, and she dived as she reached it, and met her coming up. She clutched her in a moment, and was on the surface almost at once, holding Gladys, and looking for Dolly and the _Eleanor_. Dolly would return for her at once, she knew, if she had seen Gladys go over. But, to her amazement the sloop was heading for the bar, sailing away from her fast! Dolly had not seen her and, for a moment, Bessie was badly scared. CHAPTER XI THE RESCUE In a moment, however, she realized that she could not be left alone for long. Her absence from the _Eleanor_ would be noticed, even if no one had seen her leap overboard; and, moreover, the strange behavior of the _Defiance_ was sure to attract Dolly's attention, for, without Gladys to direct her, the _Defiance_ was in a bad way. She had heeled over sharply, and seemed now to be sailing in circles, following the errant impulses of the wind, which caught first one sail, then another. Although she was quite near the _Defiance_, Bessie looked for no help from her. To swim toward her, with Gladys as a burden, seemed hopeless. The boat was not staying in one position. And moreover, Marcia Bates and the other girl on board of her seemed almost entirely ignorant of what to do. They would have quite enough on their hands in trying to get her headed for the opening in the bar. And suddenly a new danger was added to the others. For Gladys, it seemed, was recovering her senses--or, rather, she was no longer unconscious. To her horror, Bessie found, as Gladys opened her eyes, that she was delirious. That, of course, was the effect of the blow on her head from the boom, but its effect, no matter what the cause, was what worried Bessie. "Keep still! Don't move, Gladys!" warned Bessie, as she saw the other girl's eyes open. But Gladys either would not or could not obey that good advice. She struggled furiously by way of answer, and for a long minute Bessie was too busy keeping afloat to be able to look for the coming of the help that was so badly needed. There seemed to be no purpose to the struggles of Gladys, but they were none the less desperate because of that. Her eyes had the wide, fixed stare that, had Bessie known it, is so invariably seen in those who are in mortal fear of drowning. And she clung to Bessie with a strength that no one could have imagined her capable of displaying. And at last, though she hated to do it, Bessie managed to get her hands free, and, clenching her fists, she drove them repeatedly into the other's face so that Gladys was forced to let go and put her hands before her face to cover herself from the vicious blows. At once Bessie seized the opportunity. She flung herself away, knowing that even though she did not try to help herself, but being conscious, Gladys would not sink at once, and got behind her, so that she could grasp her by the shoulders and be safe from the deadly clutch of her arms. Free from the terrible danger that is the risk assumed by all who rescue drowning persons, that of being dragged down by the victim, Bessie was able to raise her head and look for the _Eleanor_. And now she gave a wild cry as she saw the sloop bearing down upon her. Eleanor Mercer was in the bow, a coil of rope in her hands, and a moment later she flung it skillfully, so that Bessie caught it. At once Bessie made a noose and slipped the rope over Gladys's shoulders. Then she let go, and, turning on her back, rested while Gladys was dragged toward the sloop. Bessie herself was almost exhausted by her struggle. She felt that, had her very life depended upon doing it, she could not have swum the few yards that separated her from the sloop. But there was no need for her to do it. Steering with the utmost skill, Dolly soon brought the _Eleanor_ alongside of Bessie as she lay floating in the water, and a moment later she was being helped aboard. "Lie down and rest," commanded Eleanor. "Don't try to talk yet." And Bessie was glad enough to obey. She lay down beside Gladys, who seemed to have fainted again, and Eleanor threw a rug over her. "Now we must get them ashore as quickly as we can, Dolly," said Eleanor. "Bessie's just tired out, but I don't like the looks of Gladys at all." "The boom hit her," said Bessie, weakly. "It hit her on the head. That's how she was knocked overboard. She didn't know what she was doing when she struggled so in the water." "What a lucky thing you saw what happened!" said Dolly. "I was so intent on the race that I never looked at all, and I didn't even know you'd gone over until I called to you and you didn't answer." "Oh, I knew you'd come back, Dolly. I just wondered, when Gladys was struggling so, if you'd be in time." This time Dolly didn't stop at the anchorage of the sloop, but ran her right up on the beach. That meant some trouble in getting her off when they came to that, but it was no time to hesitate because of trifles. Once they were ashore, the other girls, who had, of course, seen nothing of the accident that had so nearly had a tragic ending, rushed up to help, and in a few moments Gladys was being carried to the big living tent. There her wet clothes were taken off, she was rubbed with alcohol, and wrapped in hot blankets. And as Eleanor and Margery Burton stood over her, she opened her eyes, looked at them in astonishment, and wanted to know where she was. "Oh, thank Heaven!" cried Eleanor. "She's come to her senses, I do believe! Gladys, do you feel all right?" "I--I--think so," said Gladys faintly, putting her hand to her head. "I've got an awful headache. What happened? I seem to remember being hit on the head--" "Your boom struck you as it swung over, and knocked you into the water, Gladys," said Eleanor. "You couldn't swim, and you don't remember anything after that, do you? It dazed you for a time, so that you didn't know what you were doing. But you're all right now, though I've telephoned for a doctor, and he'd better have a look at you when he comes, just to make sure you're all right." "But--how did I get here?" "Bessie King saw you go overboard and jumped after you. Of course, the girls on your boat were pretty helpless--she was going all around in circles after you left the tiller free, so they couldn't do anything." Gladys closed her eyes for a moment. "I'd like to talk to her later--when I feel better," she said. "I think I'll try to go to sleep now, if I may. The pain in my head is dreadful." "Yes, that's the best thing you can do," said Eleanor warmly. "You'll feel ever so much better, I know, when you wake up. Someone will be here with you all the time, so that if you wake up and want anything, you'll only need to ask for it." But Gladys was asleep before Eleanor had finished speaking. Nature was taking charge of the case and prescribing the greatest of all her remedies, sleep. Eleanor turned away, with relief showing plainly in her eyes. "I think she'll be all right now," she said. "If that blow were going to have any serious effects, I don't believe she'd be in her senses now." "I think it's a good thing it happened, in a way," said Dolly, when they were outside of the tent. "Did you notice how she spoke about Bessie, Miss Eleanor?" "Yes. I see what you mean, Dolly. Of course, I'm sorry she had to have such an experience, but maybe you're right, after all. I'm quite sure that her feelings toward Bessie will be changed after this--she'd have to be a dreadful sort of girl if she could keep on cherishing her dislike and resentment. And I'm sure she's not." "Hello! Why aren't you in bed, sleeping off that ducking?" asked Dolly suddenly. For Bessie, in dry clothes, and looking as if she had had nothing more exciting than an ordinary plunge into the sea to fill her day, was coming toward them from her own tent. "Oh, I feel fine!" said Bessie. "The only trouble with me was that I was scared--just plain scared! If I'd known that everything was going to be all right, I could have turned and swum ashore after you started towing Gladys in. Is she all right? I'm more bothered about her than about myself." "I think she's going to feel a lot better when she wakes up," said Eleanor. "I think I'm enough of a doctor to be able to tell when there's anything seriously wrong. But I'm not taking any chances--I've sent for a doctor." "How about the other boat? Did they get in all right?" asked Dolly. "I forgot all about them, I was so worked up about Bessie and Gladys." "They had a tough time, but they managed it," said Margery Burton. "Here's Miss Turner now. I suppose she's worried about Gladys." Worried she certainly was, but Eleanor was able to reassure her, and soon the doctor, arriving from Green Cove, pronounced Gladys to be in no danger. "She'll have that headache when she wakes up," he said; "but it will be a lot better, and by to-morrow morning it will be gone altogether. Don't give her much to eat; some chicken broth ought to be enough. She's evidently got a good constitution. If she had fractured her skull she wouldn't have been conscious yet, nor for a good many days." But the accident had one unforeseen consequence, that was rather amusing than otherwise to Dolly, at first, at least. For, before the doctor was ready to go, the sound of an automobile engine was heard up on the bluff, and a minute later Billy Trenwith came racing down the path. At the sight of Eleanor he paused, looking a little sheepish. "I heard that Doctor Black was coming here--I was afraid something might have happened to you," he stammered. "Why, whatever made you think that?" said Eleanor, honestly puzzled. Then she turned, surprised again by a burst of hysterical laughter from Dolly, who, staring at Trenwith's red face, was entirely unable to contain her mirth. Under Eleanor's steady gaze she managed to control herself, but then she went off again helplessly as Doctor Black winked at her very deliberately. Scandalized and rather indignant as the point of the joke began to reach her, Eleanor was dismayed to see that Bessie, the grave, was also having a hard time to keep from laughing outright. So she blushed, which was the last thing in the world she wanted to do, and then made some excuse for a hasty flight. "Well, you people have so many things happen to you all the time," said Trenwith, indignantly, "that I don't see why it wasn't perfectly natural for me to come out to see what was wrong now!" "Oh, don't apologize to me, Mr. Trenwith!" said Dolly, mischievously. "And--can you keep a secret?" He looked at her, not knowing whether he ought to laugh or frown, and Dolly went up to him, put her hands on his shoulders, and raised herself so that she could whisper in his ear. "She isn't half as angry as she pretends," she said. Then Eleanor came back, and Dolly made herself scarce. She had a positive genius for knowing just how far she could go safely in her teasing. "I had to come out here, anyhow," said Trenwith, to Eleanor. "Look here. I got this message from Charlie Jamieson." Eleanor took it. "I don't see why you let Charlie order you around so," she said, severely. "Haven't you any business of your own to attend to? He hasn't any right to expect you to waste all your time trying to keep us out of trouble." "Oh, it isn't wasted," he said, indignantly. "We're supposed to help our friends--and we're friends, aren't we?" "Of course we are," said Eleanor, relenting. He brightened at once. "Well," he said, impulsively, "you see Charlie says he doesn't want me to let you and those two girls--Bessie and Zara--out of my sight until he comes. Couldn't you all come out for a sail with me in my motor launch? We could have supper on board and it would be lots of fun, I think." Eleanor looked doubtful. "I don't know about leaving the camp," she said. "I ought to be here to keep an eye on things." "Oh, you can go perfectly well, Miss Eleanor," said Margery Burton. "It will do Bessie and Dolly a lot of good if you take them--they've had a pretty exciting day. And we can ask all the Halsted girls over to supper, and Miss Turner will be with them. She can take your place as Guardian for a few hours, can't she?" "If she will come. Why, yes, that would make it all right," said Eleanor. Somehow she found that she wasn't half as strong-minded and self-reliant when this very masterful young man was around. "You might go over and see, Margery, if you will." "Splendid!" said Trenwith. "We'll have a perfectly bully time, I know. You keep at it too hard, Miss Mercer--really you do!" "We won't go very far, will we?" said Eleanor, yielding to the lure of a sail at sunset. "Oh, no, just a few miles down the coast. There's a lot of pretty scenery you ought to see--and I've got a man who helps me to run my boat who's a perfect wizard at cooking. We've got a sort of imitation kitchen on board, but he does things in it that would make the chef of a big hotel envious. He's one of the few things I boast about." Margery soon returned with word that the Halsted girls would accept the supper invitation, and that Mary Turner would be delighted to come. Margery's eyes were twinkling, and it was plain that Mary Turner had said something else that was not to be repeated. "All right! That's great!" said Trenwith, happily. "I'll run back to Green Cove in my car, and come around here again in the launch. It was to follow me there. I'll be back soon." Indeed, in half an hour he was back, and Eleanor with Zara, Bessie and Dolly, were taken out to the _Columbia_ in two trips of the little dinghy which served as her tender. The _Columbia_ was a big, roomy, motor launch, without a deck, but containing a little cabin, and a comfortable lounging space aft, which was covered with an awning. "What a delightful boat!" said Eleanor, as she settled herself comfortably amid the cushions Trenwith had provided for her. "I should think you could have an awfully good time on her." "I've used her a lot," said Trenwith. "There's room in the cabin for two fellows to sleep, if they don't mind being crowded, and of course in warm weather one can sleep out here. I've used her quite a lot to go duck hunting, and for little cruises when I've been all tired out. Charlie Jamieson has been with me several times." "I've heard him talk about the good times he's had on her. It was stupid of me to have forgotten." "She's not very fast or very fashionable, but she is good fun. I'd rather have a steady, slow engine that you can depend on than one of those racing motors that's always getting out of order." "All ready to start, sir, Mr. Trenwith," said Bates, his "crew," then, and Trenwith took the wheel. "All right," he said. "Let her go, Bates! You can steer from the wheel in the bow after we get started, right down the coast. We'll lie to off Humber Island and eat supper." "Right, sir!" said Bates. "I've got a good supper for to-night, too." "Being right out on the water this way makes me hungry," said Eleanor. "That's good news, Bates." CHAPTER XII THE TRAITOR The _Columbia_ slowly and steadily made her way down the coast, keeping within a mile or so of the shore. Speed was certainly not her long suit, but she rode the choppy sea more easily than most boats so small would have done, and, since she was not intended for speed, the usual terrific din of the motor was absent. Altogether, she seemed an ideal pleasure boat. As they went along, Trenwith pointed out the various places of interest along the shore. "Down this way we get to a part where a lot of rich men have built summer homes," he said. "You see there's a good beach, and they can buy enough land to have it to themselves. It's pretty lonely, in a way, because they're a good long way from the railroad, but they don't seem to mind that." "I suppose not. They've got money enough to keep all the automobiles and yachts they want, so they wouldn't use the railroad anyhow. I never would if I could get around any other way." As they went on, the coast changed considerably from the familiar character it had at Plum Beach. Cliffs took the place of the bluff, and while the beach was still fine and level, there were rocky stretches at more and more frequent intervals. "What's the nearest town in this direction?" asked Eleanor. "Rock Haven," said Trenwith. "That's more of a place than Bay City, because it's quite a seaport. Up at Bay City, you see, we don't amount to much except in the summer time. But Rock Haven is a big place, and most of the people who live there are there all the year round instead of only for three months or so in the summer. You haven't any idea of what a dull old place Bay City is in winter." "If it's so dull, I shouldn't think you'd stay there." "Oh, it was a good place for me to get a start, you know. I've been able to get along in politics, and I've done better there than I would have in the city, I suppose. And it's all right for a bachelor, anyhow. He can always get away. If I were married--well, it would be very different then." "I should think you'd like it much better in the city, though, even if you are a bachelor. Why don't you come there this winter?" "Perhaps--I'd like--do you want me to come?" He leaned forward, as if her answer were the most important thing in the world, and, seeing Dolly's mischievous glance at Bessie, Eleanor blushed slightly. "I think it would be better for you to be in the city," she said, with dignity. "Well, I'll tell you a secret then--I'm really bursting with a whole lot of others that I mustn't tell. Charlie's been at me for months to come and be his partner, and I've promised to think it over." "I think that would be splendid." "Well, I'm glad to hear you say so, because it really depends on you whether I shall come or not." "Hush!" she said, blushing again, and speaking in so low a tone that only he could hear her. "You mustn't talk like that here--and now. It--it isn't right." She looked helplessly at Dolly, and Trenwith, understanding, looked as if she had said something that delighted him. Perhaps she had--perhaps she had even meant to do so. "I'll attend to getting supper ready now, sir, Mr. Trenwith, if you'll take the wheel," said Bates, just then. "All right," said Trenwith, nodding. "Now make a good job of it, Bates. I've been praising you up to the skies." Bates grinned widely, and disappeared. No apologies were needed when they came to eat the supper which had been so well heralded. A table was set up in the after part of the boat, and the awning was drawn back so that the stars shone down on them. The _Columbia's_ engine was stopped, and she lay under the lee of Humber Island, a long, wooded islet that sheltered them from the strong breeze, making the sea as smooth as a mill pond. On shore twinkling lights began to appear, and, some distance away, a glare of lights in the sky betrayed the location of Rock Haven. "Oh, this is lovely!" said Eleanor. "I'm so glad you brought us here, Mr. Trenwith! But tell me, doesn't anyone live on this island? It's so beautiful that I should think someone would surely have built a summer home there long ago." "I believe there are people there," said Trenwith. "But they are on the other side." "I'm sorry we have to go home, but I suppose we really must be starting," said Eleanor, after supper. "It's such a heavenly night that it seems to me it would be perfect just to stay here." "Wouldn't it? But you're right--we must be starting back. We'll go on and come around the other side of this island. You should see it from all points of view. Scenically, it's our show place for this whole stretch of coast." And so as soon as Bates had finished clearing off the table he went back to his engine, and the _Columbia_ slipped along smoothly in the shadow of the island. But a few minutes later, as they were gliding along on the seaward side, where the water was far rougher, there was a sudden jar, and the next moment the engine stopped. "Why, what's the matter?" asked Eleanor, surprised. "Nothing much, probably," said Trenwith. "Bates will have it fixed in a few minutes. The best engine in the world is apt to get balky at times--and I must say that mine has chosen a very good time to misbehave." Eleanor chose to ignore the meaning he so plainly implied, but she was perfectly content with the explanation, and sat there dreamily, expecting to hear the reassuring whir of the motor at any moment. But the minutes dragged themselves out, and the only sound that came from the engine was the tapping of the tools Bates was using. Trenwith frowned. "This is very strange," he said. "We've never been delayed as long as this since I've had Bates. He usually keeps the motor in perfect running order. I'll just step forward and see what's wrong." He returned in a few moments, his face grave. "Bates has some highly technical explanation of what is wrong," he said, seriously. "It seems that he needs some tools he hasn't got, in order to grind the valves. I'm afraid we'll have to get ashore somehow--he seems to be sure that he can find what he is looking for there." Eleanor looked rather dismayed. "It's going to make us terribly late in getting ashore, isn't it?" she asked. "I'm afraid the others will be worried about us." "No. Bates says that as soon as he gets the tools he wants he will have things fixed up, and he's quite certain that he can get them on the island. He says anyone who has a motor boat will be able to help him out--and they certainly couldn't live here without one." "But how on earth are you going to get ashore if the engine won't work?" asked Dolly. "It seems to me that we're stuck out here." "Oh, you leave that to us!" said Trenwith, cheerfully. "I'm sorry this has happened, but please believe me when I say that it isn't a bit serious." They soon saw the _Columbia_ was to be rescued from her predicament. She was fairly near the shore, and now Bates dropped an anchor, and she remained still, swinging slowly on the chain. "He'll row ashore, you see, hunt up the people, and tell them what he wants," said Trenwith. "Hurry up, Bates! Remember, we've promised to get these young ladies home in good time." "Right, sir," said Bates, as he lowered the dinghy and dropped into her. "Won't take me long when I find the people on shore--and about five minutes will fix that engine when I get back here again." He rowed off into the darkness, making for a point of light that showed on shore, and they settled back to wait as patiently as they could for his return. "Suppose Charlie turns up at the camp while we're gone, and wants you for something important?" asked Eleanor. "Oh, I'm afraid we did wrong in coming!" "Not a bit of it! Old Charlie will understand. And I know his plans pretty well, so there isn't any danger of this causing any trouble." It seemed to take longer for Bates to find help than he had expected. At any rate, the greater part of half an hour slipped away before they heard the sound of oars coming toward them. "Why, there are two men rowing!" said Dolly, curiously. "And that dinghy only has room for one man with oars." "Probably they decided to send someone out with him to lend him a hand," said Trenwith. "People around these parts are pretty nice to you if you have a breakdown, and I guess it's partly because they never know when they're going to have one themselves." "Well, that ought to make it easier to make the repairs that are needed," said Eleanor, somewhat relieved. "I really am getting worried about what they'll, think at the beach. I'm afraid they'll be sure that something has happened to us." "Good evening, Miss Mercer," said a mocking voice behind her, and she turned, with a start to see Holmes! "You're late," said Holmes, reproachfully. "I expected you an hour earlier. But then better late than never! Ah, I see both of them are with you! Silas Weeks will be very glad to see you two, I have no doubt!" He spoke then to Bessie and Zara, who, terrified by his sudden appearance, were staring at him. "Mr. Trenwith!" said Eleanor, sharply. "You know who this man is, do you not? And what our feelings are concerning him? Are you going to let him stay here?" "He has no choice, Miss Mercer. Better not ask him too many questions about how you happened to break down right off my island; he would have a hard time convincing you with any story he told. Eh, Trenwith?" "Shut up!" growled Trenwith. "What does all this nonsense mean? Get off my boat." "Oh, are you trying to make them believe you didn't know about this? I beg your pardon, Trenwith, I really do! Of course, Miss Mercer, he knows as well as I do that I am within my rights. You are now in a state where certain court orders, applying to Bessie King and her little friend Zara are valid--and, knowing that these two girls, who have run away from the courts of this state, are here, I have taken steps to see that they are taken into court. I am a law abiding citizen--I do not like to see the law insulted." Eleanor was dazed by the suddenness of the blow. To her it seemed an accident, she could not believe that Trenwith could be guilty of such treachery as Holmes was charging. But in a moment her faith in him was shattered. "I'd like to help out your posse, Trenwith," Holmes said to him. "But I need you, so you'll have to come off your perch. You'll have to come ashore with the others, in case you should change your mind. I only want two of these girls, but the others will have to come, too, of course, because if they got away they might make trouble. You shall be perfectly comfortable, Miss Mercer, however." The look in Trenwith's eyes, and the sheepish, hangdog expression of his whole face made Eleanor gasp. So he had betrayed them! After all, despite his fine talk, he had been tempted by the money that Holmes seemed prepared to spend so lavishly! And he had led Bessie and Zara right into a trap--a merciless trap, as she knew, from which escape would be most difficult, if not utterly impossible. And in a moment the lingering remnants of her faith were shattered. For Holmes called out, in a loud tone, at Bates: "Bates!" he cried. "Come aboard and start that engine! Then you can take your tub right up to the landing pier in front of the house." "Yes, yes!" said Bates. He sprang aboard, and a moment later the engine, perfectly restored, was started, although nothing had been done to it since Bates went ashore, and, the anchor lifted, the _Columbia_ began her brief voyage to the pier. There had been no accident at all! The breakdown had been a deception, pure and simple, intended to give Bates a chance to go ashore and warn Holmes that his prey was within his reach. "Oh, how I despise you!" said Eleanor to Trenwith. "Go away, please, so that I won't have to look at you!" "Eleanor, listen!" he said, in a low whisper, pleadingly. "I can explain--" "If you think I'm such a fool as to believe anything you tell me now," she said, furiously, "you are very much mistaken!" He saw that to argue with her was hopeless, and went forward gloomily. In a few minutes they were ashore. Resistance, as Eleanor saw, was hopeless; the only thing to do was to act sensibly, and hope for a chance to escape. "I have had three rooms arranged for you," said Holmes, when they reached a great rambling house. "They're on the second floor. I think you girls will be comfortable and you would rather, I am sure, have the girls with you. You are in no danger." CHAPTER XIII A LUCKY MEETING Half a dozen men had come out to the _Columbia_ with Holmes and Bates, and now, while Holmes himself disappeared for a minute, beckoning to Trenwith to go with him, the other men watched Eleanor and the three girls. They drew off to a little distance, but they kept their eyes on them. "They don't look as if they could run very fast," said Dolly, hopefully. "Don't you think we might be able to make a break and get away?" "Where to, Dolly? This is an island, remember, and we don't know anything about it at all. We wouldn't know where to run, if we did have luck enough to get a good start--and we wouldn't get very far." "I suppose that's so," said Dolly, her face falling. "Oh, what a horrid shame! Just when everything seemed so nice and peaceful!" "There's one thing," said Eleanor, her face set and stern. "They can't hold me forever--or, at least, I don't suppose they can. And someone is going to be sorry for this or my name's not Eleanor Mercer!" "I don't understand it yet," said Bessie, who, although the capture meant more to her than it did to any of the others, had not given way to her emotions, and seemed as cool and calm as if she had been safely back on Plum Beach. "It's only too easy to understand," said Eleanor, bitterly. "Charlie was deceived in his friend, Mr. Trenwith. He's just as easy to bribe as Jake Hoover. That's all. He cares more for money and success than he does for his reputation as an honorable man. I'm disappointed in him--but I suppose I ought not to be surprised." "Well, I _am_ surprised," said Dolly, defiantly. "And I'm sure, somehow, that he's all right. I think he was just as badly fooled as the rest of us. Mr. Holmes probably wants us to think as badly of him as possible, so that, if he should try to help us, we wouldn't trust him." "I wish I could believe that, Dolly. But the evidence against him is too strong, I'm afraid. Hush, we musn't talk. Here is Mr. Holmes coming back. I don't want him to think that we're afraid--it would please him too much." With Mr. Holmes, as he came toward them, was a woman in servant's garb, middle aged, and sour in her appearance. "This woman will attend to you, Miss Mercer," he said. "She will do whatever you tell her--unless it should happen to conflict with the orders she has from me. But she won't talk to you about me, or about this place because she knows that if she does I will find out about it, and she will have reason to regret it." "I'm very much pleased by one thing, Mr. Holmes," said Eleanor. "You've shown yourself in your true colors at last. I suppose you understand that when I get back to the city I shall see to it that everyone knows the truth about you. I don't think you will find yourself welcome in the homes of any decent people after I tell what I know." "I'm sorry, Miss Mercer," he said. "Of course you must do what you think best. But it really won't do any good. I could do things a great deal worse than this, and still, with the money I happen to have, people would keep on fawning on me, and pestering me with their attentions and their invitations as much as ever." "Perhaps you're right, but I intend to find out. May I ask how long you intend to keep me here as a prisoner?" "You are my guest, Miss Mercer, not my prisoner. Please don't act as if I were as great a villain as that. Losing your temper will not improve matters in any way, you know--really it won't. As for your question, I think Bessie and Zara will be in the quite competent care of their old friend Silas Weeks by noon to-morrow and then there will be no further reason for keeping you here." "Then, unless you are remarkably quick in getting out of the country, Mr. Holmes, you ought to be under arrest for kidnapping by to-morrow night." Holmes laughed. "Oh, do let's be friends!" he said. "You and your friends have really given me a lot of trouble. But do I bear you any malice? Not I! If you hadn't taken care of those misguided girls after they ran away from Hedgeville, none of this would have come about." "I suppose you think you have some excuse for acting in this fashion?" "I certainly have, Miss Mercer. The very best. After all, why shouldn't I tell you? It's too late for you to do me any harm now--I have won the game." "But there will be a return match. Don't forget that! My father is as rich as you are, Mr. Holmes, and when he hears of the way I have been treated, he will spend his last cent, if necessary, to get his revenge on you." "Dear me, I hope he won't do anything so foolish, Miss Mercer! It would be a dreadful waste of money--and he wouldn't get it, in any case. However, I don't want you to be needlessly worried. Zara will soon be safe with her father. She won't have to stay very long with the estimable Farmer Weeks. You know, I really don't blame her for disliking him." Zara gave a little cry of joy. "Will I see my father? Is he well?" she cried. "Quite well--but very obstinate," said Holmes. "That's your fault, too, Miss Mercer. I'm sorry to say that lately he has seemed to be inclined to listen to your cousin, Mr. Jamieson. He is willing, you see, to deal with whoever happens to be in charge of his daughter. He knows our friend Silas very well--too well, I think. And so, when he knows that Zara is being looked after by him, I think he will be glad to meet my terms, and so secure his freedom." "You brute!" said Eleanor, hotly. "What are your terms?" "Ah, that would be telling! You will have to wait to discover that. You see, Silas Weeks wasn't quite as stupid as the rest of the people at Hedgeville, and when he couldn't find out what old Slavin was doing there, he came to me--because he thought I probably could." "Slavin!" said Eleanor, in an amazed tone. "Is that your father's name, Zara? Why didn't you tell us?" "He told me not to," said Zara, nervously. "Zara's father had one bad fault; he wasn't at all ready to trust people," Holmes went on, easily. "He didn't even trust me as he should have done, and he's been positively insulting to Weeks. It's made a lot of trouble for him." He looked at his watch, then turned to the servant. "Go upstairs and make the rooms comfortable for Miss Mercer at once," he said. "It's getting late." Then he turned to the men who had accompanied him to the _Columbia_. "It's all right, boys," he said. "You needn't wait." "These people keep their ears entirely too wide open," he explained to Eleanor. "I have to be rather careful with them, though they probably wouldn't understand much if they did hear. Well, that is about all I've got to tell you, anyhow. You see, you needn't worry about your friend Zara. As to Bessie--well, that's different." He looked at Bessie malevolently. "I don't think I care to tell you anything more about her," he said. "Weeks will look after her all right--as well as she deserves to be looked after." Bessie seemed to be nervous as he looked at her, and edged away from him. "If you think you can keep Bessie in the care of that man Weeks," said Eleanor, "you are going to find yourself decidedly mistaken. He won't treat her properly, and if he doesn't, the courts won't compel her to stay there. I know enough law for that, and I tell you now, that, even though you may have some sort of law on your side just now, because you have played this trick, you won't be able to count on the law much longer. It will be as powerful against you, properly used, as it has been for you, improperly used." "Oh!" Holmes laughed, unpleasantly. There was no mirth in the laugh, only mockery and contempt. "Really, Miss Mercer--why, where has that little baggage gone to?" He stared wildly about the room, and Eleanor, startled, looked about her also. Bessie had disappeared; vanished into thin air. In a rage, Holmes darted here and there about the great hall of the house in which they had been standing. But, though he looked behind curtains and all the larger pieces of furniture, and made a great fuss, he found no sign of her. For a moment he was completely baffled, and almost beside himself with rage. "I always thought villains were clever," said Dolly, as he stood still. Her voice was scornful. "Why, even a girl like Bessie can fool you! She's done it plenty of times before now--you didn't think you could keep her from doing it this time, too, did you?" "What do you mean?" stormed Holmes, moving toward her, his hand raised as if he meant to strike her. But if he thought he could frighten Dolly he was much mistaken. She faced him calmly. "You can't make me tell you anything, even if you do hit me," she said. "And you won't find Bessie, either, unless she wants you to. I saw her go--but I'm not going to tell you how she managed it." "Oh, I'm not going to hit her," yelled Holmes. "What good would that do?" He sprang to a bell, and pushed it violently. In a moment two or three of the men he had dismissed, thus giving Bessie her chance to escape, answered his summons, and he ordered them to start in search of her at once. "Find her, and you'll be rewarded," he shouted. "But if you don't, I'll make you pay for it!" Eleanor had never seen a man in such a furious rage. It was plain that his plan, successful as it seemed to be, was still in danger of being upset, and the knowledge gave Eleanor new hope. It had seemed to her that, with Trenwith turned traitor, there was not one chance in a million to foil Holmes this time. But now everything was changed. He stayed with them only long enough to give them into the keeping of the servant, who came down the stairs just as he finished giving his orders to the men for the pursuit of Bessie. "If any of them get out, I'll know it's your fault," he said to her. "And you know what I can do to you. You wouldn't like to go to jail for a few years, I guess. You will, if anyone else gets away from this house to-night." Then he followed the men he had sent out in search of Bessie. And all the time Bessie herself had heard every word, and seen every action of the scene that followed the discovery of her escape. While Holmes was talking to Eleanor she had seized the chance to slip over to a heavily curtained window, which, she guessed, must open right on the ground. She took the chance of it being open, and fortune favored her. Concealed by the curtain, she was able to slip out, and then, instead of running as fast and as far as she could, as nine people out of ten would have done, she stayed where she was. She reasoned that there, so close to the house, was the last place where search would be made. And she was right. She saw Holmes dash from the room; she saw Eleanor and the other girls being led upstairs. And then she not only heard, but saw, the pursuit of her that was begun. Men with lanterns searched the grounds; they looked behind every bush. But, though a single glance, almost, would have revealed her had anything like a careful search of the flower beds close to the house been made, no one came near her hiding-place. Between her and the open garden was only a flimsy screen of rose bushes, but it proved enough. She stayed there, scarcely daring to breathe, while the men searched the grounds and the beach. And she was still there, more than an hour later, when they returned, tired and discouraged, to report the failure of their search to Holmes, who was back in the room from which she had escaped. "Fury!" cried Holmes. "She must be on the island! There's no way that she can have got away! Well, watch the boats! That will have to do for to-night. She can't get away without a boat--and they are all in the boat-house. If she wanders down to the other end, to the fort, we can catch her in the morning. They won't believe any story she can tell them, if she should happen to get there. And I don't want to disturb them to-night--I'd rather wait until morning, when they will be over with the papers. I haven't any real right to hold them to-night, except the right of force." Bessie thrilled at the information those few words gave her. She remembered now that there was a fort, manned by United States soldiers, on Humber Island. It was one of the chain of forts that guarded the approaches to Rock Haven. And Bessie had an idea that she would be able to find someone at the fort to believe her story, wild and improbable as she knew it must sound. The great problem now was to get out of the grounds unseen. And that problem, of course, her cleverness in hiding so close to the house had made much easier to solve. No one would suspect now that she was there; if she waited until the house was quiet, and the men who were to watch the boats had gone to their post, she should be able to steal out of the garden and in the direction of the fort. To be on the safe side, she waited nearly an hour longer. Then, as quietly as she could, she began her solitary walk. Fortune, and her own ability to move quietly, favored her. In five minutes she was out of the grounds, and in woods where, though the walking was difficult, and she stumbled more than once, she at least felt safe from the danger of pursuit. Soon the woods began to thin; then they grew thicker again. But, after she had been walking, as she guessed, for more than an hour, it grew lighter and she saw ahead of her the outlines of dark buildings--Fort Humber, she was sure. And a minute later the sharp hail of a sentry halted her, and at the same time made her sure that she had not lost her way. "Who goes there?" called the sentry. "I've lost my way," said Bessie, trusting to her voice to make him understand that she was not to be driven away. "Is this the fort? I'd like to see some officer, if you please." "Wait there! I'll pass the word," said the sentry. And in a few minutes a young lieutenant came toward her. "Bless my soul!" he said. "What are you doing here, young lady? Come with me--you can explain inside." And, once inside the fort, the first person she saw was Charlie Jamieson! CHAPTER XIV AT THE FORT "Bessie King!" he exclaimed amazed. "What on earth are you doing here? And where is Trenwith?" "I don't know," said Bessie. She felt safe and for a moment she was on the verge of collapsing completely. But then she remembered that not her own fate alone, but that of the others whom she loved and who had been so good to her depended upon her. And, in a few quick words, she told the story of the accident to the _Columbia_, with the treachery of Billy Trenwith, and the subsequent appearance of Holmes and his men. "There you are, gentlemen!" said Jamieson, turning to the little group of men in uniform, who, tremendously interested, had listened intently to all that Bessie had said. "You laughed at me--you insisted that the sort of thing I told you about wasn't possible--that it simply couldn't happen in this country, and in this time. What do you think now?" "I guess it's one on us," said one of the officers, with a reluctant laugh. "But, really, Jamieson, you can't blame us much, can you? It's pretty incredible, even now." "I'm bothered about Trenwith, though," said Charlie. "Something has gone wrong." "Miss Mercer is perfectly sure that he is in league with Mr. Holmes," said Bessie. "Do you think that's so, Mr. Jamieson?" "I hope not," said Charlie, soberly. "I've found out one thing lately though, Bessie;--that when there is money involved, you can never tell what is going to happen." "Did you know we were here--how did you find out?" "No questions just now! It's time something was being done. Tell me, can you take me to this house, and show me how to get in?" "Yes, I think I can find my way back through the woods." "No need of that," said one of the officers. "There's a road that leads right to that place. What's Holmes doing there, anyhow? It isn't his place. It belongs to some people who bought it a little while ago." "Yes, a Mr. and Mrs. Richards," said Charlie. "But from what Bessie here says, he seems to be doing about as he likes with it. Well, I don't want to waste any more time. Do you suppose I can see Colonel Hart?" "You can unless your eyesight is failing," said the Colonel, appearing in the doorway. He had heard the question, and came forward smiling, his hand outstretched. "How are you, Jamieson? What can I do for you?" "A great deal, if you will, Colonel," said Charlie. "I'd like to speak to you privately for a minute, if I may--" "Shabby business--that's what I call it," said one of the young officers. "He knows we're wild to know what's going on, and there he goes off with the old man to tell him about it where we can't hear." Then one of them happened to think that Bessie might be in need of refreshment after her exciting experiences, and they waited on her as if she had been a princess. By the time she had been able to convince them that she wanted nothing more, Jamieson and the Colonel returned. "All right, my boy," the colonel was saying. "I'll attend to it, and do as you wish. Maybe it isn't strictly according to the regulations, but I don't believe anyone will ever file charges against me. Depend upon me. You're starting now?" "Yes," said Jamieson. "Come along, Bessie. We're going back to the house." "I'm ready," said Bessie, simply. "You're not afraid?" "Not as long as you're there. I don't believe Mr. Holmes can do anything while you're around." "Well, I hope he can't, Bessie. But when they had managed to get away as you did to-night, a whole lot of girls wouldn't be in a hurry to run into the same danger again." "I wouldn't be very happy about getting away myself unless Zara escaped, too, Mr. Jamieson. And I'm afraid of Mr. Holmes--I don't know what he might do if he were angry enough. I wouldn't be sure that Dolly and Miss Eleanor were safe with him." "Well, they are, Bessie. Of course, what I'm planning may go wrong, but I feel pretty confident that we are going to give Mr. Holmes the surprise of his life this night." They walked on steadily through the darkness, the going of course, being much easier than Bessie had found it in her flight, since she now had a good road under her feet instead of the stumpy wood path, full of twisted roots and unexpected bumps. And at last a light showed through the trees to one side of the road, and Bessie stopped. "That's the place, I'm pretty sure," she said. "I can tell for certain if we turn in, but I'm sure I didn't pass another house." So they went in, and a minute's examination enabled Bessie to recognize the grounds. She had had plenty of time to study them earlier in the night, when she had crouched behind the rose bushes, expecting to be discovered and dragged out every time one of the searchers passed near her. "I wish I knew about Trenwith," said Charlie, anxiously. "That is one part of this night's work that puzzles me. I don't understand it at all, and it worries me." "He went off with Mr. Holmes after we got inside the house," said Bessie. "But I didn't see him again after that. He wasn't with Mr. Holmes in the big hall again, after I had got away. I'm sure of that." "What are you going to do now?" asked Bessie. "I'm not certain. I'd like very much to know where the other girls are. We ought to be all together." "Perhaps I can find out," said Bessie. "You stay here, and I'll slip along toward the house. If Dolly's awake, I can find out where she is." "All right. But if you see anyone else, or if anyone interferes with you, call me right away." Bessie promised that she would, and then she slipped away, and a moment later found herself in front of the house. "I'll try this side last," she said to herself. "I don't believe they'd put them in front--more likely they'd put them on the east side, because that only looks out over the garden, and there'd be less chance of their seeing anyone who was coming." So, moving stealthily and as silently as a cat, she went around to that side of the house, and a moment later the strange, mournful call of a whip-poor-will sounded in the still night air. It was repeated two or three times, but there was no answer. Then Bessie changed her call slightly. At first she had imitated the bird perfectly. But this time there was a false note in the call--just the slightest degree off the true pitch of the bird's note. Most people would not have known the difference, but to a trained ear that slight imperfection would be enough to reveal the fact that it was a human throat that was responsible, and not a bird's. And the trick served its turn, for there was an instant answer. A window was opened above Bessie, very gently, and she saw Dolly's head peering down over the ivy that grew up the wall. "Wait there!" she whispered. "Get dressed, all three of you! Mr. Jamieson is here--not far away. I'm going to tell him where you are." She marked the location of the window carefully, and then, sure that she would remember it when she returned, went back to Jamieson. "Did you locate them? Good work!" he said. "All right. Go back now and tell them to make a rope of their sheets--good and strong. I saw where you were standing, and, if they lower that, I don't think we will have any trouble getting up to their window. I want to be inside that house--and I don't want Holmes to know I'm there until I'm ready." He chuckled. "He thinks I'm back in the city. I want him to have a real surprise when he finally does see me." Bessie slipped back then and told Dolly what to do, and in a few minutes the rope of sheets came down, rustling against the ivy. Bessie made the signal she had agreed on with Jamieson at once--a repetition of the bird's call, and he joined her. Then he picked her up and started her climbing up the wall, with the aid of the rope and the ivy. For a girl as used to climbing trees as Bessie, it was a task of no great difficulty, and in a minute she was safely inside the room, and had turned to watch Jamieson following her. His greater weight made his task more difficult, and twice those above had all they could do to repress screams of terror, for the ivy gave way, and he seemed certain to fall. But he was a trained athlete, and a skillful climber as well, and, difficult as the ascent proved to be for him, he managed it, and clambered over the sill of the window and into the room, breathless but smiling and triumphant. "Oh, I'm so glad you're here, Charlie!" said Eleanor. "There is someone we can trust, after all, isn't there?" "Oh, sure!" he said. "Don't you take on, Nell, and don't ask a lot of questions now. It'll be daylight pretty soon--and, believe me, when the light comes, there's going to be considerable excitement around these parts." "But why did you bring Bessie back here? How did she find you?" He raised his hand with a warning gesture, and smiled. "Remember, Nell, no questions!" he said. "All we can do just now is to wait." Wait they did--and in silence, save for an occasional whisper. "That man Holmes has a woman guarding us," whispered Eleanor. "She is just outside the door in the hall--sleeping there. The idea is to keep us from leaving these rooms. Evidently they never thought of our going by the window. We did think of it, but we couldn't see any use in it, because we felt we wouldn't know where to go on this island, even if we got outside the grounds." "That's what he counted on, I guess," answered Charlie. "I'm glad you stayed. Cheer up, Nell! You're going to have a package of assorted surprises before you're very much older!" To the five of them, practically imprisoned, it seemed as if daylight would never come. But at last a faint brightness showed through the window, and gradually the objects in the room became more distinct. And, with the coming of the light, there came also sounds of life in the house. The voices of men sounded from the garden, and Charlie smiled. "They'll begin wondering about that rope and the footprints under this window pretty soon," he said. "And I guess none of them will be exactly anxious to tell Holmes, either." He was right, for in a few moments excited voices echoed from below, and then there was an argument. "Well, he's got to be told," said one man. "It's your job, Bill." "Suppose you do it yourself." Apparently, they finally agreed to go together. And five minutes later there was a commotion outside the door. "Here's where I take cover!" whispered Charlie, with a grin. And, just before the door was opened, and Holmes burst in, his face livid with anger, the lawyer hid himself behind a closet door. Holmes stared at the sight of the four girls standing there, fully dressed, his jaw dropping. "So you're all here?" he said, an expression of relief gradually succeeding his consternation. "Found you couldn't get away, eh, Bessie? Why didn't you come to the front door instead of climbing in that way? We'd have let you in all right." He laughed, harshly. "Well, I've had about all the trouble you're going to give me," he said. "Silas Weeks will be here to take care of you pretty soon, my girl, and now that he's got you in the state where you belong, I guess you won't get away again very soon." "What state do you think this island is in?" asked Charlie Jamieson, appearing suddenly from his hiding-place. Holmes staggered back. For a moment he seemed speechless. Then he found his tongue. "What are you doing here? How did you get into my house?" he snarled. "I'll have you arrested as a burglar." "Ah, no, you won't," said Charlie, pleasantly. "But I'm going to have you arrested--for kidnapping. Answer my question--do you think this is in the state where the courts have put Bessie in charge of Silas Weeks?" "Certainly it is," said Holmes, blustering. "You ought to keep up with the news better, Mr. Holmes. The United States Government has bought this island for military purposes. It's a Federal reservation now, and the writ of the state courts has no value whatever. Even the land this house stands on belongs to the government now--it was taken by condemnation proceedings." Eleanor gave a glad cry at the good news. At last she understood the trap into which Holmes had fallen. "Look outside--look through the window!" said Jamieson. Holmes rushed to the window, and his teeth showed in a snarl at what he saw. "You can't get away, you see," said Jamieson. "There isn't any sentiment about those soldiers. They'd shoot you if you tried to run through them. I'd advise you to take things easily. There'll be a United States marshall to take you in charge pretty soon. He's on his way from Rock Haven now. He'll probably come on the same boat that brings Silas Weeks--and some other people you are not expecting." Holmes slumped into a chair. Defeat was written in his features. But he pulled himself together presently. "You've got the upper hand right now," he said. "But what good does it do you? I'm the only one who knows the truth, and the reason for all this. They won't do anything to me--they can't prove any kidnapping charge. The boat was disabled--I entertained these girls over night when they were stranded here." "We'll see about that," said Jamieson, quietly. "And I may know more than you think. I've been finding out a few things since the talk I had with Jake Hoover in Bay City yesterday. Did you know that he was arrested the day before yesterday at Plum Beach?" Evidently Holmes had not known it. The news was a fresh shock to him. But he was determined not to admit defeat. "Much good he'll do you!" he said. "He doesn't know anything--even if he thinks he does." CHAPTER XV THE MYSTERY SOLVED There was a knock at the door, and, in answer to Jamieson's call to come in, one of the young officers Bessie had seen at the fort entered. He smiled cheerfully at Bessie, saluted the other girls, and grinned at Jamieson. "We've herded all the people we found around the place down in the boat-house," he said. "They were too scared to do anything. Is this your man Holmes?" "You guessed right the very first time, Lieutenant," said Charlie. "Any sign of that boat from Rock Haven?" "She's just coming in," said the officer. "She ought to land her passengers at the pier in about ten minutes." "Then it's time to go down to meet her," said Charlie. "Come on, girls, and you too, Holmes. You'll be needed down there. And I guess you'll find it worth your while to come, too." Holmes, protesting, had no alternative, and in sullen silence he was one of the little group that now made its way toward the pier. She was just being tied up as they arrived, and Silas Weeks, his face full of malign triumph at the sight of Bessie and Zara, was the first to step ashore. "Got yer, have I?" he said. He turned to a lanky, angular man who was at his side. "There y'are, constable," he said. "There's yer parties--them two girls there! Arrest them, will yer?" "Not here, I won't," said the constable. "You didn't tell me it was to come off here. This is government land--I ain't got no authority here." "You keep your mouth shut and your eyes and ears open, Weeks," said Jamieson, before the angry old farmer could say anything. Then he stepped forward to greet a man and woman who had followed Weeks down the gangplank. "I'm glad you're here, Mrs. Richards, and you too, Mr. Richards," he said. "I'm going to be able to keep my promise." Holmes was staring at Mrs. Richards and her husband in astonishment. "You here, Elizabeth?" he exclaimed. "And Henry, too? I didn't know you were coming!" "We decided to come quite unexpectedly, Morton," said the lady, quietly. She was a woman of perhaps forty-two or three, tall and distinguished in her appearance. But, like her husband, her face showed traces of privations and hardship. Behind them came a stiff, soldierly looking man, in a blue suit, and him Jamieson greeted with a smile and a handshake. "There's your man, Marshall," he said, pointing to Holmes. "I guess he won't make any resistance." And, while Mr. and Mrs. Richards stared in astonishment, and Weeks turned purple, the marshall laid his hand on the merchant's shoulder, and put him under arrest. Holmes was trapped at last. "What does this mean?" Mrs. Richards asked, indignantly. "What are you doing to my brother, Mr. Jamieson?" "That's quite a long story, Mrs. Richards," he answered, easily. "And, strange as it may seem, I'll have to answer it by asking you and your husband some questions that may seem very personal. But I've made good with you so far, and I can assure you that you will have no cause to regret answering me." Mrs. Richards bowed. "In the first place, you and your husband have been away from this part of the country for quite a long time, haven't you?" "Yes. For a number of years." "And you have not always been as well off, financially, as you are now?" "That is quite true. My husband, shortly after our marriage, failed in business, owing--owing to conditions he couldn't control." "Isn't it true, Mrs. Richards, that those conditions were the result of his marriage to you? Didn't your father, a very rich man, resent your marriage so deeply that he tried to ruin your husband in order to force you to leave him?" There were tears in the woman's eyes as she nodded her head in answer. "Thank you. I know this is very painful--but I must really do all this. You refused to leave your husband, however, and when he decided to go to Alaska, you went with him?" "Yes." "And there he made a lucky strike, some four or five years ago, that made him far richer than he had ever dreamed of becoming?" "That is quite true." "But, although you were rich, you did not come home? You spent a good deal of time in the Far North, and when you went out for a rest, you came no further east than Seattle or San Francisco?" "There was no reason for us to come here. All our friends had turned against us in our misfortunes, and our only child was dead. So it was only a few months ago that we came home." "That is very tragic. Thank you, Mrs. Richards. One moment--I have another question to ask." He stepped toward the gangplank. "I will be back in a moment," he said. He went on board the boat, and while all those on the dock, puzzled and mystified by his questions, waited, he disappeared. When he returned he was not alone. A woman was with him, and, at the sight of her, Bessie gave a cry of astonishment. "Now, Mrs. Richards," said Charlie. "Have you ever seen this woman before!" "I think I have," she said, in a strange, puzzled tone. "But--she has changed so--" "Her name is Mrs. Hoover, Mrs. Richards. Does that help you to remember?" "Oh!" Mrs. Richards sobbed and burst into tears. "Mrs. Hoover!" she said, brokenly. "To think that I could forget you! Tell me--" "One moment," said Charlie, interrupting. His own voice was not very steady, and Eleanor, a look of dawning understanding in her eyes, was staring at him, greatly moved. "It was with Mrs. Hoover that you left your child when you went west under an assumed name, was it not? It was she who told you that she had died?" "Oh, I lied to you--I lied to you!" wailed Maw Hoover, breaking down suddenly, and throwing herself at the feet of Mrs. Richards. "She wasn't dead. It was that wicked Mr. Holmes and Farmer Weeks who made me say she was." "What?" thundered Richards. "She isn't dead? Where is she?" "Bessie!" said Charlie, calling to her sharply. "Here is your daughter, Mrs. Richards, and a daughter to be proud of!" And the next moment Bessie, Bessie King, the waif no longer, but Bessie Richards, was in her mother's arms! "So Mr. Holmes was Bessie's uncle!" said Eleanor, amazed. "But why did he act so!" "I can explain that," said Charlie, sternly. "It was he who set his father so strongly against his sister's marriage to Mr. Richards. He expected that he would inherit, as a result, her share of his father's estate, as well as his own. But his plans miscarried. Mrs. Richards and her husband had disappeared before her father's death, and, when he softened and was inclined to relent, he could not find them. But he knew they had a daughter, and he left to her his daughter's share of his fortune--over a million dollars. There was no trace of the child, however, and so there was a provision in the will that if she did not come forward to claim the money on her eighteenth birthday it should go to her uncle--to Holmes." "I always said it was money that was making him act that way!" cried Dolly Ransom. "Yes," said Jamieson. "He had squandered much of his own money--he wanted to make sure of getting Bessie's fortune for himself. So when he learned through Silas Weeks where the child was, he paid Mrs. Hoover to tell her parents she was dead, and then, after she had run away, he and Weeks did all they could to get her back to a place where there was no chance of anyone finding out who she was. They nearly succeeded--but I have been able to block their plans. And one reason is that they were greedy and they couldn't let Zara Slavin and her father alone. He is a great inventor and they profited by his ignorance of American customs." "I only found out her name last night," said Eleanor. "I wondered if he could be the Slavin who invented the new wireless telephone--" "They got him into jail on a trumped-up charge," said Charlie. "And then they tried to keep Zara away from people who might learn the truth from her, and offer to supply the money he needed. In a little while they would have robbed him of all the profits of his invention." "I'll finance it myself," said Richards, "and he can keep all of the profit." Bessie's father and mother were far too glad to get her back to want to punish Maw Hoover, who was sincerely repentant. They could hardly find words enough to thank Eleanor and Dolly for their friendship, and to Charlie Jamieson their gratitude was unbounded. But suddenly, even while the talk was at its height, there was a diversion. Billy Trenwith, his clothes torn, his hands chafed and bleeding, appeared on the dock. "Good Heavens, Billy, I'd forgotten all about you!" said Charlie. "Where have you been?" "How can you speak to him as a friend after the way he betrayed us?" asked Eleanor, indignantly, and Billy winced. But Charlie laughed happily. "He didn't betray you," said he. "I cooked up this whole thing, just to catch Holmes red-handed, and he walked right into the trap. I told Billy not to tell you, because I wanted you to act so that Holmes wouldn't know it was a trick." "He didn't trust me, though," said Billy, ruefully. "As soon as he had the girls, he tied me up and chucked me into his cellar so that I couldn't change my mind, he said. That's why I didn't meet you at the fort." Eleanor, shamefaced and miserable, looked at him. Then, with tears in her eyes, she held out her hand to him. "Can you ever forgive me?" she asked. "You bet I can!" he shouted. "Why, you were meant to think just what you did! There's nothing to forgive!" "I ought to have known you couldn't do a mean, treacherous thing," she said. "All's well that ends well," said Charlie, gaily. "Now as to your brother, Mrs. Richards? I don't suppose you want him arrested?" "No--oh, no!" said she, looking at Holmes contemptuously. "Then, if you'll withdraw the charge of kidnapping, Eleanor, he can go." And the next moment Holmes, free but disgraced, slunk away, and out of the lives of those he had so cruelly wronged. * * * * * Sunset of that day found them all back at Plum Beach, where the Camp Fire Girls, who had been almost frantic at their long absence, greeted them with delight. The story of Bessie's restoration to her parents, and of the good fortune that was soon to be Zara's, seemed to delight the other girls as much as if they themselves were the lucky ones, and Gladys Cooper, completely restored to health, was the first to kiss Bessie and wish her joy. And after dinner Eleanor, blushing, rose to make a little speech. "You know, girls," she said, "Margery Burton is to be a Torch-Bearer as soon as we get back to the city. And you are going to need a new Guardian soon. She will be chosen--and she will make a better one than I have been, I think." There was a chorus of astonished cries. "But why are you going to stop being Guardian, Miss Eleanor?" asked Margery. "Because--because--" "I'll tell you why," said Billy Trenwith, leaping up and standing beside her. "It's because she's going to be married to me!" There was a moment of astonished silence. And then, from every girl there burst out, with out signal, the words of the Camp Fire song: "Wo-he-lo--wo-he-lo--wo-he-lo--Wo-he-lo for Love!" THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS SERIES 1. THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS IN THE WOODS 2. THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS ON THE FARM 3. THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS AT LONG LAKE 4. THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS IN THE MOUNTAINS 5. THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS ON THE MARCH 6. THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS AT THE SEASHORE 
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8662	----	THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS AT SUNRISE HILL By Margaret Vandercook First of a series CONTENTS I. THE VOICE II. "METHINKS YOU ARE MY GLASS" III. "WORK, HEALTH AND LOVE" IV. "MEG" V. THEIR FIRST MEETING VI. THE LAW OF THE CAMP FIRE VII. WHITE CLOUDS VIII. OTHER GIRLS IX. THE GUARDIAN X. PIPES OF PEACE XI. UNDER THE ROSE MOON XII. NAN XIII. "NOBODY WANTS TO BE DONE GOOD TO" XIV. SURPRISING THE CAMP XV. A WARNING XVI. LEARNING TO KEEP STEP XVII. THE SUSPICION XVIII. ONE WAY TO FIND OUT XIX. THE DISAPPEARANCE XX. "POLLY" XXI. THE END OF THE SUMMER CAMP CHAPTER I THE VOICE Betty Ashton sighed until the leaves of the book she held in her hand quivered, then she flung it face downward on the floor. "Oh dear, I do wish some one would invent something new for girls!" she exclaimed, although there was no one in the room to hear her. "It seems to me that all girls do nowadays is to imitate boys. We play their games, read their old books and even do their work, when all the time girls are really wanting girl things. I agree with King Solomon: 'The thing that hath been, it is that which, shall be; and that which is done is that which shall be done; and there is no new thing under the sun.' At least not for girls!" Then with a laugh at her own pessimism, Betty, like Hamlet, having found relief in soliloquy, jumped up from her chair and crossing her room pressed the electric button near the fireplace until the noise of its ringing reverberated through the big, quiet house. "There, that ought to bring some one to me at last," she announced. "Three times have I rung that bell and yet no one has answered. Do the maids in this house actually expect me to build my own fire? I suppose I could do it if I tried." She glanced at the pile of kindling inside her wood box and then at the sweet smelling pine logs standing nearby, but the thought of actually doing something for herself must have struck her as impossible, for the next moment she turned with a shiver to stare through the glass of her closed window, first up toward the sullen May sky and then down into her own garden. Outside the gray clouds were slowly pursuing one another against a darker background and in the garden the lilacs having just opened their white and purple blossoms were now looking pale and discouraged as though born too soon into a world that was failing to appreciate them. In spite of her petulance Betty laughed. She was wearing a blue dressing gown and her red-brown hair was caught back with a velvet ribbon of the same shade. Her room was in blue, "Betty's Blue" as her friends used to call it, the color that is neither light nor dark, but has soft shadows in it. Betty herself was between fifteen and sixteen. She had gray eyes, a short, straight nose and her head, which was oddly square, conveyed an effect of refinement that was almost disdain. Her mouth was a little discontented and somehow she gave one the impression that, though she had most of the things other girls wish for, she was still seeking for something. "The outdoors is as dismal as I am, no wonder we used to be sun worshipers," she said after a few more minutes of waiting; "but since Prometheus stole the fire from heaven some ages ago, I really don't see why I should have to freeze because the sun won't shine." Frowning and gathering her dressing gown more closely about her with another impatient gesture, Betty swept out into the hall. The house was strangely silent for the middle of a week-day afternoon; not a sound came either from below stairs or above, not the rattle of a window blind nor the echo of a single pair of footsteps. At some time has a sudden silence ever fallen upon you with a sense of foreboding like the hour before a storm or the moment preceding some unexpected news or change in your life? Betty hurried toward the back-stairs. She was leaning over the banisters and had called once for one of the maids, when she ceased abruptly, and stood still for several moments with her head tilted back and her body tense with surprise. So long as Betty could recall, there had been a vacant room in the rear of the old Ashton homestead, which had stood for more than a hundred years at the comer of Elm Street in Woodford, New Hampshire. She was stupider than other people about remembering the events of her childhood and yet she was sure that this room had never been used for any purpose save as a storehouse for old pieces of furniture, for discarded pictures, for any odds and ends that found no other resting place about the great house. It was curious because the room was a particularly attractive one, with big windows overlooking the back garden, but then there was some story or other connected with it (old houses have old memories) and this must have made it unpopular. Betty did not know what the story was and yet she had grown up with a queer, childish dread of this room and rarely went into it unless she felt compelled. Now, though she was not a coward, it did give her an uncanny sensation to hear a low, humming sound proceeding from this supposedly empty room. Cautiously Betty stole toward its closed door and quietly turned the knob without making the least noise. Then she looked in. What transformation had taken place! The room was a store place no longer, for most of the old furniture and all the other rubbish had been cleared away and what was left was arranged in a comfortable, living fashion. An old rug was spread out on the floor, a white iron bed stood in one corner with an empty bookshelf above it. There was a vase on a table holding a branch of blossoming pussy willow, and seated before one of the big, open windows was a strange girl whom Betty Ashton never remembered to have seen before in her life. The girl was sewing, but this was not what kept Betty silent. She was also singing a new and strangely beautiful song. "Lay me to sleep in sheltering flame, O Master of the Hidden Fire; Wash pure my heart, and cleanse for me My soul's desire." Unconscious of the intruder and forgetful of everything else the singer's voice rose clearer and sweeter with the second verse. "In flame of sunrise bathe my mind, O Master of the Hidden Fire, That when I wake, clear-eyed may be My soul's desire." Then in silence, as she leaned closer to the window to get a better light on her sewing, an unexpected ray of sunshine managing at this moment to break through the clouds fell directly on her bowed head. Her hair was not auburn, like Betty's, but bright, undeniable red. "That is a charming song and you have lovely voice, but would you mind telling me who you are, where you have come from and how you happen to be so at home in a room in our house?" Betty Ashton inquired, coolly, still keeping her position just outside the opened door. The stranger jumped instantly to her feet, letting fall some brown embroidery silk and a number of bright-colored beads, then she stood with her eyes fixed anxiously on the apparition before her, nervously twisting her big, rather coarse-looking hands. She was a year older than Betty Ashton and at the first glance it would have been difficult to imagine two persons more unlike. Betty was slender but perfectly proportioned and had an air of unusual beauty and refinement, which her friends believed must come of her long line of distinguished ancestors, while the new girl was thin and angular, with hands and feet that seemed too big for her, and a pale, freckled skin. She too had gray eyes, but while Betty's brows and lashes were the color of her hair, this girl's were so light that they failed to give the needful shadows to her eyes. In order to gain time and courage the newcomer walked slowly across the room, but when she spoke the beauty of her voice gave her unexpected charm and dignity. "Hasn't your mother told you of my coming? didn't she ask you if you wanted me to come?" she questioned slowly. "I am sorry; my name is Esther Clark, but my name can mean nothing to you. Your mother has asked me here to live, to take care of your clothes, to read to you, to take walks when there is no one else--" "Oh, you mean you are to be my maid," Betty finished, coming now into the center of the room and studying the other girl critically, her eyes suddenly dark with displeasure and her lips closed into a firm red line. "I must say it is strange no one has thought to mention your coming to me, and as I am not a child, I think I might have been consulted as to whether I wished to be bothered with you." Betty bit her lips, for she did not mean to be unkind; only she was extremely provoked and was unaccustomed not to having her wishes consulted. The older girl's face was no longer pale but had suddenly grown crimson. "No, I am not to be your maid," she returned. "At least Mrs. Ashton said I was to be a kind of companion; though I am to be useful to you in any way you like, I am still to go to school and to have time for studying. Of course the holidays are nearly here now, but later on I hope to graduate. If you don't wish me to stay you will please explain it to your mother, only--" Esther tried to speak naturally, but her voice faltered, "I hope you will be willing to let me stay at least until I can find some other place. I am too old to go back to the asylum." "Asylum!" Betty stepped back in such genuine that her companion laughed, showing her white, even teeth and the softer curve to her mouth that relieved her face of some of its former plainness. "Oh, I only meant the orphan asylum, so please don't be frightened," she explained. "I have lived there, it is just at the edge of town, ever since I was a little girl, because when my mother and father died, there was nothing else to do with me. But you need not feel specially sorry, because I have never been ill-treated in the fashion you read about in books. Most of the people in charge have been very kind and I have been going to school for years. Only when your mother came last week and said she wanted me to come here to live, why it did seem kind of wonderful to find out what a beautiful home was like, and then most of all I wanted to know you. You will think it strange of me, but I have been seeing you with your mother or nurse ever since you were a little girl of three or four and I a little older, and I have always been interested in you." Betty smiled, showing a dimple which sometimes appeared after an exhibition of temper of which she felt ashamed. "Oh, you will be sorry enough to know what I am really like," she answered, "and will probably think I am dreadfully spoiled. But do please stay for a while if you wish, at least until we find how we get on together." Since Betty's first speech at the door had startled her, Esther had never for a moment taken her eyes from her face. Never in all her life, even when she had seen and learned far more of the ways of the world, could this girl learn not to speak the truth. So now she slowly shook her head. "Your mother did say you were spoiled; it was one reason why she wished me to come here to live," she replied. "You see, she said that you had been too much alone and had too much done for you and that your brother was so much older that he only helped to spoil you. But," Esther was hardly conscious of her listener and seemed only to be thinking aloud, "I shall not mind if you are spoiled, for how can you help being when you are so pretty and fortunate and have all the things that other girls have just to dream of possessing." It was odd, perhaps, but the new girl's speech was made so simply and sincerely that Betty Ashton instead of feeling angry or complimented was instead a little ashamed. Had fortune been kinder to her than to other girls, kinder than to the awkward girl in front of her in her plain gray linen dress? Betty now backed toward the door which she had so lately opened. "I am sorry to have disturbed you, but usually this room isn't occupied and I was curious to know who could be in here. I should have knocked. Some day you must sing that lovely song to me, again, for I think I would like very much to know just what my soul's desire is. The worst of life is not knowing just what you want." Esther had followed Betty toward the hall. "How funny that sounds to me," she returned shyly, "because I think the hard part of life is not having what you want. I know very well. But can't I do something for you now? Your mother said you were not well and perhaps would not wish to see me this afternoon, but I could read to you or--" Betty's irritability returned. "Thank you very much," she returned coldly, "but I can think of nothing in the world that would amuse me at present. I simply wish not to freeze, and to save my life I can't get one of our tiresome maids to answer my bell." Betty's grand manner had returned, but in spite of her haughtiness the newcomer persisted. "Do let me make the fire for you. I am only a wood-gatherer at present, but pretty soon I shall be a real fire-maker, for I have already been working for two months." "A wood-gatherer and fire-maker; what extraordinary things a girl was forced to become at an orphan asylum!" Betty's sympathies were immediately aroused and her cheeks burned with resentment at the sudden vision of this girl at her side trudging through the woods, her back bent under heavy burdens. No wonder her shoulders stooped and her hands were coarse. Betty slipped her arm through the stranger's. "No, I won't trouble you to make my fire, but do come into my room and let us just talk. None of my friends have been in to see me this afternoon, not even the faithless Polly! They are too busy getting ready for the end of school to think about poor, ill me." And Betty laughed gayly at the untruthfulness of this picture of herself. Once inside the blue room, without asking permission, Esther knelt straightway down before the brass andirons and with deft fingers placed a roll of twisted paper under a lattice-like pile of kindling, arranging three small pine logs in a triangle above it. But before setting a match to the paper she turned toward the other girl hovering about her like a butterfly. "I wonder if you would like me to recite the fire-maker's song?" she asked. "I haven't the right to say it yet, but it is so lovely that I would like you to hear it." Betty stared and laughed. "Do fire-makers have songs?" she demanded. "How queer that sounds! Perhaps the Indians used to have fire songs long ago when a fire really meant so much. But I can't imagine a maid's chanting a song before one's fire in the morning and I don't think I should like being wakened up by it." "You would like this one," the other girl persisted. Little yellow spurts of flame were now creeping forth from between the sticks, some leaping away into nothingness, others curling and enfolding them. The paper in the grate crackled noisily as the cold May wind swept down the chimney with a defiant roar and both girls silently watched the newly kindled fire with the fascination that is eternal. Betty had also dropped down on her knees. "What is your song?" she asked curiously an instant later, raising her hands before her face to let the firelight shine through. Esther's head was bent so that her face could not be seen, but the beauty of her speech was reflected in the other girl's changing expression. "As fuel is brought to the fire, So I purpose to bring My strength, my ambition, My heart's desire, My joy And my sorrow To the fire Of humankind." Purposely Esther's voice dropped with these last words, and she did not continue until a hand was placed gently on her shoulder and a voice urged: "Please go on; what is the 'fire of humankind'?" "For I will tend As my fathers have tended And my fathers' fathers Since time began, The fire that is called The love of man for man, The love of man for God." At the end, Esther glancing around at the girl beside her was surprised to see a kind of mist over her gray eyes. But Betty laughed as she got up to her feet and going over to her table stooped to pick up the book she had thrown on the floor half an hour before. "I might have made my own fire if I had known that song," she said, switching on the electric light under the rose-colored shade. For the clouds outside had broken at last, the rain was pouring and the blue room save for the firelight would have been in darkness. Betty sat down, putting her feet under her and resting her chin on her hands. "I wonder what it feels like to be useful?" she asked, evidently questioning herself, for afterwards she turned toward her companion. "You must have learned a great many things by being brought up at an orphan asylum, how to care for, other people and all that, but I never would have dreamed that poetry would have played any part in your education." Esther had turned and was about to leave the room, but now at Betty's words, she looked at her strangely. Her face had reddened again and because of the intensity of her feelings her big hands were once more pressed nervously together. "Why, no, I never learned anything at the asylum but work," she answered slowly, "just dull, hateful, routine work; doing the same things over again every day in the same way, cooking and washing dishes and scrubbing. I suppose I was being useful, but there isn't much fun in being useful when nobody cares or seems to be helped by what you do. I know I am ugly and not clever, but I love beautiful people and, beautiful things." Unconsciously her glance traveled from her listener's face to the small piano in the corner of the room. "And it never seemed to me that things, were divided quite fairly in this world, but now that I know about the Camp Fire Girls I am ever so much happier." "Camp Fire Girls?" Betty queried. "Do sit down, child, I don't wish you to leave me, and please don't say horrid things about yourself, for it isn't polite and you never can tell how things are going to turn out. But who are the Camp Fire Girls; what are the Camp Fire Girls; are they Indians or Esquimaux or the fire-maidens in 'The Nibelungen'? Perhaps, after all, something new has been invented for girls, and a little while ago I felt as discouraged as King Solomon and believed there was nothing new and nothing worth while under the sun." Betty's eyes were dancing with fun and anticipation, her bored look had entirely disappeared, but the other girl evidently took her question seriously. She had seated herself in a small desk chair and kept her eyes fixed on the fire. "It seems very queer to me that you don't know about the 'Camp Fire Girls'," she answered slowly, "and it may take me a long time to tell you even the little bit I know, but I think it the most splendid thing that has ever happened." CHAPTER II "METHINKS YOU ARE MY GLASS" Just across the street from the old Ashton place was another house equally old and yet wholly unlike it, for instead of being a stately, well-kept-up mansion with great rooms and broad halls and half an acre of garden about it, this was a cottage of the earliest New England type. It was low and rambling, covering a good deal of ground and yet without any porch and very little yard, because as the village closed about it and Elm Street became a fashionable quarter the land had been gradually sold until now its white picket fence was only a dozen feet from the front door and passers-by could easily have looked inside its parlor windows save for the tall bushes that served as a shield. By immemorial custom the cottage had always been painted white and green, but for a good many years it had not been troubled by any paint at all, "but had lived," as Polly said, "on its past, and like a good many persons in Woodford had gotten considerably run down by the process." Now there were no lights at any of the front windows, although it was eight o'clock in the evening, but as the warm steady glow of a lamp shone from the rear of the house, it was plainly occupied. There was no doubt of this in the mind of the girl who stood knocking noisily at the closed door, saying in an imploring voice: "Oh, do please hurry, Polly dear, you know it is only me and that I can't bear to be kept waiting." At this moment a candle was evidently being borne down the hall, for the door opened so quickly afterwards that two girls, one on either side the door, fell into, one another's arms. "Dear me, it's 'The Princess' and she is no more ill than I am, though we were told she couldn't possibly be at school to-day on account of her ill health," the girl on the inside spoke first, recovering her breath. "I suppose royal persons may lie abed and nurse their dispositions, while poor ones have to keep on washing dishes. But come on into the kitchen, Betty, we are in there to-night and I haven't yet finished my chores." She led the way with the candle down the shabby hall until both girls entered the lighted room. There, with a little cry of surprise, Betty ran over and dropped down on her knees by the side of a lounge. The woman on the lounge was not so large as the girl, although her brown hair showed a good deal of gray and her face looked tired and worn. She had been holding a magazine in her hands, but evidently had not been reading, for her eyes had turned from the girl, who stood only a few feet away from her drying some cups and saucers, to the two others who had just come in, without an instant's delay. "I am quite all right, dear," she answered the newcomer, "only the kitchen seemed so warm and cozy after the wet day and I was tired." Betty was too familiar with the lovely, old-fashioned kitchen of her dearest friends even to think about it, but to-night she did look about her for a moment. The room was the largest in the cottage; the walls were of oak so dark a brown from age that they were almost black; there were heavy rafters across the ceiling and swinging from them bunches of dried, sweet-smelling herbs. The windows had broad sills filled with pots of red geraniums and ground ivy, and as they were wide open the odor of the wet, spring earth outside mingled with the aromatic fragrance of the flowers. An old stove was set deep into the farthest wall with a Dutch oven at one side and above it a high, severely plain mantel holding a number of venerable pots and pans of pewter and copper and two tall, copper candlesticks. The candles were lighted, as the room was too large for the single light of the lamp on the table near the lounge. Polly O'Neill had gone straight to her sister and putting both hands on her shoulders had pushed her steadily back inch by inch until she forced her into a large armchair. "Mollie Mavourneen, you know I hate washing dishes like an owl does the day light, but I am not going to let you do my work and to-night you know the agreeable task of cleaning up belongs to me. I asked you to leave things alone when I went to the door and I don't think you play fair." Polly seized a cup with such vehemence that it slipped from her hand and crashed onto the floor, but neither her mother nor Mollie showed the least sign of surprise and only Betty's eyes widened with understanding. Strangers always insisted that there were never twin sisters in the world so exactly alike as Mollie and Polly O'Neill (not that their names had ever been intended to rhyme in this absurd fashion, for they had started quite sensibly, as Mary and Pauline), but to the friends who knew them both well this idea was absurd. It was true they were of the same height and their hair and eyes of the same color, their noses and mouths of somewhat the same shape, but with these superficial likenesses the resemblance ended. Anybody should have been able to see that in each detail Polly was the more intense; her hair was blacker and longer, her eyes bluer, her cheek bones a little higher with brighter color and her chin and delicate nose a trifle longer and more pointed. Of the two girls, however, Mollie was the prettier because her features were more regular and her expression more serene; but once under the spell of her sister, one never thought much of her appearance. Polly had a temperament and she was having an attack of it to-night; the room was fairly electric with it. From some far off Irish ancestor she must have inherited it, for though her father had been an Irishman and had spent forty out of the fifty years of his life in Ireland, he had quite a different disposition and had been as amazed by Polly in her babyhood as the rest of her family. Captain O'Neill had resigned from the English army eighteen years before and crossed the ocean to spend a few years in the neighborhood of the White Mountains on account of his health; he had no more money than most Irish gentlemen, but had charming manners, was extremely handsome and had soon fallen in love and married a girl twenty years younger than himself. Mary Poindexter had been the girl most loved in Woodford, one of its belles and heiresses, but her money had not amounted to much and soon disappeared after her marriage, until now she had only the cottage in which she and her daughters lived and the income earned by her work as private secretary to Mr. Edward Wharton of "The Wharton Granite Co." Captain O'Neill had lived only until his twin daughters were eight years old and since then the girls and their mother had kept up their small home together. "You are dead tired and Polly is cross as two sticks and poor Mollie does not know what to do with you. Would you rather I should go away? I only came to tell you something wonderful," Betty whispered in Mrs. O'Neill's ear. The older woman shook her head. "No, you have come just at the right time. I am not very tired, only my daughters chose to think so and wouldn't let me help with dinner and so, as I am an obedient, well brought-up mother, I am doing as I am told. And Polly is not in a bad humor, at least I hope--" The girl, who had been picking up the bits of broken china from the kitchen floor, now straightened up and for the first time Betty discovered that she must have been crying a short while before. "Oh, yes, I am anything you may like to call me," Polly announced indifferently, "and I am not in the least ashamed to have 'The Princess' know it. If Betty had to stand all the things I have stood to-day, she would be in a far worse humor. She and I are not angels like Mary and Mollie, so I suppose that is the reason why we love one another part of the time and hate one another the rest. I am sure I never pretend not to being dreadfully envious of 'The Princess'." Polly came over and sat down cross-legged on the old rug near her mother and best friend, and though she smiled a little to remove the sting from her words, something in her expression kept Betty from answering at once. In the meantime Mollie joined the group, taking her place at the foot of the lounge. The three girls were nearly the same age and the closest friends, and Betty probably spent nearly as much of her waking time, at the cottage as she did in her own home, for whenever she was lonely or bored, or, tired perhaps of having too much done for her, she had been used to run across the street to play or work with her friends from the time they were children. Mrs. O'Neill had never seemed very much older than her daughters and had always been called "Mary" by the three girls. Now Betty reached over and laid one and lightly on Polly. "Don't say we hate no another just because we quarrel now and then and both have bad tempers. I never hate Polly, do I Mary?" But before Mrs. O'Neill could answer, Polly suddenly faced fiercely about. "I hate you to-night, Betty," she insisted, and then to make her words entirely unlike her actions, slipped one arm around her friend. "Oh, you know that I don't really mean I hate you, I only mean that I am horribly envious and jealous of your having all the money you want and being able to do things without worry, not just things for yourself, but things for other people." And Polly bit her lips and ceased speaking, both because of the note of warning in her mother's face and because the brightness had died away from Betty's. "I wish you would understand, Polly, that just having things does not necessarily make one happy; I often think it must be nicer to be poor and to have to help like you and Mollie do. This afternoon I was feeling quite forlorn myself, as I had a kind of headache and no one came to see me, and then just like magic from out our haunted chamber there appeared well, I can hardly call her a good fairy, she was too homely, but at least a girl who told me of something so delightful that it sounds almost like a fairy tale. I talked of it to father at dinner and then rushed over to tell you, as I thought you might be interested, but perhaps I had better wait--" From the foot of the lounge Mollie O'Neill now interrupted. Utterly unlike either her sister or friend in her disposition, her influence often held them together. "We do want to hear what you have to tell us, Betty, most dreadfully. Just because we happen to be specially worried about something to-night is no reason why Polly should be so mysterious. I vote we tell you what our trouble is and then you tell us your secret." Polly got up from the floor. She was always curiously intense, not deliberately, but perhaps as a part of her inheritance. Now she made a little bow to Betty. "I am sorry I was rude to you, Princess," she said gently, "but tell you the reason for my special tirade against poverty to-night, I will not and Mollie shall not tell either." Without replying Betty turned to pick up her blue cloak which had dropped from her shoulders as she knelt by the lounge. It had a cap attached with a blue silk lining and this she slipped over her head. "It isn't worth while for me to talk of my plan to-night, then," she returned, "for if Polly won't be interested, you and, I could never make a go of it by ourselves, Mollie. Good-night; I promised not to stay very long." Passing by the lounge Mrs. O'Neill reached out, slipping her hand in Betty's and drew her to a place beside her. Usually a girl with the three other girls there was now and then a note in Mrs. O'Neill's voice which they seldom failed to recognize. "Mollie is right, as Betty is almost one of our family, it is only fair to tell her what has put Polly in her present mood. The truth is, dear, the doctor thinks I am not very well and am needing a rest, so I am being made to lie down every evening after my work, by my daughters, and I am sure when warm weather comes I shall be all right again." "You won't," Polly interrupted, "and if that is all you mean to tell Betty, why I shall certainly tell her everything now you have started." Polly went on quickly, with two bright spots of color in her cheeks: "Resting in the evenings is not going to help mother; Dr. Hawkes says she needs months and months of rest and unless she has it she will soon be having a nervous breakdown or something else; that working for nearly eight years in an office supporting herself and two daughters is enough to tire any woman out. Then to-day a wonderful invitation came from my father's relatives, who have never paid the least attention to us before, asking mother to spend the summer with them in Ireland, and--" Betty's hands were clapped eagerly together as she concluded, "So you are going to accept and Polly's blue at the thought of being separated from you, but really I can't see any reason why I should not have been told of this." Instead of replying, Polly frowned and Mrs. O'Neill shook her head, so the explanation fell to Mollie. "No, mother is not going to accept; that is what the trouble is and that is why Polly and I sometimes feel cross with you, Betty, because rich people never seem to be able to understand about poor ones. You do what you like without thinking of the money, and we can't do anything we like without thinking of it. Mother feels she can't afford to go." Looking almost as depressed as her two friends, Betty now turned her back deliberately on both girls to whisper in the older woman's ear. "Oh, Mary, won't you, can't you; you know how happy it would make us." But she knew her answer even before it was given and also understood that Polly's pride would never have agreed to let her mother accept any favor through her. Indeed, never in all the long years of their friendship had Betty ever dared do half the things she longed to do for her two friends, and indeed Mrs. Ashton often said that Betty accepted far more than she was able to return, since she spent so much of her time in Mrs. O'Neill's home. "You are awfully foolish, Mary," Betty argued, "because if you should really get ill--" "That is just what I have been saying, Betty dear, for the past two hours," Polly protested, forgetting the difference between herself and her friend and edging close enough to the lounge to lay her head in, the other girl's lap. "And the worst of it is, Mr. Wharton says mother can have the holiday, he will pay her salary while she is away, and she only won't go because she says she can't leave Mollie and me alone and can't afford to pay any one to look after us. It is so foolish, when we are old enough to be taking care of her! I suppose she wouldn't be afraid to leave Mollie, it is just me! Sometimes it does not seem quite fair to be born a twin, because see how things are put into Mollie divided, all the good got and all the bad into me; so I suppose mother thinks I would set the house on fire or run away and go on the stage as I sometimes threaten, so soon as her back was turned. Oh, Mavourneen darling of the world, the very name of Lake Killarney, where our cousins live, would make you well." But again Polly stopped talking because Betty had seized her by both shoulders, giving her a decided shake. "Say it again to me quickly. Is it just because Mary does not know what to do with you and Mollie that she won't go away?" And both sisters nodded silently. With a cry of what sounded like delight, Betty rose hurriedly to her feet, letting the blue cloak slip away from her for the second time. Then dancing across the kitchen she seized the two tall candlesticks from the mantelpiece and setting them down in the center of the floor afterwards added the third, with which Polly had lighted their way through the hall. Above them she made a mystic sign by flattening the fingers of her right hand against those of her left, while slowly she revolved about them chanting: "Wohelo, Wohelo, Wohelo, in you lies the answer to all our difficulties," to the entire amazement of her small audience. CHAPTER III "WORK, HEALTH AND LOVE" "Much learning hath made her mad," sighed Polly mournfully, Betty being a notoriously poor student. Mollie was staring thoughtfully at their visitor. "That is an Indian folk dance; perhaps Betty is pretending to be Pocahontas," she suggested, with such an evident attempt to explain away her friend's eccentricities that Betty stopped in her dance to laugh, and Polly and Mrs. O'Neill followed suit. "I am not mad and I am not playing at being Pocahontas, but as usual Mollie is nearer right than her sister Polly because there is a good deal about the Indians in what I want to tell you." Betty sat down before the three shining candles and taking a little stick from the pile of wood near by she pointed it at her third candle. "You are to guess what my strange word, 'Wohelo' means. No, it is not an Indian, word, although it sounds like it. Mary, you begin by taking the last syllable first. What is the greatest thing in the world?" Mrs. O'Neill, some minutes before, had risen half way up from her lounge and was leaning her head on her arm, while she watched Betty's curious proceedings. "The greatest thing in the world?" she repeated softly. "Far wiser persons than I found the answer to that question many years ago. The greatest thing in the world is love." Betty nodded. "Now, Polly, you may have the next guess, though you are sure to say the wrong thing. What is the next greatest thing to love?" Polly shrugged her thin shoulders, her face still moody in spite of her recently awakened interest. "Oh, I told you the answer to that question when you first came into this room, Betty Ashton, though none of you chose to believe me. It is plain as a pipe-stem to me that wealth is the next best thing to love and sometimes it is better when you happen to love the wrong thing--or person." "It rhymes with wealth but begins with the letter 'h'," the questioner returned hastily, too much in earnest to waste further time in argument. "Now, Mollie, you have the third turn, remember you are to decide what the first syllable stands for, 'Wo'." For a few seconds the third girl hesitated, her cheeks flushing uncomfortably. Not so quick or clever with her tongue as Polly and Betty she was far more gifted with her fingers. "I am sure I don't know what you mean," she replied. "'Wo' is the beginning of the word 'woman', but you can't mean woman. I know you and Polly think books of plays and novels the greatest things in the world, but I don't and besides I can't find the right word for them. You know what I really like best is just cooking and cleaning up and putting flowers on the table, stupid household things that can't have anything to do with your wonderful word." And Mollie looked so apologetic for her own domestic tastes that her mother took both her hands and held them tight. "For goodness' sake, Mollie dear, even in these days of the advanced female it is still something to be proud of, to have real womanly tastes. Because some women go out into the world is no reason why they should lose their womanly instincts. What we are all working for, both men and women, is really just the making of a home, a big or a little one. I don't know myself what word Betty is searching for, but I do believe these very things that you like best come very close to my own guess. For if love is the greatest thing in the world, the making of a home to shelter it is most important. I have an idea that love would come to a tragic end if, when it returned home to dinner, Polly should meet it in the character of Ophelia, with wild flowers in her hair, offering it rosemary and rue for dinner instead of meat and vegetables." Again the audience laughed because of Polly's well-known devotion to the drama and because if she were left alone to look after the cooking, her mother and Mollie often returned to find her poring over her recitations with the dinner burning on the stove. "If mother is going to preach a sermon with me for a text, Betty's candles will sputter and die out before ever she explains her word," Polly suggested. "Oh, the word is 'work'; Mollie wasn't so far wrong, though work may mean different things to different people. Wohelo means 'Work, Health and Love'," Betty explained quickly, still keeping her eyes on the candle flames. But Polly rising from her place slipped over and took Betty by both shoulders. "Elizabeth Ashton, more commonly known as 'The Princess,' Bettina or Betty, will you kindly explain yourself? No doubt those are three estimable things you are recommending to us, but please tell me how Work, Health and Love are going to solve our present difficulties and help mother get the rest she needs. It seems to me she has given us too much of the first and last of your watchword already and has too little of the middle thing left in consequence." Betty's long lashes swept her cheeks in a tantalizing fashion and her color deepened as, clasping her hands over her knees, she began slowly swaying back and forth, her eyes fastened on Polly. "I am dreadfully long in coming to my point," she confessed, "but it is such fun to keep you guessing and I do so want you to be interested. You see, I suppose you know about the Camp Fire Girls, everybody seems to have heard except me, but now 'That light which has been given to me, I desire to pass undimmed to others.' Will you, won't you, will you, won't you be a Camp Fire Girl?" Her manner, which had been a queer combination of fun and seriousness, now at last appeared entirely grave. "Mollie and Polly," she continued quietly, "You know how often we have talked lately of being dissatisfied, of feeling that here we are growing older and older every day and yet not learning half the things we ought to learn nor having half the fun we ought to have. Of course we read novels all the time, because it is the only way for nice girls to learn about romance or adventure, but we would like really to live the things we think about just the same as boys do. They don't dream and scold about the things they want to do; they go ahead and do them, teaching one another by working things out together. They belong to things and don't just have to have things belong to them' to make them happy like girls do." "Hear, hear!" cried Polly, not exactly seeing what Betty was driving at and desiring to tease her into greater confusion. But as Mrs. O'Neill shook her head encouragingly, Betty would not deign to consider her tormentor. "Oh, it is foolish for me to try to explain all the Camp Fire idea means," she added simply. "I couldn't if I tried, for Esther Clark, the strange girl who has been living at the asylum and has just come to our house, only told me what she knew this afternoon. But I want to find out by living the Camp Fire idea, I want to see what we could get out of forming a Camp Fire Club, the first one here in Woodford. Just take Polly and Mollie and me, for example, Mary dear," she continued coaxingly. "I am longing to know the things Mollie does about cooking and housekeeping and all the rest and I can't learn at home. Think what it means to go messing about in our kitchen with, cook and half a dozen servants laughing at you! Then Mollie really would like to know what Polly and I find so fascinating in books and in prowling about together in the woods and Polly--well, I don't know that she wishes to learn anything from Mollie or me or anybody else who joins our club, but if she doesn't, that is just what she ought to learn." Polly held up both hands. "For goodness sake, Betty, stop talking, I will join your Camp Fire Club and be made an example of at any time, also I will use my noble influence to persuade any girls you wish to join. All the same I don't see what your wretched club has to do with helping us solve our problem about mother, and that is all I care about at present." "Has to do,--why everything," Betty repeated slowly. But before she was able to finish her sentence there was a sudden loud ringing of the front door bell and the three girls jumped to their feet. In another moment Polly had disappeared into the hall, returning with her expression changed again to its original look of gloom. "It's that granite man, mother, Mr. Wharton, with his entire family, son and daughter. I wonder why they can't leave you alone after business hours? I had to ask them in the parlor, since we can't entertain any one in the kitchen except 'The Princess,' but we simply can't join you until we hear what she has to say." Polly sighed as her mother rose without replying and left the room, and Betty did he her best to hide her smiles, for everybody in Woodford believed that Mrs. O'Neill's employer had more than a friendly interest in her, and though Polly constantly railed at their poverty and Mr. Wharton was the richest man in the village, the very sound of his name used often to irritate her. The candles had at last burned down to their sockets and softly Betty blew out the last flickering flames. With a nod of understanding Mollie turned down the lighted lamp and after a fashion of many years the three girls drew three little old fashioned rockers in a semicircle up before the kitchen fire. "My plan is to form our Camp Fire Club of just the right girls and to have just the right guardian and then to spend our whole summer camping in the woods," Betty explained quickly at last. "You see I don't want to go to Europe with mother and father this summer one bit, I am dead tired of hotels and sights. So at dinner to-night I talked over the Camp Fire plan with father and though mother wasn't enthusiastic I could see father didn't think it in the least a bad idea, so I am sure he will give us the camping outfit if I beg very hard and we can all share expenses afterwards. Can't you understand that if Mary lets you spend your summer in camp she can go away and rest and think no more about you and we can have such a wonderful time." In the half darkness Polly danced a shadow dance and then flung her arms about her friend. "Oh, Princess, I might have known you were as clever as 'Sentimental Tommy' and would surely 'find a wa'. I am sure mother will think it a beautiful plan for us. Just to live among the trees and the stars and hear the birds sing, and tell stories about our own camp fire and to sing." "Yes, and to do our own cooking and cleaning and wood gathering and a thousand other practical things," laughed Betty, to stop Polly's rhapsodizing. "But the truly important part of our scheme is to find congenial girls for our club and the right guardian." "There are four of us already," Mollie suggested. Betty appeared surprised. "Just you and Polly and me; what fourth girl do you mean?" As Mollie did not answer at once, a low whistle came from between Polly's closed lips. "Do you mean, Princess, that you do not intend to invite the girl who told you about the Camp Fire Club, Esther Clark? I know her by sight at school." Betty frowned. "Certainly I had not meant to include her; she does not belong to our set. I don't mean to be rude, but she has been raised in an orphan asylum and nobody knows who she is. I suppose she comes of some very common family." "Common families sometimes produce very uncommon characters," Polly returned dryly. "And s-n-o-b spells snob, but not Betty, I hope. I wish you wouldn't think so much about 'family', Princess; I do believe we ought to judge people by what they are themselves and not by what their ancestors have been." With a quick movement Betty half overturned her chair. "Good-night," she said, "we can talk things over to-morrow. I promised not to be too late to-night. It isn't that I really mind having Esther in our club, only we don't know her very well and it seems most important that we should all be congenial." But Betty could not move toward the door because her skirts were held fast. "If you go now I shall cry my eyes out all night," Polly protested in a tone that was almost convincing. "It was horrid of me, darling, to tell you the truth and me Irish and believin' in the blarney stone," she apologized in her Pollyesque fashion. "Please never, never tell me the truth about myself and have anybody in your club you like. Only if you expect to have twelve girls who exactly agree you will have to leave both you and me out to start with." Betty laughed, only half appeased, but Mollie was speaking quietly and because she talked less frequently than the other two girls they usually paused to listen to her. "I think the more unlike we girls are the more fun we will have and the more we will help one another," she suggested. "But, Betty, do you know who has started this Camp Fire idea in Woodford and who knows just what we ought to do?" Betty groaned. "Who else could it be, my dear, but my arch-enemy, the person I like least and who likes me even less in all this village. Ah, is anything ever perfect in this life? Martha McMurtry, the science teacher at the high school, who will certainly cause me to remain in the sophomore class another year unless I learn something more than what H2O means, is the only woman Esther could suggest." The sisters laughed, since Betty's battles with this teacher had kept things lively. "You poor dear, we can't have her for our guardian," Polly insisted sympathetically. "Can you imagine such a prim, scientific old maid ever understanding anything of the beauty and romance of life in the woods? I would like Titania, Queen of the Fairies, to be our only chaperon." Before the other girls could dispute the absurdity of Polly's final suggestion, the kitchen door opened and Mrs. O'Neill returned looking unusually cross. "Why didn't you join me, you wicked children?" she said reproachfully. "Mr. Wharton came to ask me, since I was not going away, to look after his little girl this summer. He has to leave on some business trip and as Frank is to camp in the woods, there was nothing for the poor man to do with Sylvia. I hope you won't mind very much, for I have promised to take care of her." "Sylvia!" The three voices made a dismal chorus. "That stupid, ill-mannered child! I am sorry, dear, but you are not going to look after anything or anybody this summer but yourself. You see you are sailing for Ireland in a few weeks and we are going to live in the woods and be taken care of by our old mother earth and our father, the sun," Polly replied dramatically. "You are talking nonsense, Polly; please don't be tiresome any more to-night," Mrs. O'Neill urged, lying down on the sofa again, as though she were too weary to be up another minute. "I can't discuss the matter with you, but Mr. Wharton has been too kind for me to refuse him this request." Betty found her blue cloak again and softly slipped over to kiss the older woman good-night. "Don't worry, what Polly told you is true, but Sylvia shall be looked after just the same." She slipped away, Polly following to watch her safely across the street as she always did. Outdoors the girls stood silent for a moment looking up at the beauty of the night. The stars were shining and the warmth the day had failed to bring to the earth had been followed by some unseen messenger of the night. "You are going to include that hateful child in your Camp Fire Club after what I said to you, Betty?" Polly whispered. "Oh, if only her name wasn't Sylvia and she didn't have a snub nose and wear goggles I could forgive her. But think how absurd the combination is! Anyhow you are a dear, and it must be because I am Irish that I am always in the wrong." CHAPTER IV "MEG" Thump, thump, thump came the sound of a heavy object rolling slowly step by step down a long stairway and then after an interval of ten seconds a prolonged, ear-piercing roar. Immediately a girl darted out of a room on the second floor of a pretty brick house, colliding with a young man several years older, who came forth at the same time from his own room across the hall. "Great Scott, Meg, what are you doing only half-dressed at this hour of the day?" he demanded with brotherly contempt. "We will discuss my costume or lack of it later," she returned, holding her short flannel dressing sacque together and laughing over her shoulder where one long blond plait hung neatly braided, the rest of her hair falling loose. "Methinks that was Horace Virgil Everett trying to break up the furniture somewhere! Was there ever such an infant born into this suffering world? I simply never turn my back without his getting into fresh trouble." While she was talking she was also running downstairs, followed in a more leisurely manner by her brother. Both of them glanced into the empty library and untidy dining-room as they passed and finally arrived in a dark passageway at the end of the back stairs. A small object lay on the floor with its arms and legs outspread, showing not the slightest inclination to pick itself up, and on Meg's bending over it the wails broke out afresh. "Oh, do shut up, 'Bumps'," Jack Everett said good-naturedly. "You haven't killed yourself and you're much too big for Meg to carry." But the small boy clung desperately to his sister, his fat arms about her neck and his legs about her waist until with difficulty she was able to get him upstairs and into her own room. He was probably about three feet high and almost as broad, between three and four years old, with brown hair that would stand up in a pompadour simply because it was too stiff to lie down, a perfectly insignificant nose, a Cupid's bow of a mouth and two large grave blue eyes, as innocent of mischief as any lamb's. At the present moment, however, his eyes were simply raining tears, as though they had their source in a cloudburst, and over one of them a bump appeared as large as an egg. Indeed, Horace Virgil, named for his Professor father's favorite Latin poets, had been rechristened 'Bumps' by his older brother and was more commonly known by that title. Meg kept glancing at the clock as she dampened her small brother's forehead with witch hazel. "I am afraid I can't go," she said in a disappointed tone, "and I am dreadfully sorry because I promised. But if I leave Horace with the servants now he will howl himself ill. I don't suppose you were going to stay in for a few hours. Oh, of course not!" she concluded, seeing that her older brother was wearing his khaki service uniform and held a big, broad-brimmed hat in his hand. "Heigh-ho, don't I wish I were a boy," she sighed whimsically, turning at last toward her mirror, decorated with college flags, and beginning to braid the second half of her hair. John Everett, frowned and fidgeted. "I am sorry, Meg," he replied after a moment. "I would stay at home, only there is a meeting of my brigade and when a fellow belongs to a thing why he owes it some of his time. I don't see why you have to stay at home so much. Of course it is a good deal for a girl to have to look after, a house and father and the kid and me, but you have two maids and if you only were a better manager. Why you don't seem even to take time to dress like other girls, you are always kind of flying apart with a button off your waist or the braid torn on your skirt, and I do love a spick and span girl. Why don't you look like Betty Ashton, she's always up to the limit?" Margaret Everett coiled her yellow plaits about her head, keeping her back turned to hide the trembling of her lips until she was able to answer cheerfully. "Why yes, I should like to look like 'The Princess' and wear clothes like she does, but in the first place I am not so good looking as Betty, I haven't a maid to see after my clothes and fifty dollars a month to dress on--and I haven't a mother." Jack Everett flushed. He was a splendid looking fellow, big and brown, with light hair of almost the same coppery tones as his sister's, and although but eighteen was nearly six feet tall. It was his last year at the Male High School of which his father was President, and already he had passed with high honors his entrance examinations for Dartmouth College. "Oh, I say, Meg, don't pile it on," he protested. "You are handsome enough all right, and it was only on your own account that I was wishing you could run things better." Meg had evidently given up the idea of her engagement by this time, for she had seated herself in a big chair with her small brother on her lap and was rocking him slowly back and forth, his head resting on her shoulder. "You are right, Jack, I am not offended," she answered. "I know I am a poor manager, but somehow I don't just take to housekeeping and mothering naturally. Men always think girls know such things by instinct. They don't understand that we have to learn them just as boys learn bookkeeping or office work and I have never had any one to teach me." "The late Miss Everett," a new voice called unexpectedly, apparently coming from about midway up the front steps. "Meg, may I come on upstairs, the front door was half open and I knew full well that you would never keep your promise to me unless I came and got you." Meg put down her small burden hastily and John unconsciously stiffened his broad shoulders until his appearance was more than ever military. "Come on up, Betty dear, I am sorry I am such a sight, but the baby has just gotten hurt and I have to give up the club meeting," Meg called back. The next instant Betty Ashton appeared at the open bedroom door, wearing a light woolen motor coat, a blue hat with a red-brown wing in it fitting close over her hair which was tucked up out of sight in a very grown-up fashion. She had a great deal of color and her eyes were bright with desire. "Oh, you can't disappoint me, Meg; I shall never forgive you," she protested, and then came to a sudden stop seeing that John Everett was also in her friend's room. But as he bowed low to her it was impossible for him to have observed her slight blush. "Do take Meg with you by force, Miss Ashton," he urged. (It was always quite thrilling to Betty at fifteen to be called "Miss Ashton," and no other boy of her acquaintance seemed to realize that one could grow out of being addressed as "Betty".) "She spoils the small boy and all the rest of us far too much. 'Bumps' has just taken another tumble." Jack Everett then backed out of the room in soldierly fashion and at the instant of his disappearance Betty tucked her arms about the small Horace, critically surveying his injured eye. "Do hurry and get dressed, Meg, that's a dear. You know we simply can't get on without you this afternoon. I will button you up in a jiffy and we can take this bumptious little person along with us. He will probably escape and fall down somewhere while we are having our meeting, but we can both keep our eyes on him." "He would be too much trouble," Meg demurred, but already she was surveying her only clean shirt waists, a blue and a white one, to see which was in the better state of repair. The blue was faded but whole, so she slipped into it, letting Betty button it up the back, and then with her brother's words still rankling in her mind carefully adjusted her skirt at, the belt. "You are awfully good to let me come this afternoon, Betty, because I told you it would be just impossible for me to spend the summer with you girls as it would be for me to take a trip to the moon. John is going camping and father is to have a summer lecture course in Boston and--" "Oh yes, and you are to stay at home and take care of this house and baby! I don't think it is fair, or that your father or brother in the least realize what you do for them. But see here, dear, if what I thinks is true, as my old nurse used to say, and you come to be a Camp Fire girl this summer, why you will learn an awful lot about keeping house and being first aid to broken babies and everything you need to know. Never mind, don't let's argue about the question now, just come along, for the motor is waiting at the gate. Nearly all the girls I have asked must be at home by this time, but I have to collect two more people, Martha McMurtry--you know how I love her--and yet she carries the information in her brain of the right way to organize a Camp Fire club. Also there is Eleanor Meade; being a genius, you know Eleanor can't be expected to remember anything, should a wave of inspiration happen to flow over her." CHAPTER V THEIR FIRST MEETING The drawing-room at the Ashton homestead ran the whole length of one side of the house and on this particular May afternoon was so filled with sunshine and light that even the old portraits on the walls appeared to change their severe Puritanical expressions and to look down, from out their heavy gold frames, with something almost approaching friendliness, on the strange girl now alone in the room, although nothing in her appearance or manner suggested the birth and breeding partly responsible for their New England pride. The girl was also humbly engaged in placing fresh flowers on the tables and mantel and in rearranging the chairs and ornaments in the room to their best advantage. Finally, after a lingering glance out the front window, she picked up her last vase of flowers, a single branch of apple blossoms in a tall, green jar, and, crossing over to the grand piano so placed it that the sunlight shone full upon it. Then she stood for a moment looking thoughtfully at the open keyboard, which had a small sheet of music spread before it. Esther Clark next sat down at the piano and lightly ran her fingers over the keys so that it could scarcely have been possible for any one farther away than the adjoining hall to have heard her playing. The refrain was simple and repeated itself, yet had dramatic force and lingered in one's memory, the musical call of the watchword for the Camp Fire Girls. Only that morning Betty had asked Esther to try to teach this call to her friends when they came together at her home that afternoon to form their club, and though Esther was painfully shy she felt obliged to do her best. Some few of Betty's friends were known to her through their acquaintance at school, but into not one of their homes had she ever been invited socially. The door of the drawing-room farthest from the piano opened quietly. "Betty," a young man's voice inquired reproachfully, "aren't you even glad enough to see me to say hello? When before did I ever know you so devoted to practicing that you wouldn't stop for any excuse, and yet here I have come all the way home from Portsmouth on your account!" Richard Ashton ceased talking abruptly, for instead of the pretty figure of his sister, Betty, he now beheld rising from the piano stool a tall girl with bright red hair, looking as though she had been frightened speechless. "Great Caesar's ghost, what a homely girl!" was his first thought, but not a change in his expression revealed what was in the young man's mind as he stretched forth his hand. "I am sorry to have interrupted you," he said quickly, "but I am Richard Ashton, Betty's brother." Of course he expected that the strange girl would then answer him, at least tell him who she was or give some explanation of her presence, but instead Esther stood silently looking down at the floor and twisting her hands together in a wholly unnecessary state of embarrassment. Richard Ashton was of medium height, slenderly built, but with broad shoulders, and at this time of life twenty-three years old. His hair and eyes were light brown; he bore no resemblance to Betty and had a curiously serious expression for so young and fortunate a fellow. Although not handsome, Dick had a look of purpose and distinction and always had unconsciously served as the ideal for Betty's girl friends. He was a Princeton graduate, but was now studying medicine in Portsmouth and expected later to continue his studies in Germany. Perhaps it was his own seriousness and settled purpose that had made him assist in spoiling his small sister almost from her babyhood, yet lately seeing Betty's restlessness and discontent he had begun to wonder if he and his father and mother had been as kind to her as they had meant to be. Betty was growing up and it might be she too needed to have something asked of her, that she too wished to give as well as to receive. "I am not your sister's friend (the girl near the piano had finally made up her mind to speak), I am only a kind of companion, to help her with her studying or to do whatever she desires." Dick Ashton laughed, his face immediately losing its look of gravity. "Well, that is no particular reason why you should not be her friend as well, is it? At least I hope Betty won't make the task too hard for you, but as to doing all the things she desires, I am afraid that will keep you pretty busy. I believe I remember now, my mother did write me about asking you to come here to stay; you have lived before--" The young man hesitated. But Esther had now come nearer and really she seemed almost too plain even to serve his pretty sister, Betty, the contrast might be too hard for the homely girl. "You were playing something when I came in, won't you go on," Dick continued hastily, fearing that the strange girl, with her pale eyes fixed on his, might be able to read his inmost thoughts and not desiring to hurt her feelings. However she had started, edging toward the door. "I would much rather not; your sister is to have some friends here this afternoon and wishes me to teach them a few lines of music. I hope your mother won't mind my touching this splendid piano." "What on earth is the girl afraid of? I have no desire to eat her," Richard thought to himself, continuing to observe Esther's frightened expression and nervous manner, but only answering good-naturedly: "Certainly she won't mind. Please use the piano whenever you like, for Betty hates practicing and I don't care much for a man musician, especially a poor one, though I love music." Just for a moment the newcomer's timidity vanished and her smile of pleasure, showing her big, strong mouth with its white teeth, relieved her face of its entire plainness. "I should love it more than anything in the world; would you mind asking your mother if I may? I am afraid to ask her." "But not afraid of asking me?" Richard laughed; he had made his suggestion without any special thought, but the girl might as well be allowed to bang at their piano if she liked. Should she get it out of order why it could soon be straightened out again. And then kindness to persons less fortunate than himself was second nature with Richard Ashton. "Here is the mater coming, I will ask her at once," he returned, and then seeing Esther's unspoken look of entreaty, as he went forward to open the door for his mother, he silently agreed to postpone his request. Mrs. Ashton was a tall, blonde, handsomely dressed woman, who rarely showed affection for anyone save her husband and children and whose leisure time was largely devoted to playing bridge. Neither Betty nor her son looked like her. Richard resembled his father, while Betty must have inherited her appearance from some more remote ancestor. In one comer of the parlor hung an oil painting of one of Mr. Ashton's great-aunts, a young English girl in a white muslin dress and picture hat, whom Betty always insisted she resembled. Mrs. Ashton was frowning anxiously. "Hasn't Betty returned, Dick?" she inquired. "It is an hour since luncheon and her friends may arrive at any moment. The child was not at all well yesterday and, I do wonder if her science teacher can be keeping her in, Miss McMurtry is so inconsiderate. I really don't know what to do about Betty this summer, she is so opposed to going to Europe with us again and wants to form a club or a camp, something perfectly extraordinary, so as to spend her summer in the woods. She almost talked your father into the idea last evening, but I do hope, dear Richard, that you will oppose her. You have such influence with Betty." Dick and his mother were standing together by the window now on the lookout, for the truant. "Don't be such a weakling, mother," the young man replied teasingly. "If you really wish Betty to go to Europe with you and father say so and let that settle the matter, but I am not so sure this new scheme of hers is a bad one. Betty sent me a night telegram at bedtime last night (telephoned it, I suppose, when you thought she was in bed) asking me to come home for the day and help her get her own way. Living out of doors all summer, mother, and learning to look after herself and to rub up against other girls may be the best thing in the world for Betty. I am afraid she has been growing up to be more ornamental than useful." "There is no reason why Betty should be anything but ornamental," Mrs. Ashton argued, although plainly thinking over her son's words. Dick Ashton shook his head. "No, mother, the modern world has no place in it but for useful people nowadays. And somehow it seems to me that even more is going to be asked of women than has been asked of men. They have got to do their own housekeeping and some of the world's too, pretty soon." Before the young fellow finished speaking he and his mother were both smiling and waving their hands toward Mollie and Polly O'Neill, who were at this moment crossing the street with several other girl friends. Before they entered the house, however, Betty's automobile, driven by herself, dashed into sight, containing five other passengers: Margaret Everett and her small brother; Miss McMurtry, the science teacher at the high school; a tall girl with a clever face and a far-away expression in her near-sighted blue eyes; and a fifth girl, an entire stranger both to Mrs. Ashton and Dick and until a short while before an equal stranger to Betty. Almost before the car stopped Betty was out of her seat and ushering her visitors into their big, sweet-smelling drawing-room. There Esther stood close against the wall, trying her best to shrink out of sight even while she reproached herself for her unnecessary awkwardness and fear. Suppose she had had no home and no social training like the greater number of these other girls, yet did she not mean to follow forever the law of the Camp Fire and would it not teach her in time to gain the knowledge necessary to happiness? CHAPTER VI THE LAW OF THE CAMP FIRE "Esther, won't you repeat the Law of the Camp Fire for the girls?" Miss McMurtry asked, fifteen minutes later, when Betty's guests were seated in a close circle about the drawing-room, their faces eager with curiosity. Esther alone sat at some distance from the others, so that Betty was compelled to draw her forward toward the center of their group. How she longed to refuse to recite, for instead of a dozen pairs of eyes fastened upon her she felt there must be at least a hundred! Yet catching an expression of amused sympathy on Dick Ashton's face somehow she felt encouraged to go on. "Esther and I have been studying the plan of the Camp Fire organization for the past two months and it is really very simple," Miss McMurtry continued. "One must just follow certain general rules and then add whatever seems appropriate to give one's special camp originality and character. I had been hoping to form a club in the village this summer, but of course if we can carry out Betty's idea and spend our summer together in the woods, why we will learn in a few months what it might have taken us years to find out in weekly meetings in town." The young woman stopped, turning toward Esther, and the girl then felt obliged to speak. Esther's voice was low, but had that rare quality given to but a few voices of being heard at even a great distance without being raised. "Seek beauty. Give service. Pursue knowledge. Be trustworthy. Hold on to health. Glorify work. Be happy." With each line, feeling the sympathy of her small audience increase, Esther gained courage until at last she was able to finish her verse with fervor and conviction. After her conclusion most of the faces near her were unusually thoughtful until Polly O'Neill, seated next Mrs. Ashton, gave a characteristic laugh followed by a sigh. "My dear children, if we ever learn to live up to that law of the Camp Fire, then shall we be angels and not girls!" she exclaimed. And she might have added more had not an imploring frown from Betty silenced her. Of course some of the girls would understand that Polly rarely meant what she said, but there we're other members of the little company with whom Betty wished to take no risks. Besides, Polly's laugh could sometimes dampen even her own enthusiasm! And had she not placed her friend next her mother in order that she might interest Mrs. Ashton in their plan, for Polly was a great favorite with the older woman and never afraid of using her pretty blarney stone with her. However, except for a laugh no one seemed in the least influenced by Polly's skepticism. "We can at least try to live up to the law," Mollie replied quietly, answering from her chair a few feet away. In a few moments, however, Betty no longer feared the effect of her friend's attitude. Perhaps to some of the girls the idea of a summer camp seemed too beautiful to be possible, yet plainly the ideals of the Camp Fire organization, as Miss McMurtry explained them more fully, had fired their imaginations, filling them with new hopes and enthusiasm. Meg had been listening to what had been said with glowing cheeks, meaning to become a Camp Fire girl even though it was entirely impossible for her to join the summer camp. She was holding her small brother tight in her arms, trying to distract his attention with objects to be seen out the front window, and so entirely oblivious of the fact that the hastily adjusted hairpins had been slipping out of her hair, until one yellow braid now dangled over her pink ear. Mollie O'Neill's cheeks were also flushed, but she sat perfectly still, keeping her hands clasped tight together in a fashion she had when desiring a thing greatly and not feeling sure she would receive it. Eleanor Meade had even forgiven Betty for dragging her away from her unfinished painting of the May, sky (a painting which Meg and Betty had assured her resembled soap suds), so enthralled had she become with the summer plan. If her parents could be persuaded to allow her to stay in camp with the girls during the summer, why then surely she need not be bothered with having to take exercise and help with the housework, as her mother insisted, she could simply give up all her time to her drawing and painting. You see Eleanor, like a good many other girls, did not at once grasp the meaning of the Camp Fire idea. Apparently only one person in Mrs. Ashton's drawing-room up to this time seemed to have gotten nothing at all out of Miss McMurtry's explanations and the girls' discussion of a Camp Fire club. But then how could she, for Sylvia Wharton apparently had not listened and certainly had never taken her eyes from Polly's face? She appeared a stupid child, short and stout and, although fourteen, hardly seemed more than twelve. Her clothes were expensive but always inappropriate, indeed they were far too handsome for such a plain little girl. However, they were in accord with her father's taste, and although Mr. Wharton was now a wealthy man, he had begun life as a stone-cutter and could hardly be expected to know much about the proper way to dress a small, motherless daughter. Several times in the past half hour Polly had almost yielded to the inclination to implore Sylvia to take her eyes off her, for the little girl did not look sensitive and her eyes were so large and expressionless they made one uncomfortable, but then Polly forbore, until, as her own interest in their meeting proceeded, she forgot all about her inquisitor. It must have been about five o'clock when Betty at last arose and holding a curiously wrought silver ring, a bracelet and a pin in her hand, started to walk slowly about among the circle of her guests. "If you wish to join our Camp Fire club this afternoon," she invited coaxingly, "you are simply to repeat the lines Esther has just recited for us. Then Miss McMurtry says you may each receive a woodgatherers' ring. Afterwards, when we have acquired sufficient honors in the seven crafts, 'Health Craft, Home Craft, Nature Lore, Camp Craft, Business and Patriotism'," (Betty repeated the list slowly as though not quite certain of herself), "why then we may attain next to the rank of Fire-Makers and wear their bracelets. The highest honor of all, which I for one shall probably never attain, is to become a Torch Bearer and receive the Torch Bearer's pin. It is all right for me to give the girls the rings, isn't it, Miss McMurtry, after they have repeated the law to you?" Betty asked, "since you have been appointed official guardian by the headquarters in New York? Later on I suppose the girls will tell us when they will wish to come into camp." Miss McMurtry laughed. Never until this afternoon had she had any liking for Betty Ashton. They were such utterly different types of woman and girl! Yet, now Betty's habit of expecting to have her own way, which her teacher so disliked, was assuredly making their Camp Fire plans go ahead with a rush. "Yes, I am a properly appointed guardian," Miss McMurtry answered slowly, "and Esther and I have been studying the Camp Fire program until she is almost ready to become a Fire-Maker, but I wonder if, you girls wish me to be your guardian in camp this summer? Perhaps I am not suited to it!" She turned to look at Betty, but failing to catch her eye, looked toward Polly. For the same reason both girls kept their heads bowed, until Betty was finally able to reply with as much enthusiasm as she could muster: "Oh, of course we wish you, and we shall try to give as little trouble as possible." Really in her present enthusiasm Betty believed that she and her science teacher would be able to put away all past differences and live in perfect accord under the influence of their new ideals. Miss McMurtry now turned again to Esther; there were special reasons for her unusual interest in this girl, although even Esther herself was unaware of them. "You are wearing your bead chains, aren't you?" the new guardian asked, slipping two narrow strips of leather, one strung with orange and the other with bright red beads, from about Esther's throat. "You see each one of these beads represents some honor a girl has attained in the Camp Fire," she explained, "so the girl who finally arrives at the rank of Torch Bearer, really an assistant to the guardian, may own seven different chains of bead, one color for each of the seven crafts." "My honors so far have been won in health and home craft because of what I was taught at the orphan asylum," Esther added frankly and then blushed uncomfortably, for several of Betty's friends were staring at her curiously. What had inspired Mrs. Ashton and Betty, supposed to be the most exclusive persons in Woodford, to introduce this unknown girl into their home as though she were a member of their family? Moreover, Betty must have suffered another change of heart for she was now engaged in almost forcing a Wood-Gatherer's ring upon the stranger whom she had lately brought home in the automobile with her. Mrs. Ashton lifted her lorgnettes to gaze at the visitor. "Tell me, Polly dear," she whispered, "who is that girl with whom Betty is now talking? She is not one of her school friends and yet I feel I have seen her somewhere before, though I am not able to place her." Polly smiled, shaking her head. "You have seen her, I know I have many times, although she is not a friend or even an acquaintance of mine. But I don't know what has happened to 'The Princess', so I would rather you would put your question to her after we go away." Mrs. Ashton kept hold of Polly's hand. Two maids had just come into the drawing-room at this moment and were passing plates of cake and cups of hot chocolate about among the guests. The greater number of the girls were crowding around Miss McMurtry and Betty, so only Dick Ashton happened to notice that no one, not even a maid, had come near Esther. Securing chocolate and cake for her himself, he sat down next her, talking but asking no questions, since he feared to embarrass her as he had earlier in the afternoon. "Do you think, Polly, that this is really a good plan of Betty's?" Mrs. Ashton inquired thoughtfully. "She has seemed so restless and dissatisfied lately. Of course I don't understand all this Camp Fire idea seems to mean to her, I suppose I would have to be a girl again to understand thoroughly, but there may be possibilities in it. Even a conventional society woman longs sometimes to get away from her monotonous life, and surely you will find romance and adventure awaiting you in the woods. I have decided I shall not stand in Betty's way, I shall go away this summer and leave you girls to work things out together, then when I return I may be able to discover what miracles have been wrought in you." "Oh, you will find us entirely reformed," Polly answered carelessly, not realizing that she of all the girls in the room would be the one to bear the ordeal of fire, the symbol that cleanses and purifies. But both the girl and woman suddenly became silent, for Dick Ashton had persuaded Esther Clark to the piano and now the entire group of guests closed in about her. Once again she was singing the morning and evening hymn of the Camp Fire Girls' "My Soul's Desire." Mrs. Ashton sat listening intently with an odd expression of something almost like relief crossing her face. "Polly dear," she whispered unexpectedly at the close of Esther's song, "perhaps life does even things up more justly than we know, for this strange girl, Esther Clark, has a truly remarkable voice." CHAPTER VII WHITE CLOUDS "White clouds, whose shadows haunt the deep, Light mists, whose soft embraces keep The sunshine on the bills asleep." The sun was just rising above the crests of a group of the White Mountains called long ago by the indians "Waumbek" because of their snowy foreheads. But this morning, instead of shining like crystal, the snow at their summits was opal tinted rose, yellow and violet from the early rays of the June sun. Sunrise Hill, standing in the foreground, seemed to catch an even stronger reflection from the sky, for the colors drained down its sides until they emptied into a small, wooded lake at its base. On either side this hill the sloping lands were a soft green and the meadows beyond golden with the new summer grain, but only fifty yards away a grove of pine trees made a deep mass of shade, and with the birds in their branches singing their daily matins, suggested an old cathedral choir. The singers were evidently indifferent to intruders, for, close by, four white tents were pitched in a square as though a caravan had halted on its travels. But the caravaneers must have been in the place for some days and showed no intention of moving on, for their arrangements had been made with the idea of permanent comfort. Around each tent a narrow trench several inches deep had been dug to prevent flooding in case of rain, farther off two large bins held all rubbish until such time as it could be conveniently burned. The camp ground was also beautifully clean, not a scrap of paper nor a tin can could be seen anywhere, and even the grass itself had been swept with a novel, but at the same time, a very old-fashioned broom, for a stake tightly bound with a few sprigs of birch rested against one of the tents, plainly--from the evidences about it--the kitchen tent. At a safe distance a camp fire was smoldering, a fire built according to the best scout methods. Two stout stakes driven slantwise in the ground with three logs cut the same length, one on top the other, resting against these stakes. On either side this elevation two logs lay on the ground like fire logs, with a third crossing them in front, and inside this enclosure a bed of ashes still glowed, carefully covered over for the night. On the lake two birch bark canoes were moored to willow stakes, and hanging on a line stretching from a tree to a pole a number of girls' bathing suits flapped and danced in the air, but no human being was yet in sight. Suddenly there came a ripple of music from one of the pine trees, "Whee-you, whee-you," a small bird with a spotted breast and a cream-buff coat sang to itself and then began a whistling, ringing monotone that for a moment silenced the other bird chorus. A girl in a dark red dressing gown quietly opened a tent flap. "There, the morning has come at last, for that is the voice of 'Oopehanka', the thrush. So after a week in the woods I really am beginning to recognize some of the birds and the Indian names for them." She clapped her hands softly together. "Oh, Princess, do wake up and let us have a swim before any one else wakens," she whispered imploringly. Then disappearing inside her tent, she knelt by a bed of hemlock branches covered with soft blue blankets. "Princess," she whispered again. A sleepy voice answered. "Polly child, please go back to bed, it must be the middle of the night and I ache all over from carrying water and digging trenches. Who could have supposed camping would be such a lot of work!" "Or such a lot of joy!" Polly laughed. "Ah, Betty, I thought you were yearning to be useful; think of the honor beads you mean to earn! But come now and be useful to me; do let us have a swim together." Betty was never proof against her friend's pleading. "All right," she agreed, searching about near her bed for her sandals while Polly wrapped a light woolen gown about her, "I don't know whether Miss McMurtry will like our going off by ourselves, but I don't remember her having said we should not, though Camp Fire life does mean doing things together." The two girls had been talking in the lowest possible tones and were now tiptoeing softly out of their tent, when another voice from another bed interrupted them. "Betty and Polly, you are sneaks!" Mollie O'Neill exclaimed indignantly. "Just because I can't swim as well as you do and Esther can't swim at all, you are going off without us. You are fine Camp Fire girls; please bring our bathing suits here, too." Both girls nodded and laughed in rather an abashed fashion. But at a safe distance away Betty turned to Polly. "Won't you confess, please, that it is rather a nuisance having Esther Clark in the tent with us? I don't see why Martha McMurtry insisted upon it when we might have had Meg or most anybody else." Polly looked unusually grave. "You don't care for Esther, do you?" she questioned. "It is curious, because though you haven't been particularly nice to her, she is devoted to you and I believe would do anything in the world for you." Ten minutes later the four girls in their Camp Fire bathing suits were in the waters of the lake near their camp, Polly and Betty swimming with long even strokes toward its center, Mollie hovering near the shore, while Esther stood shivering in a foot of water trying vainly to warm herself by splashing and throwing handfuls of water on her chest and face. Half a mile out Betty turned over on her side. "Say the Law of the Camp Fire to yourself, Polly. I have just said it and I am going back toward shore. I suppose if one makes a vow to 'give service' it is little enough to show another girl how to swim. If Esther didn't look so big and wasn't so horribly shy, I am sure I should like her better, but here goes!" It wasn't easy work teaching Esther to swim, for she was so much larger than Betty and had such an absurd fashion of keeping both feet down and splashing the water into her own and her teacher's face. Polly laughed softly to herself as she swam slowly forward to offer her assistance. She was wondering if a single week in camp had really begun to reform her spoiled Betty and if it had, had any change also been wrought in her? She was to find out in a very few minutes. One Camp Fire law, that there was no escaping, was that the girls were not to spend but fifteen minutes in bathing. Really it hardly seemed like half that time before the four girls were once again on land getting into their bathing gowns which had been left hanging on a willow tree nearby. They were to dress later on in their tent, so they were hardly on shore more than a few moments, but even in that short space of time a noise a few yards away startled them. The four girls turned indignantly. In the entire week of their stay in camp they had not been disturbed by a single intruder. Sunrise Hill, with its tall pines--the emblem of the Camp Fire--its wooded lake for fishing, bathing and canoeing, and its utter seclusion, had seemed, after several weeks of careful search in the neighborhood about Woodford, the ideal place for the girls' summer camp. So far not even a friend, man or woman, had been allowed to visit them, because the camp was to be in running order before they received any outside criticism. Now a young fellow of perhaps sixteen stood only a short distance off from the lake with an expression of superior amusement on his face. He was a country boy, for he wore no hat and his hair was burnt to a light straw color at the ends, his skin was almost bronze. "Please go away," Polly demanded haughtily. She had gathered her bathing gown about her as though it were a Roman matron's robe and was feeling that her presence must be impressive although her hair was extremely wet and drops of water were trickling down her face. However, the intruder paid not the least attention to her request, except to laugh as though her indignation gave him special pleasure. He was carrying a large tin pail on one arm and a basket on the other and of course his behavior was hardly that of a gentleman. Anger for the moment kept Polly speechless, but a chorus of protests arose from Betty, Mollie and Esther. "We are camping here and we would rather not have visitors, so would you mind going back the way you have come?" Betty requested in her most Princess-like fashion. "Not until I have seen the sights," the newcomer answered. He did not really look impertinent, only mischievous, and his eyes were as blue as Polly's. "You don't suppose that I have walked a mile before breakfast and carried these heavy things except to find out what on the face of the earth you crazy girls are doing here, trying to pretend you are scouts or Indian squaws. Of all the foolishness!" Perhaps even this short acquaintance with Polly O'Neill has suggested that she had, what is for some reason or other called an Irish temper, though temper does not belong wholly to Irish people. Polly herself did not know when this temper would take possession of her nor where it would lead her. At present the young man continued to walk slowly on toward the white tents, whistling to show his complete indifference, while the four girls could see that their friends were now stirring about in camp evidently getting ready to start breakfast. Without reflecting Polly stooped. There on the ground before her lay a sharp rock, ground and polished by the waters of the lake, and like a shot from a bow she flung this stone whistling through the air at the intruder. Whether she thought her stone would strike the young man or what particular effect her childish bad manners would have if it should, Polly herself did not know. However, she was startled and flushed hotly when, with an exclamation of pain, the boy put down his pail, placing one hand quickly to his head. The four girls had started for their camp, but now Mollie, first flashing a look of surprise and scorn at her usually beloved sister, ran on ahead of the others. "I am so sorry," she said in a gentle, reserved manner peculiar to her, "you were rude not to go away when we asked you, but it is far worse for one of us to have been so childish as to strike you. I am dreadfully ashamed." The young man smiled, not very cheerfully it must be admitted, but at least not looking so angry as he had the right to. "Did you throw the stone?" he inquired. "I never would have believed a girl could throw straight if I hadn't felt the blow, so perhaps you are learning one or two things by living like boys. Never mind, I can see you are not the guilty one." "We are not trying to live in the least like boys, only like sensible girls," Mollie started in to reply quietly, but the last part of her sentence trailed off into a faint whisper, for the young man had just taken his hand down from his head and his fingers were covered with blood, a few drops were even trickling down the back of his neck inside his soft flannel shirt. The other three girls had now come close enough to see the blood also, and except for Betty, Pony would everlastingly have disgraced herself. There are many persons in the world whom the sight of blood fills with a strange shrinking and terror that is almost like faintness, and Polly was one of them. Now she wanted to run away, she even turned to fly, when her friend caught hold of her. "Don't be utterly stupid, Polly, you have done a foolish trick and you've got to face the music, for if you don't, you know Mollie is apt to take the blame upon herself." Polly's knees were shaking and her thin expressive face so pale that she looked quite unlike herself. However, she managed to save a part of her dignity by saying with an attempt at a smile, as she stopped alongside Mollie and the young fellow, "I am sorry, I cannot tell a lie, I did it with my little hatchet, so please feel all the anger against me. I do hope I haven't hurt you very much." The young man now stared at Polly and then at Mollie and afterwards back again from one to the other. He started to whistle but stopped himself in time. "Gee, but you are alike--with a difference," he returned, neither accepting nor refusing to accept Polly's half-hearted apology. Hardly knowing why, except that the back of his neck was apparently covered with perspiration when there was no heat to explain it, the boy again put up his hand to his head. This time it was impossible to ignore the amount of blood that covered his hand nor the horrified faces of his small audience. "I expect I can't go up to your camp, after all, when I am in such a fix, so you've come kind of close to getting your own way. I guess you, usually do!" he said, frowning up at Polly. "I wonder if it is too much to ask you girls to carry these things up to your tents; the pail has your morning's milk and is pretty heavy; the basket is only filled with strawberries. My father is the farmer who owns the land about here and I thought it would be a lark to find out what you campers were trying to do. Didn't mean anything serious but I guess you'll have to come for your own supplies after this as there ain't no one but me to bring 'em." He spoke rather churlishly, but then he did have cause. "Hadn't you better wash your cut at the lake or come on up to the tent and let us do something there for you," Betty proposed, not knowing exactly what they should do in the present situation and yet feeling that something ought to be done. "I am afraid walking home in the sun with your head in that condition may make you ill." The young man shook his head and then winced. "It ain't anything," he replied, beginning to back away, but at the same moment Mollie O'Neill took firm hold on his sleeve. "Come down to the water," she demanded quietly, "you are cut pretty badly, but I think I can stop the bleeding. I suppose the other girls will laugh at me, but ever since I have been in camp I have been carrying some gauze bandage about in my pocket and finding out what to do in case of accidents. I won't hurt you." The young fellow had intended utterly to decline Mollie's kindly offer, but now her suggestion of not hurting amused him, besides he was sensible enough to know she was right. It was embarrassing, however, to have three other girls looking on during the operation, so whatever anguish Mollie caused him he felt prepared to endure in silence. In a very business-like fashion the young girl drew her roll of surgeon's lint from an inside pocket of her bathing gown and a small pair of scissors. Then she made her patient sit down on the ground by the water's edge while she carefully examined his cut. "I ought to help, Mollie," her sister suggested faintly, but Mollie shook her head and the young man appeared grateful. "I don't mind blood and you do, Polly," she returned, "besides if anybody is to help I would rather have Esther. I am afraid, if you don't mind, I have got to cut your hair away, it is already so matted with blood." To almost any suggestion the patient would have agreed, since he had but one desire now, and that to get away from the strange girls about whom he had been so curious an hour before. Mollie cheerfully snipped away several locks of his hair covering a space about as large as a dollar. The cut she discovered was deeper than she had expected and, as it was still bleeding profusely, she next called Esther for advice. Very carefully then the two girls washed out the cut with clean water and then Mollie, finding a flat stone, made a pad by wrapping it a number of times with gauze. This she placed over the wound, binding the young man's head, Esther assisting in making the bandage as tight as he could endure. All this time Polly, with Betty's hand firmly clutching hers, had stood quietly looking on at the scene. She was feeling penitent and ashamed, and yet her Irish sense of humor made her a little bit amused as well. Mollie was so entirely unconscious, but she did seem to be intensely enjoying her first opportunity to prove herself a worthy Camp Fire Girl. Perhaps the young man vaguely felt Polly's amusement, although he did not look at her and certainly did not give her the satisfaction of knowing whether or not she had been forgiven. But he managed to thank Mollie and Esther more politely for what they had done for him, than his boorish manners earlier in the morning suggested, and even insisted on going on up to the camp with them in order to carry the heavy pail. Several others of the Camp Fire girls, were by this time engaged in getting break fast and although they could hardly help showing surprise at the unexpected appearance of a wounded hero no questions were then asked. Miss McMurtry did not seem annoyed at seeing the young man, indeed it turned out that she and several of the girls had walked over to Mr. Webster's farm the day before to ask as a special favor that milk be sent their camp each day. If she felt any displeasure, Betty and Polly were sure it was directed toward them, for the first week of Camp Fire life had not been altogether smooth and there were still adjustments to be made between some of the girls and their guardian. CHAPTER VIII OTHER GIRLS Besides the four girls who have just returned from the lake there were six others in the camp at Sunrise Hill, their guardian, Miss McMurtry and one small imp or angel, according to one's way of looking at things. For Margaret Everett had joined the summer campers and, in order to accomplish it, had brought her small brother, Horace Virgil Everett, along with her. You see, the girls felt they simply must have Meg, so after a great deal of discussion it was decided that Horace Virgil would be an excellent person to practice mother craft upon and would certainly bring into service whatever first aid information might be required. Meg was so gay, so sweet tempered and so utterly inconsequential. If things were going well in camp, if the sun was shining and everybody was feeling amiable then she was entirely happy, but if things were going wrong, then it was that Meg counted, for she kept her temper through almost any kind of stress. She did not have so many moods as Polly, she was not so quiet and reserved as Mollie, nor did she expect the world to move according to her desires, as Betty Ashton did. Meg's faults were that she was not a good manager and did try to do too many things at once and so did none of them well, but she had not had an easy time since her mother died two years ago. Although her father and older brother adored her, they were selfish in unconscious masculine ways, President Everett in devoting too much time to his school and John to his studies and amusements. Unfortunately neither of them realized that Meg might now and then grow weary of having a small brother, capable of originating new kind of mischief at least once an hour, everlastingly tagging after her. But Meg's cares (if she ever called them by that name) had for the present been entirely lifted from her, for she had ten other people now to help, her take care of "Bumps," whom the girls had rechristened "Hai-yi" or "Little Brother," and if Meg had been asked to vote upon the happiest week of her life since her mother's death she would instantly have voted her first week in camp with her own club of Camp Fire Girls. Then there was Sylvia Wharton! Did Sylvia really enjoy the change in her life from staying cooped up in a great house, looked after by servants and alone a great part of the time when her father was away? Her brother Frank, who was several years older, seldom paid the least attention to her. If the little girl did enjoy the woods and the companionship of the other girls and all the opportunities that the camp fire life offered her, so far she showed not the slightest sign. Her one pleasure must have been her chance to haunt Polly O'Neill, for although she did not seem particularly happy when she was with Polly, certainly she never left her side unless she were compelled to do her share of the camp work and only then when Polly insisted upon it. Already Miss McMurtry felt that Sylvia might become difficult, but then the child had had no training, and besides Miss McMurtry shared the belief of almost all other persons that Sylvia was simply stupid. Curiously enough Eleanor Meade now appeared to have been invited into the first Woodford Camp Fire circle under a false impression. You see, the girls at the high school where Eleanor was also a student considered her a genius, and it is agreeable for a community to have one genius in its midst. Eleanor did have talent for drawing, and besides she had a number of characteristics which many persons associate with genius. She was entirely careless of her other responsibilities, and, if she happened to wish to paint, considered it entirely unreasonable that anything or anybody should interfere with her desire. She was often in the habit of forgetting engagements and at times there was a faraway expression in her eyes, which may have come from having neglected to wear her glasses, but which her friends believed due to the thrall of some wonderful creative idea which might be presented to the world some day in the form of a great picture. And Eleanor, being but human and seventeen, had done her best to foster this belief. She would not dress in modern fashions like the other girls; her parents had little money, but Eleanor's mother was a clever needlewoman and her eldest daughter always appeared in gowns made after exactly the same pattern and of some soft clinging material, whether cashmere or cheesecloth, they were always short waisted with a folded girdle and deep hem and cut low in the neck. Then Eleanor's hair, which was heavy and straight and a kind of ashen brown, was always worn parted in the middle and fixed in a great loose knot at the back of her neck. Eleanor was not pretty like Betty and Meg and Mollie and, at times, Polly O'Neill, but she would have scorned to have been thought pretty--interesting was the adjective she preferred. However, since Eleanor's appearance in camp for almost a week she had forgotten to be a genius. For one thing the girls were all wearing the regulation Camp Fire uniform, a loose blouse and dark blue serge skirt, and so she could not dress the part. Then, although the Camp Fire official log book had been given her to illustrate she had not even started to paint the totem of the Sunrise Camp on its brown leather cover, although Sunrise Hill stood, always before her in its changing beauty. The girls had taken its name for their camp with the thought that the hill might symbolize their own efforts to look upward always to the highest and most beautiful things. But Eleanor should hardly be blamed for not having done much painting so far, there, had been such a lot of other work to do, in helping to put things in order in camp, and besides she had developed the most surprising talent for making an Irish stew, that was the envy and delight of all the other girls. Eleanor said it was because she had a soul above science and used her imagination in her stew, but whatever the reason, since the first day when the cooking of dinner fell to her, this stew had been one of the greatest successes in camp and Eleanor received her first honor bead for her genius in cooking instead of in art. Besides these seven girls already described, there was an eighth girl in the Sunrise camp, the stranger whom Betty had brought home with her on the day their club had first been discussed--the girl whose face was so familiar to Mrs. Ashton but whose name was unknown. There had been a question as to whether or not this particular girl could come to summer camp, not because the other girls were unwilling to have her, but because she worked in a milliner's shop in Woodford and had to go back and forth to be at work every day. Quite by accident on the eventful afternoon Betty had stooped by this shop in her journey to Meg's to ask about her new spring hat, and being so full of her plan had poured it into Edith Norton's ear, while the little milliner was trying on her hat. Naturally Edith thought it a wonderful plan, so Betty, with one of her sudden impulses, immediately insisted that the young milliner come home with her to become a member of their new Camp Fire club. This seemed at the time a perfectly impossible dream to Edith, who was a poor girl with her own living to make, but then she did not understand Betty's ability to make things happen. Every obstacle had been smoothed away, Edith was now riding Betty's bicycle back and forth from camp to town every day and, already the headaches, which had first wakened Betty's sympathy, because of the pallor of her face and the dark circles under her eyes, had begun to grow better from the daily fresh air and exercise. Of the Camp Fire Girls Edith was the oldest; she was about eighteen and had blonde hair and delicate features, with brown eyes. She might have been pretty, but that she needed to grow stronger in body and character, and already the girls and their guardian had discovered that Edith was too fond of tea and coffee and sweets and modern novels for her own health or happiness. The trouble was that her home was too filled with small brothers and sisters and a father and mother too poor to make them comfortable, so that the eldest daughter had been forced to find her own pleasures. The last two members of the Sunrise Hill camp were unknown to the other girls until a few days before. They were two sisters, daughters of a favorite doctor, cousin of Miss McMurtry's, who had been pupils in a fashionable boarding school in Philadelphia. They were not alike, either in appearance or character, for the older one of them thought too much about clothes and wealth and position, and so immediately fell to admiring and imitating Betty, while the other was an impossible tomboy, more like a feminine Puck, the very incarnation of mischief, whose one idea of happiness seemed to lie in playing pranks. Juliet Field, the older girl, had light brown hair and eyes, was rather pretty and had a plump girlish figure, round fat cheeks with a good deal of color and a piquant, turned-up nose, while Beatrice, whom everybody called "Bee," wore her curly dark hair cut short, had a melancholy brown face entirely unlike her character and was as slender and small and quick in her movements as a tiny wren. The two sisters and Sylvia Wharton slept in the tent with Miss McMurtry, while the third tent sheltered Eleanor, Edith, Meg and, of course, "little brother". When Miss McMurtry had wakened to discover that four of the Camp Fire girls had gone in swimming without the others, she had not been pleased, more because she felt that Betty and Polly were too much inclined to be leaders among the girls and to disregard her advice. They had not yet openly disobeyed her, so of course she had been unable to say anything to them, but now she made up her mind to hang in each tent the rules for each day's camp routine so that there could be no more uncertainty. Miss McMurtry had merely been waiting to decide what rules were wisest before making her schedule. As soon as their first masculine visitor departed Eleanor, Meg and Juliet announced breakfast. At a comfortable distance from the kitchen fire a large white cloth had been spread on the grass and in the center stood the great basket of fresh strawberries just brought over by the young man to whom Polly had given such an uncomfortable reception. A big coffee pot and two jugs of milk stood at opposite ends of the cloth besides toast and a dozen boiled eggs in a chafing dish, while from the nearby fire came the most delicious food odor in the world: bacon fried before open coals. Nevertheless the girls did not sit down to breakfast at once although they were dreadfully hungry. Already they had established certain Camp Fire customs, and one was their morning habit of reciting some verse of thanksgiving in unison before beginning the real living of their day. The hymn, which first introduced Betty to Esther was always sung at the close of each day, but this morning verse had always to be original and one girl at a time was allowed to make the selection. To-day it had fallen to Polly's lot and she had taught it to the other girls over their camp fire the night before. So now the ten girls with their guardian in the center stood in a semicircle facing Sunrise Hill. The sun had fully risen and the earth, as the Indians used to say, had "become white." Led by Polly they slowly recited this ancient chant: "Shine on our gardens and fields, Shine on our working and weaving; Shine on the whole race of man, Believing and unbelieving; Shine on us now through the night, Shine on us now in Thy might, The flame of our holy love And the song of our worship receiving." And when they had finished, Polly O'Neill, with a note of reverence in her voice that gave it an unconscious dramatic quality she would have vainly tried to have at any other time, added: "We Camp Fire girls worship not the fire but Him of whom in ages past it was the chosen symbol because it was the purest of all created things." And then without further ceremony there was a sudden rush for breakfast. CHAPTER IX THE GUARDIAN Miss Martha McMurtry was an odd guardian for a Camp Fire club which owed its existence to Betty Ashton's enthusiasm, for two more different persons cannot well be imagined. Of course the girls in the club were of many kinds and characters and it would have been almost impossible for any guardian to have been congenial with all of them, but it was unfortunate that the head of the Sunrise Camp and the two girls who were its leading spirits had at the beginning of the summer so little in common. For there was no question but that Betty and Polly were leaders, one week in camp had been more than sufficient to prove this. Betty's influence was of course easy to understand, for she was uncommonly pretty and wealthy, and though spoiled and wayward, given to sudden generous impulses and affections which made her friends willing to overlook her faults. With Polly, O'Neill the case was different, she had no money and was not particularly good looking, it was simply that the intensity of her emotions would always, whether as a woman or child, make her a force for good or evil. When Polly was happy persons about her found it almost impossible not to share in her mood, she had such a delicious sense of humor and was so full of clever jokes and delicate, unconscious flatterings. Then when an ugly mood descended upon her, and, as Polly in Irish fashion used to say, "a witch rode on her shoulders," it was almost equally impossible to ignore her foolishly tragic points of view. There is an old name for Ireland, Innis Fodhla, which means the Island of Destiny, and though Polly had been born in a little New England village, nevertheless, in her blood there was a strain of those inheritances which have made the Irish nation so unlike all others. While Betty and Polly were friends there was apt to be peace among all the girls in camp, but if they should disagree? Ah well, they had never really had any serious differences of opinion in their lives which Mollie, after the passing of a day or two, had not been able to smooth over. And they both had every intention of making themselves as agreeable as possible to their guardian. Of course from the beginning of things it had been perfectly apparent that Betty would never voluntarily have chosen Miss McMurtry for their camp guardian, but finding that her science teacher was the only woman in Woodford who knew about the Camp Fire movement and was able to spend the summer with them, she had accepted the situation with as good a grace as possible. Miss Martha McMurtry was not an attractive woman when she first came into the Sunrise Camp. Names have an odd fashion of describing the persons who own them and Miss McMurtry's exactly described her. Have you not a mental picture of a tall, learned young woman, with straight black hair, which she wore pulled back very tight, forming an unattractive knot at the back of her head? Of course she also wore glasses, having spent all her life inside of books until her pupils were convinced that she knew everything in the world. She did know a great deal and because of her knowledge was a splendid Camp Fire guardian, but there were a few things about human nature which her girls were to teach her in exchange for her science. Her information covered a number of fields, for while she taught botany and chemistry at the Girls' High School, she had also taken a two years' course in domestic science before beginning her teaching. Miss McMurtry was only twenty-six, had no family and lived all alone in a small house in Woodford. However, she appeared much older, and one of the questions her pupils were never able to answer was whether she had ever had a man call on her in her life. About her early history there was very little known, as she did not care to talk about herself and no one asked about her past. About five o'clock on the next afternoon Miss McMurtry and Esther Clark were seated not far from a small fire which they had lately built near their pine grove. The day was not cold, but New Hampshire is seldom very warm in June and, besides, no one in camp ever tried to resist the opportunity for having a fire when most of their pleasure in being in camp centered around it. Back and forth from the pine grove to his friends Hai-ya, Little Brother, traveled. He was cheerfully engaged in bringing pine cones to Miss McMurtry, and piling them into a small mound, later to be thrown on the fire. On the ground between the woman and girl were some odd pieces of khaki galatea, bits of leather fringe, shells and beads, and Esther was busily sewing. Miss McMurtry was writing: several times she had torn up what she had written, throwing the waste paper into the fire, but finally she handed a sheet to Esther in a hesitating way. "See what you think of this, Esther?" she asked. "You see the Camp Guardians are advised to follow certain rules and regulations in camp life and I have been trying to decide what would best suit us. Please tell me what you think?" Esther looked the paper over thoughtfully, and then began reading it aloud. 6:30 A.M. Arise, wash, either bathing in lake or tent, then air bedding thoroughly. Hoist American flag, salute it. Three girls prepare breakfast. 7:30 A.M. Recite in unison morning verse, eat breakfast, make up own bed and clean tent, also do whatever share of work is apportioned for the day. 10 to 12 A.M. Devote to practice in one of the seven Camp Fire crafts for obtaining honors. 12 to 1 P.M. Three girls prepare dinner. 1 to 2 P.M. Dinner served. 2 to 3 P.M. Rest. 3 to 5:30 P.M. Recreation. 5:30 to 6:30 P.M. Three girls prepare tea. 6:30 to 7 P.M. Tea served. 7:00 to 8:30 P.M. Camp Fire, stories, songs, confidences, etc. 8:30 P.M. Milk and crackers, bed. 9 P.M. Lights out. Ester read the schedule over the second time and then nodded her head approvingly. "It's splendid and I am sure the girls will think it can't be improved upon," she answered, adding the latter part of her speech as she handed the paper back, for Miss McMurtry was looking troubled and Ester half guessed the cause. Miss McMurtry said nothing, however, only picking up a piece of Ester's sewing. "What is this you're making, Ester?" she inquired. "I thought you had made your ceremonial Camp Fire dress some time ago!" Ester did not reply at once as she bent more closely over her work, but on being asked the question the second time returned with an attempt at speaking carelessly: "Oh, it's Betty's costume, I hope you won't mind, but she says really she never has had time to do any sewing since our club was formed. So, as we are to have our June Council Fire to-night, I promised to finished it for her. You see this is our most important meeting because that afternoon in town we did not have an opportunity to arrange appropriate ceremonies." Miss McMurtry nodded, "Yes, but I thought it was part of our plan to have each girl make her own dress. Even Sylvia Wharton has done her best to help." Miss McMurtry picked up a portion of the neglected dress, however, and began to assist Esther. "I wonder if it is a good thing for you and Betty to be together," she remarked thoughtfully. "Of course I know Mrs. Aston's intentions were for the best in taking you to live with them at this late date and they will probably be very kind to you, but really there isn't any reason, Esther, why you should take all the cares away from Betty. She seems to be one of the persons in the world for whom nothing is ever made difficult, while you--" Breaking off abruptly she turned to see if her small charge was still busy and then shaded her eyes from the sun. Esther laughed happily. Not so shy and awkward here in the woods with the other girls, she had lately thought little of her own lack of advantages. "You needn't worry about me," she now replied, stopping her work for a moment to look off across the fields for the return of the other Camp Fire Girls. "Already I perfectly adore Betty. Of course she does not care a great deal for me, for there is nothing in me to attract her, but all my life I have wanted some one to love, and sort of take care of and do things for. Of course Betty has so many people she does not need me much now, but some day. Oh well, as she herself says, one never can tell just how things may turn out in this world." "Wohelo, Wohelo, Wohelo!" A far cry from several voices sounded across the fields and a few moments later Betty Ashton, Meg, Eleanor and Juliet Field came into view. Betty was wearing her every day Camp Fire costume with the official hat of blue cloth embroidered with a silver gray "W" on a dark red background and over her shoulder was strapped a smart knapsack. She seemed to dance away from the other girls, although she was not dancing but running. Yet such was her grace and slenderness that somehow she appeared: Like to a lady turning in the dance, Foot before foot from earth so slightly moved, That scarce perceptible her advance. Arriving first she threw herself down on the ground near Esther, tossing off her hat and resting her head on the other girl's lap. "I am nearly dead!" she exclaimed rather irritably. "Two miles walk into town and two miles back is a good deal when one has been doing a thousand things beforehand. Besides, I didn't find a letter from mother or father, and Mollie and Polly have seven from Mrs. O'Neill, one for each day of her trip from New York to Queenstown. Of course it does take longer for a ship to land in Naples, so I am silly to be disappointed, yet I am just the same! Besides, Polly was dreadfully obstinate and would insist on coming back to camp by another route, said it was shorter and much more adventurous than the open road. So we parted, and Mollie and Sylvia and Bee axe returning with her. She may be having more adventures than we did, but the way is not shorter, for we appear to have arrived first." Opening her knapsack Betty then handed two letters to Miss McMurtry and gave a little rolled package to Esther. "Here is something for you from Dick; he doesn't seem to have written me either." Esther unwrapped her parcel. "It is just a piece of music your brother told me about, an Indian love song. He thought perhaps I could learn it and we could sing it together in camp. He is very kind." Betty shrugged her shoulders. "Oh yes, Dick is kind to nearly everybody, except to me sometimes when he thinks I need discipline. But he and mother both think you have a remarkable voice, Esther, and that it will be a pity if you don't have it cultivated some day." Esther laughed, touching Betty's auburn hair affectionately. It was loosened from her walk and curling round her face. "That is my soul's desire, Betty," she whispered, surprised at her sudden burst of confidence. But Betty's manner with her was unexpectedly more intimate than it had been since their first meeting. She could hardly have known that it was owing to the fact that she had just quarreled with her adored Polly. Of course Betty did not intend to be deceitful, she was simply in the habit of seeking consolation from some source, whenever things went wrong with her. Now she put her hand the second time into her knapsack and, drawing forth a square white box, she proceeded to open it in a slightly shamefaced fashion and then handed it to Miss McMurtry. "I am a dreadful backslider from Camp Fire rules, but I just had to have some candy this afternoon. Do eat some with me, so I won't be the only sinner in camp," she begged. Miss McMurtry shook her head. "Don't tempt Esther or any of the other girls, Betty," she replied in a tone that Betty was familiar with at school. "One of the health craft rules you girls have promised to observe is to give up candy between meals for three months. Of course if you wish to break your word you may, but I had rather you would not try to influence any one else." Betty banged the lid back on her box. "Oh," she replied unsteadily. "I am sorry you feel about me in that way. I didn't mean to be a mischief maker, but you need not worry about Esther, for she is not the kind that falls from grace." She sat a few moments longer leaning her chin on her hand and looking toward the grove of pine trees where the shadows were now growing longer and darker as the afternoon lengthened. Sorry to have fallen from grace herself, Betty at this moment would have perished rather than confess it. The other three girls had gone straight on up to the tents, Meg taking "Little Brother" with her. But now Eleanor appeared at the opening before their kitchen tent and began vigorously ringing a large dinner bell. "Betty Ashton," she called, "it is half-past five o'clock and time to begin dinner. You know it is your turn to help with Juliet and me. Meg is putting the baby to bed." Betty encircled her hand above her lips forming a small trumpet. "I am not going to help with dinner to-night, I am too dead tired," she halloed back. "I will help to-morrow instead." "To-morrow?" Eleanor cried indignantly. "What has to-morrow, got to do with it? You are no more tired than the rest of us and besides it is your turn to-night and we have promised not to try to get out of things unless we are ill." Eleanor said nothing more, but even at a distance of a good many yards it was plain that she had flounced back inside the tent. When she came out again with some pots and pans her air was one of conscious and offended virtue. A moment later Betty sighed. "I wonder if you would mind taking my place this afternoon, Esther?" she inquired. "I am very tired and you haven't been doing anything. Would you mind, Miss Martha?" Betty made her request very prettily and really without the least idea that it could be refused, for she was not in the habit of being made to do what she did not wish. With her own family to have said she was tired would have been regarded as a sufficient excuse for any change of plan. Perhaps Miss McMurtry would have been wiser had she agreed to Betty's request, and had she been another girl she possibly might have been more lenient. Now she decided that Betty was simply trying to shirk her responsibilities and so slowly shook her head. "Of course if you are not well, Betty, I will be glad to take your place myself," she answered, trying to speak kindly. "However, if I were you, I would hardly say that Esther has been doing nothing since she has been sewing all afternoon on the ceremonial dress you promised to make your self, so that you may wear it to our Council Fire to-night." Betty got up quickly. "Please don't do any further work for me while we are in camp together, Esther," she demanded, "for it is evident that Miss McMurtry thinks I spend my time trying to impose upon you. As far as the dress is concerned, I shall not need it to-night, for I shall not come to the Council Fire. I will do my part in helping to get dinner, of course, but I prefer to rest afterwards." Hardly, knowing what she was doing because of her anger, Betty yet managed to get up quietly from her place and start toward camp without glancing at either Esther or Miss McMurtry, although she heard Esther following close behind her. "Please don't disappoint us, dear," Esther pleaded. "I know Miss Martha will be willing to let me do your work to-night, if we ask her again, and it will quite ruin our Council Fire if you are not with us. What will Polly say when you and she have planned the whole ceremony? And I--I shall be so disappointed, for I am to be made a Fire-Maker to-night. Besides, you know we are to talk over the names we hope to be known by in our club." But Betty only walked steadily on as though deaf to the other girl's entreaty. Near her own tent she turned at last and Esther could see that her eyes were full of tears. "You are mistaken, Esther, though I am sure you are very kind," she insisted with her offended Princess air, about which Polly used so often to tease her. "I am sure no one will miss me in the least and my absence will give you a chance to bestow on me the title you think really belongs to me, such as: 'Betty who won't bear her own burdens' or anything you prefer. Please leave me alone now." So there was nothing more for Esther to do but to return to her work, knowing how little influence she had with Betty at any time. CHAPTER X PIPES OF PEACE Half an hour later Polly discovered Esther seated alone by her slowly perishing fire taking the last stitches in Betty's rejected ceremonial dress. She had even embroidered on the left sleeve a small crown in gold colored silk, since Betty's old title "The Princess" would scarcely be changed whatever new names might be awarded to the other girls in their Camp Fire. "Where's Betty?" Polly inquired carelessly. "I hope she wasn't cross; I suppose it was not kind of me to leave her and return another way, and she was right, it did make us late, but we had a delicious adventure!" Polly had dropped down on the ground and put her arms about her, knees, slowly rocking herself back and forth, her face shining with mischief and excitement, so that her color came and went quickly and tiny sparks appeared to dart forth from the blueness of her eyes and the blackness of her hair. But as Esther neither answered nor asked any questions Polly stared at her in amazement. She had no particular emotion for Esther one way or the other, perhaps because she was not yet a rival in Betty's affections, but she had always tried to make herself agreeable to her and to have her feel like one of them; moreover, she did not enjoy being disregarded. Halfway up on her feet a glance at Esther's face made her drop back into her old position, except that she put one hand under the girl's chin, turning her face toward her. "For goodness' sake, Esther, what is the matter?" she demanded. "I suppose it is Betty!" And Esther nodded, feeling an absurd disposition to shed actual tears of disappointment. So much had been planned for to-night's Council Fire and this was the first disagreement in their camp. Should Betty fail to appear, the other girls, learning the cause, were sure to take sides and no one would be really happy. Until Esther finished her story Polly listened without comment, although her face flushed and her lips were pressed close together. "I do think Miss McMurtry was a little hard," she said finally. "It isn't fair to expect us to reform all at once and she might remember that Betty has never had the discipline of having to do things when she didn't wish to before. It is different when one has been poor, isn't it, Esther? Never mind, I will do my best. Betty hasn't any right to make everybody uncomfortable just because she is offended, particularly when she has had so much to do with our plans for to-night." Polly disappeared, but when tea was served a short time later a signal to Esther reported that she had met with no success. Betty helped with the evening work, saying nothing but looking pale and tired, so that Miss McMurtry wondered if she had been too severe. Perhaps Betty was used up by her walk! She would have liked to have talked to her but had no opportunity, for as soon as supper was over (and three other girls always did the clearing up) Betty immediately disappeared inside her tent, and when her three friends came in to dress for their meeting they found her in bed covered up with her blue blankets and not in the mood for conversation. Vainly Mollie and Esther attempted persuasion, reproaches, they received always the same answer--fatigue and not ill temper kept Betty from their entertainment. She was sorry of course but they would probably have a better time without her. Curious, but in the half hour required by the three girls for their dressing, Polly, in spite of her promise, added not a single word of regret or entreaty in spite of Esther's pleading looks and Mollie's outspoken demands that her sister exert her influence. Appearing utterly absorbed in her own costume and in admiring Esther's and Mollie's, Polly only shook her head. The June afternoon was a long one, so there still remained sufficient daylight for the girls to see to dress in their tent. Over the crest of Sunrise Hill a pale crescent moon with a single star glowing beneath it had now arisen and the moonlight later on promised to be radiant. There were bursts of laughter, cries of admiration floating from one open tent to the other, for this was the first time the girls had seen one another dressed in their new costumes. Polly plaited her long black hair in two braids, twining it in and out with narrow strips of bright orange ribbon, and then around her head she bound a broader band of ribbon the same color with a single black feather just above her forehead on the left side. With her dark hair and high cheek bones, which to-night were crimson with excitement, she made an unusually picturesque Indian girl. Mollie's hair was softer in texture and less heavy, so that she wore it hanging loose over her shoulders. At first, however, Esther's appearance was not much of a success. Although, apparently lost in languor and uninterested in anything, from her couch Betty observed her, wondering what could be done. For Esther to look so awkward and plain to-night, when as the first of their Camp Fire girls to be raised to the rank of Fire Maker she would be the center of all eyes, did seem hardly fair. Trying to make the best of herself and without the gift most girls have in this direction, Esther had also arranged her hair in two braids, but while her hair was thick it was too short to be effective in this style, and parted in the middle accentuated the plainness of her long face with its irregular features, light blue eyes and large mouth; moreover, the bright yellow of her khaki costume with its red fringes, gay shell and beads made her complexion appear in contrast paler than ever. In despair she was twisting a band of bright red cotton decorated in brass spangles about her forehead, when a cry from Polly, who happened at this moment to catch sight of her, made her drop her head-dress. "Stop, and don't you ever so long as you live, Esther Clark, dare to put a touch of red near your face," Polly demanded autocratically, rummaging at the same time in a small box on a table which she knew held a number of trinkets belonging to Betty. The next moment drawing forth a band of dull silver embroidery about an inch and a half wide, she crossed over to the older girl. "Please let me fix you a little differently," she urged coaxingly, beginning at once to unwind Esther's hair and combing it out over her shoulders; then loosening it in front she put the silver band like a crown about it. Esther's hair wag red, of this there could be no denial, but now unbound it showed bright strands of gold and darker shades of red that could never have been discovered when tightly fastened to her head. Perhaps it was partly due to Polly's little act of friendliness making the other girl happier, but certainly there was a marked change for the better in Esther's appearance, so much so that Betty decided she looked almost pretty when a few moments afterwards her three friends bidding farewell to her went out leaving her alone in her tent, where the darkness was now closing in. In parting, Mollie and Esther had added a final plea to Betty to join them, but still Polly had spoken no word. Lying alone on her couch Betty wondered why? Of course Polly was always being swept off her feet by new people and new interests and so after ten days in camp would not be so fond of her, but it was odd that she cared nothing for her presence at their Council Fire to-night, since they had planned the whole ceremony together and were to play leading parts. Partly to close out the moonlight, which was now shining faintly inside her tent, and partly to shut her ears to the voices and laughter of her friends, Betty turned over on her balsam pillow with her face to the tent side, and there covering up her head lay perfectly still, so still that she would not even put her handkerchief to her eyes, although for some reason or other they were uncomfortably moist. Fifteen minutes passed and there was no noise of a returning footfall, but presently there was a faint, sweet odor in the lodge and Betty heard a low call such as a boy would make on a wild reed whistle. She did not stir, so the sound was repeated more shrilly, and by and by a pair of hands forcibly pulled the blankets down from her face. There stood Polly in her Indian costume with her intense love for the dramatic shining in her eager face and holding above Betty's head two perforated sticks, one painted blue to represent the sky, the other green to represent the earth, and both of them decorated in tiny feathers of birds and a pair of wing-like pendants. "Betty," Polly asked quietly, "do you remember the names of these two Indian treasures and how hard we have worked to make them as like the originals as we could?" "Of course, they are the calumets you are to use in the Council Fire ceremony to-night. They are pretty!" Betty conceded. But Polly had dropped down by the side of her bed. "They have another name, Betty, which isn't calumets and you know it, and we were to use them at our Council Fire to-night. They are called 'pipes of peace' and I can't very well lead the party that is to bring them to camp and also the children who are to receive them." A silence in the tent then followed, lasting several moments. "Aren't you a little ashamed, Princess, thinking of the character of our ceremony this evening, not to be willing to be present? It is to be war and not peace then, isn't it?" Betty laughed. "I only said I was tired," she argued faintly. "I am sure no one has the least reason for thinking I am angry if I happen to prefer to rest." Then Polly began to feel that her case was won. Very quietly she slipped over to a wooden dress-good's box covered with bright cretonne and, opening it, drew forth the ceremonial dress so recently finished by Esther, then she lighted two candles on either side the table underneath their small mirror. Betty's head-dress was there, a band of her favorite blue velvet ribbon with three white feathers crossed in front. Catching it up Polly waved it temptingly. "Come on, Betty, and let me help you dress, everybody is waiting for us and there never was such a night!" But seeing that her friend still hesitated, added in a tone which was a question, not a reproach: "Don't you think, dear, that so long as you really originated our Camp Fire club and asked Miss McMurtry to be our guardian, it is rather a pity for you to make the first break? Isn't one of the Camp Fire ideas to learn to put the happiness of a good many people before our own personal desires?" In a half minute Betty was out of bed with her Camp Fire dress nearly on. "If you are going to turn preacher and reform at this time of life, Polly O'Neill, then goodness knows what is to become of me! Once you were my partner in crime, but now--well, it is hard to think of you even yet as 'Saint Polly'!" "And will be to the end, me darling," Polly agreed, dropping into her Irish brogue from sheer pleasure that her purpose was accomplished. Five minutes later the two friends were hurrying forth toward a circular piece of ground some yards from their tent, which to-night the girls wished known as their "earth lodge." There the other Camp Fire members had already assembled with a great pile of wood in their midst waiting to be kindled. CHAPTER XI UNDER THE ROSE MOON In June the moon of the Camp Fire girls is known as the Rose Moon. But there were no roses blooming near their camping grounds at Sunrise Hill to-night and only the odor of the pines made the night air fragrant. Betty went straight up to Miss McMurtry, however, and in her hand carried a small cluster of pink roses. "I brought you these from our garden at home this afternoon; the house is closed, but our old gardener is miserable because no one is about to enjoy his flowers. Please wear them." Then before the older woman could do more than murmur "Thank you," Betty had slipped away and taken her place in the circle of girls between Meg and Esther, not without noticing, however, that their guardian looked unusually well in a dress of plain white serge with her dark hair bound about her head like a coronet. Also she saw that Miss McMurtry's face had brightened, as she placed the flowers in her belt and felt that peace was restored between them even before the beginning of their ceremony of peace. The little company had evidently been waiting for the appearance of Betty and Polly, for now Miss McMurtry stepped into the center of their group and there was instant silence. She looked slowly about at the ten faces gazing upon her with rapt attention and then sang in a low tone, and yet one that could be distinctly heard, this ancient Indian chant. "To-day our Father (Sun) shone into our lodge, his power is very strong, To-night our mother (Moon) shines into our lodge, her power is very strong, I pray the Morning Star (their Son) that when he rises at daybreak, he too will shine in to bless us and give us long life." This chant signified the opening of the Council Fire. For the next moment Miss McMurtry turned toward the heap of wood carefully placed in the center of the circle, by the wood-gatherers. A little pile of paper with some small chips and dried twigs on top of it lay on the ground, above which leaned a pyramid of larger logs, waiting to be lighted. Kneeling close by this pile the guardian of the Sunrise Camp Fire took from her pocket a bit of flint and a piece of steel, striking them sharply together. Tiny sparks flew forth but no answering crackle resounded from the wood and paper, although the sparks darted in and out among them like miniature fireflies. Once more Miss McMurtry tried her flint and steel according to the prescribed rules, but again the result was failure. Of course matches were not a luxury at Sunrise Camp and in the making of their daily fires the campers were not superior to the using of them, but this lighting of their first real Council Fire was to be a truly important ceremony and greatly the members desired to return to the primitive method of fire-making. There must be something more than superstition in the old axiom that the third time is charm, perhaps three efforts are required for the training of the human will; but however that may be, at the third striking together of the metal and the flint the Sunrise Council fire sprang into life, stick by stick it blazed forth, until at last a tongue of flame leaping up in the air encircled the whole pyramid, setting the pine logs into a splendid flare. On ten different faces it shone, revealing as many characters when, seated in Indian fashion on straw mats upon the ground, the Camp Fire girls now repeated in unison their "Ode to Fire." "Oh, Fire! Long years ago when our fathers fought with great animals you were their protection. From the cruel cold of winter, you saved them. When they needed food you changed the flesh of beasts into savory meat for them. During all the ages your mysterious flame has been a symbol to them for Spirit. So (to-night) we light our fire in remembrance of the Great Spirit who gave you to us." Then Polly slowly arose from her place, approached the flames and cast upon them a great bunch of sweet dried grass; a moment later the rising smoke filled the air with an odor like incense. But the chief feature of to-night's ceremony was to be the elevation of Esther Clark to the rank of Fire-Maker. For three months had she been working to gain the fourteen necessary requirements and the twenty elective honors, yet now as the moment for receiving her reward drew near she felt a strong disposition to run away. Betty must have guessed her feeling, for at the critical moment she slipped her arm through the older girl's, smiling at her and pressing her hand encouragingly. "Don't be foolish and don't be frightened, Esther," she whispered encouragingly, "for you are only to receive the honor that is your just due!" Curious how often in the years that would follow, these same simple words of Betty's were to be repeated in almost the same form to the girl now seated at her side! Seeing that Esther was too timid to approach the center of the circle alone, Betty accompanied her, standing a little to one side, while Esther, in order to show her complete understanding of the whole Camp Fire idea, repeated once again in her low beautiful voice (almost her only attraction at this time of her life) "The Firemaker's Desire," the same verse she had recited to Betty Ashton over her own fire on the day of their first meeting in the Ashton home. Then Miss McMurtry slipped over Esther's head a string of twenty shining beads representing her new honors, and amid much clapping of hands from their small audience the two girls returned to their places, Esther wondering if she were not almost as happy in Betty's companionship as in her new title. For remember, she had never had any intimate tie in her life, no father or mother, no sisters or brothers, and only the care and kindness of strangers until Miss McMurtry had made of her a friend. All this time Polly O'Neill has been vainly trying to pretend that she is devoutly interested in what is taking place, although any one knowing her would have understood that Polly's real attention was absorbed in the feature of their Council Fire ceremony in which she was to play the leading role. Now without further delay, and followed by Meg, Eleanor, Beatrice and the faithful Sylvia, she disappeared into the Pine grove not far from the gathering of the Council, while the remaining girls and their guardian drew nearer to their own fire, heaping it with fresh pine branches. And by and by, from the edge of the trees, the same notes from the reed-like whistle that had called Betty to her place in the ceremony of peace, now about to take place, were repeated. Then along a white path of moonlight, in their Indian costumes, the five girls led by Polly, swaying her pipes of peace slowly above her head, came dancing with a queer, rhythmical movement of their bodies, arms and feet. A strange spectacle for these modern days, and yet many such an Indian dance had taken place in these same New England hills hundreds of years before! As they drew near enough to be plainly seen by the little party waiting in their "earth lodge," Betty got up from her place, lifting on high a fluttering white handkerchief tied to a birch pole. In the old days there were always two parties to this ancient Indian ceremony of peace: those bringing the calumets were called "the fathers" and those receiving them "the children". So it was necessary that Betty should now indicate that "the children" were willing to receive the blessing the other party desired to bring. The five visiting girls stood facing those seated on the ground; Polly standing before their guardian and still waving her blue and green perforated sticks made her carefully memorized speech with the dramatic intensity dear to her theatrical soul. "These pipes of peace once symbolized heaven and earth to the Indians and the mysterious power that permeates all nature. In their presence the Indians were taught to care for their children, to think of the future welfare of their people and to live at peace with one another. The Indians were supposed to be a savage race and yet their prayer seems to come very near to the ideals of the Camp Fire girls. May we also live in peace with one another, learning from the women of the past all that was best in their lives and refitting it to the needs of the now women of to-day and to-morrow." Then at the end of her invocation she moved quietly from one Camp Fire girl to the other, waving her blessing of peace over each bowed head. And as she moved she sang the Indian song of peace, the other girls straightway joining in, but it was not Polly's voice but Esther's that carried the music of the refrain far out over the fields, carried it at last to the ears of some one who had been seeking the home of the Sunrise Camp for the past two hours. "Down through the ages vast On wings strong and true, From great Wa-kon-da comes Good will to you--Peace that shall here remain." CHAPTER XII NAN At the close of the calumet ceremony the girls immediately drew closer together about the fire, making ready for an informal discussion. Of course they had been uncommonly serious for the past hour, but the night was so mystically beautiful with the new moon casting a silver radiance over the hills and fields, that there in the yellow glow of the Council Fire the girls had felt the inspiration of its beauty and their own seclusion. Since darkness had fallen there had been no noise save the murmur of their own voices and the cry of "Hinakaga", the owl, like a sentry at his post making his report from the grove of pines. Once or twice as the time slipped away Miss McMurtry had faintly suggested that the hour had come for retiring, but always the girls, led by Polly O'Neill, had pleaded that to-night was not like other nights, and they must be allowed a slightly longer respite. During the earlier part of the evening, when she had believed no one observing her, Polly had evidently been on the lookout for something or some one, for she had kept glancing slyly out across the country toward the path leading to their camp; now, however, this idea must have passed from her mind, for she was as completely absorbed as her companions in the selection of the new names, which the girls might hope to bear in their Camp Fire club. Miss McMurtry talked very little--persons who are deep students rarely do; far more apt are those of us who play upon the surface of life to like to do our thinking aloud. So now, the Council was surprised to hear her speak in so earnest a tone that every one else was silenced: "Girls, I want you to do me a favor to-night. I don't know whether it is usual for the guardian of a Camp Fire club to have a new title awarded her, but nevertheless I want you to give me one. You see I am Miss Martha or Miss McMurtry to most of you at school and really I wish to forget that I am a schoolmarm this summer and to have you forget it. I have been finding out a good many things since I came into camp, though it hasn't been very long, and one of them is that a guardian does not need so much to be a teacher as a friend to her girls. You see no guardian can know everything that you girls are studying to gain your elective honors, but, if we are friends we can work them out together." Deeply grateful was Betty Ashton for the night and the shadows of the firelight that were playing on her face while Miss McMurtry was making this little speech, which she could hardly help knowing was directed in a large measure to her. However, she could not refrain from giving Esther's arm a knowing pinch and then raising her eyes to intercept a returning glance from Polly. Possibly Miss McMurtry expected Betty's point of view, even if she did not see her express her surprise, for although some distance away from her place in the circle her next remark was addressed to Betty. "Betty, can't you think of a name for me?" she asked deliberately, wondering what answer under the circumstances she would be apt to receive. "I know you and Polly have been reading a good deal in order to find new names to suggest to the girls, so haven't you come across a name that might be suitable for me? There are astrologers and fortune tellers who believe that one's good or evil fate depends on bearing an appropriate name and I have always hated mine." "But it exactly suits you and doesn't make you ridiculous like my name does me!" Sylvia Wharton announced unexpectedly, breaking into the conversation for the first time during the evening in her dull, even tones. "What is really horrid is to have a name that suggests some one very beautiful and graceful--a name that sounds like water running over pebbles in a brook and then to look like I do. I wish everybody would call me Mary Jane! I would like to have a plain, homely name." Such was the astonishment following Sylvia's protest that no one spoke for at least half a minute. Who could have supposed her capable of developing so much of an idea? For once in their acquaintance Polly (for of course Sylvia managed to be next her) laughed with the little girl instead of at her, at the same time taking the trouble to give one of her stiff flaxen braids an amused tug, while Miss McMurtry, in order to break the silence, went on talking about herself. "Of course my name suits me, Sylvia, that is the worst of it," she laughed. "How can any one named Martha escape being a Martha? Oh, I presume the name taken by itself is a good old-fashioned one, but in combination with McMurtry it has such an old-maidy, school-teachery sound that I have been compelled to live up to it. Now, Betty, please make a suggestion." Betty flushed and at the same time smiled to herself. The Indian name "Pokamp" or catbird had come to her mind shortly after her quarrel with Miss McMurtry during the afternoon. "Minerva," she now proposed faintly, "she was the Goddess of Wisdom." "Gracious no, that is worse than Martha to live up to!" Miss McMurtry objected and also declined just as decisively the dignity of "Hypatia" and "Aspasia', when those learned ladies of ancient times were offered for her consideration. "We might call you 'Our Lady Protector'; it is just another expression for guardian," Mollie O'Neill proposed uncertainly, not because she had any enthusiasm for her idea but because no one else had anything better to introduce, but before Miss McMurtry could answer, Polly's laugh had settled the proposition. "Or we might call Miss Martha 'Chest Protector' or 'Bella Donna Plaster', which is a very soothing title, meaning 'Beautiful Lady Covering'," she teased. "Suppose, Miss Martha, that we just wait and perhaps follow the old Indian custom of choosing your name through a dream or the first object we see at an appointed time. But I must be allowed to bestow Mollie's new name upon her," she added, gazing sentimentally up into the sky and putting her arm apologetically about her sister, riot knowing how much she might have enjoyed being laughed at in public. This time, however, it was Mollie who plainly scored, for she only laughed good humouredly saying: "Go ahead, Polly, you have arranged everything else for me in my life except my name and you only didn't do that at baptism because you were but a few weeks old!" During the shouts of merriment, Polly, acknowledging her autocratic tendencies, could only hide her diminished head on her sister's shoulder; nevertheless, sitting up again a few moments later she pointed one hand in a dramatic fashion toward the heavens. "Only hear the name I have found for you and you will forgive me much, Mollie Mavourneen," she pleaded. "It is a part of our Camp Fire education to study the stars, isn't it? Well, see the Seven Brothers, the Great Bear family forming the Big Dipper in the northern sky. How many of us know that those stars were shot up there to escape the wrath of their terrible brother, Grizzly Bear, according to Indian astronomy. Now see that small star just at one side of the handle of the Dipper, known as 'Sinopa'. Don't you think we ought to call Mollie, 'Sinopa,' when it means 'Little Sister'?" Overwhelmed by the general approval of Polly's suggestion, Mollie would never have had the courage to oppose it, but fortunately had no such desire and so as usual agreed to her sister's wishes. "Marjoram" the girls next voted an appropriate new name for Margaret Everett if she needed one, because in the first place the word was like her own name and more important was its pretty German meaning, "happy-minded", one of those rare plants that has no single ugly quality. Edith Norton agreed to be called "Apoi-a-kimi," because the Indian word meant "light hair" and she was particularly proud of her own fluffy blonde hair even though since becoming a Camp Fire girl she had felt compelled to hide away her puffs. Very easily might the girls have continued this discussion of their titles until the sun rose beyond their Sunrise Hill, had not Miss McMurtry suddenly looked at her watch by bending close to the light of their fire. Then she rose so quickly and with such a sharp exclamation of surprise that several of the girls got up with her. "Camp Fire maidens, what are we thinking of? It is after ten o'clock and we must say good-night and extinguish our fire. What a wonderful night it has been, so quiet, so serene that I think no one of us will soon forget it!" Very naturally she looked away from the group of girls close about her for a wider view of the landscape, hoping that this vision of its beauty might remain with her. Already the early splendor of the night was beginning to fade and although the moonlight still made the objects near by fairly distinct, farther off they were black and ghostlike. Perhaps for this reason Miss McMurtry at first made no sign, though believing she saw a small object dart forth from the shelter of the pine trees, run a few steps, crouch down and then getting up again run on a few feet more. Of course she and the Camp Fire girls felt perfectly safe in their retreat in the woods, although just at the beginning of their encampment, when the nights closed down upon them, some few of the girls had felt awed and nervous, now after ten such experiences the sense of unfamiliarity was quite gone. Sunrise Hill was on the border of the Webster farm, two miles from the village and well out of the way of trespassers. There were no wild animals about in these New Hampshire hills, for hunters had long since driven them away, and yet Miss McMurtry wondered dimly if the object plainly intending to come up to them could be an animal. She did not have to wonder very long, however, for the object soon rose on two legs and was plainly a human being. What should be done? Miss McMurtry did not wish to alarm the younger girls, when there was no possible reason for fear, and yet she was annoyed, for if some one were trying to spy upon them at this hour the intruder must be summarily dealt with. Fortunately, Polly O'Neill had risen when her guardian did and happened to be standing next her at this minute. Slipping her arm through Polly's a slight movement drew her aside. "Polly," she whispered, "there is something or someone coming toward us; let us go forward quietly and find out what or who it is." Instantly catching the direction of Miss McMurtry's guarded glance, Polly, not hesitating a second, broke away and ran forward alone to meet the advancing figure. Nevertheless, the older woman followed so promptly that she was able to catch the girl's first words even before seeing the person to whom they were addressed. "Why, Nan Graham, what do you mean by coming out here so late?" Polly demanded. "When I told you that you might look on at our Council Fire to-night I thought of course that you would come to camp before dark so that I could ask permission and explain." Half leading, half pulling the newcomer, who after all was only another young girl, Polly drew her closer to the circle of their slowly dying fire. First she looked appealingly at their guardian, who had walked forward with them, and then from one of her friends' faces to the other until she found Betty's. There were no returning glances of sympathy from a single one of the Camp Fire girls. Unfortunately, Nan Graham was not a stranger to any member of the Sunrise Hill club except to Juliet and Beatrice Field, who were themselves strangers in Woodford. Had Nan been, her reception would have been more cordial, even though appearing at night in so unconventional a fashion. But the newcomer had been a student with most of the girls at the high school the winter before and had been expelled for supposed dishonesty. Her family was impossible, the father, a man of good birth fallen so low that his own people would have nothing to do with him, had married an emigrant woman and Nan was one of many children. The girl had tried working in the village, but no one cared to trouble with her long. And yet she was just a little more than fifteen years old and not an unattractive looking girl, although her face was curiously older than any other girl's in the group about her. To-night she was wearing a shabby black frock, torn and dusty, and her coarse short black hair was unpleasantly disheveled. "I couldn't leave home until late and then I lost my way," she replied finally, answering Polly's question in a sullen fashion because of the weight of disapproval. "What right had you to say she could come, Polly O'Neill, when you understand that we like to keep our Council Fires to ourselves?" flashed Betty, and then stopped, knowing that it was plainly not her place to speak first. "You should have returned home when you found you had mistaken the way," Miss McMurtry frowned. "You ought not to have come through the woods alone at this hour of the night, Nan, as you know perfectly well. But there is no way now for me to send you back to-night, though I am sure I don't know what to do with you. Polly, I think you owe it to us to explain why you invited a guest to camp and then gave us no warning so that we might have been prepared." Under the influence of the meeting of the Council Fire and perhaps more under the spell of Polly's magnetism than she realized, Miss McMurtry, although it was plain that she was a good deal vexed, did not put her question severely. So it was naturally irritating, not only to her but to a number of the girls as well, to have Polly, in the midst of the general disapproval, suddenly shrug her shoulders and give a characteristic laugh. "Oh, for goodness' sake, don't let us make a mountain out of a molehill!" she begged. "I was coming back to camp this afternoon and happening to pass Nan's home, she told me something that I thought it great fun for us to know. Some of our boy friends are coming out to camp to-morrow disguised as Indians and mean to take us by surprise. We can be prepared for them and so turn the joke around the other way. Well, after Nan told me this we talked for a little while, while Mollie and Bee and Sylvia walked on ahead. She seemed desperately anxious to hear about our camp and how we were living and what we were doing, so I told her to come along and see us. I really don't see that she can do us any harm. As far as to-night is concerned, why I will make up beds for us just outside our tent, for I have been wishing to sleep outdoors ever since we came into camp." "And then I can go back home again in the morning," the newcomer said with a scowl. "I wasn't meaning to do any harm just by looking on." Polly would have liked to have embraced Margaret Everett on the spot, for now separating herself from her friends she came shyly forward taking the strange girl's hand. "I am sorry you have had such a tiresome walk," she said kindly; "come let us all get ready for bed." Mollie and Sylvia Wharton followed Meg's example in speaking to their unwelcome visitor, but Betty set the example for the others, by merely passing her by with a nod of her head. However, when Esther and Mollie were both asleep, Betty came out from her tent and stood for a moment looking down at the two figures on their hastily improvised beds only a few feet away from her own tent. One of them stirring, she bent over her whispering: "Good-night, Polly; of course there is no harm in Nan's being here one night, but please don't ask her to stay longer." CHAPTER XIII "NOBODY WANTS TO BE DONE GOOD TO" A canoe containing three girls had been out on the waters of the lake near the foot of Sunrise Hill for the past two hours. A part of the time it had been swiftly shot through the water only to rest afterwards in certain shadowed places, where fishing lines were quietly dropped over its sides, until now a flat birch basket in its stern was filled with freshly caught fish. There had been little conversation during this time, but now Polly O'Neill, letting her paddle rest for a moment, said to her fellow oarsman: "Come, Betty, let us drift for a while. We don't have to get back to camp just yet, for it will be another two hours probably before our supposedly unexpected guests arrive, so we will have plenty of time to help with the preparations, to fry the fish and have Mollie make her inspired corn dodgers. It will be rather good fun when the Indian chiefs appear to strike terror to our hospitality, if not to our souls, for us to be ready and waiting for them, Semper paratus, always prepared, we can assure them is a Camp Fire girl's motto. But just now I wish to talk." Betty's back was turned to the speaker, but her sister, Mollie, sat facing her midway between the other two seats. Quietly and without replying Betty acquiesced in the request, permitting their canoe to glide slowly toward a small island and getting her kodak ready for action. One of her summer amusements was the making of a collection of animal and bird pictures, and now a large nest overhanging the water attracted her attention. Therefore it was Mollie who replied to her sister, although the remark had not been made directly to her. "Yes, Polly, we know you want to talk and we think we know what you want to talk about. I saw it on your face at breakfast even if Betty didn't and knew perfectly well why you persuaded Miss Martha to let us come with you for the fishing and no one else, even when Sylvia Wharton was almost in tears at being left behind." "You don't know what I want to talk about, do you, Princess? Mollie is absurd, for I am sure I was not thinking of it at breakfast," Polly halloed, wishing that her friend's face was toward her so that she might gain something from her expression. A moment longer she had to wait for her answer because a great heron, startled by the noise, rose out of its nest flapping its great wings and ungainly legs and Betty's kodak instantly clicked with its appearance. Then she shook her head slowly, still not turning around, as she replied: "Yes, I do know, Polly. That is why I would not agree to come with you until I had first had a little talk with Miss McMurtry. I didn't want to be obstinate if I am wrong, but she feels exactly as I do." Polly whistled softly, two bright spots of color showing on her high cheek bones, a signal with her of being desperately in earnest. Nevertheless she returned indifferently: "Of course if Betty and our guardian agree, then have righteousness and truth met together and there is no use wasting my breath by putting in my poor little plea." "There is no use in your being disagreeable, Polly," Mollie advised, who was not in the least afraid of scolding her sister, although rarely quarreling with her. "In this case I think Betty is entirely in the right, for this is not a question of money or family or many of the things you and Betty disagree about, it is a question of the person!" "Gracious, what person?" Polly protested. "You are both talking riddles. Have I mentioned anybody's name or proposed any mortal thing? If I happen to be interested in this Nan Graham and to believe that things have been made pretty hard for her, is it anybody's business? I don't know just what it is about her that makes me feel as if she were a poor little hunted animal. I really don't think anybody has ever been even decently kind to her in her life; she has always had a bad name, and it must be a pretty hard thing to have to grow up in the shadow of one with no one to give you a boost. Take that affair at school; it was never positively proven that Nan was dishonest. Only she had told a few lies and her family was so horrid. Another girl might have been given another chance!" "Well, we can't give her a chance at our Camp Fire club this summer, dear, Miss Martha is positive about it, so don't pretend that is not what you have on your mind," Betty interrupted. "I am sorry, but Miss Martha says she is a very different type of girl from the rest of us and might get us into trouble, and she is afraid our parents would not like her being with us." "I don't know about parents, but I am sure mother wouldn't mind our helping another girl, perhaps just because she is different." And Polly's eyes filled with quick tears at the thought of her first long separation from her mother. But Mollie shook her head slowly though not unsympathetically. "I am not so sure, Polly," she argued. "You know mother is always urging you to be sensible first and sentimental afterwards, and says that half the trouble in your life will come from working the other way round. Just take the question of the money; Nan Graham would never be able to pay her share, and although we let Mr. Ashton give us our camping outfit, each one of us is to pay her portion of our expenses and to try and find out how economical we can be. It isn't fair to impose a girl on Betty--" "I have no idea of imposing Nan Graham on Betty," Polly interrupted hastily. "If it ever comes to be just a question of money, why I will promise to pay her expenses and to try to be responsible for her." "You?" Mollie stared. "Polly O'Neill, you must be out of your senses. You know we have just barely enough for ourselves and are even trying to save a bit out of that, besides working at basket making and anything else we can do, to send mother some extra money." Polly smiled in a superior fashion. "There are more ways for making money, Sinopa, than are dreamt of in your philosophy. I have my own reasons for not telling you, but I expect to come into a sum of money shortly which will certainly be more than enough to pay this poor Nan's expenses." "But it is not the money that I care about in the least, Poay," Betty exclaimed, "and you know it! Somehow I am just afraid that in some way Nan will bring unhappiness among us." "Of course it is not the money you care about, Princess." (Polly's apology was as ardent as her suggestion.) "Sometimes I wonder what would happen to you if you should ever be poor and have to learn to think about such an ugly, commonplace thing as money. Never mind, I am going to be an American Sarah Bernhardt and you and Mollie can travel about in my private car with me. But you understand if you agree to let Nan Graham stay in camp with us, I can't let her be an expense to you or the other girls." By way of answer Betty looked at her watch. "It is getting pretty late, Polly, don't you think we had better get back to camp?" she proposed. In perfect accord the two girls now swept their canoe back to their landing place, for they could row perfectly together, swim, paddle a canoe, ride, play tennis, in fact do everything except have the same opinions. The two girls carried the basket of fish, leaving Mollie to tie up the canoe. "I hope you don't feel very disappointed, Polly, it was because I was afraid you might think it a good idea to have Nan Graham join our Camp Fire club that I asked you not to think of it last night," Betty said, apologetically, sorry as always to disappoint her friend and not unaffected by her point of view. "Ah, but you put it in my head, Betty Ashton. Really I never dreamed at first of letting Nan do anything more than come and see what our Camp Fire life was like. She was so eager and so interested when I met her yesterday that she seemed kind of pitiful to me. She told me she was dreadfully lonely because nice girls wouldn't have anything more to do with her now and yet she didn't want really to be bad. No one will take her to work, so she couldn't think what she could do with herself all summer. Last night when you went in to bed I kept on thinking about her and about what our Camp Fire may mean some day when we are older and stronger ourselves and understand more about it. Of course no one wants to be done good to, that is horrid and patronizing, but everybody wants to be made happier, rich people: and poor people too. Remember how you once said that Wohelo, Work, Health and Love, solved all life's difficulties. "Wohelo means love. We love Love, for love is life, and light and joy and sweetness, And love is comradeship and motherhood, and fatherhood, and all dear Kinship. Love is the joy of kinship so deep that self is forgotten." "Now I wonder if comradeship and kinship really mean just caring about the people we would have had to care about anyway, our own friends or our own family?" Having unconsciously touched upon one of the biggest questions in the world and having no answer, the two girls were both silent for a moment. Then Polly added in a surrender unusual to her: "Don't worry, Betty, perhaps you are, right after all. Nobody can live up to all the things we preach. Anyhow it was, good of you to ask Miss Martha to let Nan spend the day with us. She says she will never get over the pleasure of it as long as she lives." "Don't, Polly, really I do not think I can be expected to bear any more. You, have made me feel already that if Nan Graham ever does anything wrong or brings any sorrow on herself by her behavior, why it will somehow be my fault. Why do you make me responsible when you know Miss McMurtry and most of the other girls are just as opposed to having her with us as I am?" said Betty, realizing that her defense was a sign of weakness and yet feeling that Polly had somehow driven her to the wall. "Because, Betty, you know that if you try you can bring some of the girls to your way of thinking and I can work on the others. Then together if we promise to be responsible for Nan's good behavior, why we may be able to influence Miss Martha." Betty sighed. Mollie was catching up with them and they had almost reached camp, which was a scene of the most amazing activity. "Ask me again to-night, Polly, I will try to think things over a little more." There was no opportunity for any further discussion, for at this instant Meg and Eleanor swept down upon them. CHAPTER XIV SURPRISING THE CAMP In the middle of the camping grounds on their return the girls now beheld Miss Martha McMurtry waving a large kitchen spoon in somewhat the same fashion that a conductor uses his baton to direct the energies of his orchestra. Rushing from one spot to the other her aides were engaged in putting fresh wood on one smoldering camp fire, stirring up slumbering ashes in another, removing kettles to different points of vantage and generally giving the impression that they were preparing for the feeding of an army. However, they were only getting ready for the entertainment of a few of their Boy Scout friends. Early that morning Nan Graham had been made to explain more fully the information bestowed on Polly the day before. It seemed that her father had been engaged to do odd jobs at the camp of the Scouts several miles away from Sunrise Hill and had overheard the plan of the young men to test the mettle of the Camp Fire girls. Take them by surprise, bear down upon them without warning, that was the way to discover whether the girls were lolling about reading novels and eating sweets as they suspected, or attending to the sterner duties of camp life. Subject them to the trial of preparing an impromptu meal for hungry guests, in short, see whether the effort of the girls to effect an organization similar in many respects to the Boy Scouts wasn't sheer bluff. Nothing had been said, because of course it must have been so easy to surmise the amount of criticism and discussion that arose in Woodford when the village learned of the decision of the first Camp Fire girls' club to spend the summer together in the woods. And sternest of all critics were the brothers, boy cousins and friends, most of whom belonged to the Boy Scout brigades, spending most of their spare time and money in them. For of course the thing that was good for a boy was for that very reason bad for a girl, an age old argument, beginning with the question of educating women at all and extending now to their right to the vote. Curiously John Everett, Margaret's brother, was at first more bitterly opposed to the Camp Fire idea than any one else in Woodford. Meg's place was at home, every girl's was, even though there was no one at home with her. It was hard lines that his father had to be in Boston the greater part of the summer and that he would be in camp, but he was not going to have Meg getting drowned or burned up or worn out without masculine protection--away from home. Should any one of these misfortunes overtake her at home--why somehow it would be different. But fortunately for Meg's summer happiness, her Professor father did not share in his son's opinions and after John had a long talk with Betty Ashton he became well, not convinced, but at least more open to conviction. Usually Betty did have this effect upon him, which was perhaps fortunate for them both. So John Everett might certainly be expected as one of the surprise party and probably Jim Meade, Eleanor's brother Frank Wharton, and Ralph and Hugh Bowles, who belonged to the same group of friends, besides, well, it was the entire uncertainty in regard to the actual number of their visitors which was keeping the Camp Fire girls so extraordinarily busy, their idea being to have everything prepared and hidden away and then produced as though they were in the habit of having just such a magnificent supply of rations always on hand. Eleanor and Meg had made an Irish stew of half their week's supply of meat and vegetables; Esther, assisted by Juliet Field, had baked enough beans for feeding half Beacon Street; while Miss McMurtry herself had presided over the giant loaves of brown bread, which can be easily boiled in closed tins and make specially superior camp food. Upon Beatrice, Sylvia and the unwelcome newcomer, Nan Graham, had devolved the cleaning up of the camp grounds and their work had been most thoroughly done, but indeed no one could be accused, of anything approaching sloth this morning when so much of their future reputation was at stake. Only Edith Norton had been unable to help because of her work in town, but she hoped to be able to return to camp by noon so as not to miss the good times. At eleven o'clock every bit of the work, of preparation had been accomplished and Nan's report had said that the Scouts expected to appear just about the noon luncheon hour. The food was hidden away in the kitchen tent and the girls rearranged their costumes, then after posting Nan, Beatrice and Sylvia as sentinels to give warning of the first approach of their guests, the other girls settled themselves to whatever occupations they considered might make the best impression. Eleanor got out the Camp Fire log book, whose cover she had previously decorated with a wonderful sunrise appearing above the summit of a purple hill, and now began to illustrate some of the inside pages with scenes recalling the events of the past ten days. Mollie's tastes were too domestic for any deception, so she went on with her pretty basket weaving, while Esther sat near her studying the Indian song received the day before. However, the really impressive occupation was conceived and engineered by Polly's dramatic sense, for she engaged Miss McMurtry and the rest of the girls in the mysteries of knot tying, one of the difficult feats of camp craft, since there are a good many more varieties of knots than one has fingers. For example, there is the square knot, bowline, alpine, kite string, half hitch, clove hitch for tying two ends together, and as many more for making knots at the end of a rope, and yet, unless one happens to be a Camp Fire girl, these comparatively simple accomplishments are entirely closed arts. Now everybody at Sunrise Camp is accounted for excepting its solitary masculine member--Little Brother. During all the morning preparations he had been a very difficult problem, but finally washed and arrayed in a stiff white Russian blouse, Meg conceived the brilliant idea of attaching him to the camp totem pole. The pole was simply a tree cleared of its branches at the present time, which the girls hoped later on to develop into a real Indian totem pole, but standing just a few yards in front of the group of tents it formed a center for all eyes and therefore seemed the best possible place for keeping a little boy always in sight. Little Brother was at first very happy because he had with him the things he loved best: a discarded bathing shoe, a bottle of hard brown beans and an old cream whipper, that made the most delectable noises as one turned it about. Indeed, so soothing did its noises become that, on returning for the sixth time from her game to see that the small boy was safe, Meg discovered him fast asleep in a patch of sunshine on the grass. Five minutes before noon Sylvia Wharton came running breathless with excitement from her sentry post. Dust was rising at some distance off in the curve of the lane where a path led across the fields to Sunrise Camp. Harder and faster the girls continued at their work, of course appearing superbly unconscious of possible interruption and yet ten minutes later, when Edith Norton returned from the village on her bicycle along the way of Sylvia's warning, there was a sort of general let-down feeling though no one confessed to it. Then half an hour passed, noon was in the background of the day and hunger was laying fierce hold on the camp members. Their practice of knot tying abruptly ceased, Eleanor put her book and paints aside with a sense of relief, Mollie and Esther arose sighing. "We have got to have our own lunch, girls, we simply can't wait any longer," Miss McMurtry insisted, and no one seemed sufficiently inspirited to discuss the question, when unexpectedly a cry from Meg brought everybody to life. Little Brother had disappeared! In spite of the professional knot-tying he had managed to slip away, leaving his moorings still attached to the pole. Ten seconds afterwards as many girls were searching for him, only Esther remaining behind with Miss McMurtry. As his small footprints led directly to the grove of pines, his favorite playing ground, the entire party sought him there, and after running about for an eighth of a mile searching and calling, they came across the young man throned high on the shoulders of a six-foot Scout, clothed in khaki and leather boots but wearing a perfectly absurd Indian head-dress and false-face. He was followed by ten other youths, gotten up in equally absurd fashions for the complete bewilderment of the Camp Fire girls. "Do take those ridiculous things off at once, John Everett," Betty demanded first, as she happened to be in advance of the other girls, and on John's immediately complying with her request, his companions followed his example. Then gaily the entire procession made for camp, but as Miss McMurtry and Esther heard them coming when some distance off, they did not seem particularly surprised at their advance. Indeed, the ridiculous fact was that the Scouts failed altogether to mention that their intention had been to steal into Sunrise Camp unperceived, and the girls were equally negligent in not expressing more profound amazement at their wholly unlooked-for visit. Only there was one special bit of surprise for Betty Ashton and possibly for Esther as well. Richard Ashton had come down from Portsmouth to find out how Betty was getting on, and on hearing of the scouting expedition had joined their party. Of course he only spoke to Esther in the same fashion that he did to his sister's other friends, nevertheless she felt more at her ease, perhaps because he was her one acquaintance in the group of young men. And Polly also had a surprise, though not so pleasant a one, for the youth whom she had tried to slay, like David did Goliath, was one of their Boy Scout guests and Polly wondered if it were her duty to inquire in regard to his wounded feelings or to pretend that to-day's more formal meeting was in reality their first? CHAPTER XV A WARNING But the girl did not have to decide the problem, for the young man solved it for her. They were in the midst of luncheon, which was spread out on a vast table-cloth covering ten or fifteen square feet of ground, when he arose solemnly and bearing his plate in his hand came over and sat down on the grass alongside of Polly. In his khaki uniform, with his hair, skin and clothes so much the same color, he was far less countrified, indeed, almost good looking the girl conceded to herself, while waiting for him to speak first, giving her the clue to his attitude toward her. "You were awfully kind the other day and, I am much obliged to you," he said a trifle awkwardly, but with gracious intention. "I am afraid I should have had rather an uncomfortable time of it but for you." Polly cast her eyes demurely toward her lap, turning her head slightly to one side, "I am afraid you did have an uncomfortable time anyhow. I was very sorry." She had flushed the least little bit, but her lips were twitching with amusement. The young fellow smiled. "Oh, don't you be sorry," he protested, "leave that to the guilty person, or I am afraid she may keep you being sorry for her sins all the days of your life." "I will not!" Polly snapped, in such evident irritation that the young man leaned deliberately over her shoulder staring into her face. Then he actually laughed. "I am sorry myself now," he apologized, "but I thought you were the pretty one." "Well I am not and that is a horrid way to get even!" Again the young man laughed. "I beg your pardon, I mean I thought you were the nice one!" And this time Polly happening to catch his eye, which had some of her own sense of humor in it, laughed to herself and then swung round to talk to him more directly. "No, I am neither the pretty one nor the nice one," she avowed. "There is Mollie sitting between Ralph Bowles and Frank Wharton and you can go talk to her in a moment. But just the same I am sorry that I happened to hit you the other day and I was just as much surprised at its having happened as you could possibly have been." Her companion nodded as though to dismiss the subject. "If Mollie is the nice one and the pretty one, would you mind telling me your name, then perhaps next time I may be able to tell you apart without your giving me such strenuous examples of your differences in character." The girl shrugged her shoulders pretending to be entirely indifferent and yet a little piqued at the suggestion in the last sentence. The difference between herself and Mollie, all in her opinion in her sister's favor, was a sensitive subject. "I was christened Pauline in baptism but I am usually known as Polly. However, my sister and I both recognize ourselves when called Miss O'Neill." This was such an evident attempt on Polly's part to put her questioner in his proper place that he could not rise entirely superior to it, even though her intention to hit back was so transparent. "May I tell you my name now?" he asked in a more humble tone, as though wishful to make peace. "You don't have to tell me your name for I am very sure I know it already," the girl answered in a provoking manner, for which she had a peculiar talent. "You see our guardian told us that you were the son of the Mr. Webster who owns the land on which we are camping, and I am convinced that there is no young man in New Hampshire boasting the last name, Webster, whose first name isn't Daniel! Do you think we would so fail to commemorate our greatest statesman? It must be rather dreary to be named for so great a person that you know whatever you may achieve yourself you must always sound like an anti-climax." This time it was surely Polly who had struck home, for the young man colored and applied himself to the food on his plate for at least a moment before he replied: "You are right, my name is Daniel and I have felt about it a little as you say, but then I am also called William, which is a better name for a farmer." "Farmer?" Polly forgot that she and her companion had been sparring and let a genuine interest creep into her tone. "Do you really mean that you are going to be content to be a farmer all the days of your life, to stay right on here and never see anything or be anything else? It sounds so strange to me--for a man to have no ambition!" Almost she forgot her companion and sat frowning with her eyes more serious than usual and her thin face with its sensitive features and high cheek bones turned upward toward the peak of Sunrise Hill. "I am a girl, but I am going all over the world and I am going to be an actress and do ten thousand delightful things just as fast as I can before I have a chance to get old." Gazing at her more intently than ever before in their conversation, the young fellow shook his head. "No you won't,"' he said bluntly, "you will never be strong enough and you had better stay here in the hills and let some one look after you, your sister or--some one. Yet you need not talk as though being a farmer was a thing to look down upon. I am sure our great men all used to be farmers, George Washington and the rest of 'em. You must know their names better than I do. So please bear in mind that I intend to do my best to make things grow--hayseed!" he laughed good humouredly, guessing Polly's secret scorn of him, "but at the same time I expect to see something and if I'm lucky to be something, though if I'm a first-class farmer it isn't so worse. Do give me your plate, you have eaten very little and the rest of the crowd is getting dreadfully ahead of us." But Polly, jumping up hastily and the young man following her, led him over and introduced him to Mollie, with whom he spent the greater part of the afternoon. From two o'clock till sundown the hours at Sunrise, Camp were fairly strenuous ones since the Camp Fire girls insisted on comparative tests of skill with their Boy Scout guests. Of course the young men agreed, although they were pleasantly scornful, until possibly owing to their morning's contest the girls actually won out in the knot-tying contest, which was supposed to be a peculiarly masculine accomplishment. In running, jumping and feats of marksmanship the girls of course were easily outclassed by their opponents; however, Beatrice Field, who was so light and so small that no one considered her in the race, did come in second in a short thirty-yard dash. Then Miss McMurtry held a kind of impromptu examination in questions of patriotism and nature lore, the girls and men managing to about equally divide the honors. But the really extraordinary feature of the afternoon was that dull little Sylvia Wharton, the youngest member of the company, was easily first in half a dozen observation games most important in the training of Camp Fire girls and Boy Scouts. For instance, in a Quick-sight experiment, the girls and boys walking rapidly from the camping ground to the shores of the lake, Sylvia had seen eight small objects more than any one else and she was so quiet and looked so stolid while doing it that Polly wanted to laugh, and began to doubt her stupidity. At six o'clock it still appeared as though the Boy Scouts intended remaining for the evening meal and camp fire; however, Miss McMurtry kindly but firmly bade them farewell. The girls were tired and it was a long tramp back to the Scout camp. There had been no suggestion from any one that the surprise visit had been made in any spirit of criticism and yet John Everett made a half-hearted apology to Betty and his sister. When the farewells were being said all round, he called the two girls aside: "I say," he murmured boyishly, in spite of his years and six feet, "I have got to confess that I never saw you girls looking so well, so kind of up to the limit before, and I thought by this time you would surely be fagged out, or bored, or sick of trying things out together. Now I don't say I approve of this Camp Fire business, I won't go so far as that, but it does not seem to have done either of you any harm yet." And then laughing at his grudging attitude the three of them rejoined their friends, who were waiting to end their day together by singing "My Country, 'Tis of Thee." And they were waiting because Esther Clark was needed for leading the song and in the last few moments she had disappeared with Richard Ashton, who had been watching the proceedings all day with an expression that was sometimes amused but the greater part of the time grave. He had no opportunity for speaking to Betty or to any one else alone and only to Esther because he had just made a deliberate effort. As they came slowly back from the pine grove together, Betty felt cross at Dick's choice of a companion when any one of her other friends would have been pleased by his attention. Then, too, Esther looked as serious as her brother and Betty hated unnecessary seriousness, besides Dick needed some one to make him gay, not an awkward, uninteresting acquaintance like Esther. But there was no use in arguing with Dick, for he would always be kind to the people who were left out of things and seemed most to require kindness. Sorry to have seen so little of her brother during his short visit, Betty now slipped her hand into his and held it tight while Esther, standing some distance apart from them, started the air for their parting hymn. The girl was not thinking of herself and so was unconscious that the others, even while singing, were also listening with surprise and pleasure to the clear, rounded tones of her beautiful mezzo-soprano voice. In reality Esther Clark was thinking only of Betty and the news that Dick Ashton had just told her. Mr. Ashton, his father, had been taken ill in Italy and, though there was no immediate danger, might never be well again. For the present it was thought best that he remain indefinitely in Europe, so the family had not decided whether or not to tell the facts to Betty. She could do no good; even Dick was not going to him, and it was always best to keep every possible sorrow from Betty. But really, because Dick Ashton could not make up his mind just what was the wisest course, he confided his secret to Esther, asking her to think matters over and write him her judgment. You see there was no question of Esther's unusual devotion to Betty and readiness to sacrifice everything for her, though there seemed to be no reason, and surely Betty was entirely careless of it. Before the twilight of the long afternoon had entirely faded into night, every Camp Fire girl, including Nan Graham, who was not a member, had vanished into bed. The child was too tired to be sent home to-night and word would be taken to her parents by one of the boys. Miss McMurtry herself was asleep as soon as her girls. And indeed Polly entirely forgot that Betty had suggested she put the question of Nan's remaining in camp with them to her again during the evening. How many hours Polly had been asleep outside her tent with the newcomer by her side she did not know, but suddenly she was awakened by a sound that was like a sob. Sitting up quickly she saw Nan kneeling on the ground and looking up at the sky. Polly waited in silence until the girl, feeling her wakefulness, came slowly back to her own bed and somehow Polly could see that her face had lost its sharp, old look and was like a child's. "I was praying you'd keep me in camp with you long enough to give me a try," she explained. Like a flash Betty's suggestion that she might change her opinion after thinking things over came back to Polly's mind. Of course the day had not been conducive to reflection, but perhaps it might be just as well not to give Betty too much time to think. Half an hour afterwards Polly crawled under the blue blankets and putting her arms about her friend whispered her request. And just at first Betty was too sleepy to know what was being asked of her and later on was possibly too tired to resist, for she yawned an agreement. "Oh yes, I will do my best to persuade the girls to let her stay on if you want her and Miss Martha consents. But if there is trouble, Polly--" and she was almost asleep again. Polly gave her another gentle shake. "Promise to keep your money hidden and not put temptation in her way. Esther says she found your pocketbook stuffed with money in the middle of the tent floor." "I promise," Betty ended hardly knowing what she said. CHAPTER XVI LEARNING TO KEEP STEP Six weeks had passed by and it was now early August in the New Hampshire hills. Six wonderful weeks for the Camp Fire girls at Sunrise Hill, moving so swiftly that it seemed almost incredible so much time could have gone by. Everybody had kept well, nothing had ruffled their harmonies, except occasional differences of opinion which were easily adjusted, and yet Nan Graham had continued a member of the camp. By this time the new influences in many ways showed their effect upon her. At first she was inclined to use language that shocked and annoyed both the girls and their guardian. She was not lazy and yet regular hours for work seemed irksome to her; she wanted to work when it was play time and play when work should be accomplished, and then her personal habits were not pleasant; but this was because she had never been taught better, for very soon she grew to be as neat as any of her companions and though her clothes were worn and shabby they were carefully washed twice a week by her own hands because she had fewer possessions than the other girls. In the beginning Betty had given her several blouses and some underclothes and would have done far more except that Miss McMurtry advised her to cease. For it was not fair that Nan should not also learn a spirit of independence and the desire to earn her own way. Miss McMurtry hoped that the Camp Fire might teach the girls this as one of its best lessons. Always we have believed that the American boy can make his own place in the world, given an education and a healthy body, then why not the American girl as well, now that she is to have almost the same opportunity and encouragement? Notwithstanding that, there was one serious, indeed most serious, fault that the new Camp Fire member had not yet man aged to overcome: she was not always truthful. The stories she told did not appear to be malicious or very important, they merely explained why she was late when her hour came for work, how she had gained certain elective honors when no one was by to witness them, and yet they caused a general feeling of distrust when evidence upon a question depended solely on Nan's word. Miss McMurtry had talked to her many times and always she had promised never to offend again and yet a habit of untruthfulness is not so easily conquered. In reality, Polly O'Neill had more influence with the girl whose cause she had championed than anyone else in camp, so that once or twice Miss Martha had been tempted to ask Polly to talk to her and then had given up the idea, thinking that perhaps it was hardly fair for one girl to be told to lecture another. However, it was surprising to see how kind and sympathetic the little group of Camp Fire members tried to be to their least fortunate member and up to the present time Miss McMurtry felt glad that she had yielded her first judgment in the matter and allowed Nan to stay on with them. Even Betty, although unable to be intimate with a girl whose family connections and manners so tried her aristocratic soul, was always considerate and certainly at the end of each week it had been Betty who had quietly paid Nan's share of their expenses without a word. That there had ever been a question of any one else's doing it, no one except Betty, Polly and Mollie knew. And just what Polly had suffered at the end of each week when she had failed to fulfill her contract no one except a girl with exactly her disposition can understand. For the money which she had spoken of so mysteriously to her sister and friend had up till now failed to materialize. Nevertheless Polly had not lost hope, but several times had assured Betty that she would pay her the entire amount advanced for Nan almost any day, and the very fact that Betty begged her not to think of this made her the more insistent. Thirteen was Polly O'Neill's lucky number. Possibly because it was regarded as an unlucky figure by other people Polly had selected and cherished it for her own, and with the Irish ability to prove things, because one wishes them to be true, she could give a long list of happy events in her past history all taking place on the thirteenth day of the mouth. Besides, had she and Molly not been born on the thirteenth, naturally fitting the date to her star? So on the thirteenth of August (although no one else in camp happened to have thought of that day of the month) Polly begged leave of their guardian to go alone into Woodford on a most important errand. The girls were not in the habit of going into town alone; perhaps because the walk was a long one no one had ever wished before to go without company. However, there was no conspicuous objection since the way led through the Webster farm and then on to the high road into the village, and, moreover, Polly insisted that her reason for wishing to go unaccompanied was a highly important one. Nevertheless, with a slight feeling of discomfort, Miss McMurtry saw her start off after lunch. Though the subject was not discussed she realized that Polly O'Neill was physically less strong than most girls and that her high spirits and nervous energy often gave a wrong impression. To-day, however, Polly seemed particularly well and curiously eager, so that the other girls teased her all through luncheon endeavoring to find out the cause of her mysterious errand, without gaining the least clue. Betty and Mollie were both offended by her secrecy in spite of her promise to tell them everything should matters turn out as she expected. Polly believed in destiny, or at least in her own destiny as we all should, but now and then, fear taking possession, her faith was less secure. There had been a few of these hours in the past six weeks while she had prayed, hoped and willed one thing, but almost always she had believed in it with her whole heart. Waking at daylight on this morning of the thirteenth of August and seeing a particularly wonderful sunrise, a curious wave of conviction had swept over her. To-day she would see her desire fulfilled! Truly the day was a beautiful one, a day for all lovely dreams to come true, and as Polly walked through the fields, heavy and golden with the ripened grain, the Irish buoyancy of her temperament asserting itself, made each object appear an omen of good luck--the sight of a bluebird meant happiness of course, the flight of a carrier pigeon the arrival of a longed-for message. Weary finally of thinking delightful things Polly fell to reciting poetry aloud. As a small girl and in spite of her mother's and sister's protests she had made up her mind to be an actress and had devoted all her spare hours to the memorizing of poetry and plays. Therefore there were many hours when she loved dearly to be alone just in order to repeat some of the lines over and over, trying to read into them their deeper meaning, without an audience to be either bored or amused. Particularly had she loved and learned the strange, musical Irish poetry of William Butler Yeats. Perhaps because the Irish believed in fairies Polly did too, although she called her fairies by other names. Now all alone in the yellow fields she recited the closing lines of "The Land of Heart's Desire," doing her level best to put into it some little portion of its mystical beauty. She was not altogether successful because she was only a girl without any training or knowledge of her art, but perhaps because of her youth she was less afraid and filled with a sincerer enthusiasm. "The wind blows out of the gates of the day, The wind blows over the lonely of heart, And the lonely of heart is withered away While the faeries dance in a place apart, Shaking their milk-white feet in a ring, Tossing their milk-white arms in the air; For they hear the wind laugh and murmur and sing Of a land where even the old are fair, And even the wise are merry of tongue; But I heard a reed of Coolaney say, When the wind has laughed and murmured and sung, The lonely of heart is withered away." And then, after having repeated her verse three times and feeling that she was no nearer than at first to expressing its beauty, Polly found herself through the fields and after passing by a small stretch of woodlands would be out on the high road and therefore no longer alone. And here, just at the entrance to the woodland, Polly's foot struck against something, and stooping over she picked up from the ground the answer to her desire, not the expected answer but one that would do as well in its stead. Naturally she forgot to be reasonable or sensible, forgot everything save the good luck that seemed to come as an answer to prayer. At the village post-office she did not even think to ask for her mail, although stopping long enough to write a short letter to her mother, enclosing a portion of her discovery and asking that it be used to purchase a present for the new English cousin about whom her mother had lately written so much. Neither was there a confession made either to Mollie or Betty or any one else at camp that evening, since it was far pleasanter to appear cloaked in mystery; but Polly secured peace for herself by bringing back with her a large basket of peaches to glorify their supper party, and then later that evening quietly presented Betty with the amount in full advanced for Nan Graham's expenses. She said nothing about the way in which the money had been obtained and although Betty was curious to know, good taste forbade her asking questions. CHAPTER XVII THE SUSPICION Miss McMurtry and Betty had been alone together in one of the tents for the past half hour. Not that this was in any way remarkable or at first excited any suspicion, for the young woman and girl had become good friends in the past weeks, often consulting with one another concerning questions of camp life. Indeed Betty had been chiefly responsible for bestowing on their guardian her pretty new title, although the name had really developed from the suggestion first made by Mollie O'Neill and later turned into a jest by her sister. "Our Lady of the Hill" was now Miss McMurtry's title as guardian of the Sunrise Camp. But because the expression was too long a one for ordinary conversation, "Donna," the soft Italian word for "lady," was more often substituted. "I don't think I can be mistaken, Donna," Betty now returned seriously, her face flushed and her gray eyes unusually grave. "I don't want you to think I would make trouble in camp for all the world, as it is all probably my fault, but Esther was with me and has the same impression I have. She thought I ought to speak to you as a kind of warning to the other girls. I wish you would let me call Esther." Miss McMurtry agreed, frowning uncomfortably and resting her head on one hand. Since outdoor life gives one whatever help is needed, she had grown far less thin with her months of fresh air, her figure was less angular, her expression less learned and her whole manner more like a girl's than an old maid's. Possibly the gracious dignity of her new title was also worth living up to. "I must not be in too much of a hurry or too severe," she afterwards murmured to herself, "but from the first I have been dreadfully afraid of something like this." Esther was discovered sitting with the other girls in a group surrounding Polly, who had been reading aloud an old folk tale while the others worked at their various hand crafts. Betty apologized for the interruption in leaning over to whisper to Esther, but half guessed at Polly's irritation as they hurried off together. However, if it could be prevented, Polly was to hear of their trouble last of all! And Polly, although not acknowledging it, was annoyed, for lately Betty and Esther had seemed more intimate than she could ever have dreamed they might be. Not that Betty appeared to feel any affection for the older girl, but having heard through her of her father's illness they had been drawn together by Esther's constant sympathy and devotion, and although Mr. Ashton was now better Betty had not yet forgotten. Of course Polly was not jealous, that would be too small minded and absurd, only it was curious for her dearest friend to be sharing her secrets with other persons than herself. Inside the tent with their guardian, Esther was being more explicit in her explanation than Betty had been. "You see," she said, "I understand better about temptations of that kind than Betty, because I have been brought up so differently, so when the letter came I begged her to be particularly careful, and we hid it together in a small lock-box in our tent. The strange thing is that the letter is still there and the outside envelope, but the envelope in which the package was enclosed I found crumpled up near Nan's cot when I was cleaning this morning." Miss McMurtry shook her head more cheerfully. "That isn't enough evidence, children, to use against any human being! And just because this poor Nan has one story against her, don't you think we ought to be especially careful about adding another?" Instead of replying at once Betty looked more miserable instead of less, and then biting her lips for an instant answered steadily: "Yes, you are quite right, Donna, and we won't say another word about the loss. I am sorry and I confess a little disappointed, for father wished us to have a party in honor of his being better, but the party couldn't make us nearly as happy as this story would make us unhappy once we allowed it to be told." Miss McMurtry caught Betty's hand and kissed it unexpectedly. Betty was spoiled, accepting love and good fortune too much as a matter of course, but when it came to a question either of generosity or good breeding Betty Ashton could always be counted upon. However, Esther Clark was not so persuaded. "I am afraid Betty may be angry with me and that you will be more uncomfortable, Miss McMurtry," she added after a moment's hesitation. "But this is not all the evidence we have. You see Mollie told us yesterday that just the next day after we girls made our trip to town and returned with the mail, she came across Nan in our tent with Betty's bunch of keys in her hand. It is true that Betty had left her keys out on the table, but I don't see what Nan could have wanted with them?" "She told Mollie that she wanted to peep in my trunk to look at a dress I have because she wanted some day to make herself one like it and did not know just how," Betty interposed, using no effort to hide the tears that had been gathering in her gray eyes and were now coursing down her cheeks. "Oh dear me, I do wish I had not brought the wretched money into camp, for I promised Polly I would not put temptation in Nan's way and she will be dreadfully cross with me if she hears!" "I don't think you should blame yourself, dear," Miss McMurtry interrupted, drawing Betty closer to her and looking almost ready to cry herself as they both turned toward Esther for advice. For somehow Esther might have a shy and awkward personality and not seem of much importance when things were going happily, yet in sorrow or difficulty, insensibly her gravity and unselfishness counted. "Don't you think we had better send for Nan and let her offer us some explanation," Esther unhesitatingly suggested, "perhaps she will be able to make everything clear?" Miss McMurtry and, Betty were both silent and Betty moved quietly toward the opening of the tent. "You really will have to let me go away," she pleaded, "for I can't stand up and accuse one of our own Camp Fire girls of having--" Her sentence remained unfinished, but Miss McMurtry was able to catch hold of her skirt. "You can't leave us in the lurch, Betty, child, though I do understand your feelings, you must stand by to help Esther and me out. Certainly we shall not accuse poor Nan of anything, merely ask her a question. Esther, will you find her for us?" Betty smiled tearfully as Esther went away on the errand, wondering if this time Miss Martha feared to trust her. Ten minutes passed and then fifteen and yet neither Esther nor Nan appeared. Finally, however, Esther returned looking unusually angry and crestfallen. "Nan says she won't come until Polly has finished the story she is reading, and that probably may take another half hour," she reported. "I told her that you wished her particularly, Miss McMurtry, and waited as long as I could, but she showed no sign of obeying." "That isn't true, or at least it is only half true, which is as bad," a voice declared at this instant at Esther's elbow, and Nan Graham pushed her way saucily into the tent, rather pleased at making serious Esther flush with displeasure. But at the sight of Betty, whom she always admired, and their guardian, whom she a little feared, her expression became less bold and, indeed, before any one spoke the girl's face had a strange look of guilt. Why else should she toss her head and bridle so unnecessarily, why stare into Miss McMurtry's eyes with her own hard and defiant, even while her lips trembled with nervousness? "I haven't done anything; what do you want with me?" she asked quickly. "No, Nan, we only want to ask you a question," Miss McMurtry answered, speaking as gently as she knew how. "Would you mind telling us what you were doing with Betty Ashton's keys the other afternoon and how you happened to get hold of them?" "I didn't have her keys, that's a lie," Nan returned fiercely, taken off her guard and using a word she had always been accustomed to hear in her home. To save the situation Betty came quickly forward. "Please don't say that, Nan," she begged, "for Mollie has already told us you merely wanted to look at my blue dress and that was quite all right. But if you deny it, why--" "Why what?" Nan demanded sullenly, her black eyes on the ground and her face, which had turned a healthier color with her weeks in the woods, now white and drawn. "Why we might not believe you when asking a more important question," Miss McMurtry said sternly, angered in spite of herself by the girl's disagreeable manner. "How many times have I told you that when people are untruthful about little things one does not believe them in large. The fact is that Betty has lost a large sum of money and--" "And you believe I stole it!" Nan burst into such a violent storm of weeping at this suggestion that Betty for the first time in their acquaintance actually put her arm about her. "No, we don't believe you took it just because it has vanished," she whispered comfortingly, casting appealing glances at her guardian and Esther, "only we want to ask you to try to help us find out about it. I wouldn't be in the least surprised if it should turn up again!" Neither Miss McMurtry nor Esther spoke, but Nan was not to be so appeased. "I am sure you are very kind to give me this opportunity to put your old money back," she answered bitterly, "but as I did not take it I should find that pretty difficult. I didn't even know you had any money, although I confess I did look into your trunk when perhaps I ought to have asked permission and I did take out an old blouse, but I was sorry the next minute and put it back again. But I expect I might as well have kept it and anything else I could lay my hands on. It is the old story, if a girl does a wrong thing once no one ever believes in her when she tries to be straight again. I suppose you will be telling your suspicion to Polly O'Neill and the other girls so they won't let me stay any longer in camp. I don't care, I am innocent!" Nan's voice rose to a shrill cry of protest, but in spite of this there was a note of sincerity in it that almost convinced Betty, although unfortunately the effect was not the same upon Miss McMurtry and Esther. "No one shall say anything against you, Nan, nor spread this story in any possible way until more is found out," Miss McMurtry now remarked, briefly dismissing them. CHAPTER XVIII ONE WAY TO FIND OUT Nevertheless within a few days the story had been circulated about the camp. Not a word, however, had been spoken concerning it by Betty, Esther or Miss McMurtry, but poor Nan Graham had betrayed herself. For in her effort to gain sympathizers, unfortunately a wider suspicion was aroused. Sore and unhappy over what she insisted was a totally unjust supposition, it was but natural that she should turn to another girl for consolation. Not to Polly, however; Nan said not a word to her, for Polly had given no evidence of having heard of her ill-timed visit to Betty's trunk, having been on her way to the village at the time the offence was committed, and above everything Nan desired to remain fixed in Polly's good graces. No, she confided the account of her interview first to Beatrice Field, making so tragic a tale of it that Bee, who was quite young and only a mischievous tomboy in her disposition and never having heard anything of Nan's past mistakes, was deeply indignant. "A Camp Fire girl accused of stealing, well not exactly accused but suspected!" Honestly Bee had never conceived of anything so dreadful, and so straightway put the whole case before her sister, Juliet. Then to her surprise Juliet, who was a far more worldly wise person, did not accept the story from the same point of view, indeed Juliet became immediately indignant for Betty's sake, declaring that she was being a martyr in not spreading the news of her loss abroad and at least endeavoring to recover her lost property. Something of Juliet's impression must have crept into Bee, for in her next conversation with Nan there was a certain cooling off in sympathy that made Nan feel the need of another partisan. This time she was more unwise in selecting Edith Norton, for Edith had always particularly disliked Nan's presence in the Sunrise Camp and, even while hearing her side of the story, had unhesitatingly revealed not only a want of pity for her but a plain lack of faith. Nan had forgotten to require at the beginning of their conversation that Edith keep her confidence a secret and so the older girl made no pretence of doing so. In her bitterness Nan had not hesitated to say hard things of Betty, Esther and even of their guardian in speaking of the injustice of their attitude toward her, and these remarks Edith felt free to add to her own account. Not that she really meant to be cruel or unfair, but honestly feeling it best that Nan stay no longer in their camp she started a campaign toward that end. Perhaps because Edith was poor and self-supporting herself, unconsciously she resented the presence of another girl whose poverty was of so much less honorable a kind, for it is more difficult to be fair to persons almost in our own state of life than to those in far different ones. Not long did Edith remain alone in her conviction, for the layer of real faith and affection for poor little Nan in camp was so thin that the first effort broke through it. In point of fact no one had actually wanted her at Sunrise Camp and had only been persuaded into it by Polly and Betty and by Miss McMurtry's approval, and really these three persons were still the only three who continued her champions. Betty would not hear for an instant of Nan's being sent away, threatened to leave herself rather than be responsible for such an act of injustice. Miss McMurtry was equally firm, although she added that Nan was not to be condemned until further proof was secured against her. Meanwhile Polly O'Neill was really unaware for some time of the actual circumstances of the case. In the first place Betty had begged that the story be kept from Polly as Nan was her especial protegee, and seeing what a storm had been aroused in camp she herself felt more than sorry ever to have mentioned her loss. Of course Polly heard vaguely that Betty had lost something or other about camp, but she did not know exactly what, but then Betty had so many possessions that she was always losing something. Also she began to suspect, dimly at first, that the girls were in some kind of quandary, but as no one mentioned the cause to her, she felt rather too proud to inquire, besides having a problem of her own on her mind which taxed most of her waking hours, although she too kept her own counsel. But now a sufficient time had gone by, until the date of the meeting of the August Council Fire had arrived when the original number of Camp Fire members were to be promoted to the rank of Fire-Makers and Esther was to be first of the Sunrise Hill girls to be given the highest Camp Fire title--Torch Bearer. One of Miss McMurtry's plans for her camp was to leave to three girls each month the arrangements for the original features of their Council Fire and in August, the month of the Red or Green Corn Moon, it so happened that Mollie, Eleanor and Edith Norton formed the special committee. Just what their plans were no one knew until the morning before their meeting, not even the camp guardian, or Miss McMurtry might possibly have interfered, although I hardly believe it. Shortly after breakfast, even before the other girls had a chance to disperse for their morning's work, Eleanor, Mollie and Edith Norton disappeared inside their tents. Edith had been chosen to help at this meeting rather than any other because she was now having her two weeks' August vacation. Ten minutes later the girls came out again into the open air, arrayed in their ceremonial costumes and carrying three Indian baskets which were solemnly passed about from one girl to the other. And these baskets contained invitations to the evening Council Fire painted on bits of birch bark in crimson lettering by Eleanor Meade. At the top of the scroll were the three words "The Maidens' Feast." Then below, the invitation read: "Sinopa the Little Sister, Apoi-a-kimi, the Light Hair, and Eleanor, the Painter of Sunrises, invite all the maidens of all the tribes to come and partake of their feast this evening at the close of the regular Council Fire ceremonies. It will be in the Sunrise Camp before the moon reaches the middle sky. All pure maidens are invited." CHAPTER XIX THE DISAPPEARANCE The August moon had never been more radiant, indeed it flooded the Sunrise Camp grounds with a brightness that made it appear almost like day. And now the regular Council Fire proceedings were over and the Indian custom of "The Maidens' Feast" about to begin. In a circle about a cone-shaped rock, which had been brought with infinite difficulty to its position in the camp grounds, Miss McMurtry and the maidens were seated, each person bearing in her lap a round wooden bowl, while from the smoldering ashes of the Council Fire arose a delicious odor of roasting ears of corn. But before the feast could be eaten a ceremony of as grave importance to the Camp Fire girls as to the Indian maidens of long ago must take place. Each girl was to take the oath of purity and honor, and then the maidens' song would be sung and four times they would dance around the altar. No one of the group of Camp Fire members and no more their guardian really knew at first whether in this plan of Eleanor's, Mollie's and Edith's there was any deeper motive than the entertainment of their friends and the revival of an old Indian custom seemingly appropriate and beautiful. But as the details unfolded themselves the suspicion in the minds of most of them grew almost into certainty. Once or twice Miss McMurtry had thought of stopping the proceedings altogether, but then she did not feel satisfied that this method of the three girls for testing the innocence or guilt of their companions was not an admirable one. More than she would have acknowledged, since worry is not permitted in Camp Fire rules, had Miss McMurtry puzzled over what should be done in their present dilemma. Betty's money had certainly disappeared and some one must have stolen it; if not Nan, then who else? For they had had no guests since Esther and Betty returned with the money from the village post-office. So by the time Edith Norton, with her light hair hanging loose about her shoulders and a circle of red about her head, stepped forth into the center of the circle, looking unusually white and nervous, there was not but one member of her audience who did not at least partially guess at what was about to take place. And this was of course Polly O'Neill! For not only did she fail to understand Betty's actual money loss and the suspicion against Nan, but so deeply had she been involved in her own perplexity that she had hardly been aware of anything that had taken place that evening. Now, however, having at last made up her mind to take Miss McMurtry into her confidence when the girls had gone to bed, she did look up with interest at the picturesque figure of Edith. Near the cone-shaped rock two arrows had been lightly stuck into the ground, this forming a sort of altar to which each maiden must come, touching first the stone and then the arrows as she declares her purity. As she stood by the side of this altar Edith's voice trembled so that it was with difficulty her first words could be understood. The girls who knew pretty well what to expect understood her immediately, however, but not Polly! "Sorrow and much uneasiness have lately crept into our midst, my maidens," she announced, trying to preserve a certain likeness to the Indian speech in the form of her words, "and many of us there are who go about heavy of heart because the sin of one of us must be the burden of us all, until guilt is established and the innocent cleared. Some days ago there vanished from the possession of one of us fifty dollars in bank notes enclosed in an envelope containing no address. This money has not been found, but the envelope has been recognized as crumpled up and thrown away a few feet from the tent of its rightful owner. Now no member of the Sunrise Camp can feel it possible that any one of its members has been guilty of this sin and yet no visitor has stepped foot within our camp limits within the time when the deed must have occurred. Therefore have we three maidens, after deep thought, appointed this evening wherein the innocent may declare her innocence and the wrong-doer confess her sin. For only in confession and by the return of the money can she ever hope to be at peace with herself. Moreover, we believe that no Camp Fire girl will take this oath of purity without telling the entire truth. Betty Ashton will you come forward first." Betty jumped up quickly. During Edith's long harangue her group of listeners had been supremely uncomfortable, so that no one of them dared do more than barely glance at Nan, who sat with her knees up to her chin, her eyes cast upon the ground and her black hair covering her face like a veil. If she felt, and of course she did, that Edith's speech was directed toward her rather than toward any other girl, neither by a sound nor a movement did she betray it. Not even when Betty, having finished with her part in the ceremony, deliberately forsaking her former place in the circle came back and sitting down next her deliberately laid her arm across Nan's bowed shoulders. There was nothing to do or say, she would only make things worse by any protest now, and yet Betty was bitterly grieved and offended. If Nan had done wrong this public method of making her either confess or perjure herself she felt to be wholly unkind. So as Nan was in everybody's thoughts during this time no one happened to glance toward Polly O'Neill or, seeing her, to observe anything unusual in her manner or appearance, for Polly also neither moved nor spoke during Edith's recital, although her face turned suddenly white. Fifty dollars in an envelope, the money in bank notes and the envelope crumpled up and thrown away near their tent! Her discovery in the woods that day had been just this and she herself had thrown away that same envelope. Betty of course had lost the enclosure out of her letter in bringing it home from the post office and, hiding the letter away afterwards, believed the money still there. Why did not Polly get up and make this announcement at once? It would have been very simple except for one thing, she had spent the money, and in the first moment of surprised horror had no idea how she would ever be able to return it. Like a good many impetuous people Polly O'Neill sometimes had the misfortune to do her thinking when it was too late. Finding the money in the woods, when she felt she needed it so much, had seemed to her like a miracle, so that it never occurred to her, either that afternoon or evening, that she should have tried to find out to whom the money rightfully belonged before using it, although she had been thinking of little else since then. That this money should have been Betty's of all people, and that it was now her duty to stand up and confess her mistake before her friends. Polly set her teeth, the circle of girls revolved before her eyes, she had been worrying too much to be either reasonable or well. And at any moment Edith Norton might demand that she step forward and take the oath which was meant to proclaim that she had had nothing to do with the loss of Betty's money. Truly she did not understand that the charge had been directed against poor Nan, so watching her opportunity Polly slipped away without being noticed. When Nan Graham's name was called from the center of the circle the silence was oppressive. But the girl rose up quietly, pushing her coarse black hair from her face, and as quietly walked forward to the cone-shaped rock where the two arrows were still standing fixed in the ground. Before laying her hand on these objects, however, she stood perfectly still for a moment, letting her accusing eyes sweep from the face of one of her girl judges to the other and then, touching the stone and the arrows, came back quickly to her old place. Not till then did she betray how deeply the atmosphere of distrust and unfaith had hurt her, but when Betty's arm came round her for the second time, she burst into weeping, hiding her face on Betty's shoulder, and hearing her whisper comfortingly: "I believe with all my heart that you know nothing of my wretched money, Nan, and I beg your pardon if I even made you think I suspected you." Just before the time for Polly to take the oath her absence was discovered, but not until the feast of the corn had actually begun did Mollie and Betty go back to their tent to look for her and they did not return for so long a time that Miss McMurtry, fearing Polly might be ill, rose up to follow them. However, she had only gone a few steps before the two girls joined her. "We can't find Polly anywhere, Donna," Mollie said in an extremely annoyed tone. "We have looked in all the tents and called and even gone down to the pine grove. What silly mood do you suppose has overtaken her? For the one thing mother most objects to is for Polly to wander off alone at night. She did it once when she was a very little girl." "Don't worry, Mollie, she is sure to be back in half a minute when she remembers," the older woman replied. CHAPTER XX "POLLY" But Polly did not come back within the hour or indeed all night. Naturally there was little sleep among the Camp Fire girls or their guardian who imagined all possible tragedies. Miss McMurtry wondered if Polly could have gone down to the lake and in the darkness fallen into the water, but then the moon was shining brilliantly and she could swim with perfect ease. This idea was only brought on by fear. What had probably happened was that she had wandered off for a walk, lost her way and decided that it was far wiser to spend the night quietly in the woods rather than wear herself out with tramping. When the sunrise came she would return. With this idea Miss McMurtry comforted and encouraged the girls, for it was impossible that they should do more than search for their companion in the near-by woods and fields. It is true that Betty wanted to attempt to climb Sunrise Hill, taking lanterns with her, fearing that Polly had attempted a short walk and managed to sprain her ankle, and that Esther and Sylvia Wharton were more than anxious to go with her, but Miss McMurtry would not hear of it, having a vision of four lost girls instead of one. There was nothing to do but wait the few hours now until daybreak and then if Polly did not return, properly organize searching parties to seek for her. If the Camp Fire girls had learned anything of scouting methods, this would be their opportunity. Mollie O'Neill was of course the person who required the tenderest care during the night. She and Polly were closer than other sisters, so unlike in temperament and yet one another's shadows. If only she could have imagined some explanation for her sister's disappearance, for of course everybody knew of Polly's sudden vagaries and yet it was unlike her to be so inconsiderate without cause. Although Betty Ashton probably understood her friend even better than her sister did, as she sat quietly by Mollie's side for several hours insisting that there was really nothing alarming in Polly's flight and that she would doubtless be both vexed and ashamed of herself in the morning, she too was equally puzzled. For naturally she was not so confident as she pretended, although not until her hour came for rest and after she had actually tumbled into bed did she break down. Then Esther and Sylvia Wharton, who in some strange, quiet fashion seemed a comfort to everyone to-night, had insisted that they relieve Betty's watch with Mollie. Dropping on her couch, not to sleep but to gain strength for the next day's quest, quite by accident Betty's hand slipped under her pillow. With a low exclamation, overheard by the other three girls in the tent, she drew out folded square of paper. Her name was on the outside, apparently hurriedly addressed in Polly's handwriting. It read: DEAR BETTY: Your money was stolen, at least not in the way you think it was, but perhaps in another almost as bad. For I found it in the woods on the day when I went into the village alone and I made no effort to find out to whom it belonged. You must have dropped it out of your letter on your way back to camp, for there was no mark on the envelope in which I found it. But I do not mean this as an excuse, I do not think it one. If I had not felt like a thief perhaps I would not have been ashamed to confess my fault before the other girls as I should have done before our altar fire to-night. I tried but I did not have the courage, so I am going away from camp. Please tell Miss McMurtry, Mollie and the other girls and do not ask me to come back, for it is impossible. If I could return your money, Betty, I should not feel so bitterly humiliated, but as I cannot at present I would rather not see you until I can. Of course we are no longer friends, for you cannot wish it, and always it has seemed to me that your wealth and my poverty makes the gulf between us. I can only say that I am truly sorry. Yours sincerely, POLLY Having finished this ungracious note of apology Betty handed it without comment to Esther and then buried her own head in the pillow. If Polly could feel toward her in this manner because of a mistake which they had both made, then nothing she could do or say would make any difference. For to insist to Polly that she had a perfect right to use the money found by accident would not be altogether true and would not change her point of view, while to declare that the return of the money to its rightful owner was a matter of indifference would only deepen the misunderstanding. Less accustomed to Polly's writing Esther read the note aloud slowly and then it was that Mollie's and Betty's positions were changed, and Mollie became instead of the comforted--the comforter. "That is exactly like Polly O'Neill," she announced indignantly, "here she has done something she ought not to do without thinking, like spending that money without trying to find its owner, and now because she is so sorry she goes ahead and makes things worse for everybody instead of better." Mollie slid off her own hemlock bed and crossing the tent sat down by Betty. "Don't you worry, dear, or feel in the least responsible," she whispered, "you know Polly is hateful sometimes just because she is so ashamed and miserable she does not know how to be anything else. She does care for you more than anyone and you know that she will do almost anything to make peace with you as soon as she comes to her senses. Of course, Betty, I understand you don't care for the money part, why you would give either of us ten times that amount if you could and we would accept it, but you won't mind my writing mother to make things all right." Then after a few words of explanation to their guardian the Camp Fire girls slept quietly until daylight, but even after they had eaten a hurried breakfast together the wanderer had not returned. So immediately afterwards three parties set out, leaving Edith Norton and Juliet Field behind to protect the camp and to announce by the ringing of a bell if Polly should return or if they were in any need. Betty, Sylvia and Esther went off in one direction, Miss McMurtry and the two younger girls, Nan and Beatrice, in another, while Mollie, Meg and Eleanor took the interior of the Webster farm. The chief obstacle in their search being that it was apparently impossible to discover the direction of Polly's footprints on first leaving camp, the grass in the neighborhood being so constantly trodden down by the feet of so many girls. Billy Webster, as he preferred to be called, was in a wheat field with his reaper just about to start to work, when a Camp Fire girl, whether Mollie or Polly he could not tell at first, came running toward him in apparent distress. So as not to make another mistake he let the girl speak first, only smiling at her in a sufficiently friendly fashion to make it very simple. Mollie's first words were luminous. "Have you seen anything of Polly? She is lost or gone away or at least we can't find her!" Therefore until lunch time Billy kept up the search over the farm with the three girls. And though they were not successful in making any discovery it was surprising what a comfort the girls found him, particularly Mollie, who seemed to depend on him as though he had been an old friend. "I am sure there isn't the least reason to be seriously alarmed," he assured her half a dozen times with a curious understanding of Polly's character; "you see your sister has got a funny streak in her that makes her mighty interesting and mighty uncertain." (How angry Polly would have been could she have heard him!) "She has got a lot to learn before she settles down." By noon, finding his three companions nearly exhausted, the young man persuaded them to go up to the big, comfortable farmhouse, see his mother, have their luncheon and rest. And straightway on meeting her, Mrs. Webster took a liking to Mollie that was to last all the rest of her life. During this time Betty, Esther and Sylvia were going slowly along the main path that led through the fields and finally on to the high road into the village. Miss McMurtry and her assistants were climbing Sunrise Hill. But Sylvia Wharton was so tediously slow. About every five minutes she would stop and kneel down in the dirt, attempting to fit an old shoe of Polly's into any fresh track she happened to observe. The other two girls wandered off into bits of woods or meadows near by, calling and hunting, but Sylvia never went with them. "There is no use," she explained, "Polly has gone straight into Woodford and because it was night had to take the regular path instead of going through the fields as she usually does." Claiming to have exactly traced her footsteps Esther and Betty were still not convinced. "It is such a stupid idea, Sylvia," Betty argued, "for there isn't anybody in town now to whom Polly would go in the middle of the night, and besides she would be ashamed to let people know she had run away from camp." Nevertheless Sylvia kept stolidly on and because her companions had nothing better to suggest they followed after her. On the high road Sylvia, who would still creep like a tortoise, suddenly stooped down. The August dust was very thick along the way and wagons had already been traveling into town, and yet she picked up a string of red, white and blue beads, which surely were Polly's, since patriotism had been one of her chief studies during the summer. It was also Sylvia's suggestion that led the little party of friends straight to Mrs. O'Neill's closed cottage. The doors and windows in front of the house were sealed, but Betty found the door of the old kitchen halfway open. And there inside on her mother's lounge lay Polly! She seemed to be almost asleep when the girls entered, but awakened immediately and in a wholly different frame of mind. Realizing in the last few hours, when it was too late, how great an anxiety her disappearance must have caused, she wanted to go back to camp, to confess her fault and at least to persuade Betty to forgive her. Yet she dared not trust herself to go alone, for Polly's head was aching furiously, her face was hot and flushed and any attempt to walk made her sick and dizzy. While Betty and Esther were discussing what had best be done, Polly having trusted herself wholly to their hands, neither of them noticed Sylvia Wharton's withdrawal. When they did there was hardly time to comment upon it before she reappeared at the back door with her round face covered with dust and looking more freckled and homelier than ever. "A carriage will be here in five minutes to take us to camp; I have ordered it," she announced. CHAPTER XXI THE END OF THE SUMMER CAMP Good-by to summer, good-by, good-by, Good-by to summer Esther's plaintive song ceased abruptly, for Betty Ashton leaning over suddenly put her hand to her lips. And at the same moment Meg Everett holding fast to Little Brother dropped down on the ground by the girls with one arm full of early goldenrod and Michaelmas daisies. "No use to make Esther stop singing, it won't help matters, Betty, dear, the summer has gone," she exclaimed. "Little Brother and I have just seen quail whirring about in the underbrush. See I lay our autumn bouquet at your feet," and she tossed her flowers over to Betty. "Where is Miss McMurtry?" Betty made a wry face. "Gone into town, if you please, to see about some books--school books. Oh, it wasn't because I didn't agree with Esther's song that I made her stop singing, it was because it was so dreadfully true that I felt at the moment I couldn't bear it. You are sorry too, aren't you, Nan?" she queried, turning to the girl on the other side of her who was sewing industriously on a soft blue cashmere frock, almost similar in color and texture to the one Betty had at this moment inside her trunk. The gown represented the complete restoration of peace between Nan and Betty. At first there had been some difficulty in persuading Nan to accept it, but after all Betty had been kinder than most of the other girls! Moreover, there had been many other expressions of apology in words and deeds that Nan had accepted and stored away in her heart. "I just can't bear to think of it either," she replied slowly, letting her hands rest idly in her lap for a moment. "I guess you other girls can't ever know what these weeks in camp have been to me and what a lot I've learned. I hope I ain't going to forget it ever and Miss Martha says she is going to try to get them to let me come back to the High School. It will be all right if any one will trust me enough to give me work to do afternoons." Before replying Esther Clark put several pine logs and a great bundle of pine cones on the fire around which she and her friends were seated, and the girls were quiet for a moment watching them sparkle and blaze. "I expect I know, Nan, at least better than any one else," Esther answered finally, "for you see this is the first summer of my whole life that I haven't spent at the asylum scrubbing and cooking and nobody caring anything about my work except that I got it done. Work this summer has seemed like play, hasn't it? And I wouldn't be here, except for The Princess. I wonder if I shall ever be able to repay her?" "Oh, wonder something else, Esther," Betty returned ungraciously, for references of this kind always made her uncomfortable. "Here comes Polly and Mollie and, of course Sylvia. Bee, will you go find Eleanor and Juliet and let us have tea here by the camp fire. Donna and Edith will probably be here before we finish. Suppose each one of us places a stick on the fire and while it burns make a good wish for the Sunrise Camp. Hello, Polly, yes Sylvia is perfectly right, you must not sit down on the ground without something under you, yes, and you must let her put that wrap over your shoulders, the sun will be going down pretty soon and then it will be quite cool." Polly submitted to Sylvia's attentions none too graciously, but a moment later turned toward the younger girl. "You are a trump, Sylvia," she murmured. "I am sure I don't know what I should have done without you these past two weeks while I will have been ill. It is funny how you should happen to know just what to do for people who are sick when you are so young!" Sylvia sat stolidly down next the speaker. "I am going to be a trained nurse when I am old enough, that's why," she answered calmly, apparently not even observing the surprise of her companions. "You see if I thought I had sense enough I would try to be a doctor, but as I haven't I shall just take care of sick people. I have already learned a good many things this summer." Polly whistled and several of the girls laughed. "I don't doubt it for a moment, Sylvia Wharton!" Polly exclaimed, "for heaven alone can tell what you do know! But it is absurd to talk about your being a nurse, when you will be the richest one of us, child, perhaps even richer than 'The Princess'." There was no reply from Sylvia, only her lips shut tight and her chin looked oddly square and determined for a young girl. But then Sylvia looked like her father, who, one must remember, was a self-made man. And sometimes the daughter also inherits the traits of character that have made the father a success. Eleanor and Juliet at this moment appearing with the tea things, the kettle was hung above the fire on an arrangement of three pronged sticks and not until tea was over did the girls or Betty remember her suggestion. Then she handed Polly a pine knot first. "Thrust this into the fire, Polly, dear, and make a parting wish for Sunrise Camp," Betty explained, "for a few days more you know, and we must fold our tents and say farewell to our summer." Polly quickly thrust her torch into the hottest blaze. "I wish," she said at once, her cheeks hot from the closeness of the flames and from her own thoughts, "that everybody in Sunrise Camp would promise to forgive me for my foolish behavior two weeks ago and all the anxiety and trouble I caused. The camp has given me a new motto this summer that I shall at least try to live up to. It reads: 'Think first!" "Yes, and if you had only thought second and asked for your mail at the post office that day after finding Betty's money, Polly, you would have had your own fifty dollar prize for the best essay on 'A Summer Camp Fire in the Woods'," Mollie added in her usual practical fashion, and then she gave a little sigh of relief that the money had been paid back to Betty without troubling the mother still so far away. "I wonder if Polly is going to be our genius as well as Eleanor," Esther next suggested quietly, "every Camp Fire club is sure to turn out at least one extraordinary person and of course ours will have two or three." Then she blushed hotly in her old embarrassed, fashion, clasping her big hands closely together as Betty, half laughing at her own suggestion, whispered something in her ear. Juliet Field wished the Sunrise Camp long life, and Meg that they might keep up their work together in town during the coming winter, Eleanor that they might spend the next summer together, and then Betty, happening quite by chance to observe a wistful expression on Nan's face, passed the fifth pine stick to her. "Tell us what you are thinking of, Nan," she said, speaking with special friendliness to the one girl who had not had entirely fair treatment at their hands. "I have an idea you have something special on your mind." Nan shook her head, although she did what was asked of her. "Oh no," she explained, "or at least I am afraid you will think my wish very silly. I was just wishing that we were not going back to the village but were going to spend our winter together amid the snows." Nan's suggestion was so surprising that everybody stared at her for one, almost two minutes before Betty spoke. "Very well, Nan, let's stay," she returned, as though making a perfectly ordinary remark. "I can't bear for Esther and me to have to go back alone to our great, empty house with mother and father away and no knowing when they may come back." (There was a catch in Betty's voice that her friends understood, for Mr. Ashton was again seriously ill and there was no hope of his returning to America at present.) "We can't live in our tents of course, but I don't know why we can't build a log cabin and somehow manage to get back and forth to school. When the snow comes we can use our big sled." "You are quite mad, Betty Ashton; Esther, please tie a handkerchief around her lips before she makes us all equally so," Polly requested, "for there is no hope of our doing anything so impossible, as she suggests." And then because she caught an expression almost of agreement on her sister Mollie's face, Polly paused, almost overcome with surprise. Mollie, the sensible; Mollie, the practical--it was incredible. "I don't see that Betty's idea is so foolish, for at least some of us might be able to live in camp this winter," Mollie thinking aloud as she talked. "For you see, the doctor has said that Polly must be out of doors as much as possible for the next year, and mother writes she would rather not come home at present if we can possibly get on without her, for there is something or other going on in Ireland that she has not explained to us, but she says if she can stay a few months longer it may make a difference in all our futures. I believe she would be glad to let us remain in Sunrise Camp for the winter if your mother and father are willing and we can make things comfortable, Betty," she concluded. The mental conception of a group of girls living together in a winter's camp in the woods was evidently too surprising to be grasped all at once, for no one else at the moment had anything to say, and then Esther, glancing off across the fields where a soft September haze suggested the approach of the twilight, exclaimed. "See, there are Miss McMurtry and Edith returning from town. Let us give them our Camp Fire call to welcome them home." "Wohelo for work, Wohelo for health, Wohelo for love!" The ten voices carried the refrain far across the country and somehow the echo returning to them from Sunrise Hill brought with it the suggestion of even happier days to come. The second volume in the Camp Fire Girls' Series will be called "The Camp Fire Girls Amid the Snows." In this book the history of the girls will be revealed under very different conditions. More than ever will their life be built around the fire which has always been the center of the home. Various important changes will take place in the circumstances of the leading characters and mysteries merely suggested in the first story will be developed in the second. The End 
20106	----	HOW ETHEL HOLLISTER BECAME A CAMPFIRE GIRL by IRENE ELLIOTT BENSON Chicago M. A. Donohue & Company * * * * * * CANOE AND CAMPFIRE SERIES Four Books of Woodcraft and Adventure in the Forest and on the Water that every Boy Scout should have in his Library By ST. GEORGE RATHBORNE CANOEMATES IN CANADA; or, Three Boys Afloat on the Saskatchewan. THE YOUNG FUR-TAKERS: or, Traps and Trails in the Wilderness. THE HOUSE-BOAT BOYS; or, Drifting Down to the Sunny South. CHUMS IN DIXIE; or, The Strange Cruise of a Motor Boat. CAMP MATES IN MICHIGAN; or, With Pack and Paddle in the Pine Woods. ROCKY MOUNTAIN BOYS; or, Camping in the Big Game Country. In these four delightful volumes the author has drawn bountifully from his thirty-five years experience as a true sportsman and lover of nature, to reveal many of the secrets of the woods, such as all Boys Scouts strive to know. And, besides, each book is replete with stirring adventures among the four-footed denizens of the wilderness; so that a feast of useful knowledge is served up, with just that class of stirring incidents so eagerly welcomed by all boys with red blood in their veins. For sale wherever books are sold, or sent prepaid for 50 cents each by the publishers. * * * * * * Copyright, 1912, M. A. Donohue & Co. CONTENTS Chapter Page I--A Fashionable Mother 7 II--Ethel Hollister 14 III--Grandmother Hollister 18 IV--A Pink Tea 23 V--An invitation to Aunt Susan 29 VI--Aunt Susan Arrives 41 VII--Aunt Susan Makes Friends 48 VIII--Ethel is Invited to Visit 51 IX--Ethel and Aunt Susan Start 55 X--The Journey 58 XI--The Next Day 62 XII--Ethel Learns to Cook 65 XIII--A Little Drive 68 XIV--Some Confidences 72 XV--A New Ethel 81 XVI--Aunt Susan's Trials 84 XVII--Cousin Kate Arrives 88 XVIII--Selecting the Costume 90 XIX--Ethel Meets Her Uncle and Aunt 97 XX--Gathering of the "Ohios" 103 XXI--The Trip up the River 109 XXII--An Evening in Camp 115 XXIII--The Legend of the Muskingum River 120 XXIV--Ethel's First Day in Camp 141 XXV--Ethel's First Lesson 144 XXVI--A Loss and a Dinner 147 XXVII--A Discovery 153 XXVIII--Mattie's Story 159 XXIX--Mattie Starts Afresh 167 XXX--Aunt Susan Comes 172 XXXI--Back To Aunt Susan's 175 * * * * * * CAMPFIRE GIRLS SERIES HOW ETHEL HOLLISTER BECAME A CAMPFIRE GIRL ETHEL HOLLISTER'S SECOND SUMMER AS A CAMPFIRE GIRL CAMPFIRE GIRLS MOUNTAINEERING CAMPFIRE GIRL'S RURAL RETREAT CAMPFIRE GIRLS IN THE FOREST CAMPFIRE GIRL'S LAKE CAMP List Price 75c Each * * * * * * HOW ETHEL HOLLISTER BECAME A CAMP FIRE GIRL CHAPTER I A FASHIONABLE MOTHER "No indeed, Kate!" ejaculated Mrs. Hollister emphatically, "Ethel has no time to join any Camp Fire Girls or Girl Scout Societies. She has her home and school duties, while her leisure is fully occupied. At present I know with whom she associates. As I understand it, these girls form themselves into a Company with a Guardian or Leader. They wear certain uniforms with emblems on the waists and sleeves, as well as a ring and bands of beads on their heads, all of which savors of conspicuousness, and it seems to me ridiculous." "But, Aunt Bella," replied her niece, "think of what it makes of these girls. It teaches them to take care of themselves. They very often sleep out of doors for two months and get an honor for it." "Yes, imagine a delicate girl like Ethel doing that," rejoined Mrs. Hollister. "Why, she'd contract pneumonia or consumption right away." "But if she were delicate she wouldn't be allowed to do so unless by the advice of a physician. Then for one month she's obliged to give up sodas and candies between meals." "Yes, and isn't that silly? Why, any girl can do that without belonging to a society." "Well, they become healthy and strong; they play all kinds of out of door athletic games; they swim, dive, undress in deep water, paddle or row twenty miles in any five days; they learn to sail all kinds of boats for fifty miles during the summer, ride horse back, bicycle, skate, climb mountains, and even learn how to operate an automobile." "There, Kate, stop; you make me nervous. Now what good is all such exercise to a girl?" "Why, it gives her the splendid health so necessary to every woman, and oh! if only you'd read about it. You won't listen, but they learn how to cook, how to market, to wash and iron, and keep house, how to take care of babies,--and don't you see if a girl marries a poor man she can be a help to him and not a hindrance? Then they have to be kind and courteous, to look for and find the beauties of Nature until work becomes a pleasure and they're happy, cheerful and trustworthy. They give their services to others and learn something new all the time." "My dear Kate," said her aunt, "nowadays a girl has all she can possibly do to fit herself for her future position in society; that is, if her family amounts to anything socially. Why should a girl learn to cook and market unless she intends to marry a poor man, and I don't propose that Ethel shall ever do that. And as for being so athletic, I don't approve of that either. It's all right for a girl to ride. Ethel is a good horsewoman; she learned from a splendid riding master. She plays tennis, golf, and can swim; so you see she has nearly all the requirements of Camp Fire Girls." "Oh, Aunt Bella, she has hardly any. Why, look at the Boy Scout movement--how marvellous it is and how it has grown. It has become an institution, and in England when several Boy Scouts while camping out were drowned, the Government (think of it) sent out a gunboat--sent it up the Thames to bring their bodies back to London. Think of the National recognition. Why, it's spreading so that every boy will become a Scout before long. And the good that they do no one knows." "Well, my dear," said the elder lady, "you are an enthusiast, and naturally as you are a 'Captain' or 'Guardian,' as they call it, your sympathies are all with the organization. But to me it's like marching with the suffragettes. It belongs to the women who favor 'Woman's Rights,' but not for a girl like Ethel." "But you certainly approve of the 'Scout' movement, don't you? Why, boys are joining from every rank of life." "Ah! my dear," broke in Mrs. Hollister, "that's the great trouble. They _are_ from every rank, and that's why I object. Had I a son I should not care to have him become interested in it, and for a girl like Ethel to rub shoulders with 'Tom, Dick and Harry,' it's simply not to be thought of. No, when she marries I trust it will be to a man who can afford to give her enough servants to do the work, a chauffeur to run her automobile, and a captain to sail her yacht. I hope she'll have a competent cook to bake her breads and prepare the soups, roasts, salads, and make preserves. I should feel very badly if she had to wash and iron, wipe her floors, or do any menial work. Were such a thing to happen, I hope I shall not live to see it, that's all. No, kindly drop the subject. Ethel is but sixteen. She'll have all she can do to finish at Madame La Rue's by the time she's eighteen. You know how hard your Uncle Archie works to obtain the money to pay for Ethel's education, and how I manage to keep up appearances on so little. It's all for Ethel. It means everything for her future. She must have the best associates, and when she graduates go with the fashionable set. We are very poor and she must marry well and have her own establishment. All of this Camp Girl business would be of no earthly benefit to her. It's only a fad and I believe not only that, but the 'Scout' movement will die a natural death after a while. Young people must have some way to work off their superfluous energy; these Societies help them to do so. Now remember, Kate, you have a fairly well-to-do father and you need not worry over your future. Not so poor Ethel. That I have to look out for. Please do not refer to this subject again, especially before her. I mean it and shall resent it if you do. I'm sure you'll respect my wishes in the matter." "Of course, I shall, Aunt Bella," replied Kate, "but were you to more thoroughly understand this new movement I'm sure you'd view it differently and change your mind. The Boy Scouts have done so much good, and now this Camp Fire Girl is going to be such an improvement over the ordinary girl. She's going to revolutionize young women and make of them useful members of society--not frivolous butterflies--and it will be carried into the poorer classes and teach girls who have never had a chance, so that they may become good cooks and housekeepers and love beautiful things. And their costume is so pretty and sensible. Oh! I wish you could see it with my eyes." "To me, my dear, it is very like the Salvation Army. They wear badges and uniforms, and they too do much good, I am told. Yet I shouldn't care to have my Ethel become a member of that organization. But hush--remember your promise--not a word. Here she comes." CHAPTER II ETHEL HOLLISTER A young girl entered. She was lovely with the beauty of a newly opened rose. Her features were exquisite. Her rippling brown hair matched her eyes in color. Her complexion was creamy white with a faint touch of pink in either cheek. Although her figure was girlish it was perfectly formed and she carried herself well; still she looked delicate. The mother and daughter were alike save where Mrs. Hollister's face was hard and worldly, Ethel's was soft and innocent. "Well, dearie," said her mother, "here's an invitation for you from the Kips. Dorothy will celebrate her fifteenth birthday on Saturday with a luncheon and matinee party." "Oh, how perfectly lovely," exclaimed the girl, showing her pretty teeth as she laughed. "Dorothy is such a dear. Why, she hardly knows me. She's only been at Madame's half a term." "Never under-rate yourself, Ethel," spoke up Mrs. Hollister. "Remember that you belong to one of New York's oldest families. Although you have but little money, people are sure to seek you not only for your family name but because you are an acquisition to any society." Ethel blushed painfully while Cousin Kate gazed out upon the budding leaves on a tree in front of the Hollister house. By a keen observer her private opinion might be read in every line of her face. She loved Ethel and her grandmother--old Mrs. Hollister. She pitied her Uncle Archie, but she despised her Aunt Bella and rejoiced that at least none of that lady's blood flowed in her veins. She worried over Ethel who, notwithstanding her mother's worldliness was as yet unspoiled, for the child inherited much of her father's good sense. Still under the constant influence of a woman of Mrs. Hollister's type it would be strange if the daughter failed to follow in some of her mother's footsteps or to imbibe some of her fallacies. "I'm going up to tell Grandmamma," said Ethel, and bursting into the room she kissed the old lady. "Listen, Grandmamma, I'm invited to Dorothy Kip's birthday--a luncheon and matinee party." "That's lovely, my darling," replied the elderly woman. "When does it come off?" "Next Saturday, and I presume we'll go to Sherry's to lunch. Think of it! I've never been there--I'm so glad," and she danced around the room. "And my new grey broadcloth suit with silver fox will be just right to wear. You know the lovely grey chiffon waist over Irish lace that Mamma has just finished, and my grey velvet hat with rosebuds and silver fox fur--won't it be stunning?" "You'll look lovely, I know. But where is Cousin Kate?" "Oh, she's with Mamma. I entered the room while they were in the midst of an argument and they stopped suddenly. I guess it was about me. You know how set Mamma is in her way, and she was reading the riot act about something. As Kate leaves here tomorrow, shouldn't you think that Mamma would be too polite to differ with her? But no, she was talking quite loudly. I wish I might go home with Kate. I'd like to see her father and mother; they must be lovely. "They are," replied Grandmother Hollister. "Your Uncle John is my oldest boy, and he has the sunniest nature imaginable." "Yes, and Kate does something in the world," replied the girl. "I wish I might belong to her Camp Fire Girls that she has told you and me about. But Mamma--why! I shouldn't even dare suggest it; in fact, she doesn't dream that I know about Kate's being the Guardian of a Company. I feared that she might be rude if I spoke of it and might say something to offend Kate. Well, goodbye dear, I just wanted to tell you," and with another kiss Ethel left the room. CHAPTER III GRANDMOTHER HOLLISTER Old Mrs. Hollister's room was on the third floor back. It was large and sunny, but considering that she owned the house it was rather peculiar that she had such an inferior room. She and her sister Susan were the only children of Josiah Carpenter, a wealthy man living in Akron, Ohio. Upon his death the girls found themselves alone and heiresses. Alice, while visiting in New York, met Archibald Hollister, who belonged to an old and respected family but who was of no earthly account as a business man. His handsome face won pretty Alice Carpenter. He was not long in spending nearly all of her fortune, but he really was considerate enough to contract pneumonia and die before he obtained possession of her house, which fortunately was in her name and unmortgaged. She had two sons--John, Kate's father, who lived in Columbus, Ohio, and Archibald with whom she now made her home. Archibald loved his mother and begged her to let him pay her rent for the house, but she replied that if he would pay the taxes and keep the house in repair it would equal the rent. Her sister Susan still lived in the same town where they had been born. She had never married. People told Archibald Hollister that his Aunt Susan was a millionaire. Every investment that she made was successful. She had adopted and educated two orphan boys, one of whom had died, while the other was finishing college, after which he was to become a lawyer. Aunt Susan seldom wrote of herself. She corresponded with Alice (Grandmother Hollister) about twice a year, and at Christmas she invariably sent her a generous check. Grandmother Hollister and her son were alike in many ways. They were free from all false pride and privately they considered Mrs. Hollister a snob, and worried lest Ethel should become one. Archibald seldom asserted himself, but when he did his word was law. While his wife was a social climber he was exactly the opposite. He had been known to bring home the most disreputable looking men--men who had been his friends in youth and who were playing in hard luck. He would ask them to dinner without even sending word, and his wife would invariably plead a sick headache to get rid of sitting with them. She dared not interfere nor object for she was just a little afraid of him and she realized that in nearly everything he allowed her to have her own way. Mrs. Hollister told Ethel privately that both here father and grandmother were old fashioned. Although living in a handsome house they kept but one maid. Mr. Hollister's salary was but a little over three thousand, and at times they had hard work to make both ends meet. Ethel attended a fashionable school and hardly realized what the family sacrificed for her. She made many friends among the wealthy girls of the smart set. Thanks to her mother's skill and taste she was enabled to dress beautifully, but youth is thoughtless and she was just a little too self centered to see that her parents were depriving themselves for her. Mrs. Hollister gave bridge parties, and once every two weeks a tea for Ethel. Upon those days she hired two extra maids. It was pitiable to see how she strove to keep up appearances. There was a young man whose sister went with the set of girls who came to Ethel's teas. His name was Harvey Bigelow. One of his sisters had married into the nobility. He had a large Roman nose and a receding forehead, but Mrs. Hollister was delighted when one afternoon Nannie Bigelow--his sister--brought him to the house. He was only nineteen and at college. Ethel disliked him from the first. "Why, dear, why are you so rude to Mr. Bigelow? He's a gentleman," said Mrs. Hollister. "Yes, Mamma, but I simply cannot endure him," replied the girl. "For one thing his nails are too shiny, and that shows his lack of refinement. I don't care if his sister married the King, he's common--that's all." It was then that Mrs. Hollister would declare that Ethel was exactly like her father and grandmother. CHAPTER IV A PINK TEA Although old Mrs. Hollister owned the house and nearly all of the handsome antique furniture, Mrs. Archie seemed often to forget that fact, and from her manner one might infer that the lady regarded her mother-in-law as a sort of interloper. The old lady would allow her to go just so far, after which she would suddenly pull her up with a sharp turn and admonish her with such a cutting rebuke that Mrs. Archie would blush painfully and apologize. But while antagonistic on most points they each agreed on Ethel. Even Grandmother felt that her daughter-in-law was wise in trying to fit the girl for the smart set, where she would have social position and money, and she even sided with the wife against her son, who considered it all wrong. One afternoon Archibald Hollister came home early and ran right into the "Pink Tea" crowd. Old Mrs. Hollister, tastefully gowned in black and white, sat in the library where the maids brought up refreshments to her. A young musician whose mother had been a schoolmate of Mrs. Hollister's, and who was poor, played the piano from four to seven for the small sum of three dollars. Everything went off pleasantly. The maids acted as though they were really fixtures in the house. The refreshments were excellent. No wonder with the line of autos before the door people considered the Hollisters wealthy, "but plain and solid with no airs, etc." Old Mrs. Hollister enjoyed young people's society, and they all voted her a dear. She'd invite their confidences, and before leaving each girl would come up to the library for a chat with Grandmother. "Oh, Mrs. Hollister," said Lottie Owen, a girl of Ethel's age, "have you heard about the 'turkey trot?' We can't dance it any more,--it's been suppressed." "How does it go?" asked the old lady. "I've read something of it." "Well, just wait,--I'll get Nannie Bigelow and we'll dance it for you." Thereupon the two girls would show Grandmother Hollister the steps. "That's something like the 'Boston Dip,'" responded she very much excited. "Why, when I was a girl my mother took me away from a cotillion one night because they danced it," and she grew pretty as she excitedly told of her younger days. "I bet you were lovely, Mrs. Hollister," said Nannie. "Ethel will never be as pretty as you were. We were looking at your portrait in the drawing room. You must have been fascinating, and as for Mr. Hollister--your husband--well, he was just a dear." The old lady blushed. Here Lottie spoke up: "Yes, and people say you were such a belle. Old Mr. Tupper was at our house and met Ethel, and he told us a lot about you. But here's Mr. Hollister," and they rushed forward to greet her son. "Well, well!" he exclaimed gallantly, "I didn't expect to get into such a garden of roses. And you, too, Mother--why, you've actually grown younger." "That's just what we tell her," said Nannie. "We've been dancing the 'turkey trot' for her," they whispered, slyly kissing her goodbye. These were happy afternoons for Grandmother, after which she and her son would sit and chat. "It sort of livens things up to have young people about, doesn't it, Mother?" he said, taking a cup of tea and a sandwich. "Yes, Archie, it certainly does; but you look tired." "I am, Mother," replied the man, "I wish Ethel was finished with her school and happily married. This strain is telling on me and I suppose poor Bella suffers from it even as I do." "It's too bad, Archie. I don't like this sailing under false colors. People imagine Ethel a wealthy girl. Probably they think she'll inherit my money. Of course, they never dream that I'm penniless and that you have a salary of only three thousand a year; but so long as we keep out of debt I don't know as we are doing wrong." "Has Kate gone?" he asked. "Yes, she left this morning. Bella took her to the train. She's gone to visit her mother's people in Tarrytown. Kate's a nice girl." "She's a sensible girl. I only hope that Ethel will grow into as good a woman as Kate Hollister," said Archibald. "You see, Kate has a new fad," began Grandmother--"not a fad either; its purpose is too earnest to call it that. She is the head of a Company of girls called 'Camp Fire Girls.' They are something like the 'Boy Scout Organization.' The object is to make girls healthy. It gives them knowledge; it causes them to work and learn to love it; it makes them trustworthy; they begin to search for beauty in Nature and they're perfectly happy. I remember that much, but the sum and substance of it is that it teaches a girl everything that is useful. Kate is the Guardian of one Camp Fire section. They meet weekly and from what she tells me it must be a great thing. Kate spoke of it to Bella but she ridiculed it and forbade her to speak of it to Ethel. She declares it is like the Salvation Army, etc., and Kate promised not to, I think she had hoped to secure Ethel for one of the girls next summer." "Well, there's no need of us trying to oppose Bella," said her son. "She is determined that Ethel shall make a brilliant match and in her eyes this would be a waste of time. No, Mother, the best thing for you and me to do is to travel along the lines of the least resistance. Come,--dinner is ready. I'll help you down." CHAPTER V AN INVITATION TO AUNT SUSAN One afternoon Mrs. Hollister called Ethel into her room. After closing the door she said, "Ethel, I have written to your father's Aunt Susan, who lives in Akron, to come here and make us a visit. You know she's Grandmother's only sister, and I think it will do them both good to see each other. Grandmother is delighted and I expect that Aunt Susan will accept," and Mrs. Hollister calmly drew on her gloves. Now, as her mother was not in the habit of considering her grandmother's comfort, and as the two women were seldom of one accord, Ethel looked at her furtively and with a puzzled expression of countenance, but that lady acted not the least embarrassed. It seemed strange to Ethel that all at once she should wish to cheer up her mother-in-law by inviting her country sister to visit them, but the girl simply said: "That's lovely, Mamma," and went up to her room to study. Although she disliked to credit her mother with such artifices, she finally hit upon a solution of the object of the invitation. It must be that it was Aunt Susan's money she was after, and why? Suddenly, it all came to the girl--it was to get Aunt Susan to like her (Ethel, her grand-niece) and make her her heiress, if not to all at least to a part of her fortune. Ethel sat and gazed at the pretty room in which Mrs. Hollister had spent so much time decorating and making attractive. In her heart there was a desire to denounce her mother. Then, when she realized that it was all being done to benefit herself, she could feel nothing but pity for the woman whose one thought in life was for her daughter. She thought: "She will even tell people that I am Aunt Susan's heiress, and I must sit by and know that it is untrue. Everything is untrue in this house. Oh, how I wish I could get away from it all!" But to her grandmother she told her suspicions. "Never mind, my lamb," said the old lady. "I know Susan well enough to say that she will love you for yourself, and probably she does intend to leave you and Kate half of her fortune at least. If it serves to help your mother socially, why Susan wouldn't care--she'd only laugh. Susan's very keen and sharp, my child. No one can make her do what she doesn't care to. Now don't you worry over anything. When she comes just be kind and polite to her and help make her visit pleasant." "But, Grandmamma, I should die of mortification if she even conceived the idea that mother had that in her mind when she asked her here for a visit. Oh, I couldn't endure it. Please never let her know what I suspect. Will you promise, or I cannot look into her face." "Your Aunt Susan shall never suspect such a thing from me. I promise," replied Grandmamma Hollister. "I am only too glad to see her once more. I could almost forgive your mother for any duplicity in it so long as she can come, for Susan and I are growing old and it will not be many years before one of us goes. But, Ethel, don't expect to see any style. Aunt Susan is a plain country woman. It may be a trial for you to have to go out with her." "Oh, never, if she's like you, Grandmother," said the girl, kissing her, "and she is your own sister. She must be like you. But there's Nannie Bigelow and Grace McAllister. I wonder what they want." "Hello! Ethel," called two young voices, "we're coming up. Your mother said we might." "All right, girls; I'm in Grandmamma's room," replied Ethel, "come in here." After greeting the old lady affectionately they began: "What do you know about it?" said Grace--"here Dorothy Kip has joined a new Society called the 'Camp Fire Girls,' and from the first day of vacation--May fifteenth--until October she's going to live in the woods and camp out." "Yes," broke in Nannie Bigelow, "I'm just crazy to belong but Mamma won't let me because she heard that two of the girls who are to be in the Company live in the Bronx in a small flat and go to public school. But Connie Westcott's aunt is to be the head or 'Guardian,' and these girls are in her Sunday School class. She likes them and insists upon their becoming members. Isn't it ridiculous, Mrs. Hollister, that just because these girls are poor they're not considered fit to associate with us by some mothers, and I mean mine. As if I was half as good as they. Why, my great-grandfather was a shoemaker. Papa told me all about it, and he was a dandy good shoemaker, too; but Mother gets furious when I refer to it," and Nannie threw herself in a chair before the open fire that Grandmother Hollister always kept lighted save in warm weather. "I know my mother wouldn't let me join," said Ethel. "Why, Kate Hollister is the Guardian of a Company in Columbus, Ohio, and Mother wouldn't allow her to speak of it even. She says it's like the Salvation Army, and such ridiculous nonsense. Oh, dear! all the mothers are alike, I'm afraid. We'll never have real fun until after we're married or become old maids." Just then they were interrupted by the arrival of Connie Westcott, Dorothy Kip, and two or three more of Ethel's young friends, to whom they explained the subject under discussion. "Well, my mother will let me join," said Connie, "and Dorothy's has allowed her." "Yes," broke in Dorothy, "I was sure Mother would allow me to if Miss Westcott was to be the Guardian." "It must be a fine organization," said Mrs. Hollister, knitting steadily with the yellow lace falling over her still pretty hands. "I wish we had known of something like that in my young day. Why, it must be like one continuous picnic." "I'll tell you what they do," said Sara Judson, "they first learn how to put out a fire. Supposing one's clothes should catch; they could save one's life. Then, in summer, or through the ice in winter, they rescue drowning people who have never learned to swim. They know what to do for an open cut; for fainting; how to bandage and use surgeon's plaster. They can cook at least two meals, mend stockings, sew, etc., and keep one's self free from colds and illness. They sleep in the open, and my! what fine health it gives a girl, and it makes a perfect athlete of her. She can cook and bake, market, and know just how to choose meats and vegetables. She can become a fine housekeeper as well, and learn how to make lovely gardens. Why, I'll bring you a book, Mrs. Hollister. I couldn't begin to tell you how wonderful it is. If a girl lives up to all the rules and can learn everything that is taught she's a wonder, that's all. So I hope some day Ethel can join, even if later." "Oh, I'll never be allowed to join, girls. I'm to be a parlor ornament," and Ethel's eyes filled with tears. "Never mind," said Constance White, "how desolate the home furnishings would be without lovely bric-a-brac." "Yes," replied Grandmother Hollister, "whatever position a girl occupies if she fills it creditably she will have done her duty." "I know that Ethel will be the head of a large and magnificent establishment," said Nannie Bigelow. "She's just the style of a girl." Ethel half laughed and dried her eyes on her Grandmother's handkerchief. "I don't care," she faltered, "think of living out in a camp and sitting around the fire telling stories. And I shall never be allowed to do it." "Now you buck up, old girl," said Dorothy Kip abruptly. "Oh, excuse me, Mrs. Hollister, but sometimes I just love to use slang. You go ahead and wish hard for what you want and you'll get it. I always do. Say, don't you know that you can influence others to think exactly as you do? By wishing with all your might you can will it to be done." Everyone laughed. Dorothy was an odd roly poly pretty girl of fifteen. She was the only sister and idol of four brothers whom she copied in every way. The newest slang was invariably on her tongue, and the family laughed at and petted her. In their eyes everything she did was perfect. She was a general favorite at school, but Madame La Rue declared that she would never become a perfect lady while her brothers lived at home; but she was kind-hearted and generous. Mrs. Hollister, Senior, liked her immensely. She always called her "Grandma." "Do you know what I'm going in for?" she asked of the old lady. "Well, I'll tell you--it's babies!" Everyone laughed. "You needn't laugh. Next year I'm going to take all of my spending money excepting ten dollars and hire two rooms and a kitchenette. Dad gives me sixty dollars per. I'm going to take thirty-five for rent and the boys will help me furnish. Then I'm going to beg my friends for contributions and open a Day Nursery. Of course, I'll have to get a woman for fifteen dollars a month to take care of the babies, and the mothers can pay four cents a day for each child." "Why, Dorothy Kip," exclaimed the girls. "You couldn't get any servant for fifteen dollars a month." "I can, and don't you forget it. Old Susan Conner, who used to be my brother Tom's nurse, has offered to come for fifteen dollars. She likes me and she's willing to help me in this charity. We've talked it all over. Susan is some class now and has her two-room-and-bath apartment. She's old and hasn't much to do and she has enough to live on, so she's offered to come; and I'm going to spend just ten dollars on myself each month in place of sixty for candy and soda and such nonsense. No one knows of it but Susan and I. I'm going to beg for oatmeal and rice and bread of the grocers with whom we've traded for years, and if they refuse I'll influence Mother to leave them. Then I think Dad will help me out on milk and anything needed. I'll confide in him." "That's a fine and magnificent idea, Dorothy," said Mrs. Hollister, "and you'll become a public benefactor." "Well, you see, Mrs. Hollister, I like the little kids and I've seen such pitiful faces on some where the sisters have had to take care of them while the mothers worked. So I made up my mind I could take ten little ones anyway. Then the mothers' four cents will be forty cents a day. That will pay for some, of the food. Oh! I'm going to become a beggar and ask every friend to help me. Maybe it will fail but I can try. The boys will give, I'm sure." "Yes, Dorothy, and I bet you'll succeed," said the girls. "We'll help, too." Then each girl pledged herself for what she could afford to give. "Well, you're awfully good, I'm sure," said Dorothy. "I never dreamed you'd all come forward. You're certainly sports, every one of you, and I'm obliged more than I can tell you." "Who knows," said Grandmother Hollister, "but when you're grown up, you'll have a large house, and it may be called 'The Kip Day Nursery' and each of you girls here may be lady managers. They all grow from small beginnings. And, Dorothy, you may put me down for ten dollars," said Mrs. Hollister. "Oh, say, you're a thoroughbred, you are," and the girl kissed her impulsively several times. Now Grandmother Hollister had been saving that particular ten for a new lace scarf. It had been sent to her on her birthday by her son John, but she couldn't resist giving it. She could do without the scarf, and ten dollars would buy a couple or more warm rugs for the babies to sit on, for little ones like to sit on the floor. The girls stayed in her room and chatted until dusk. They talked as freely before the old lady as before one another. That evening Ethel asked her grandmother if there wasn't some way by which she could get away that summer and go to visit Cousin Kate. "I'll think it over," replied Grandmother; "you certainly need the country. You look thin and peaked." "Yes, and Mamma will take me to Newport or Narragansett, and I hate it. Why, it's just like New York. You meet the very same people and I never cared for the water as I care for inland or mountains. Do think out a way, Grandmamma. You always manage to do everything just right." "I'll try," replied Mrs. Hollister. CHAPTER VI AUNT SUSAN ARRIVES The next morning there came a letter of acceptance from Aunt Susan. She would arrive on Friday. This was Thursday. Grandmother Hollister hummed a little song as she went up stairs. "It will do Mother lots of good," ejaculated Mr. Hollister. "It was kind of you, Bella, to think of that." Mrs. Hollister blushed. Ethel watched her as she slowly sipped her coffee. Mrs. Hollister was a peculiar woman. She was truthful and frank when she wished to be. Now she realized that her husband trusted and had faith in her and that Ethel was furtively watching her, so she said: "Well, Archie, perhaps I was a little selfish in asking Aunt Susan. Perhaps I did it to help Ethel a bit as well as to please Mother. Aunt Susan is wealthy. Now why shouldn't Ethel come in for some of her money as well as that adopted boy?" "Why, Bella," said her husband, "is it possible that you had only that idea in your head when you invited my aunt here?" "No, not entirely. I knew that it would please your mother, and I could kill two birds with one stone. That's why." Ethel saw a peculiar look come upon her father's face. She had noticed it when he brought home his disreputable looking friends to dine and when her mother objected. He turned to his daughter. "Ethel," he said, "I wish you to help and make your Aunt Susan's visit very pleasant. I would like you to take her out and show her everything, and Grandmother must go along also. You will be doing me a great favor if you will." "Papa, I'll do my best to make it pleasant," replied the girl, kissing him. Then, without looking at his wife, Mr. Hollister left the room, followed by his daughter. "So that was her object!" he exclaimed, as Ethel helped him on with his coat. "What would Aunt Susan think were she to know? Your mother wishes you to ingratiate yourself with my aunt so that she'll leave you the lion's share of her money. Why, she'd probably leave my brother John and me a remembrance anyway, and you and Kate would benefit by it. Well, this is a strange world, my child. I wish your mother was less politic, but I presume it is done for you, Ethel, so we mustn't be too hard on her. She's a good mother to you, my dear, and has great ambition for you. I only hope that you'll be happy. Never marry for money alone--that's a sin--remember." "I will, Papa," said the girl blushing. "I may never marry, and then you and I can live together. Wouldn't we have fun?" Aunt Susan arrived. Ethel gazed at her spellbound. She had the kindest face she had ever seen, but oh! how old fashioned she looked. Her grey hair was drawn tightly back into a cracker knot. In front she wore a bunch of tight frizzes under a little flat velvet hat with strings, something of the style of 1879. Her gown was of black made with a full skirt trimmed with black satin bands. She wore an old-fashioned plush dolman heavily beaded and covered with fringe. Her shoes were thick like a man's, and to crown all she carried a fish-net bag. She didn't seem to realize that she looked behind the times. Ethel thought that her teeth and eyes were the loveliest that she had ever seen on a woman of her age, for she was grandmother's senior. She and Mrs. Hollister looked enough alike to be twins. They fell upon each other's neck and wept. Ethel was mentally hoping that Aunt Susan would purchase some modern clothes or that none of her fashionable friends would meet her, for among them were some who would laugh at the old lady, and the girl felt that she'd die of mortification and anger,--not the girls with whom she was intimate and who came to see her daily, but the girls who belonged to the exclusive set, and with whom Ethel and her friends seldom went as they were much younger. The day following Mrs. Hollister phoned for a taxi, and to Ethel's horror she ordered an open one. Ethel was to take Aunt Susan and Grandmother for a drive. She dared not demur. Had she not promised her father to do everything for Aunt Susan? Could she hurt her dear grandmother's feelings? And last of all, she would not admit to her mother the fact that she was ashamed of Aunt Susan's appearance. No, so she went. As it was early in April and cool, upon this occasion Aunt Susan wore ear tabs, over which she tied a thick, green veil, when it grew warmer in the sunshine she removed the veil. They drove up Riverside to Grant's Tomb, where Aunt Susan insisted upon getting out. Fortunately Ethel encountered no one whom she knew, but as they were driving up Lafayette Boulevard they passed Estelle Mason, one of her swell friends. The chills ran up and down Ethel's spine, while she sat with her lips compressed. The girl bowed and deliberately giggled. Even grandmother, who looked lovely, grew red. But Aunt Susan seemed not to notice it. "I am a snob just like mother," thought the girl. "I ought to be ashamed of myself. I'll never speak to Estelle again, the rude upstart! They say she prides herself on her family, but I can't see that her good blood has made a lady of her," and into Ethel's eyes came tears. "Ethel, my dear," said Aunt Susan, "you're looking badly. Your cheeks are flushed. Do you feel ill?" "No, Aunt Susan," she replied. "I always grow red when riding in the wind." Grandmother had seen it all and pitied the girl. "Deafness comes early in the Carpenter family," persisted Aunt Susan. "Here, take this veil, dear, do, and tie it over your ears." But Ethel declined, and to her joy the ride was soon over. In the privacy of her room Grandmother Hollister confided to Ethel that really Aunt Susan ought to dress differently. "I understand how you felt, dear," she continued, "when you met that rude Mason girl and she laughed, but there's bad blood there. I know all about her and her grandparents. My dear child, her grandmother used to be a waitress way out West where her grandfather owned mines, and he boarded at the house where she worked, fell in love and married her. Probably there's where she gets her rudeness." "Why, Grandmother, how did you know that?" asked Ethel. "There's little I don't know about the fine old New York families, my dear. Remember I married into one and I heard a great deal." After that Ethel felt comforted. CHAPTER VII AUNT SUSAN MAKES FRIENDS In less than a week Mrs. Hollister had circulated the report that Aunt Susan was an immensely wealthy but eccentric old maid, and that Ethel was to be her heiress. The report spread like wildfire. Then Mrs. Hollister took the girl and told her that she must begin and make herself invaluable to Aunt Susan, so that she alone would inherit her immense fortune. "Of course," she said, "she'll leave your Cousin Kate some if it, but why should that adopted son get the lion's share? You might just as well have it." Ethel had to go everywhere with Aunt Susan,--she who so disliked anything savoring of the conspicuous. She could hear the sneers and laughter of Estelle Mason's set of girls and could see their looks of amusement. At first she rebelled, but the dislike of offending her grandmother and fear of disobeying her mother made her meekly submit, and like a martyr she went. Aunt Susan was such a lovely character that Ethel was ashamed of herself, for everything seemed to please her so, and she kept dwelling upon the fact that the family (especially Ethel) was so kind that she should never forget it. But although she bought expensive gifts for the three women, they dared not suggest her spending anything on herself. Something kept them from it and told them that she might become offended and leave the house. Gradually the friends of the Hollisters' came and fell in love with Aunt Susan. She was such a lady and had such charming manners. Besides, knowing her to be a wealthy woman, they accepted her with her peculiar gowns, even inviting her to teas, etc. Never did an old lady have such a fine visit. Harvey Bigelow was most attentive to her, Aunt Susan declaring him to be a likely fellow, and wondering why her niece Kate didn't fancy him. She spoke often of Thomas Harper--her adopted son and protege. He was a fine lawyer and was devoted to her. She received letters from him twice a week, from which she read extracts. Mrs. Hollister declared that he was crafty and after Aunt Susan's money, and it seemed to worry her not a little. She even started in to insinuate as much to the lady, who gazed at her peculiarly until Grandmother took her alone one day and said: "If ever you expect to make Aunt Susan fond of Ethel you are going to work the wrong way. She's very sharp, and if you speak ill of Thomas Harper you'll show your hand--I warn you. "She'll do as she chooses and you can't compel her to do otherwise. She's fond of Ethel now for herself. I warn you, Bella, not to let your greediness make Susan know you as you are. I'd like her to keep the good opinion of you that she has at present." Mrs. Hollister knew that her mother-in-law spoke the truth and she said nothing, but left the room. CHAPTER VIII ETHEL IS INVITED TO VISIT One morning in May, as the last days of Aunt Susan's visit were drawing to a close, she said to Mrs. Hollister: "Bella, Ethel tells me that her vacation begins next week. Now I've been thinking it over. The child doesn't look strong. She needs country air. I don't mean your fashionable places, but where she can live out of doors in a simple gown, play games, and take long walks, etc. Now you've given me such a pleasant time that I'm going to invite her to go home with me. I'll wait for her school to close and we can start from here Saturday." Mrs. Hollister was overjoyed. Of all things that was what she had most desired and, too, it would save them much expense, for a summer's trip to a fashionable hotel made a large hole in Archibald Hollister's salary. "Yes, indeed, Aunt Susan, she will be simply delighted to go," replied the lady. "I'll get her ready at once." "She'll need nothing new," called out Aunt Susan. "We're very plain people. We live simply, and her gowns and hats will seem like visions of Paris fashions to the girls in our town. Then I shall ask Kate to come for a visit as well. And, by the way, Bella, come back; I wish to say something. You know my niece Kate goes up into Camp this summer with her girls. Now I should like Ethel to go along. It is a great movement--this Camp Fire movement--and it will do the child lots of good, for she strikes me as very delicate." Mrs. Hollister gasped. "Yes," she replied, "Kate spoke to me of it but I shouldn't care for Ethel to join." "Why not?" asked Aunt Susan. "It certainly is the most creditable thing any girl can join. It's a wonderful institution. What objection can you have?" and she looked at her niece tentatively. Mrs. Hollister reviewed the situation as she stood there. It would not do for her to air her objections to Aunt Susan. She was just a little afraid of that lady and wished her to have a good opinion of her, so she continued reluctantly: "Well, you see, Aunt Susan, it is such a strenuous life, and Ethel is not over robust. I'm almost afraid it might do her more harm than good." "Nonsense, Bella," replied Aunt Susan, "that's the most shallow objection you could advance. I should deem it a personal favor if you'll give your consent." Now Mrs. Hollister dared not withhold her consent, and yet she was angry. That Ethel was at last to be entrapped into belonging to that detestable Organization was what she had never dreamed could take place. She was caught and trapped; there was no help. Even though she gave her consent, after Ethel came home in the fall she could talk her out of it. So she said with a of show amiability: "Since you desire it, Aunt Susan, I'll consent, but I don't approve of it at all, I must admit." "Thank you," replied Aunt Susan. "I think you'll feel differently when you see Ethel upon her return home this fall. All of the girls in Akron are joining. They're crazy over it." Mrs. Hollister replied that she was open to conviction and should be glad if Ethel derived any benefit from it. "But what shall I buy for her to wear?" she asked. "I will attend to her outfit," replied Aunt Susan. "It is not expensive." CHAPTER IX ETHEL AND AUNT SUSAN START Ethel was overjoyed that permission had been obtained to allow her to become a Camp Fire Girl. "Isn't Aunt Susan clever to have been able to have gotten Mother to change her mind?" Grandmother smiled but said nothing, but when alone Mrs. Hollister said: "Ethel, remember that you are in line for Aunt Susan's money. Grandmother says she admires you and thinks that you have shown her great courtesy--says you've been kindness itself to her--so it has paid, hasn't it, dear? Now your visit will do the business, and you'll probably come in for the lion's share. Of course, you are only sixteen, but who knows what may happen? When you finish school you may become the Duchess of Everton's sister-in-law--think of it--and I alone shall be responsible." "Oh, Mamma," replied Ethel, growing red, "you know I am only a young girl yet. Besides, I loathe Harvey Bigelow. He talks through his nose and is vulgar." "Nonsense," replied her mother, "look at all of the young men of today, especially among the rich. Are they so very good looking?" "Yes," replied Ethel, "I think Dorothy Kip has four fine looking brothers, and I know lots of good looking young men, but I can't endure Harvey Bigelow although I love Nannie." "Well, Harvey averages well as to looks, and think of his position and family, and you a poor man's daughter. If you'll be guided by me, my dear, I'll put you above them all. Were your father to die what could you do? Should you like to be a saleswoman?" Ethel was angry but she knew that her mother spoke wisely. She, too, loved money and position, as well perhaps as Mrs. Hollister, but she was not quite so worldly. The Saturday arrived at last and they started for Akron. Although Ethel felt ashamed to admit it, owing to Aunt Susan's conspicuous appearance, she dreaded the train ordeal, but there was no help for it. She did speak of it to her mother, who calmly surveyed her daughter and replied: "Ethel, I fear you are a snob." The girl regarded her mother with astonishment, who without embarrassment calmly continued: "Did you ever see me act as though I was ashamed of your aunt?" And as Ethel thought, she was forced to admit that she never had, for Mrs. Hollister was a strange anomaly. Her snobbishness seemed to lie in the desire to rise socially--to take her place with the best--but she never had seemed to even take exception to Aunt Susan's appearance; in fact, she felt that people would consider it the eccentricity of a wealthy woman. She went with her everywhere and never was ashamed, therefore her reproof to her daughter was sincere. CHAPTER X THE JOURNEY The journey was very pleasant. Ethel enjoyed it. Aunt Susan removed her hat and tied the objectionable green veil around her head. This didn't seem quite so out of place. As they talked Ethel noticed that Aunt Susan was wonderfully well informed on every subject. She was like an encyclopedia, and her conversation was most interesting. As they were nearing their destination many of her townspeople passed through the train. They greeted her most heartily with: "Well, well, Mrs. Carpenter, we have missed you. Had a pleasant time?" "How's my boy?" she asked of one man. "My, but he's fine," rejoined the man,--"won a big case the other day. Haven't you heard about it? Sears, the automobile man--someone accused him of infringing on his patent, and he--Sears--sued him. Tom won the suit. Everyone is congratulating him," etc. Each person had some report of Tom. "They seem to love Aunt Susan," thought Ethel. "It only goes to show how much people think of money. Perhaps were she poor they wouldn't notice her." But wasn't her own mother a money-worshipper, and didn't she herself care for people who had it? "I suppose it's the way of the world," she thought. The train slowed into the depot. A tall broad-shouldered athletic looking fellow entered the car and grasped Aunt Susan by the waist, and as he lifted her almost from the floor he kissed her affectionately saying: "Oh, my! but Aunt Susan I've missed you," and his voice rang manly and true. Ethel liked his face. He had keen but pleasant grey eyes, a square jaw, large mouth and fine teeth. "But alas!" she thought, "how terribly he dresses, with his loosely tied black cravat, a slouch hat, low collar and wide trousers--like types of eccentric literary men seen on the stage and in pictures." He was absolutely devoid of style, yet everyone seemed to look up to him and lots of pretty girls blushed unconsciously as he returned their bows. Aunt Susan must have spoken to everyone who passed. They all seemed to know her well. As they drove up and alighted at the door of a small plain house she must have noticed a disappointed look in her niece's eyes, for she said: "Your Grandmother and I were born here, my dear. That large house on the hill once belonged to me, but I disposed of it and moved here. I love the associations. Although it is very primitive. I trust you may be happy in it while visiting under its roof." And indeed it was primitive with its wooden shutters and piazza with a stone floor made of pieces of flagging. The rooms were low-ceilinged with windows of tiny panes, whose white muslin curtains were trimmed with ball fringe made by Aunt Susan. There were ingrain carpets on the floor and old-fashioned mahogany furniture--the real thing, not reproductions. It was massive and handsome with exquisite hand carving. Ethel's floor was covered with the old-fashioned rag carpeting and rugs to match. Vases of roses were on the bureau and stand, evidently put there by "Mr. Thomas" as she called him. CHAPTER XI THE NEXT DAY She slept as she had never before slept and was awakened in the morning by the robins that sang in the white blossomed cherry trees. It was so lovely that she lay quite still to listen. Then she arose, but before dressing she gazed out of the window. They were over a mile from the town. The path up from the gate was bordered on either side by spring flowers. Immense trees hid the road from view but she could hear the toot of the motors in passing and it all seemed strange, for the house was over one hundred years old, and everything, even to the pump in the yard, was so old-fashioned. Ethel looked sideways at the house on the hill in which Aunt Susan told her she had once lived. It was immense,--more like an Institution. Probably it had been sold and remodeled, and perhaps was something of the sort now, thought Ethel. She dressed and went down stairs. Aunt Susan must have been up some time, for the house looked so clean, and the odor of roses was everywhere,--roses on the old-fashioned piano, on the mantel, and on the breakfast table. Ethel ate heartily, everything tasted so good. Old Jane, the maid of all work, had been with her Aunt Susan ever since her father's death many years before, and she was a woman who cooked most deliciously. Ethel wondered why Aunt Susan kept but one maid, although she ceased to wonder at anything after Aunt Susan had finished breakfast. "Tom lives in Akron at the hotel," said she. "He has many clients, some of whom can only consult him in the evening, and that's why he cannot stay here with me. But until I left for New York," she continued, "I had the village school teacher for company. You see, although this place belongs to Akron, there are many children who cannot journey back and forth to school, so we have a little schoolhouse near. The teacher usually boards with me, and with Jane in the kitchen I am well protected." Ethel pondered. She had solved the mystery. Aunt Susan was a miser, of that there was no doubt. Imagine a woman of her immense wealth taking a boarder and living as she did. Ethel wondered if at night when everyone was sound asleep she counted her money as misers do; and perhaps it was on this very mahogany table that she emptied the bags before counting. "What they had to eat was of the best and she enjoyed the ham and eggs and freshly churned butter. After a while she started up stairs, but Aunt Susan was ahead of her. "Oh, Auntie, I wanted to make my own bed." "Well, dear, you may after today, if you will. Jane is pretty old to go up and down stairs." The change was so complete that Ethel felt like a new girl. "I don't care if she is a miser," she thought, "she's just lovely and so like Grandmother; and I'll have a happy time, I know." CHAPTER XII ETHEL LEARNS TO COOK Here is a page from her letter to her grandmother: "Oh! my dear Grandmamma, you don't know how happy I am--not being away from those I love, but things are so different. I get up early and after breakfast I help Aunt Susan with the housework, for her maid is too old to go up and down stairs. I have learned to churn--to make butter and pot cheese as well. I dust, make my bed, and sweep my room. (Don't let mother see this. She may consider that I am doing a servant's work). "I am invited everywhere and lovely people call, but that is because I am the niece of a wealthy woman. And yet people's love for Aunt Susan seems so genuine--not as though they were toadying to her for her money. And Grandmamma, 'Mr. Tom,' as I call him,--Tom Harper--is the finest man I ever met. He is a man--not a man like Harvey Bigelow, mind you,--and people respect him and look up to him. He comes here every other night. He has a buckboard and on Sundays he takes me for long drives. Doesn't he love Aunt Susan though? He told me that there never lived such a good and unselfish woman, and then he told me of all that she had done. "His brother and he were left orphans without a penny. His father was a clergyman and his mother and Aunt Susan had been friends for years; in fact, he says, 'My mother had been one of Aunt Susan's pupils.' I must have shown surprise for he answered when I said 'What?'--'Yes, before her father died she taught in the High School.' Did you know it, Grandmamma? Well, she did. She's awfully intelligent and now I know the cause of it. Why, she's like a walking dictionary. "Mr. Tom said that his father and mother died inside of a month, and he and his little brother Fred were left alone. Then brave Aunt Susan, who had loved his parents, came forward and legally adopted them. Think, Grandmamma,--but for her they might have had to go to the Orphan Asylum and wear blue gingham uniforms. "Then Aunt Susan sent them each to college. Poor Fred contracted typhoid fever and died during his third year. Mr. Tom and Aunt Susan say he was lovely--so gentle and sweet. It is sad to die so young, isn't it? But Mr. Tom graduated from college and studied law with Ex-Judge Green, and if you will believe it, all of the Judge's practice came to him at his death--Judge Green's death I mean--and he told me that he could never repay dear Aunt Susan for her goodness to him and to his brother. It was more than that of a mother, for they were not of her blood. "I'll close now, for Mr. Tom has come to take me for a long drive. I hope the girls get in to see you often. What do they think of Mamma's giving me permission to join Cousin Kate's Camp Fire Girls? Isn't it great? "With love and lots of kisses to all, Your affectionate grandchild, Ethel." CHAPTER XIII A LITTLE DRIVE That afternoon when Tom took Ethel for a drive he asked: "Do you see that large house on the hill?" "Yes," replied the girl. "It used to belong to Aunt Susan, didn't it?" "It did," replied the man, "and she presented it to the town of Akron for an asylum for partially insane people--men and women who have hallucinations only--so that by gentle and humane treatment they may be helped if not permanently cured, for she believes that many who might gain their reason are made hopelessly insane by ill usage. She not only gave the house and land but she added to it a couple of wings, and she has created of it a most charming Sanitarium. I'll take you there tomorrow. You see, Aunt Susan gave it out that if the prominent business men of Akron could raise fifty thousand dollars she would give fifty more, making the sum total of one hundred thousand dollars as a fund for the future support of the Asylum, and by George!" said the young man, "they raised it. So you see so far as money is concerned they are independent. The capital is invested in bonds and stock, and the Asylum is run with the dividends, and is well run, too. Aunt Susan is the head--the President--and at any moment she may surprise them and walk in. The patients are treated with courtesy and a great many are discharged cured; in fact, nearly all. It accommodates only fifty patients--twenty-five of each sex. There's a continuous waiting list and it's seldom that one isn't greatly benefited after having gone there." No wonder Aunt Susan was beloved by the inhabitants, for Tom told Ethel that she was invariably the first to help anyone in distress. "So she wasn't a miser, after all," thought the girl--"She gives away everything in charity and she saves her money to do so." Ethel couldn't fail to observe that Aunt Susan was growing fond of her and her conscience smote her. She felt that she was a hypocrite. Even as she pondered she held in her hand a letter received from her mother which advised her to be tactful and make herself agreeable and invaluable to the old lady,--alter her gowns and make and trim her hats, etc. "You're clever, and from helping me sew you have become proficient and have acquired considerable knowledge of dressmaking. If she's miserly and won't buy new, my child, you can flatter her by remodeling her old gowns, etc. Then she'll grow to depend on you. She'll consider you a good manager and feel that her money will not be wasted by you. Then, when you marry we'll go abroad to associate with peers and duchesses and members of the nobility. You'll feel that your period of imprisonment with Aunt Susan has brought forth fruit." With a flushed face Ethel read and reread her mother's letter. She blushed with shame. Already she had remodeled some of Aunt Susan's gowns. She was glad that she had done so before the letter came. From an old silk tissue skirt she had fashioned her a lovely neckpiece with long ends. She had also made her a dainty hat of fine straw and lace. She had persuaded her to allow her to dress her hair which grew quite thick on her head. First, as her hair had originally been black, she washed and _blued_ it, making it like silver. Then, parting it in front, she waved it either side and coiled it loosely in the back, and really Aunt Susan looked like another woman,--most lovely and aristocratic. Tom was delighted with the metamorphosis and insisted upon Ethel's taking twenty dollars from him to buy her aunt a new stylish wrap. "Oh, I'm so glad it all happened before I received this," she said to herself, tearing up the letter. "At least I'm not so contemptible as I might have been had I done as Mamma suggested, for gain only." CHAPTER XIV SOME CONFIDENCES Aunt Susan now looked up-to-date, younger and happier, and she was most grateful for everything that Ethel had done for her. They all went to theaters, moving picture shows, and twice a week Tom would hire a motor and they'd take long drives far into the country. Ethel now knew why Aunt Susan loved the man so dearly. She praised him constantly and the girl thought: "Well, if as Dorothy Kip expresses it he's doing these kind acts to 'build character' with Aunt Susan, at least he's an excellent actor." They visited the Insane Asylum. It was like a lovely summer hotel and the nurses were most solicitous and polite to the patients. Ethel could understand how they might be cured,--how their poor tired and sick brains were rested and strengthened by humane treatment. It was a wonderful revelation to the young girl--this charity of Aunt Susan's. What a good, worthy woman, and after her death what a reward awaited her if we are to be rewarded according to our good deeds. Ethel was changing. She had lost a good deal of her worldly pride. Cousin Kate was expected the following week and she was looking forward to trying on her Camp Fire costume, and to the happy days that were to come. One morning Aunt Susan sat by the window sewing. She looked actually lovely, or at least Ethel thought so, and longed for Grandmamma to see the change that she had wrought. As she gazed upon the old lady she said to herself: "Perhaps, it is because I'm growing so fond of her." Aunt Susan had on a white silk sacque that Ethel had made, trimmed with rare old lace ruffles at the wrist and collar, while her hair was very white and pretty. There was a gentle breeze blowing in at the window, and little curly locks fell upon her forehead. Ethel was knitting a sweater. She had learned the stitch in the town where she had bought her wool, and she was making one for her mother. In after years she never knitted that she didn't think of the conversation that took place between Aunt Susan and herself. The ground was covered with white petals of apple and cherry blossoms and it was as though the snow had fallen in May. She remembered everything connected with that conversation, and later in life she could close her eyes and hear the robins calling and see the butterflies flitting among the bushes, for that morning was the turning point in her life. "Aunt Susan," began the girl, knitting very rapidly, "Mr. Tom tells me that his mother was your pupil. Did you teach very long?" "Yes, Ethel," she replied, "I taught for years. Father, although a rich man, expected his girls to do something, and there he was wise. He always said that a girl should have some occupation the same as a boy; then, when ship-wrecks came, they'd know how to swim. In other words, when one's money was taken away there would be something to fall back upon. Your grandmother took music lessons and taught for a while, but she was pretty and during her first visit to New York, Archie Hollister fell desperately in love and married her. Tom's mother was a fine character and my favorite pupil. In so many ways Tom resembles her. She was clever and bright, and so is Tom. Why, Ethel, he has more than paid me for what I have done for him and Freddie. Today he's not twenty-five and he's one of our cleverest lawyers. I shouldn't be surprised if some day Ohio would send him to Congress. You know some of our cleverest men come from this state,--presidents and statesmen--and Aunt Susan's cheeks grew pink with excitement. "And dear little Fred," she continued--"he was more like a baby. He sort of clung to me; but, Ethel, they were like my own children, and you've no idea how happy they made me." "Aunt Susan," said Ethel, with her cheeks aflame, "don't think me impertinent but you seem different from an----" "An old maid," laughed Aunt Susan, "that's what you dared not say." Ethel nodded and continued: "From the different photographs I have seen of you, you must have been lovely. Why have you never married?" Aunt Susan blushed and said in a low voice: "Ethel, I have been married." The girl started. "Haven't you noticed that people call me _Mrs._ Carpenter?" "Yes," replied the girl, drawing nearer with wonder in her eyes, "but I know several maiden ladies who are called 'Mrs.' Mamma has a second cousin--she's dead now, I mean--but I remember her. She speculated in Wall Street and had an office, and she insisted upon being called Mrs." "Yes, I've heard of women like her," replied Aunt Susan, "but I married a man by the same name, although no relation. Has your grandmother never spoken of him?" "Never," replied the girl. "Well, Alice has always hidden the family skeleton, but I will tell you all about it. "When I was about thirty-six years of age I married Robert Carpenter. I was alone and wealthy. I loved him and tried to make his life happy, but he drank. He had inherited that habit from his father, and drinking led to gambling. He grew worse and worse. One night under the influence of drink he came home and seemed determined to pick a quarrel. Seeing that he was irresponsible I made no reply to his very insulting remarks. That angered him beyond endurance. He struck and threw me across the room. Then he left the house. "Over on the hill by the Asylum is the grave of my little son who was born and died that night." Ethel started. "Yes, my dear, I have been a wife and mother. Of course, I knew nothing until the next day. I recovered consciousness but Robert had gone. He had taken all of my money that he could find in the house and he had not gone alone. His companion was a disreputable woman from the town." Aunt Susan paused and looked over toward the little grave on the hillside. "It seemed," she continued, "as though God, who knew my sorrow at losing my little one, sent me my two dear boys--Tom and Fred. They came into my life when I most needed them and were my greatest comfort, for I was a lonely woman, my dear. One day I received a letter written in a strange hand saying that my husband was ill and not likely to live--that he wished for me, to ask my forgiveness, and he begged me for God's sake to go to him. I went. He was in Detroit in a squalid boarding house. I was shocked at the change. I had not realized that a man could so lose his good looks as he had done. I took him to a clean place kept by a woman who had been highly recommended. Upon my arrival he wept bitterly and begged my pardon. Then I was glad that I had never divorced him as my friends had advised, for the poor man had been deserted by his companion when the money had gone. He had kept on sinking lower and lower, ashamed to appeal to me until when what he thought to be his last illness came upon him he sent for me to ask my forgiveness." "Did you give it?" asked the girl. "Yes, Ethel, I did, and I gave it freely, because for the year past he had been stone blind. I was so glad that I could cheer him up and make the few remaining days of his life liveable." "Did you ask him of his companion?" asked Ethel. "No, he never spoke of her, nor did I. Had he wished to have told me he would have done so. Robert had many loveable traits--yes, many noble traits--but it was drink that ruined him. He was not mercenary. I had money, but until he began to drink he was too proud to take it from me. He was truly fond of me and would have married me had I been poor, but of course after he had started the downward course he lost his pride. "Well, I joined him in Detroit and stayed until after he died. His sight never returned, but I read to him and cheered him up, and I had the satisfaction of knowing that I made the last part of his life happier. That's all, my dear. It is almost too sad to tell to a young girl." Ethel sat and gazed upon her,--the woman who had shown such mercy to a brute,--a wife deserted by her husband,--a mother never able to feel the hand of her little child upon her cheek,--a woman whose life had been spent in helping others, with no thought of self. The tears came into the girl's eyes. She seemed to behold a bright halo about Aunt Susan's head, and it filled her with awe. Suddenly she saw herself as she really was,--the daughter of a selfish, mercenary mother, whose sole ambition was for her future position in life. And this was her mission--to visit this noble woman with a view to ingratiating herself and becoming her heiress,--to make her think she loved her,--to make herself indispensable to her. Yes, those were her mother's words. She had destroyed the letter lest it should be seen, but she knew it by heart. The young girl saw it all. Her lips quivered and she felt so utterly unworthy that she fell on her knees and buried her face in Aunt Susan's lap, sobbing bitterly. CHAPTER XV A NEW ETHEL "Oh! Aunt Susan, you don't understand and I am afraid to tell you, but I am such a wicked girl--such a hypocrite, and so unworthy of your relationship and love. I am a cheater and a waster. My life is all lies and sham. It always has been lies and sham. I wish to tell you everything so that you may see me as I am. "I came here to get into your good graces--to win your love that thereby I might gain your fortune and marry into one of our old families--a man of great social prominence--and I've been trying to make you like me and make myself necessary to you. I've tried to give you the impression that I was clever so that in case you wished to make me your heiress you would not hesitate for fear that I might be extravagant and a spendthrift. I can't tell you how bad I am. I've been ashamed of being seen with you on account of the queer way you dressed. I'm not fit to put my head in your lap--no, I'm not fit to stay under your roof any longer," and Ethel's sobs were pitiful to hear. She became hysterical. Then Aunt Susan took her in her arms. "Child," she began, "don't cry. You have told me nothing new. I understood from the first why you came home with me. You have many noble traits of character. Your grandmother and I thought that under different influences you might become a splendid woman. It was she who suggested my inviting you. You are a good girl, Ethel, and above all you have a kind and tender heart. You are a Carpenter in spite of your mother, and anyone bearing my father's name can not go far from right. You have shown that this morning. Now, my dear, in this world environments have much to do with one's character, and you have never had a chance, my poor little girl," and Aunt Susan kissed and soothed her as a mother might have done. "Now forget it all, my dear child, just as I shall forget. Let us begin anew from this morning." "But, Aunt Susan," sobbed the girl, "I feel so unworthy, and you are so sweet to forgive me. I should think you'd hate me and want me to leave your house. But, believe me, I do love you--I love you as dearly as I love Grandmamma and Papa. Excepting in books I never knew that any one woman could be so good and self-sacrificing as you are. Oh, will you believe that I don't want your money, and that I only care for your respect and forgiveness, and your love, if you can give it?" "Yes, my dear, I believe every word that you say. I believe in you from now on," and Ethel threw her arms around Aunt Susan's neck and wept for joy. CHAPTER XVI AUNT SUSAN'S TRIALS "And now sit down, my dear, and I will tell you something. First you can never be my heiress, for I have no money to give away or leave to anyone. Tom supports me entirely. You look surprised and I don't wonder. I never told your grandmother. She is old and, owning the house in New York as she does, would probably insist upon my living with her; and until a year ago I had hopes of recovering some of my property that I had been cheated out of, but I have given it up. I love pretty gowns and pretty things as well as anyone, but I am saving the money that Tom insists upon giving me to spend on myself for him. I wish to leave him something at my death. Now I will tell you about it and how I lost my fortune. "At the time I adopted the boys I was a very wealthy woman. Previous to that year I had given away a great deal for charity, but I had a hobby and that hobby was to establish a humane Insane Asylum. I had seen so much cruelty practiced in different institutions where I happened to know some of the inmates, and I had heard of such shocking treatment received by patients, that I resolved to establish a reform. I gave my handsome home for the Asylum. I spent large sums in fitting it up, so that it might seem like a beautiful resort to the poor souls, and as Tom told you, I succeeded in what I undertook. The boys went through school and college,--or Tom did, and poor Fred would have graduated had he lived a year longer. It was sad that he had to die, and so young, too." Aunt Susan wept as she told of his death. "Perhaps, you remember, Ethel, of reading or of hearing your father speak of the failure of the Great Western Cereal Company four years ago. No? I was under the impression that your father owned a few shares of stock. Well, all I possessed in the world was invested in that Company. It produced the greatest excitement known in years; in fact, throughout the entire West there were panics. Everyone who had a little money saved up bought stock. The dividends were enormous, but they were bogus; that is, they were paid to each one from his or her own money. It was one of those unprincipled concerns. They had been after me for a long while. They knew that I was honest, wealthy, and respected, and that my name would attract. At first, I put in only a few thousand; then, as it prospered, I put in more, and finally I put in all that I possessed, for I wished to make another fortune that I might build more 'Homes' and do greater good to suffering humanity. The week before its failure what do you think? Three of the principals sailed for Europe. Two were caught, tried and are now serving a long term in prison. Two others committed suicide. Being one of its directors, when the bubble burst I gave up everything I possessed to help pay some of its poorer creditors, but it only went a little way; and I, too, was a victim with the rest. Had I confided my business to Tom he would have advised me not to invest in it, for Tom has a wonderful way of advising people for the best, but I kept it a secret so that when he should come of age I could surprise him, for then I intended to give him full charge of all my affairs. So you see, Ethel, I may have appeared close and penurious, but now you understand why. Tom, although getting on finely, works very hard for every penny, and at times he is almost too generous." "Oh, Aunt Susan," said the girl drying her eyes, "I feel happy now that you know all and don't despise me. I'm glad that you're poor and that I shan't get any of your money. I only wish that I might go to college. Yes, I'd work my way through to get a good education so that I could be able to earn my living and not take everything from poor Papa, who works so hard," and Ethel kissed the old lady many times. CHAPTER XVII COUSIN KATE ARRIVES Ethel was too loyal to read her mother's letters to Aunt Susan who always smiled when she received one, but Mrs. Hollister wrote often asking her how she was progressing. "Aunt Susan writes Grandmother that she has grown to love you very dearly, Ethel, and I see that you have followed my advice like my own daughter. It is now the sixth of June; probably, you will go with Cousin Kate to camp soon. I wish it was all over. I don't like the idea at all. It will throw you in with a common set of girls, I'm sure. We have saved quite a little this summer by staying home. The girls come in when they are in town and Grandmother enjoys their visits. Mrs. Bigelow and I met on the Avenue. She inquired all about you and I told her that upon Aunt Susan's death you would probably be a very wealthy girl. She admires you immensely and she told me in confidence that Harvey says when you are a few years older and 'come out' you will take Society by storm." Everyone in the younger set of Akron liked Ethel. She acted in private theatricals; she sang and played, attended teas, and was sought after for bridge. She gave card parties, and the young people raved over the quaintness of the old-fashioned house. She took long walks with Tom. She inveigled him into high collars and discarding shoestring ties or wearing cravats in a bow with loose ends. She even persuaded him to give up slouch hats and dress more up-to-date. He and Aunt Susan dubbed her the "Rejuvenator and Reformer," and she was contented and happy. Cousin Kate arrived and Ethel was overjoyed upon seeing her, she looked so fine and strong. Her father came with her just to see 'Archie's girl,' and Ethel loved him instantly. He was so like her father that the tears came into her pretty eyes when at the depot she kissed him goodbye. CHAPTER XVIII SELECTING THE COSTUME "You like Father, don't you?" asked Kate of Ethel, as they briskly walked toward the shopping district. "Like him!" replied the girl, "why, Kate, I just love him. He reminds me of Grandmamma and Papa, but he's more like Grandmamma." "He _is_ like her," replied her cousin, "and I tell you, Ethel, he's just a dear. But, by the way, wasn't Aunt Susan clever to get your mother to consent to your becoming a Camp Fire Girl? I was so surprised. You see I had already spoken to Grandmother and you about it. Then I thought I'd tell Aunt Bella and get her interested in it, and ask her to let you join _my_ Camp Fire, for Uncle Archie promised me that you should come out to Ohio and make me a visit. I had it in my mind that were you to come this summer it would be lovely for you to go with us to Camp, but do you know, Aunt Bella didn't like it a little bit; in fact, she became very angry, nor could I convince her of the virtue of the Camp Fires nor even the Scouts. She made me promise not to mention the subject again, and on no account in your presence. As I was her guest, I promised. What knowledge you had you received before. In this case the 'end has justified the means,' and it was consummated by Aunt Susan, so it's all right. But here we are. This is the store where they take orders for Camp Fire costumes. It will take four days to make what you need. We'll have to hurry them as we leave in five." "Oh, Kate," began Ethel in a worried voice, "do you think that I should let Aunt Susan pay for them. She was awfully generous to offer, but when I accepted I thought that she was wealthy, you know, and now it's different. I really feel as though I should not accept." "Do you wish my advice?" answered Kate. "You accept them. Why, you might offend her by refusing. It's her pleasure to start you in this good work. She obtained your mother's consent and she wishes to present you with an outfit. Oh, no, it would not do to even demur. Besides, they are very inexpensive. If you wish, the ceremonial gown of khaki color you may buy yourself. It can be purchased by the yard and it's of galatea which is cheap. You are clever with your needle and you can embroider it with beads and shells. You can also make the leather trimming in no time, and there's your costume complete. But let her pay for the other. So come in and be measured." The girls selected a blue cloth skirt with pockets. The skirt buttoned all the way up and down the front and back. They selected two blouses--serge and galatea--each matching the skirt. The waists were cut open in the neck. They also ordered a pair of blue serge bloomers to be used in camping or hiking. These with a hat completed the purchase. The hat was of blue cloth with a silver grey "W" on a dark blue background. The "W" meant "Wohelo" and could be used as a cockade. The saleswoman explained to Ethel that an emblem of two brown crossed logs was to be worn on the chest of the blouses. Honors gained in water sports might be embroidered as decorations around the collar. The same crossed logs woven into a blue background were used as sleeve emblems. Ethel saw the sample suit and was charmed. The decorations were unique and stylish. "Please send them direct to Columbus," said Kate, as she paid the bill, and turning she said to Ethel: "You will be there, and it will save time. They generally fit perfectly; if not, as you know something of sewing, we can alter them to fit." "I guess I do know something of sewing," replied Ethel. "I can do beautiful work and I can ride horseback, and I'm at home on a 'bike'." Cousin Kate laughed. "Well, I'm glad of that, for at first when you start in you'll be a Wood-Gatherer. Three months is the regular time, but you will be living in camp and will probably be able to fulfil all requirements in a month. Your knowing these things will help you too." "Tell me something about it, Kate," said Ethel on their way home. "After you have been a 'Wood Gatherer' you become a 'Fire Maker'?" she asked. "Yes. When you first enter, the Guardian of your Camp Fire gives you a silver ring on which is engraved a bundle of seven fagots, representing the seven points of the law. You give her the size, your address, etc., and she gets it at Headquarters for you, announcing your desire to become one. You must promise not to sell nor give it away. It may belong only to a Camp Fire Girl. Upon your right arm, as you already know, are the crossed logs, etc. When you become a Fire Maker you may add the orange color to your Wood Gatherer's emblem. This color represents flame, and when you advance to the position of Torch Bearer you may add a touch of white which represents smoke from the flame. Then, while you are in that class, you may wear the Fire Maker's bracelet. 'Fire' is the symbol of our organization. For decorative purposes it may be represented by the rising sun. "Now the symbol of membership is the tall pine tree. That stands for simplicity and strength. Of course, you know the watchword--'Work, Health, and Love.' The first two letters of each form the one word 'Wohelo.' After joining you'll learn everything. "Honors are symbolized by different colored beads--'Health craft,' bright red beads; 'Home craft,'orange; 'Nature love,' sky blue; 'Camp craft,' wood brown; 'Hand craft,' green; 'Business,' black and gold; and 'Patriotism,' red, white and blue. These, and the seven laws, are represented by the seven fagots on the ring. The beads are strung on leather and may become part of the ceremonial dress. "Now the name of my Camp Fire is 'Ohio.' It is an Indian name and means 'beautiful.' You know Ohio is called the 'Buckeye State,' Buckeye meaning 'Ohio Horse-Chestnuts.' Unlike your horse-chestnut, our tree is small and its flower is red. So our 'totem' or symbol is Buckeye,' or the 'Horse-Chestnut.' "The girls are to meet at our house the night before we start. Then you can learn the sign, how to keep count, and the different poems you are to say; and the 'Wohelo' ceremony, toasts, songs, etc. This is all that I shall tell you now. Our camp is near the Muskingum river. We have no very high elevations in Ohio. The highest is only about fifteen hundred feet. Where we go is a pleasant stretch of woods. There we camp out for a month or so. A clearing has been made; we can put up tents and be very comfortable. It is not far from a small town and the girls can walk in when they choose. Other 'Camp Fires' will be there as well, so there will be no lack of society. But, my dear girl, if I were you I'd join one in New York and keep steadily at it. It's the only way to become proficient and gain honors and advancement, and that's your aim, isn't it?" "It is, Kate," replied the girl, "I shall surely join this fall. An aunt of one of the girls in our set is a Guardian of eight girls or more, and she's simply lovely. I shall certainly keep it up--never you fear." CHAPTER XIX ETHEL MEETS HER UNCLE AND AUNT Aunt Susan was most interested in the description of the costume, its symbols, etc. Ethel thanked her gratefully for her gift, impulsively kissing her many times. The elderly woman had grown very fond of the girl and dreaded parting with her, but she knew that the new work she was about to take up would be of the greatest benefit to her, not only then but in the future, for Ethel had softened wonderfully. She had lost all of her false pride and worldliness. It was as though a new girl had arisen from the ashes of the old one, and now she stood revealed as Nature had intended her--without sham,--and knowing that it was she who had helped to bring it about, Aunt Susan was happy. She was proud of the two girls--her grandnieces,--Ethel with the delicate beauty of a bud, while Kate appeared and reminded her of a full blown rose. She was tall and finely formed, with hair that envious people often termed red, but it really had escaped being red and was auburn. The girl wore it in coils around her shapely head. Her eyes were of the softest brown, while Ethel's were of a deep blue. Each girl had regular features and fine teeth. They resembled each other to that extent that they were often taken for sisters, and Tom was proud of them as well and was delighted to take them out. "Why," he'd say, "when I'm out with you two girls everyone makes such a fuss over me that I really feel as though I was 'somebody,' and I know it's all on your account. The fellows come up and say 'Harper, old man, I haven't seen you for an age,' or, 'Harper, I heard of you through so and so last week. I wish to congratulate you on that case, etc.' But I know what it means,--they want an introduction to you girls--and I strut around like a peacock." But the day for their departure arrived only too soon: "I'll write every other day to you, Auntie," called Ethel from the car window. "How about writing to me?" shouted Tom. "Once a week to you, Tom," laughed Ethel. Uncle John Hollister met them at the depot and Ethel at once fell in love with Kate's mother, who seemed more like the girl's sister. They vied with one another to give Ethel a good time and she enjoyed every moment. She met the Camp Fire girls, some of whom were charming. Two of the girls--Mattie Hastings and Honora Casey--she did not care for. To her they seemed unlike the others and she found herself saying mentally, "They are extremely common; I wonder where Kate picked them up," immediately after which she would become ashamed. "I'm going back into my old ways," she thought. "These girls are to be my sisters and companions. I _must_ like them." Honora had a large red face, partially freckled. Her voice was loud and coarse. She seemed to be one of the "nouveau riche," as Ethel's mother was wont to say of people grown suddenly wealthy and prosperous. Yet Ethel was not alone in her dislike of the girl. No one seemed to care for her, although each member treated her politely. Mattie Hastings had small eyes that never seemed to look you quite fully in the face. She had also an obsequious manner. At times it was fairly repellent. "I wouldn't trust her," Ethel said to Kate one evening. "She's not popular, I admit, and her manner is against her, but, Ethel, I have never found a fault in her; that is, one I could criticise. She is very quick to learn and seems ambitious. She came to me and asked if she might join. They are poor but her people are respectable. Now Honora Casey's parents are the wealthiest people here. They came into their wealth suddenly. The father is a builder and contractor. The mother is hurting the girl by her method of trying to get into society. She fairly pushes everything before her. Mr. Casey, or Pat Casey, as he is called, is a good-hearted Irishman. He is sensible and knows that it is his money that buys everything, even social standing, for although much respected he is a man of no education, nor has his wife any more than he, but she tries to bluff it through, therefore she is not popular. Nora has been educated, or half educated, at a Convent. She never graduated, but she's so good-hearted one can overlook her mother's faults. You see, Ethel, it takes all sorts of people to make a world. We must try to excuse their failings and see only the best in them. Of course, you know we are an old family of good standing and can go where we choose. Perhaps it was on that account that Mrs. Casey made Nora join my Camp Fire Girls, but she seemed most anxious that she should. It doesn't matter much. She'll make a fine woman if she sticks to her work. You see, our organization is most democratic. One has only to express a wish and she may become a member." "The other girls are lovely," said Ethel. "I think Patty Sands is charming." "Isn't she?" responded Kate. "Her father is an ex-Congressman. He is Judge of the Supreme Court. He didn't care for politics--refused the second term." "Yes, I suppose it is poor taste for me to even criticise the girls, but every once in a while the old bad habit comes back and I forget my good resolutions. At heart they are probably far better girls than I, but I do wish that Mattie Hasting's eyes were not so close together." CHAPTER XX GATHERING OF THE "OHIOS" That evening the girls met in Kate Hollister's library. Although it was June and there was a log fire in the fireplace it was not warm. The girls carried a small flag upon which the word "Ohio" was embroidered, and underneath appeared a horse-chestnut. Each girl had made her own flag and they were well done. That afternoon Kate had taken her cousin to the Camp Fire counsel, where, upon her signifying the desire to become a member, the silver ring had been presented to her. After order had been established and the roll called, Kate, who made a dignified Guardian, began to address the girls, formally introducing her cousin, the new member. Then Ethel repeated the following: "It is my desire to become a Camp Fire Girl and to obey the Law of the Camp Fire, which is Seek beauty, Pursue knowledge, Give service, Be trustworthy, Hold on to health, Glorify work, Be happy. "This Law of the Camp Fire I will strive to follow." Then she took her seat while Kate arose and explained the Law, phrase by phrase, after which Ethel stood before her and repeated the Wood Gatherer's Desire, whereupon she taught Ethel the "sign" which was made by flattening the fingers of the right hand against those of her left, which indicates crossed logs. From the first position, Ethel raised her right hand and followed the curves of an imaginary flame. Kate explained that this sign was used by the early American Indians. It may be made easier by placing the fingers of the right hand across those of the left with the forefinger slightly raised. Ethel learned how to use the sign and practiced it, after which Kate presented or awarded honors to the various girls who had worked for them. They were only the different colored beads, but each girl's eyes beamed with happiness as she received them. Then they showed Ethel the "Count" book, in which were kept records of their work and play. The leaves were of brown paper and laced together with a leather thong or cord. The cover was of leather also. Symbolic charts for recording the requirements of the Fire Maker and Torch Bearer, as well as for nearly two hundred Elective Honors, were parts of the book. The book contained ninety-six pages. It was arranged for a group of twelve girls. Should the group grow larger, more leaves could be added. Three leaves for each girl were in the first part of the book. These were for recording the honors and requirements, making thirty-six pages. The balance of the pages were for the records of events, pictures, and pen and ink sketches, etc. The totem of the Camp Fire is as painted on the brown leather cover. It should always tell some legend or story--some natural industry or beauty which is true to the locality in which the Camp Fire is located. The "Ohio" Camp Fire totem was a large horse-chestnut under the word "Buckeye." The first leaf was left blank; the second was the title leaf upon the top of which appeared the name of the Camp Fire, and at the bottom the date of the first council fire; following the title leaf each girl fills out her group of three leaves. On the first she will write her name, date of birth, parents' names, birthplace, and present address. She also puts down the date as she attains each rank, using for the month the Indian name. On the next leaf were symbols of all Elective Honors, and these were painted in colors corresponding to the beads received. The third leaf for each girl was for her individual symbol,--the chosen name with its meaning,--for each girl naturally wishes to own some name by which she may be known. She may hold some desire which to her may mean the way in which she may give of herself the best. Perhaps some poem has lines which she feels are a response to her desire. Not only could these girls write what happened and insert photographs of their excursions, but they were at liberty to make pen pictures along the margin of the leaves of the book--all Indian signs from a moon to a snake, telling of a trip to Rat snake Pond, etc. They were to use the rhythm of Hiawatha, which after a little practice becomes the natural language for some girls and it adds much to the interest of the Count; for instance, "Supper over, now they hasten To their wigwams, all excitement, And from hence soon reappearing Now true Indian maidens seem they," etc. "Now that we have initiated our new member," said Kate, "and have explained to her about the Count book, etc., we shall postpone the rest of the ceremonies until we reach Camp, as I know that each one of you will need your rest. So we'll meet at the train for the boat landing at eleven tomorrow. I hope it will be a fair day. Take plenty of wraps along for it is cold tonight and it bids fair to be so tomorrow." Then saying goodnight to each as they left the room, Kate and Ethel found themselves alone in front of the dying fire. CHAPTER XXI THE TRIP UP THE RIVER It turned out to be a lovely day. Ethel was most excited. The tents, cooking utensils, pillows, cots, etc., had been sent two days before by freight. The trunks alone remained to be taken to the boat, and they were only steamer trunks. Uncle John went along to see them safely on board the train that connected with the small boat that plied daily up the Muskingum river. "If you get homesick, little one," he said to Ethel, "you come right back to us. Don't you stay if you don't like it." "Oh, Uncle John, how could I get homesick with Kate?" she replied; "but I shall miss you awfully." The whistle blew and away they went. It was a pretty sail and the girls were in a happy frame of mind. Nora Casey looked like one immense freckle. She was in high spirits and now and then relapsed into a jolly brogue caught from her parents, for Nora was born in America. "Faith and it's sailing that I enjoy," she said to Ethel, coming up the stairway from the deck below. "I'm afther taking some pictures of the river for our Count book." Then catching herself she talked perfectly correct without the slightest trace. They watched the banks on either side, dotted now and then by pretty houses and thriving fields of buckwheat and clover. Patty Sands sat by Ethel. They were very congenial. The rest of the girls chattered together. Mattie Hastings sat beside Kate Hollister and regarded her with adoring looks. Nora chatted excitedly; once in a while Kate would check her exuberance of spirits, as her voice could be heard by people on the shore. Said Kate: "Girls, there are several beautiful legends connected with this river. I read a new one the other day. At our first Camp Fire I'll relate it. We can copy it in our book under our totem. Suppose each of you girls write an original legend and read it aloud some rainy night." "Good for Miss Hollister!" cried Honora. "We will." So they promised. Soon the journey came to an end. A four-seated buckboard stage had been engaged by Uncle John to meet the party and carry them up the steep hill into camp. "Oh, isn't this jolly?" said Ethel enthusiastically. "What lovely woods!" And indeed they looked like a picture with the June sunshine every now and then bursting through the trees. The road was narrow but it was a good road for walking. The old buckboard creaked and groaned with its load of eight girls, their Guardian, and the driver. Every once in a while the horses would stop and the driver dismount and with his handkerchief wipe off the white sweat that looked like soapsuds. "He's a kind man," said Kate. Then when his handkerchief was too wet to use he would pick up handfuls of grass to use for their comfort, after which he would get up on the seat and drive them again, but he must have stopped ten times before reaching the clearing where the Camp was to be. "Oh, look!" cried Patty. "Miss Hollister, our four tents are up." "Yes, that's Father's surprise," she rejoined. "He sent up one of his men yesterday so that we need have no trouble." And turning to Ethel she said: "Usually we have to hire a man in the village to come up and do such work, but Father has anticipated us this time." "Isn't he lovely?" said the girls in unison, jumping like children from the wagon and peeping into each tent. There were all the baskets ready to be unpacked, and following the buckboard came the trunks. They quickly removed their hats, etc., and bade the driver goodbye, who by the way was now using handfuls of leaves to clean the animals; after which each one was assigned her task. "Patty Sands, you may unpack and wipe the china. Mattie Hastings, you may put it in place. Ethel, you may watch this time, as you are a tenderfoot. Nora, you arrange the blankets, towels, and linen in order, will you?" And so Kate kept each girl working. Mollie Long made the cots; Sallie Davis put the cooking utensils in place; Edith Overman and Edna Whitely began gathering sticks for the fire. "Oh!" ejaculated Ethel, "that's my task, isn't it? I'm the Wood Gatherer," she said. "The first day a tenderfoot is our guest," replied Mollie Long, laughing. "You wander away and think of the story you'll have to write and read aloud." "In other words," broke in Nora, "go way back and sit down." But Ethel watched the girls work. It was a revelation to her. They seemed more like boys. "Why," explained Edna Whitely, "if necessary we could drive the stakes and put up our tent, couldn't we, Miss Hollister?" "Yes, I hope you'd be able to," she said. "I think women do far harder work than that every day." Kate had changed her gown for a pair of bloomers and was working hard running back and forth giving orders like a general. By twilight every trunk was unpacked and in its place. Each girl had changed her gown and the Camp Fire was ready to light after tea. Then came preparations. In one tent there was an oil stove. Outside stood a barrel of oil. It was an extra tent to be used as a kitchen. Two upright stakes with one running across, upon which were many hooks, served to hold all of the kitchen utensils. They hung from it as naturally as though in a real kitchen. One of the packing boxes became a serving table and afterwards did duty for a sink. In the center of the kitchen was a long table made of planks laid upon a wooden horse at either end. When pleasant the girls preferred to eat outside, sitting Indian fashion, but when rainy the kitchen tent made an admirable shelter. CHAPTER XXII AN EVENING IN CAMP The supper was prepared by the Fire Makers,--Edith Overman, Patty Sands, and Mattie Hastings. Patty baked a couple of large pans of delicious biscuits. Mattie made tea and eggs scrambled with cheese. Edith Overman boiled some rice for dessert so that each flake stood alone and was creamy, upon which the girls put butter and sugar or butter and maple syrup. Later in the season they picked berries and had them for tea. The meal was well cooked and they enjoyed it. Ethel cleared the table. Sallie Davis and Mollie Long washed the dishes, while Nora and Edna Whitely tidied up the tent, after which the fire was lighted with the usual ceremony. Ethel as a Wood Gatherer insisted upon bringing the twigs, wood and kindling. The Fire Maker--Edna Whitely--arranged them ready to light. Kate chanted a command to Mollie Long and Nora Casey, who were Torch Bearers. In the meanwhile each one seated herself around the fire. Mollie and Kate then came forward, and by rubbing two sticks together ignited the paper under the shavings, and soon there burst up a beautiful flame. Then the girls arose and repeated: "Burn, fire, burn, Flicker, flicker, flame, Whose hand above this blaze is lifted Shall be with magic touch engifted To warm the hearts of lonely mortals Who stand without their open portals: The torch shall draw them to the fire, Higher, higher, By desire. Whoso shall stand by this hearthstone Flame fanned Shall never, never stand alone; Whose house is dark and bare and cold, Whose house is cold, This is his own. Flicker, flicker, flicker, flame, Burn, fire, burn." After which Edna repeated the Fire Maker's song: "As fuel is brought to the fire, So I purpose to bring My strength, My ambition, My heart's desire My joy And my sorrow To the fire Of humankind; For I will tend, As my fathers have tended, And my fathers' fathers Since time began, The fire that is called The love of man for man, The love of man for God." They gave toasts, told stories and sang songs. Edith Overman had a keen sense of humor and she told some anecdotes that were exceedingly droll. Ethel and Edna Whitely vied in asking conundrums. Kate Hollister then related her capital story, "The Legend of the Muskingum." "Before I begin," she said, "for Ethel's benefit I wish to tell you something of the origin of the Camp Fire. This I read in a New York magazine. "'If we go back as far as possible we come to a primitive time when human life centered about the Camp Fire. It was, and is still, the center of family life, and today it is around the fire that the family and friends gather. The fire gives warmth and cheer to the home. The day's work is begun with fire. When the fire is out the house is cheerless. Fire stands for Home--for the Community Circle and New Patriotism. It was also in these primitive days that the first grand division of labor was made. The man,--the provider and defender of the family--went out into the wilderness to hunt, while the woman stayed at home to keep the pot boiling, and in spite of all of the changes in social life that division has remained to a very large extent until this day. "'Some years ago, when the Boy Scout movement first started, it began with the Camp Fire. No doubt one reason for its popularity was the fact that it gave the boys opportunity to play what was in the old days the man's game--that of hunter, trapper, and soldier. "'Boys may be Scouts, but you girls are going to keep the place to which the Scout must return. And now this movement, similar to the Boy Scouts, has been started for girls. It started also with the Camp Fire, and the organization thus formed is the Camp Fire Girls.'" Everyone clapped their hands. "When I read the above," said Kate, "I learned it by heart, knowing that all of you would be interested to know the true significance of the Camp Fire. And now for the Legend." CHAPTER XXIII THE LEGEND OF THE MUSKINGUM RIVER "Long years ago there lived a brave Indian chief called Wa-chi-ta; in fact, he and his tribe inhabited a portion of this state--perhaps in the vicinity of these very trees. "He was a kind and humane man, and his wife, Ona-pas-see, was like him in that respect, therefore they were dearly beloved by their subjects. They had three fine sons but no daughter, so when a little girl came to them they were exceedingly happy and there was great rejoicing. "'As she is fair and beautiful to behold we will call her O-hi-o,' said the Chief. ("As we know, Ohio means 'beautiful,'" said Kate.) "So little O-hi-o waxed strong and grew into a woman worthy of her name. She was idolized by Ona-pas-see and spoiled by Wa-chi-ta. "After the manner of all maidens, when she arrived at the marriageable age from miles around came many braves to pay their respects. They brought her rare and costly gifts of silver, copper, and gold--of beads and bears' claws, as well as the skins of the fox, squirrel, and ermine. "O-hi-o smiled sweetly and accepted her gifts with pretty speeches of thanks, but of the young men she would have none. Her parents worried not a little, as they wished to see her settled in life, living in her own wigwam. Her brothers talked with her upon her duty, but she only smiled, showing her pretty teeth and arranged her headband of beads, using for a glass the clear stream near the wigwam. "The squaws declared that she would never marry--that soon would go her youth and good looks; then the braves would seek some maiden younger and fairer. But O-hi-o only shook her head and ran to her father to be kissed. "'She is proud,' they said, gazing after her, 'No one is good enough for her. She will meet with her punishment--watch.' "Then behold! there came to the village one day a young warrior--Mus-kin-gum by name. He came from a tribe many miles distant, bearing a message from its Chief to Wa-chi-ta. "O-hi-o sat near her father. She was embroidering a wampum belt with different colored beads and shells, skilfully fashioning birds, butterflies, animals, etc. As she glanced up shyly, lo! her eye caught the eye of the young brave. The blood flew into her cheeks and her heart started in to beat as though it would burst. While delivering his speech to Wa-chi-ta young Mus-kin-gum grew scarlet and embarrassed. "That was the beginning. It was in June. The birds sang their love songs and the air was filled with mysterious romance and sweetness. Permission had been granted by Wa-chi-ta to Mus-kin-gum to pay his addresses to his daughter O-hi-o, and when he told her of his love he said: "'Why confess it? You have known since the day in the wigwam when our eyes met and my soul fell captive to your beauty and sweetness.' "Then, when upon the mountain sides the trees hung out their yellow, gray and scarlet banners, with great pomp and ceremony these two young people were wed, and the festivities lasted for days. Everyone was happy because Wa-chi-ta was happy, and all of the tribe loved Wa-chi-ta. "As for O-hi-o and Mus-kin-gum, they were content. They lived in a fine wigwam and adored each other. While her husband was in the woods shooting game or fishing, Ohio would sit in the doorway and watch for his return, and as for him, his eyes were constantly roving towards the valley where he could see the smoke coming from a certain wigwam; and when it came in volumes as though from a freshly started fire, his heart would rejoice, for then he knew that O-hi-o was preparing the supper and it was time to return. "And so these two who loved each other lived in one continual honeymoon until the arrival of little Mus-kin-gum--a strong, lusty, little fellow looking not unlike Wa-chi-ta, which pleased his grandfather only too well. It was his father's delight to attend to his education, and his father was not only beloved by his tribe but feared by his enemies. So he wished to teach his little son to be honest, kind and fearless. He wished him to be brave and able to lead his tribe into battle--to die for them if necessary. He taught the boy to aim well and shoot with a bow and arrow, and when he was about seven years old it was his delight to accompany big Mus-kin-gum on his shooting expeditions--to help him fish and hunt. Together they would tramp for miles, and O-hi-o would sit in her doorway and embroider, thanking the Great Spirit that she had two warriors to look after instead of one; and little Mus-kin-gum would clap his hands with joy when she'd say: "'What has the little warrior shot today?' And her husband would reply: 'He has helped me; he has carried my heavy bow and arrow; and he has also carried these,' displaying a large string of fish. 'Besides, he caught two of them.' "Of course, they talked in Indian language, which is more beautiful than ours. "Then on their trips Mus-kin-gum would teach his little son how to distinguish one tree from another by examining its leaves; how to tell the name of a bird by listening to its call; how to read the signs of the Indians; how to read from their tracks the whereabouts of the enemy, the trail of the animals, and the secrets of the woods--the song of the birds, the whispering of the trees, and the murmuring of the brook; about the way of flowers, ferns, etc., and the names of the different nuts and fruits that flower first and then become ripe and fall to the ground. "He taught him about the different animals and how to trap and shoot them, and lastly he taught him about the stars and the stories connected with them. Little Mus-kin-gum could point out the Dipper or Great Bear, the Little Bear, how the last star but one in the Dipper--the star at the bend of the handle--is called 'Mizar,' one of the horses; and just above tucked close in is a smaller star--'Alcor' or 'the rider.' The Indians called these two the 'Old Squaw and the Papoose on her back,' and the young men would say to the little fellow: 'Do you see the papoose on the old squaw's back?' "Then at once he'd point to them, and the parents would be proud of him. "His father also taught him that shaking a blanket in Indian language meant 'I want to talk with you.' Holding up a tree branch--'I wish to make peace.' Holding up a weapon--'I am prepared to fight,' and many others like our own signal of the Camp Fires," said Kate, "which is one of the oldest of Indian signs." "Isn't this a lovely story?" broke in Patty. "I can't wait for its finish." "And it's late; I'll have to talk more rapidly, I fear," replied Miss Hollister, "or postpone the rest until tomorrow night." "Oh, don't," went up a shout of young voices,--"please finish. Why, we'd keep awake all night if you stopped now." Kate laughed good-naturedly and signed to one of the Fire Makers to put on more wood. Quickly Ethel jumped up and brought an armful, for our Camp was very ceremonious. Then as the flame burst forth anew she proceeded: "So you can see that little Mus-kin-gum was a loveable child, endowed with more than ordinary intelligence. His father also told him of the Great Spirit, and the child listened reverently. He was an unusual child--bright for his age--and he learned quickly. He was also affectionate, and Mus-kin-gum became as weak as a woman when the little fellow would put his arms about his neck or clasp him by the hand. "The mother had taught the child a prayer to the Great Spirit. It was this: "'Great Spirit, listen Thou to us; guide us this day; help us, lest we fall; make our will Thy will--our ways Thy way.' "Mus-kin-gum's great fear was that he might lose him ere he grew up to manhood, for next to O-hi-o he adored his boy. "One morning big and little Mus-kin-gum started for the woods. They were in high spirits as they kissed O-hi-o goodbye. "'We will shoot for you a big deer,' said the boy, 'and we will bring to you many large fish.' "O-hi-o smiled and wished them luck. After watching until out of sight she left her wigwam to spend the day with her parents. It was a warm June day and it reminded O-hi-o of her courting days. She lived it all over again, and her heart gave thanks to the Great Spirit for His kindness--for the wonderful love and happiness that had since been hers in the possession of her husband and child. And the birds sang as on the day that Mus-kin-gum first beheld her at the door of her father's wigwam. She could see his eyes holding her own; she could feel her heart bounding in her bosom, and the red flushed into her cheek even as it had done then. "She spent a pleasant day talking of her two dear ones and her parents were never weary of listening. They made her repeat the little prayer said to the Great Spirit by the idolized grandson. "'I must leave now,' she said, 'and prepare their supper. They will be watching in the valley for the smoke from our wigwam,' and kissing her parents fondly she left. "In the meanwhile it grew dark. "'Little one,' said Mus-kin-gum, 'we must hasten. I feel rain in the air. Look at the clouds and behold it in them ready to fall.' "And the little fellow looked and laughed, thinking it fun to be caught in a shower. They were close to the edge of the woods ready to descend the path leading to the valley, when suddenly with terrific force the rain began to fall, followed by a mighty wind that rent the clouds and rushed through the woods. Thunder pealed loud and long; lightning flashed, blinding the eyes. Little Mus-kin-gum grew pale and trembled. Never before had he feared a storm. "'It is the voice of the Great Spirit,' he said solemnly, and began to repeat the prayer. "Seeing his fright, his father drew the boy's head to his breast and held it there so that he might not see the lightning as it flashed with unusual violence. "At last one flash came, and with it went the spirit of brave Mus-kin-gum. His arms loosened their hold on the screaming child. He reeled and fell backward--dead. The last bolt had killed him. "Then followed peal after peal of thunder. The boy called to him in vain. He even tried to raise him in his arms. Seeing that it was useless he threw himself on his breast and moaned, every now and then lamenting in loud cries. "The storm ceased. When, after the night fell, and Mus-kin-gum and the boy failed to appear, O-hi-o gathered together a band of young men from nearby and started out to search for them. O-hi-o kept calling, 'Mus-kin-gum, where art thou? My little one--art thou safe?' "Then on the air floated a child's voice calling to its mother. "Like a deer, O-hi-o flew to the spot. The child was rubbing his eyes. He had fallen asleep on his dead father's breast and was awakened by his mother's voice, but he never left his father's body. "As O-hi-o drew near she beheld her poor brave handsome Mus-kin-gum lying with his face upturned to the moon, whose beams fell upon him. O-hi-o knelt down and kissed her husband but she uttered no cry--only a dull muffled moan escaped her, for she was the daughter of an Indian Chieftain and it would not have done. She had been taught to bear pain without a murmur, but the look upon her face was terrible. The young men would gladly have died to have brought young Mus-kin-gum to life for her sake. "Then the eldest lifted the child, who still sat by his dead father's side, and placed him in his mother's arms, and as the little fellow sobbed and kissed her lo! her eyes filled with tears and she headed the procession that followed bearing the body of their beloved Mus-kin-gum adown the steep path that led to her wigwam. "And Mus-kin-gum was buried with great ceremony and honors becoming a a man of his station. But O-hi-o took no further interest in life. The child now clung to his grandfather, who tried to take his father's place. Every day O-hi-o would lead him to the grave on the mountain side, and together they would pray to the Great Spirit. "'And I prayed in the woods,' said the boy, 'when the thunder rolled and the lightning came, but the Great Spirit turned away his face and took my father.' "'He was called to live among the stars,' O-hi-o would reply. "'And is he up there?" the child would ask. 'I will look for him,' after which every night would little Mus-kin-gum stand or lie on the ground gazing at the stars, declaring at times that he could discern his father looking down upon them. "But alas! from the day of the storm the boy could never again hear the voice of thunder, nor see the flashes of lightning, without going into convulsions. Upon the first distant roar he would jump up and down, scream loudly, and run to his mother, burying his head on her breast, relapsing into a state of semi-consciousness until the storm should have passed. It was pitiful, and poor O-hi-o's tears would fall on the boy's head, for it was thus he had stood before his father while Mus-kin-gum met his death. "As time went on the attacks grew worse. Vainly did old Wa-chi-ta summon the best known medicine men and old women, but each one shook his or her head doubtfully. Vainly did the tribe assemble in the Council wigwam to consult with one another and pray to the Great Spirit for Mus-kin-gum's son--for his recovery. Nothing seemed to avail. The child grew worse and worse, never caring to leave his mother's side. "Then came a bad year for the Indians. There was a drought. The fruit fell from the trees while yet in flower. The grass turned brown and withered. The crops died. The water dried up and there was none for the cattle. The different tribes met and prayed with no result. "'We must die,' they said. 'Behold! the Lake even has gone, and something must be done.' "And the wise men declared that the Great Spirit must be angry with them and that he demanded of them a sacrifice. The more they talked the more they believed that it was imperative. 'One life must be sacrificed,' they said,--'one life for many. That is the only way to save our people. No rain has fallen in nearly four months. The Great Spirit demands and must be obeyed.' "Then into the midst of the wise men and chieftains came O-hi-o. She was very beautiful and the braves held their breath as they gazed upon her. By her hand she led the son of Mus-kin-gum. "'I have heard what you said--oh! wise men,' she began. 'I have no wish to live longer. I and my son are ready to be your sacrifice. My heart is in the grave upon the mountain side. My son is not strong; his health is poor. We give ourselves for the good of our people.' "Many wept. The wise men regarded her as they might an angel sent by the Great Spirit. Her parents gazed upon her with pride and adoration. "'But,' she continued, 'I would choose the manner of my death. On the pinnacle of rocks overlooking this valley, where each day that he hunted in the woods my dear Mus-kin-gum would stand and wave to me, tomorrow night 'neath the light of the moon, with my son's hand in mine--together he and I will leap from that rock into the valley below,--the once lovely valley now so desolate. Do not refuse me,' she cried, as many protested suggesting others not so young. 'No, I will gladly make the sacrifice for my dear father's people.' "So they counselled together and accepted the offer made by their Chieftain's daughter. "O-hi-o and Mus-kin-gum spent their last day with the old people, who, while filled with pride, were heartbroken. They clung to the mother and child, nor were they ashamed to show their love and weakness. "'I shall be with my father,' said little Mus-kin-gum. 'You may look for my mother and me in the stars, Grandpa. I have seen father there. Be sure and watch; we shall all be together,' and the child smiled as he kissed his grandparents, whose hearts were breaking. "'My two brave ones,' said old Wa-chi-ta, 'if the rain comes to us it will be you who have sent it.' "The tribes assembled from miles around. It was a hot, torrid night, although the moon shone brightly. All was silent as O-hi-o and little Mus-kin-gum came forth to the sacrifice. She wore her ceremonial costume; her long, black hair was flowing and held in by a beaded headband. She looked so beautiful as she marched up the mountain that people wept, but she walked proudly with her head erect, leading her child by the hand, and the little fellow also held his head upright and seemed without fear. Soon the ledge was reached. Looking down into the valley below they took their position. "'Farewell,' said O-hi-o, 'I do this for the love I bear you, my people.' "Then she kissed the boy many times and, reconsidering, she lifted him in her arms. The child put his face to hers and clung tightly about her neck. She whispered in his ear. He raised his head and called aloud: 'May the rain fall and may you all be happy.' "Then holding her child close to her heart the brave woman stepped to the edge, closed her eyes, and leaped into the valley below,--the valley in which stood her wigwam." Kate paused. The girls were hanging breathlessly on her words. Sallie Davis and Mattie Hastings were crying, while Edna Whitely and Mollie Long drew nearer. "Oh, don't stop," gasped Patty Sands, "please go on, Miss Kate. I'm all excited." Kate laughed. "Do let me get my breath, girls. I had no idea it would take me so long." "There fell no rain that night, but the people as they marched down into the valley thought of nothing but the sacrifice. Probably had it rained they would not have known it. They were silent, thinking with admiration of the wonderful act of heroism that they had just witnessed. "The next day searching parties started out to seek the bodies of the mother and child, but not a trace could be found. "'The Great Spirit has taken them in the flesh,' they said. 'Perhaps He is angry that we allowed it.' "Everyone grew frightened. None seemed to care to speak. Suddenly a low peal of thunder was heard, then a louder one, after which came a flash of lightning. "'A storm!" they cried, 'the sacrifice has not been in vain,' and they fell to their knees. "It rained as it had never rained before. It fell in sheets. The cattle drank greedily and the water was plentiful. After the third day it grew lighter and the rain slacked. People ventured out of doors, and lo! the valley with the wigwam of Mus-kin-gum had disappeared. In its place, behold! a river. Up and down as far as eye could reach flowed the shining waters. A miracle had been performed, and the wise men came from miles around. "'We will call the river O-hi-o,' they said, 'for it is the soul of her who has saved us.' "And the river spread and grew larger. The braves explored and found that it was too long to measure. It would take days and days to find the end; in fact, they doubted that there could be an end. "One morning they discovered a smaller river that emptied into the one they had named O-hi-o. That increased in length as well, but with their canoes they could paddle a hundred miles. They also noticed a peculiar thing about this smaller river. Whenever there came a thunder shower the river would rise and become covered with whitecaps, and rush madly down like a torrent until it seemed to fairly leap into the Ohio; and one wise man--the wisest of the tribe--said: "'Behold, it is little Mus-kin-gum. Can you not see how the storm affects him? Was he not so in the flesh? Can you not see how he seeks his mother's bosom for shelter?' "And so the mystery was explained. From the date of the appearance of the two rivers everything in that part of the country prospered. The cattle were second to none. The fruit was the fairest and most luscious fruit ever grown, while the crops--corn, buckwheat, oats, barley and wheat--could not be excelled." ("Today the fisheries are the finest and the Grand Reservoir is the largest body of artificial water in the world--equal in extent to all others in the state. It is well for you to know that," said Kate, interrupting the story). "And whenever the Indians prayed to the Great Spirit they would thank him for having sent O-hi-o as a voluntary sacrifice; and each starlight night old Wa-chi-ta and his wife would search among the constellations for their three loved ones. Then they, too, passed into the Happy Hunting Grounds. But with many of the Western tribes the legend remains until today. "For years to come the little Indian children would say to one another: "'It's going to storm. Hear the thunder; see it lighten; let us go down and watch the little Mus-kin-gum get frightened and rush into his mother's arms.'" "That is the end," said Kate. "Oh! it is lovely," they all cried, "and we thank you so much." "You see," she added, "now I am glad that I called this Camp Fire the 'Ohio.' That is our legend, and we can have a little copy made to annex to our book." Then the Fire Maker came forward and extinguished the dying embers. Each girl arose and kissed the Guardian goodnight, and retired. CHAPTER XXIV ETHEL'S FIRST DAY IN CAMP The girls slept soundly that night and in the morning were awakened by the singing of the birds. "Oh! how lovely it seems to be here," thought Ethel, as she leaned on her elbow, "instead of being awakened by the toot of an automobile just to lie quietly and harken to the birds." She looked around. The other cots were occupied by her Cousin Kate, Patty Sands, and Edna Whitely. Kate opened her eyes and sat up. "Have you been awake long?" she asked sleepily. "No, Kate, only a few moments. I've been listening to the birds. I thought Aunt Susan's home was peaceful, but even there one could hear the autos." Kate arose, put on her slippers and wrapper, and sitting on the cot she began to unfasten her long braids. "It is the most restful place I've ever known," she replied. "But, girls, we're late. Come Patty and Edna." Patty Sands sat up in bed and rubbed her eyes. Edna snuggled deeper into the depth of her pillow. "Edna, don't go to sleep. There's the bugle now," and the clear notes of a bugle came floating into the tent. "Oh!" said Edna sleepily, "that's Nora Casey blowing. I wish she'd stop; she has the strongest lungs I ever knew." This morning the breakfast was eaten with a relish. They had oatmeal and cream, ham and eggs, creamed potatoes and coffee. Mollie Long had surprised them with some corn bread that was, as Nora expressed it, "some class." Their cellar was beside a running brook near the tents. A little waterfall trickled down the rocks with a cheerful sound. Beside the stream was their refrigerator--a large deep hole that had been dug in the ground, and into this, placed in a tightly covered tin bucket, they put their butter, cream, eggs, and meat. It was as cold as ice. After the pail had been lowered a clean board covered the opening, and on this board they placed a large stone. But the farmer with whom Mr. Hollister had made arrangement, brought up daily from his place fresh meat, milk, and vegetables, and twice a week pot cheese and buttermilk; so the "Ohio Camp Fires" were in clover. Nothing they ate was stale and everything tasted delicious. After breakfast was over, Ethel, Nora, and Mollie Long cleared the table, washed the dishes, and tidied up the tent. CHAPTER XXV ETHEL'S FIRST LESSON "Girls," said Kate, after the morning's ceremonies had been performed, "today we will cook our dinner over a real camp fire. Our menu will consist of roasted potatoes, green peas, broiled steak, and a lettuce salad. Sallie Davis is going to make one of her delicious bread puddings, which she will bake in the oil stove, but the rest will be the 'real thing.'" The girls were delighted. "Ethel," said Edith Overman, "in August you shall taste our delicious roasted corn. You never ate anything so good in your life. When do you leave for home?" "August thirtieth," replied the girl. "Do you stay up here until September?" "Yes," replied Kate. "We leave about the fifth, but on account of you we are going home in August this year." "Oh, how kind!" said Ethel. Then Kate began: "Now my little cousin, you have some work to do today. First, you must learn how to make knots,--the five different styles--but today it shall be a square knot only. You are to tie it five times in succession without hesitation. You are to read and be able to tell the chief cause of infant mortality in the summer, and to what extent it has been reduced in one American community. That means one city or town. This is your school and you must attend it before you can play. You must learn what to do in the following emergencies: Clothing on fire; person in deep water who can not swim, both in summer and through ice in winter; how to bandage and attend to an open cut; a frosted foot; what to do with a person who has fainted; how to use surgeon's plaster; you must commit to memory a poem of twenty-five lines or more, and you must learn about yourself--what every girl of your age needs to know. You are not to learn all of this in one day, but a little every day. Mollie and Nora, who are proficient in these things, will help teach you. Then you'll learn to cook, swim, and row a boat. We have a lovely lake about a mile from here, and there are boats and canoes to hire. All these, and various other useful things, you are to learn. I want you to be able to win an Elective Honor in some one of the seven crafts. You must wear your beads, but you must win them first. Next week we shall remove the roofs of our tents and sleep in the open. I wish you girls to get a month or two of it. That counts one honor." Nora, Mollie and Ethel started in. Ethel quickly learned how to tie the knot. Then she began to study "first aid to the injured," and the girls taught her how to adjust a bandage and how to use the plaster. "It's a shame that ye haven't a real broken bone to work on," laughed Nora. "Well, that's a nice thing to say," replied Mollie; "suppose you go and cut yourself, Nora Casey, or break your leg." After studying for a couple of hours the girls declared that Ethel was a promising pupil. She even learned a poem, "The Psalm of Life," by Longfellow. CHAPTER XXVI A LOSS AND A DINNER "Oh! girls," exclaimed Ethel, "I must get my ring. I left it on the box where I washed dishes," and she ran to the kitchen tent, but there was no ring in sight. "I laid it down here and I emptied the water myself," she almost sobbed. "It was a beautiful ring--a diamond cluster. Grandmamma gave it to me. It was her engagement ring." Kate now came in and they hunted. The girls looked where the water had been thrown but no sign. They swept the tent and searched thoroughly. Mollie Long went back to where Ethel stood half in tears and reported nothing doing. "Who was with you in the tent?" she asked. "No one but you and Nora," replied Ethel. "You remember, Kate," said Ethel, "it was Grandmamma's engagement ring. I'd have lost anything I own rather than that." "It's unfortunate," replied Kate, "but perhaps it may turn up." Poor Ethel took her walk with Patty and Mollie but she was very quiet. That noon she watched a dinner cooked in the open. Two perpendicular stakes with forked ends had been driven in the ground, while lying horizontally across them was another upon which to hang one or more kettles. Each kettle had an iron hook to place on the cross stake, and from them hung the kettles. A roaring fire had been made. The potatoes were laid in the hot ashes and covered. In one kettle the peas were put. Ethel and Mollie had shelled until their fingers ached. "Now, girls," said Kate, "someone time those peas. They must not cook longer than three-quarters of an hour, and they must not be covered." When the salad had been prepared, the bread and butter spread, and the water pitchers filled from the brook it was time to cook the steak. Four of the girls took forks made from tree branches, placed the steak upon them, and started in. Mollie and Nora in the meanwhile, after draining off nearly all of the water, had put some salt and a little sugar in the peas, adding at the last a large piece of butter, and had placed them in their kettle which stood near the potatoes. The steak when finished was laid on a large platter and covered plentifully with butter. Then each girl took and opened her potato, and what a potato it was!--so unlike those cooked in an oven. The peas were served in saucers, and the sight of the steak covered with gravy--hot and juicy--made them hungry. Each sat on the ground with her plate on her lap, and her saucer and glass beside her. They ate up every vestige of food. "Goodnight!" said Nora. "Shure a dog would starve in this crowd." After an appetizing salad dressed with a suspicion of garlic and a fine French dressing, came the bread pudding made by Sallie Davis. It was filled with raisins and each girl passed her plate twice. "Ethel, what do you think of our Camp Fire dinner?" asked Kate. "It is simply fine," replied the girl. "I have never tasted one half so good." "Poor Ethel, she is unhappy over her ring," said Edna, "and I don't blame her. Cheer up! it may be found yet," she added. But Ethel was unhappy, not for the loss of the ring, but because it had belonged to old Mrs. Hollister. "I never should have brought it," she said to Kate. "I should have left it with Aunt Susan. I know it was right on the box when I left the tent, and it's so unpleasant," she confided to Kate. "One suspects everyone." "Yes, that's the unfortunate part of it," replied her cousin. "The innocent suffer for the guilty; that is, if it has been taken by anyone, but I have an idea that it may have been thrown out with the water." Ethel studied hard every day. She learned rapidly and one night she received her first bead. She had learned how to row a boat and she rowed well. In five days she had rowed twenty miles, which entitled her to one honor. Before the next two weeks she had learned how to swim; and she swam one mile in five days. The rule was to swim one mile in six days, but she went one better; so at one of the council fires she received her two beads. As her honors came under "health craft" her beads were red. Her ceremonial gown had been made for some time. She had worked on it during rainy days, and when she had finished behold! it was perfect. "Why, you're entitled to another honor. This comes under 'hand craft,'" said Patty. So now she had won three--two red beads and one of green. "That's good work," ejaculated Nora Casey. "She'll outstrip us all." Of course each girl won daily. Some had strings nearly half a yard long. At every council fire the Guardian would distribute them to the girls, but Sallie Davis had the most beads. She was clever and won many for cooking. About the middle of July there came another set of Camp Fires. They occupied the woods about half a mile away. It seemed that the Guardian--a Miss Andrews--was a schoolmate of Kate Hollister's. They were called the "Columbus Camp Fires." The girls were friendly and together they had great sport. CHAPTER XXVII A DISCOVERY One morning Patty and Ethel started for a walk. They were to climb a small mountain. On their way they came across a pocket handkerchief. It was a girl's handkerchief, and on it was the initial "H." "This isn't Cousin's Kate's I know," said Ethel. "She carried one certain kind with a tiny 'H' worked in the corner. This looks like a cheap one that might be purchased for a dime. Whose can it be? Are there any 'H's' in the Columbus Camp Fires?" They recalled every name--not an "H." "Then as it isn't Kate's nor mine it must belong to Mattie Hastings." "Yes," replied Patty. "She often walks up here alone." "I wish I could get over my feeling of dislike for that girl," said Ethel, "but I can not. It grows on me. I shall be glad to go home to get rid of looking at her. I can never like Nora Casey either, although I have tried very hard. But I positively shrink from that girl. I don't trust her." "I feel the same, and so do all the girls," replied Patty, "but she seems to have gotten around Miss Hollister. She is invariably hanging on her." "Cousin Kate is so kind and good-hearted," said Ethel. "She's always ready to make the best of people, but I feel like pulling Mattie Hastings away when I see her around here." "Look--quick! speak of angels--that was she looking out through those trees," exclaimed Patty. "Now I wonder what she is doing up here and alone. My! but it's warm in the sun, isn't it?" and Patty opened the neck of her waist and removed her hat. "Let's call and see if she answers us." So Patty Sands called loudly: "Mattie Hastings--Mattie--we have seen you--don't hide!" Someone started to run through the brush. They heard a fall and a piercing shriek. "She's tripped," said Ethel. "Let's go and see." Quickly they picked their way over fallen trees and dead leaves until they came to the prostrate body of Mattie whom they so disliked. "What have you done?" asked Patty. "Have you hurt yourself?" No answer. "She's fainted!" ejaculated Ethel. "She's been walking in the sun and exposed to great heat. It's heat exhaustion. See, her face is pale and she isn't entirely unconscious as in a sunstroke. First we must loosen her clothing and let her lie down quietly. I wonder if there is any water about." "Yes," said Patty, "we passed a watering trough on the road." While Ethel unbuttoned the girl's waist, Patty ran for water. "It's lucky I have my drinking cup with me," she called. "I have a long head. I never take a walk without it." Ethel made no reply. She unhooked the girl's corset. Then when Patty returned, together they lifted her to a shady place. Ethel's face was pale. "What is the matter?" asked Patty. "You look as though you had seen a ghost." Ethel pointed to a chain on Mattie's neck. It was a small silver chain, and suspended from it were two diamond rings. One was the small cluster lost by Ethel, while the other was a solitaire. Patty gasped and caught Ethel by the arm. "That's your ring." Ethel nodded. "And the other belongs to Nora Casey. She lost it a few days ago. She didn't want to make a fuss about it on account of you having lost yours, but I think she suspected this girl and determined to get it before she left camp. Isn't it awful?" and Patty shook her head. "You'd better take the chain off before she comes to." Ethel made no reply but lifted Mattie's head and put the drinking cup to her lips. After a moment the girl took a swallow, then another, until she had taken it all. "Don't give her any more now," said Ethel. "'First Aid' says, 'sip slowly in heat prostrations and give stimulants,' but we have none." "Take them off, Ethel," said Patty, "she might get up and run." But Ethel only looked. Suddenly Mattie Hastings opened her eyes, gazed at the two girls, and at her shirt waist beside her; then she raised herself and put her hand to her neck. A scarlet flame surged across her face. "You've had a sort of fainting spell," said Ethel. "You fell, and the heat and all made you unconscious for a while. Why did you run from us when we called?" With her hands upon her chain the girl looked like a frightened animal. Something stirred Ethel's pity. "Don't be frightened," she said, "just tell us all." Whereupon Mattie Hastings burst into tears. "First hand me my ring," said Ethel, "and then tell us everything." The girl tried to unfasten the chain. "Shall I?" asked Ethel. Mattie nodded. Then Ethel took the ring. "To whom does this belong?" she asked. "Nora," faltered the girl. "Keep it please; I shall never go back. I shall kill myself," she sobbed. "That's silly," broke in practical Patty. "Your father--Judge Sands--he will sentence me to prison," she sobbed, "and I did it for Mollie. She's my sister. Her spine is broken and the doctor said she needed food--good nourishing food. She's only eleven, and he told father that with care she might outgrow it, especially if she could get in some Institution for Cripples, where she could have good attention," and the girl threw herself on her face and sobbed brokenly. "Now, see here," said Ethel, sitting down beside her and lefting her up, while Patty and she supported her back. "You tell us everything; don't keep even a tiny bit back." "Yes," broke in Patty, "we're Camp Fire Girls and we must 'Give Service.' Perhaps we can help you if you'll confide in us." "Before God I will; and I'll tell you all," said Mattie. CHAPTER XXVIII MATTIE'S STORY "My father is a good man. He is kind, hard-working, and gives all of his wages to Mother. Mother has an idea that I am above my associates. She is ambitious for me to go with the rich girls--the girls who have position." Ethel's heart bounded. Was not her own mother the same? "I worked in McAllister's store. I earned six dollars a week. Three of it I paid Mother for board. The other three, with what Father gave me, bought my clothes; but even with that I could not dress well enough to go with the girls as she wished me to. "Her idea was for me to go to church and Sunday School and meet them that way. Then poor little Mollie was knocked down by an automobile and she has never left her bed. They were a party of joy riders, and oh! I hate to confess it, but I've promised--my mother was one of them. She had a cousin who was a chauffeur and he asked her to go. No one but I knew that she was of the party, for they were so drunk they never saw that she left them, and to this day no one knows that it was her cousin's auto that knocked Mollie down, for he escaped. Mother came home after Mollie had been taken to the hospital, and at that time we all thought that she had been out spending the evening. When she found that Mollie was injured for life she began to take morphine. I alone know her secret; she never knew that she told it. For God's sake don't betray me. Every-penny that Father gave her she spent for that drug, and he thinking that Mollie had the benefit of it. "At last I couldn't stand it. I couldn't see my little sister die for the want of proper food, nor could I tell Father, and give my own mother away, for outside of her ambition for me she had been a good mother. Then Father grew ill and was laid up with rheumatism. I refused to give Mother the three dollars for board, but I kept it for expenses. When she demanded, I told her what I knew and threatened to expose her. "Father grew better and was able to work again, but poor Mollie failed daily. I laid awake night after night. I prayed--for I was a good girl once--for a way to be shown me whereby I could make more than six dollars a week. "Then in Sunday School I met Miss Hollister. I had heard of these Camp Fire Girls and how many fine things a girl could learn, so that in time she could earn good money. I consulted with Father and he advised me to join; and Mother was delighted, for she saw visions of my being intimate with the 'swell' girls." Here Mattie put her hands on her breast and Ethel ran to the trough for more water. "Before we came up here," she continued, "I found a doctor who upon seeing Mollie said that for one hundred and fifty dollars he could put her in a Home where she would have attention and treatment. She could wear braces, and perhaps in time she might grow to be strong and well. But how was I to get it? Father and I together could hardly pay for our food. "One afternoon just before the store closed a lady dropped her purse. I put my foot over it and stood until she had gone off in her auto. Then when no one was looking I picked it up, put it in my bosom, and went home. In the purse I found forty dollars. "That was the beginning. After that it came so easy, and Mollie enjoyed the fruit that I brought her. But thirty-five dollars of the money I put in the bank. I took little things from the store and sold them. I pretended that they had been given to me. "Then I came up here. Oh! I expected to end in prison. I knew that it couldn't go on forever. But I took a chance. I had now nearly seventy-five dollars. One hundred and fifty, or say two hundred, would save Mollie. I kept on. I took a locket from Edith Overman. She's never missed it. It has a large diamond in the center. She's rich and careless. I took that ring from Nora. I've often thought that Nora suspected me, but she's never given me away. I've taken money from each one of you girls. The only one whom I've not robbed is Miss Kate--God bless her. I wouldn't take a handkerchief from her, she's been so kind to me. The rest have never liked me. You remember since we came here the time I went home and spent two days. Well, I went in town and deposited my money and saw that Mollie had some comforts in way of food and books. Then when I came back I began taking the jewelry. I have now over a hundred dollars in the bank. I had come up here today to find a safe place in some tree where until we went back I could put the two rings and locket, as I feared that they might be seen on my neck. When you called and said, 'We've seen you; don't hide,' I thought that you had discovered that I was a thief and I started to run and fell over the tree trunk. I had been pretty warm while walking up the hill and I guess you were correct,--it was the heat. That's all," she moaned wearily. "You may give me up. I knew the time would come, but I had hoped to have had Mollie in a Home before I was taken," and the girl lay back on the ground shaking with sobs. Ethel and Patty looked at each other. "Now see here," said Patty Sands, "Ethel and I are not monsters to eat you up, are we, Ethel?" "No," replied the girl, "Mattie, I think we may be able to help Mollie." Mattie sat up. "What?" she gasped. "Yes," replied Ethel. "You've done this for her. Now we are not going to betray you, and we are going to help you; but first, you must give back everything that you have taken. Do you remember the name of the lady from whom you took the purse?" "Yes," replied Mattie. "I have the purse with her card in it." "Very well; return that by mail. Say if you wish that you found it and regret not sending it before. You needn't sign your name. Then take Nora's ring and put it in her suitcase, after which put Edith's chain in hers. Can you remember the different amounts of money that you have taken from us girls?" "I took"--and she faltered--"five from you and five from Patty." "Well, don't try to think now, but go by yourself and if possible remember what you took from each girl and replace it as you are going to replace the jewelry. Whatever you took from the store and sold is a harder matter and you can't recover the goods." "No," said Mattie. "How much did you get for them?" asked Patty. "About twelve dollars," replied the girl. "You give that to me," said Patty. "Mr. McAllister is a great friend of Father's. I will give Father the money and tell him to return it,--that it's from a client--an old employee--who to save a human life and under great temptation took the things, and that she wishes to make restitution. He'll never suspect you, nor will he question Father, for Father has rendered him too many services." Mattie grasped her by the hand. "Oh! you are too good to me, Miss Sands. However can I pay you and Miss Ethel?" "Call me Ethel," said the girl. "Yes, and me Patty. You are one of us and we are all sisters." "And now," continued Ethel, "my Aunt Susan, who lives in Akron, is a philanthropist. I've heard her tell of a Cripple's Home there. If your sister is unable to pay she can get her in free. That doctor may slip some of that money he speaks of into his own pocket, and if your sister is under Aunt Susan's wing she'll see that she gets everything she needs, and she'll have the best of care. You can run down every week or so and see her. I'm sure Aunt Susan would make you welcome over night." Mattie Hastings fell on the ground at the feet of the two girls. "Oh, my God!" she said, "Are you in earnest?" and she kissed their hands. "Can it be possible that there is about to be made a way for poor Mollie? Are my prayers to be answered?" and she sobbed while the two girls held her in their arms. "Come on now," said Ethel, "let's go home. You're all tired out. We'll put you to bed. Don't worry, Mattie," she whispered, "we'll attend to everything." CHAPTER XXIX MATTIE STARTS AFRESH Everything was returned as the girls had planned. Mattie went into town, drew out her money, put the forty dollars in the purse and sent it to its owner, as they had suggested. "Oh, my darling!" she said to Mollie, as she hugged her, "I have great news for you. Come, Mother, and listen." Then holding each by the hand she related Ethel's proposal. Mrs. Hastings wept tears of joy while little Mollie laughed. "Are you sure she'll keep her word?" asked Mrs. Hastings. "As sure as there's a God in heaven. She's an angel," replied Mattie. "They all are. Oh! Mother, I never knew that there could be such kindness in the world." Mattie returned, and Ethel and Patty replaced all of the stolen money in the girls' purses save the twelve that was to be given to Judge Sands for McAllister. The jewelry was more difficult, for there was danger of it rolling out of the bags, so Patty suggested putting the ring in a small box and slipping it in Nora's suitcase, and doing the same with the locket belonging to Edith Overman. The next morning appeared Nora with the ring on her finger, but with never a word. Then rushed out Edith Overman. "Do you know, I have found my locket and chain. I was awfully worried for I thought I had lost it." The following day came a reply to Ethel's letter from Aunt Susan. This was the extract pertaining to the Home: "Yes, my dear, I can get the little girl in the Cripples' School free--not 'Home.' In this place she'll have the best of medical attendance. I am one of the managers. She will be taught to sew and make lovely things besides having good nourishing food every day. Her sister is welcome to stay with us whenever she cares to come. The little girl will probably come out cured, and it will not cost her a penny. Even her clothes will be furnished. Let me know when to expect them. I enclose your mother's letter." Mattie cried with joy. "What is it?" the girls asked, and she told them. Judge Sands had seen Mr. McAllister who took the money without a comment save: "Well, Judge, when a thing happens like this it sort of restores one's faith in human nature, doesn't it?" And Mattie was a happy girl. "Really," said Ethel to her cousin and Patty, "Mattie's eyes have grown wider apart." "No, it's because you like her and she seems different to you." Mrs. Hollister wrote: "My dearest girl: "I hope you have made only desirable acquaintances and that you will forget the Camp Fire Girls, at least this winter. You will be seventeen soon and I shall give you a debutante's party. I have saved considerable money during your absence." Ethel didn't answer the letter at once. One day came up the hill the buckboard holding three men. The girls saw it from a distance, and there was some excitement. As it drew nearer three shouts went up. There was Tom Harper, Uncle John, and Judge Sands. Ethel almost wept on Tom's shoulder, and she was well hugged by Uncle John. That was the day that they had their great Camp Fire dinner--when they soaked the corn for an hour in water before roasting it. Then tying a string to each ear they laid it in the glowing fire and ate it with melted butter and salt. The Judge and Uncle John ate three ears apiece, besides the potatoes, chicken, and steamed berry pudding made by Patty, his daughter. "Say, John and Tom," he said, "we'd better come up here and board. No wonder these girls like to get away from town." And Mattie was introduced to the Judge by Patty. "Papa," she said, "this is Mattie Hastings, and when I was ill she sat up the entire night taking care of me and putting fresh flax-seed poultices on my chest." And the Judge thanked her so sincerely that she nearly burst into tears. "And your father?" he asked, "how is he? I need a man just like him in my office. I've met him, and Miss Mattie, there's one thing I've always liked about him,--he has a face that anyone could trust. I shall go and see him on my return." Then Mattie was not afraid to weep with joy as she clasped the Judge's hand and thanked him sincerely. "Well, girls," said Uncle John, "we'll be looking for you next week--hey?" "Yes," replied Kate, "and, Father, I'd like to have Aunt Susan come up before we leave. She'd enjoy it." "Oh! yes," fairly shouted Ethel. "Do bring her, Tom." CHAPTER XXX AUNT SUSAN COMES So the day Aunt Susan came, everyone was on the qui vive, and a warmer welcome was never extended to an old lady. She was shown everything. She had a real Camp Fire dinner and enjoyed it. She took Mattie one side and told her of the wonderful improvement in little Mollie, which made Mattie's heart beat high with joy. When she was introduced to Honora the girl made such quaint remarks that Aunt Susan laughed merrily. "Isn't it funny?" said Ethel; "that's the only girl in Camp that I don't care for." "Ethel," replied her aunt, "perhaps, you don't know her as she really is." "Perhaps," responded Ethel slowly, thinking of Mattie. The evening that Aunt Susan stayed, Ethel was advanced from a Wood Gatherer to a Fire Maker. She stood up in her ceremonial dress with her pretty hair hanging, and bound with a band of beads called her "ceremonial band," and she repeated the Fire Maker's song. New honors were awarded. They had songs and toasts, one of which was "Aunt Susan," after which the girls repeated in unison: "Burn, fire, burn; flicker, flicker, flame, etc." Then, extinguishing the fire, they retired for the night. The next morning the Camp broke up. Ethel bade them all an affectionate farewell. She even kissed Honora. There seemed to be a spirit of good will among all of the girls. "Be sure and come back next summer, Ethel," was heard on every side. And Mattie, taking her apart from the rest, said: "You have saved me from a fate worse than death. I was going the downward path, and you and Patty lifted me out of the mud. I shall pray for you every night. Don't forget me." "No, I shall not," replied Ethel, kissing her affectionately, "and you promise to go and see little Mollie and write me all about her, won't you?" CHAPTER XXXI BACK TO AUNT SUSAN'S After spending the night at Uncle John's, Aunt Susan and Ethel left for Akron. "Oh! what a lovely summer I've had," said Ethel, "and how much I've learned being a Camp Fire Girl; and I owe it all to you, Aunt Susan." The next week Mr. Hollister came to take the girl home--and how he had missed her! They spent the day with Uncle John. He and her father were like boys again. "You must come here next year, Archibald," said John, "and go up to Camp and see the way these girls keep house. It's a revelation. What the women are coming to! I don't believe there'll be any room on earth for us men after a while." Ethel's eyes were blinded with tears as she kissed her dear ones goodbye, and Mattie Hastings with Patty Sands came way to Akron to see her off, Mattie bringing the loveliest pin-cushion made for her by her sister Mollie. One night Ethel and Mrs. Hollister had a serious talk. Grandmother made Archibald go and listen at the door, as Bella's voice could be heard throughout the house. When Ethel left her mother she went directly up to her room, but Mrs. Hollister said to Grandmother: "This is your work and your sister's as well. Ethel is a changed girl and refused to obey me. She's going to take up low settlement work and belong to that Camp Fire business this winter, and she almost refuses to go into society at all. But for the fact that some of our best girls are Camp Fires I should positively forbid it. She is not yet of age, and I still have some authority over her, after all my slaving for her and sacrifices. Now she openly defies me." "No, Mamma," cried Ethel, coming down stairs and putting her arm around her mother, "I only object to sailing under false colors. All of our life has been sham--sham--and make believe, and I can not see Papa growing older and more bent every day, when he should be young looking and happy. And I know that it's worry over getting the money for me that I may make a show for people to think me wealthy. And when Aunt Susan came here you told everyone that I was to be her heiress. Why, Mamma, she is poorer than we are. Every penny of her money was lost four years ago, and Tom Harper--her adopted son--supports her. Then there's dear Uncle John. He's nearly five years older than Papa and he looks ten years younger. Why? Because he has nothing to worry him. And when I see the lines and wrinkles coming into your pretty face I think it's all for me, and I've decided to give it up. I shall still go out with the friends who care for me, but they must know me as I am; and next summer I want you to come with me to Camp. You are so clever and can teach the girls so much about sewing and dressmaking. "Mamma dear, let's turn over a new leaf. Let's give up all sham and be happy. Then we can tell who are our true friends and they'll be all we need." Here Ethel put her arms around her mother who at once burst into tears, sobbing: "And I wanted you to make a g-good m-match." "Never mind," laughed Ethel. "Who knows? I may marry better than ever. Cheer up, Mamma dear," and from that hour the mother and daughter changed places. And Grandmother Hollister whispered to her son: "Behold! a miracle." * * * * * * [Transcriber's Note: The following nine pages were bound with "How Ethel Hollister Became a Campfire Girl." They constitute a separate story.] THE FLOWERS' WORK "See, mother! I've finished my bouquet. Isn't it beautiful? More so, I think, than those made by the florist which he asked two dollars for, and this has cost me but seventy-five cents." "Yes, yes, it is very pretty. But, dear me, child, I cannot help thinking how illy we can spare so much for such a very useless thing. Almost as much as you can make in a day it has cost." "Don't say _useless_, mother. It will express to Edward our appreciation of his exertions and their result, and our regards. How he has struggled to obtain a profession! I only wish I could cover the platform with bouquets, baskets and wreaths tonight, when he receives his diploma." "Well, well; if it will do any good, I shall not mind the expense. But, child, he will know it is from you, and men don't care for such things coming from home folks. Now, if it was from any other young lady, I expect he'd be mightily pleased." "Oh, mother, I don't think so. Edward will think as much of it, coming from his sister-in-law, as from any other girl. And it will please Kate, too. If _we_ do not think enough of him to send him bouquets, who else could? Rest easy, mother, dear; I feel quite sure my bouquet will do much good," answered Annie, putting her bouquet in a glass of water. She left the room to make her simple toilet for the evening. Mrs. Grey had been widowed when her two little girls were in their infancy. It had been a hard struggle for the mother to raise her children. Constant toil, privation and anxiety had worn heavily on her naturally delicate constitution, until she had become a confirmed invalid. But there was no longer a necessity for her toiling. Katy, the elder daughter, was married; and Annie, a loving, devoted girl, could now return the mother's long and loving care. By her needle she obtained a support for herself and mother. Katy's husband held a position under the government, receiving a small compensation, only sufficient for the necessities of the present, and of very uncertain continuance. He was ambitious of doing better than this for himself, as well as his family. So he employed every spare hour in studying medicine, and it was the night that he was to receive his diploma that my little story begins. The exercises of the evening were concluded. Edward Roberts came down the aisle to where his wife and Annie were seated, bearing his flowers--an elegant basket, tastefully arranged, and a beautiful bouquet. But it needed only a quick glance for Annie to see it was not _her_ bouquet. Although the flowers were fragrant and rare, they were not so carefully selected or well chosen. Hers expressed not alone her affection and appreciation, but _his_ energy, perseverance and success. "Why, where is my bouquet? I do not see it," asked Annie, a look of disappointment on her usually bright face. "Yours? I do not know. Did you send me one?" returned her brother-in-law. "Indeed I did. And such a beauty, too! It is too bad! I suppose it is the result of the stupidity of the young man in whose hands I placed it. I told him plain enough it was for you, and your name, with mine, was on the card," answered Annie, really very much provoked. "Well, do not fret, little sister; I am just as much obliged; and perchance some poor fellow not so fortunate as I may have received it," answered Edward Roberts. "Don't, for pity's sake, let mother know of the mistake, or whatever it is, that has robbed you of your bouquet. She will fret dreadfully about it," said Annie. All that night, until she was lost in sleep, did she constantly repeat: "I wonder who has got it?" She had failed to observe on the list of graduates the name of _Edgar Roberts_, from Ohio, or she might have had an idea into whose hands her bouquet had fallen. Her brother Edward, immediately on hearing Annie's exclamation, thought how the mistake had occurred, and was really glad that it was as it was; for the young man whose name was so nearly like his own was a stranger in the city, and Edward had noticed his receiving _one_ bouquet only, which of course was the missing one, and Annie's. Edgar Roberts sat in his room that night, after his return from the distribution of diplomas, holding in his hand Annie's bouquet, and on the table beside him was a floral dictionary. An expression of gratification was on his pleasant face, and, as again and again his eyes turned from the flowers to seek their interpreter, his lips were wreathed with smiles, and he murmured low: "Annie Grey! Sweet Annie Grey! I never dreamed of any one in this place knowing or caring enough for me to send such a tribute. How carefully these flowers are chosen! What a charming, appreciative little girl she is! Pretty, I know, of course. I wonder how she came to send me this? How shall I find her? Find her I must, and know her." And Edgar Roberts fell asleep to dream of Annie Grey, and awoke in the morning whispering the last words of the night before: "Sweet Annie Grey!" During the day he found it quite impossible to fix his mind on his work; mind and heart were both occupied with thoughts of Annie Grey. And so it continued to be until Edgar Roberts was really in love with a girl he knew not, nor had ever seen. To find her was his fixed determination. But how delicately he must go about it. He could not make inquiry among his gentlemen acquaintances without speculations arising, and a name sacred to him then, passed from one to another, lightly spoken, perhaps. Then he bethought himself of the city directory; he would consult that. And so doing he found Greys innumerable--some in elegant, spacious dwellings, some in the business thoroughfares of the place. The young ladies of the first mentioned, he thought, living in fashionable life, surrounded by many admirers, would scarcely think of bestowing any token of regard or appreciation on a poor unknown student. The next would have but little time to devote to such things; and time and thought were both spent in the arrangement of his bouquet. Among the long list of Greys he found one that attracted him more than all the others--a widow, living in a quiet part of the city, quite near his daily route. So he sought and found the place and exact number. Fortune favored him. Standing at the door of a neat little frame cottage he beheld a young girl talking with two little children. She was not the blue-eyed, golden-haired girl of his dreams, but a sweet, earnest dove-eyed darling. And what care he, whether her eyes were blue or brown, if her name were only Annie? Oh, how could he find out that? She was bidding the little ones "goodbye." They were off from her, on the sidewalk, when the elder child--a bright, laughing boy of five--sang out, kissing his little dimpled hand: "Good-bye, Annie, darling!" Edgar Roberts felt as if he would like to clasp the little fellow to the heart he had relieved of all anxiety. No longer a doubt was in his mind. He had found his Annie Grey. From that afternoon, twice every day he passed the cottage of the widow Grey, frequently seeing sweet Annie. This, however, was his only reward. She never seemed at all conscious of his presence. Often her eyes would glance carelessly toward him. Oftener they were never raised from her work. Sewing by the window, she always was. What next? How to proceed, on his fixed determination of winning her, if possible? Another bright thought. He felt pretty sure she attended church somewhere; perhaps had a class in the Sabbath school. So the next Sunday morning, at an early hour, he was commanding a view of Annie's home. When the school bells commenced to ring, he grew very anxious. A few moments, and the door opened and the object of his thoughts stepped forth. How beautiful she looked in her pretty white suit! Now Edgar felt his cause was in the ascendancy. Some distance behind, and on the other side of the street, he followed, ever keeping her in view until he saw her enter a not far distant church. Every Sunday after found him an attentive listener to the Rev. Mr. Ashton, who soon became aware of the presence of the young gentleman so regularly, and apparently so much interested in the services. So the good man sought an opportunity to speak to Edgar, and urge his accepting a charge in the Sabbath school. We can imagine Edgar needed no great urging on that subject; so, frequently, he stood near his Annie. In the library, while selecting books for their pupils, once or twice they had met, and he had handed to her the volume for which her hand was raised. Of course a smile and bow of acknowledgment and thanks rewarded him. Edgar was growing happier, and more confident of final success every week, when an event came which promised a speedy removal of all difficulty in his path. The school was going to have a picnic. Then and there he would certainly have an introduction to Annie, and after spending a whole day with her, he would accompany her home and win the privilege of calling often. The day of the picnic dawned brightly, and the happy party gathered on the deck of the steamer. The first person who met Edgar Roberts' eye was his fellow-student, Edward Roberts. Standing beside him were two ladies and some children. When Edgar hastened up to speak to his friend, the ladies turned, and Edward presented: "My wife; my sister, Miss Grey." Edgar Roberts could scarcely suppress an exclamation of joy and surprise. His looks fully expressed how delighted he was. Three months had he been striving for this, which, if he had only known it, could have been obtained so easily through his friend and her brother. But what was so difficult to win was the more highly prized. What a happy day it was! Annie was all he had believed her--charming in every way. Edgar made a confidant of his friend; told him what Edward well knew before, but was wise enough not to explain the mistake--of his hopes and fears; and won from the prudent brother the promise to help him all he could. Accompanying Annie home that evening, and gaining her permission for him to call again, Edgar lost no time in doing so, and often repeated the call. Perhaps Annie thought him very fast in his wooing, and precipitate in declaring his love, when, after only a fortnight visiting her, he said: "Annie, do you like me well enough, and trust in me sufficiently, to allow me to ask your mother to call me her son?" Either so happy or so surprised was Annie, that she could not speak just then. But roses crowded over her fair face, and she did not try to withdraw the hand he had clasped. "Say, Annie, love," he whispered. She raised her eyes to his with such a strange, surprised look in them, that he laughed and said: "You think I am very hasty, Annie. You don't know how long I've loved you, and have waited for this hour." "Long!--two weeks," she said. "Why, Annie, darling, it is over three months since I've been able to think of anything save Annie Grey--ever since the night I received my diploma, and your sweet, encouraging bouquet, since that night I've known and loved you. And how I've worked for this hour!" And then he told her how it was. And when he had finished, she looked at him, her eyes dancing merrily, and though she tried hard to keep the little rosebud of a mouth demurely shut, it was no use--it would open and let escape a rippling laugh, as she said: "And this is the work my bouquet went about, is it? This is the good it has done me--" She hesitated; the roses deepened their color as she continued "And you--" "Yes, Annie, it has done much good to me, and I hope to you too." "But, Edgar--" it was the first time she had called him thus, and how happy it made him--"I must tell you the truth--I never sent you a bouquet!" "No! oh, do not say so. Can there be another such Annie Grey?" "No; I am the one who sent the bouquet; but, Edgar, you received it through a mistake. It was intended for my brother-in-law, Edward!" "Stop, Annie, a moment--Are you sorry that mistake was made? Do you regret it?" said Edgar, his voice filled with emotion. "No indeed. I am very glad you received it instead," Annie ingenuously replied; adding quickly, "But, please, do not tell Edward I said so." "No, no; I will not tell him that you care a little more for _Edgar_ than _Edward_. Is that it? May I think so, Annie?" She nodded her head, and he caught her to his heart, whispering: "Mine at last. My Annie, darling! What a blessed mistake it was! May I go to your mother, Annie?" "Yes; and I'll go with you, Edgar, and hear if she will admit those flowers did any good. She thought it a useless expenditure." The widow Grey had become very much attached to the kind, attentive young man, and when he came with Annie, and asked her blessing on their love, she gave it willingly; and after hearing all about the way it happened, she said: "Never did flowers such a good work before. They carried Edgar to church, made a Christian of him, and won for Annie a good, devoted husband, and for me an affectionate son." 
14169	----	Ethel Hollister's Second Summer as a Campfire Girl By IRENE ELLIOTT BENSON 1912 CONTENTS SYNOPSIS OF PRECEDING BOOK I--ETHEL'S PLANS II--ETHEL ENTERS COLLEGE III--ETHEL AND HARVEY BECOME FIRM FRIENDS IV--ETHEL'S SECOND TRIP V--CAMP AGAIN VI--UNCLE JOHN'S VII--MRS. HOLLISTER'S VISIT TO CAMP VIII--THE SCOUTS ARRIVE IX--NORA GIVES SERVICE X--A HEROINE XI--BREAKING UP OF CAMP AND A SURPRISE XII--MATTIE MAKES GOOD XIII--JUDGE SANDS AND KATE MARRY XIV--A BIRTHDAY PRESENT XV--MRS. HOLLISTER ENTERTAINS XVI--CHRISTMAS EVE XVII--CHRISTMAS DAY XVIII--ANOTHER SURPRISE XIX--MR. CASEY BUYS A HOUSE XX--ARCHIBALD'S CHANGE FOR THE BETTER SYNOPSIS OF PRECEDING BOOK Ethel would have never become a Camp Fire Girl excepting for her great-aunt Susan. Susan Carpenter was her Grandmother Hollister's only sister, living in Akron, Ohio. Her family consisted of Mr. Thomas Harper and herself. Tom's parents had been her friends, and when they were taken Aunt Susan legally adopted him and his little brother Fred, but the younger one died before graduating, while Tom went through college and was now a rising young lawyer. Aunt Susan Carpenter was a philanthropist. At the time of her adopting the boys she was reputed to be a millionaire. She gave her beautiful home to the city for an Asylum for partially insane people and endowed it with fifty thousand dollars, after which the leading men in town raised fifty thousand more, thereby making it self-supporting. She was also on the board of managers of many other charities, and was adored by her townspeople. Four years previous to her visit to New York, she had lost every penny of her immense fortune,--lost it through the rascality of a large and well advertised concern calling itself the "Great Western Cereal Company." The whole thing was a rotten affair from the first and was floated by ten unscrupulous men who after obtaining all the money they could fled from the country before the exposure came; that is, save three, one of whom was arrested while the other two committed suicide. Aunt Susan wrote nothing of it to her sister lest it should worry her, and as she had never met her nephew's family in New York, and they knowing no one in Akron, they were in ignorance of the change in Aunt Susan's affairs and still thought her a wealthy woman. Mrs. Archibald Hollister--Ethel's mother--was worldly and ambitious; not so much for herself as for her daughter. Grand-mother Hollister, whose husband had belonged to one of New York's oldest families, owned the house in which they lived, free and clear. It was an old-fashioned brown-stone affair near Riverside Drive. Archibald, her son, paid the taxes in lieu of rent, but as his salary was only three thousand a year it was extremely difficult to make both ends meet, and Grandmother had no money save what was in the house. But Mrs. Archie was clever. She could make a dollar do the work of five. With her own hands she would fashion for Ethel the most dainty and up-to-date gowns, wraps, hats, etc., imaginable. The Hollisters kept but one maid. She always appeared trim and tidy, yet she did the entire housework. Upon the days that Mrs. Archie gave bridge parties or afternoon teas for Ethel's young friends, she hired two extra girls who had been so perfectly trained that the guests never once doubted but that they were part of the household--allowing to Mrs. Archie's clever management. Ethel attended a fashionable school costing her father more money than he could afford, but she met there the very best class of girls and really formed for herself the most desirable acquaintances. Her mother scrimped and saved in every way possible, while the guests who came to the old-fashioned house with its handsome antique furniture and portraits were wont to declare that "the Hollisters were certainty aristocratic and of blue blood, as their house showed it--so severe and yet elegant." So Mrs. Archie felt that the Hollister name alone should procure for Ethel a monied husband, and she held it constantly before the girl. She must associate only with those in the "upper circle," and marry a man who could give her a "fine establishment." Among Ethel's school friends was a girl--Nannie Bigelow by name--of whom she was very fond. Nannie had a brother in Yale whom she (Ethel) disliked. He was a member of the ultra fashionable set and was desirous of making a wealthy match, as his family as well had little but their name. One of his sisters had married a titled man and lived abroad. It was Mrs. Hollister's ambition to have Ethel like Harvey Bigelow, although she knew that he had as little money as she. She tried to adjust things satisfactorily, and being a clever woman she hit upon a plan which we shall reveal later. Of course, the girl was only sixteen and must first graduate. Ethel, who had imbibed many of her mother's fallacies, did not openly rebel. She was quite a little snob in her way, nor did she realize what the family daily sacrificed for her, although her heart smote her when she saw how her father was aging, for she adored him; nor were her eyes opened until after she had joined the Camp Fire. Grandmother Hollister had two sons, John and Archie. Kate Hollister was the daughter of the former. They lived in Columbus, Ohio, and Kate had been invited to visit her New York relatives. She was a tall, handsome girl much older than Ethel, for she was over thirty. Kate was the Guardian of a company of eight Camp Fire Girls called the "Ohio." She had told her grandmother and Ethel all about the new movement one evening, and Ethel who loved the romantic side of camping out was crazy to have Kate obtain permission from her mother to let her join, as her father had said that she might visit Columbus that coming summer. But lo! when she spoke to Mrs. Archie--or Aunt Bella--about it she was politely snubbed. When Kate tried to explain how wonderful was the organization and what benefit a girl--especially a delicate girl like Ethel--could derive from belonging, the lady sneered and likened it to the Salvation Army and forbade her guest from mentioning it to the girl or even speaking of it in her presence. But alas! the deed had been done and Ethel knew of it; but while in New York Kate had refrained from again touching on the subject. At that time an aunt of one of Ethel's schoolmates had formed a company and many of the swell set had joined. Ethel longed to belong but dared not offend her mother. Now for Mrs. Hollister's plan. She suddenly conceived the idea of inviting Aunt Susan on for a visit, supposedly to give Grandmother a chance to see her only sister once more, but in reality to have Ethel ingratiate herself with the old lady, thereby causing her to leave the girl the bulk of her fortune. Ethel read between the lines and at first refused, but after listening to her mother for a while and thinking perhaps she was right, she allowed herself to promise to further the plan. Aunt Susan was a woman with fine eyes and teeth, as well as a charming manner, but her style of dressing dated back to the eighties--full skirts, flat hats with strings, beaded plush dolmans, etc. Ethel was ashamed to be seen with her but she had promised to help and she had to do her share. In the meanwhile her mother had spread the report that Aunt Susan was a millionaire and that Ethel was to have her fortune at her death. Everyone fell in love with Aunt Susan and ascribed her peculiar dressing to the eccentricities of a wealthy woman. Mrs. Hollister's joy knew no bounds when Aunt Susan invited Ethel to return with her to Akron. Her scheme was beginning to work. Ethel was a lovely girl. Aunt Susan would grow fond of her and the fortune was assured. Besides, as it would cost a small fortune to take Ethel to a fashionable summer resort, Mrs. Archie could save money for the winter. But, accompanying the invitation, Aunt Susan requested that during July and August, Ethel might join her other grand niece's "Camp Fires" and live in the woods. "It will be the making of your girl," she added, "as now she looks thin and peaked." At first Mrs. Archie indignantly refused. She almost felt that she had been trapped, but Aunt Susan met every objection and even told the lady that she feared she was shallow and an unnatural mother to refuse to consider her daughter's health. Mrs. Archie dared not let Aunt Susan know that she considered the whole organization conspicuous and common, nor that she did not wish Ethel to learn to do the work of a servant, etc., or run the risk of meeting girls of humble origin. So after some sharp rebukes administered to her by the old lady on the sin of worldliness and the fact that she was not doing a mother's duty by her daughter, she consented, mentally declaring that she would see that Ethel should forget all about it on her return. While visiting Aunt Susan and living in Camp in a truthful atmosphere Ethel Hollister began to change. She saw how the old lady was beloved. She heard on every side of the good she had done, and when one day Aunt Susan told her that she had been a wife and mother, and what she had suffered at the hands of a brutal husband, she was spellbound. For years she had been deserted, but when one day he was supposed to be dying she was sent for that he might beg her forgiveness. She went and found that for four years he had been stone blind and that he had sunk so low that she shrank from the squalid house in which he was living. She took him away and stayed with him until his death, making the last days of his life more bearable. As the girl listened and thought of the old lady's goodness and how she was visiting her and making over her old gowns, hats, etc., into fashionable ones to ingratiate herself for an object she saw herself as she was--a hypocrite--and she fell on her knees to Aunt Susan confessing everything and begging her forgiveness, whereupon the old lady took her in her arms and told her that she knew everything--that Grandmother and she had made up their minds that Ethel might lose her worldliness under different environments. Then she told her of the loss of her fortune and the girl was glad, saying as she kissed her, "Now you know that I love you for yourself, Aunt Susan." Ethel liked Tom Harper. He was a fine young man. He supported Aunt Susan and gave her a liberal allowance but she banked nearly all of it, as she told Ethel "to have something at her death to leave to those whom she loved." After visiting her Uncle John's family, whom she liked at once, Kate, Ethel, and the eight girls started for Camp. It was situated in a stretch of woods on the banks of the Muskingum river. One of the girls--Patty Sands--became Ethel's chum. She was motherless and the only child of Judge Sands, ex-congressman of Ohio, and greatly respected. The rest of the girls were also congenial save two--one a Mattie Hastings, whom Ethel avoided saying that her eyes were too close together. Mattie's parents were poor people but she was one of Kate's Sunday School class and has asked to be allowed to join the "Ohios." The other girl was a large, raw-boned Irish girl, or rather of Irish parentage. Her voice was shrill and unpleasant, while her hair was black and her eyes dark blue and lovely, her face was covered with freckles and she dressed loudly and in bad taste. Pat Casey--her father---was one of the wealthiest men in town. He was a contractor and an honest, respectable man, but his wife was a pusher, trying to bluff her way into society. She was ignorant and disagreeable. People refused to receive her. Nora had been only half educated at a convent. Mrs. Casey, hearing of the Camp Fire Girls, bethought herself that it would be an opening for Honora, so she boldly called upon Miss Kate and asked--yes, begged--that Nora might belong; and Kate, who was kind-hearted, received the girl to the great joy of Mrs. Pat. Having been born in the old country, both parents spoke with a brogue. Occasionally, from association, Nora would use it; then she would stop suddenly, turn red, and speak perfect English. Ethel disliked her even more than she did Mattie. One day as she was helping wash dishes she lost a valuable diamond ring. It had been her Grandmother's engagement ring and she was heart-broken. Although they searched everywhere no trace of it could they find, but as they were walking up the hill a week or so afterwards they thought they saw Mattie Hastings through the trees. They called as a jest, "We've seen you and you're discovered--come out!" Whereupon someone shrieked, and proceeding to the spot they found Mattie lying upon the ground. She had walked in the sun and had started to run and had fallen over some stumps. Instantly they saw that she had been prostrated by the heat, and having recently studied "First aid to the injured" they proceeded to remove her blouse and open her corset, when lo! there upon a silver chain around her neck was not only Ethel Hollister's ring but another belonging to Honora Casey. She had missed it a few days after Ethel had lost hers, but she wisely refrained from speaking of it to anyone but Patty Sands, adding, "Shure, it would only be afther worryin' Miss Kate, and it might turn up. I'll bide me time." Mattie, upon recovering consciousness and seeing that her secret had been discovered handed the rings to Ethel saying that she should kill herself. The girls, seeing that she was desperate, replied that as one of their "seven laws" was to "render service," if she would confess why she had taken the rings they would shield her. Overjoyed, the girl did so. She told everything. She had done it for her young sister who had dislocation of the spine, whereby she might be converting them into money have the child placed in the Cripples Hospital and treated. A physician had assured her that the case was not incurable, and for two hundred dollars the child could be watched and nursed, and eventually her spine might be straightened. She said that since the accident that had made the child as she was, her mother had become a drug fiend. One evening her cousin--a young man who was a chauffeur--invited her mother to join a party and they took a joy ride. On their way home, being under the influence of wine, they knocked down and ran over a child near Mrs. Hasting's house. Letting her out, they sped quickly on for fear of arrest. Upon discovering that it was her own child, and what was worse, that from that night she was to be a hopeless cripple, the mother nearly went insane. Still she kept her secret and no one suspected that she had been one of the parties in the car. Her remorse drove her to take the drug. Under its influence she told Mattie. At that time the girl was earning six dollars a week, three of which she was paying to her mother, supposing her to be buying food for the invalid. When she discovered the truth she threatened her with exposure and tried to buy little Mollie nourishing delicacies herself, but three dollars would barely pay for the necessities of life, and she became discouraged and desperate. In the store she saw a customer drop her purse. She placed her foot upon it and when the lady had gone she picked it up. The purse contained forty dollars and some cards, etc. After depositing thirty-five dollars in the bank she took five and bought the child fruit, books, and ice cream. It seemed to put new life into Mollie. She took small articles from time to time, and pretending that they had been given her she sold them. Her remorse was terrible. She was unhappy. If only she could work harder and earn more. At that time she heard of the Camp Fire Girls--of the useful and wonderful things that they learned so that in time they became competent to demand and receive large salaries. She loved Miss Kate and asked her if she might join. Kate assented, and it was then that the girls first met her. Gradually the desire to collect the two hundred dollars for Mollie came back, and with it the temptation to steal. She took money from every girl. She was even willing, after placing Mollie in the Hospital, to go to prison, if only the child could be cured. She felt that some day she would be caught with the goods. She adored Miss Kate and took nothing from her. Finally she began taking jewelry to sell. This morning she was on her way to find a hiding place for the two rings and a diamond locket taken from another girl, when she heard Ethel and Patty call. Then she was sure that they had discovered her secret, and trying to run away she tripped and lost consciousness. "Now that I have told you all," she added, "your father--Judge Sands--will send me up," and she sobbed piteously. Her grief was sincere. She had not stolen for herself. She had been desperate. Pity crept into the hearts of the two girls and they constituted themselves her friends. They made her replace the jewelry in Nora's and Edna's suit cases. They found the lady's card from whom she had taken the purse and had Mattie return the money and bag with a note withholding her name. They had her draw out the money obtained from the sale of the purloined articles and return it to the head of the Department Store saying that the things had been taken and sold under great provocation for a sick child, enumerating them and the prices, after which she felt happier, for she knew that the girls would remain her friends. "Some day," she said, "I may make good." Ethel wrote and got Aunt Susan interested in little Mollie. Being a manager of a Cripples School that lady at once placed her free of charge in one of the wards as a boarder and pupil. The resident physician said that in a year's time he should send her out cured. Poor Mr. and Mrs. Hastings were overjoyed, while Mattie's gratitude knew no way to express itself. She simply regarded Ethel and Patty with looks of adoration, while in time they overcame their prejudice, Ethel even kissing her goodbye. There had been wrought in Ethel Hollister a great change. Much of her pride and worldliness had dropped from her. She had gradually become an earnest believer in truth despising all subterfuges and shams. Upon her arrival home, Mrs. Hollister, while noting her new and splendid health, was appalled at the change. From an obedient child, easily convinced that no matter what her mother said was right, she had become a girl of great character with ideas of her own. Mrs. Hollister angrily denounced her mother-in-law and Aunt Susan, saying that it was their work and that her child, for whom she had slaved all of her life, had become wilful, stubborn and disobedient. "She even refuses to go into Society this winter. She talks of taking up low down settlement work. She'll end in becoming a suffragette, and standing on a soap box she'll address the street rabble, perhaps wearing a large bonnet and standing beside a kettle holiday time ringing a bell and holding out a tambourine,--a Salvation Army woman. Oh! what a fool I was to let her go away from my influence," and she sobbed,--"to toil and save for her to make a brilliant match. See the way she rewards me. Why did I bring into this world such an ungrateful child! It's all that wretched Camp Fire business." Then Ethel gently put her arm around her mother and told her that only since she had been a Camp Fire girl had she appreciated how hard she had worked for her. "I know, Mamma," she said, "how you and Papa, and even Grandmamma, have sacrificed for me. I see myself as I have been, (not as I am now)--a selfish, wicked girl, not even appreciating what you have done for me, and I am appalled. I am going to do for you now. I am going to see the roses come back into your cheeks and the wrinkles leave your pretty face. Uncle John is Papa's senior by ten years but he looks much younger--why? Because Papa is bent and worn getting money for me--for us to make a show on. Everything is sham, Mamma, and let us give it up--let us keep only friends who care for us ourselves and we shall be happier. I shall take you up to camp next summer. You can help us so much; you are so clever and can teach the girls. And as for a grand marriage for me, I'll promise never to marry at all unless you approve of the man, and I may make a better marriage than you dream of. So just let us be happy and natural and live within our means," and she took her sobbing mother in her arms. Ethel Hollister's Second Summer as a Camp Fire Girl CHAPTER I ETHEL'S PLANS The morning after Ethel had declared herself her mother came up to her room. She could see that Mrs. Hollister had not slept and her eyes were red from weeping. Ethel kissed her, saying: "Mamma, we are going to be very happy together--you and I. I don't want to disappoint you, dear, nor would I do so willingly; but I simply can not live as I've been living. Sit down and let us talk." Then she told of Aunt Susan,--of her kindness, unselfishness and self-sacrifice. She told of Mattie and how they had helped her, and of her Uncle John; of Patty and Judge Sands; and lastly of Kate and what a wonderful character she was. "Wait, dear, I want to show you my ceremonial gown," and she quickly slipped it on. The girl's hair was still hanging unbound, having slept in it that way, and she hooked about it her coronation band. Said her mother: "Well, I must say it is becoming. What a Pocahontas you would make in private theatricals!" she exclaimed with maternal pride; "But then, why should I speak of theatricals? You've given up all such things." "Why, Mamma," laughed Ethel, "I'm not going into a convent. I have given up nothing but the unreal part of life." "I suppose you'll tell everyone how poor we are, and how I have put you forward under false colors. Then people will despise me." "No, Mamma, I shall not do a thing to put you in any awkward position. Keep on. Give your teas for me if you wish,--even have the two extra maids. It costs very little and we have a social time; it cheers Grandmamma and there's no need to stop them. But this is what I shall not do: First I shall tell Harvey Bigelow that Aunt Susan was once a millionaire but that she lost all of her money. I shall tell of her wonderful gifts to Akron,--of her charities, and how well she is beloved, but that I shall inherit no money from her. Harvey will tell his mother and she'll spread the news. If people care any the less for us after hearing it, let them go; but I don't propose to tell what Papa's salary is, or that you--poor dear--sit until morning sewing for me,--a thing that I'm not going to allow you to do any longer. "Then I shall give up attending Madam's. Yes, don't start. Every bill Papa pays is a nail in his coffin, I know. Tomorrow I shall go to Barnard and try to pass an examination, and for one quarter what Madam charges I can get a sound and solid education, and were Papa to die I can leave with my teacher's diploma knowing something that will be of use to me. I could help support you and Grandmamma. What could I do were I forced to support myself after leaving Madam's. Why, an education such as her girls receive is of no earthly account unless for music or such accomplishments; but with a degree from Barnard I can earn good money. I am so glad that I am young and that I shall have a chance. You'll be proud of me, Mamma,--just wait and see," and she kissed her mother affectionately. They went down to breakfast. Archibald Hollister listened to his daughter's plans. He was proud of her and his face showed it. "You see, Papa," continued Ethel, "every penny is spent on me. Do you and Mamma ever go to a theatre? No. Do you ever take a drive? Never,--why? Because you can't spare the money. Now at least we shall be able to go to the moving picture shows and take Grandmamma. I bet you'd enjoy it, wouldn't you, Grandmamma? And, do you know, the best people go, and a quarter is the highest priced seat." The girl chatted on until the postman delivered the mail. "Oh! a letter from Kate. Let's see what news she has written," and she gave a gasp as she read the first page. "Poor Mrs. Casey died Saturday from pneumonia. Nora is heartbroken, and poor Pat Casey acts as though he knew not which way to turn. Nora looks really refined in black,--almost handsome. She loved Mrs. Casey, who in spite of her peculiarities was a good wife and mother. Later: Mr. Casey wishes to take Nora away. He suggested New York, so you may see her, etc." Then Ethel described Honora. "It is strange but I can never like that girl. There's something about her that's antagonistic to me, and yet when she comes here I must be polite and ask her to visit me." "If she's in mourning she'll not expect to meet people," said Mrs. Hollister quickly, "nor to go to any places of amusement, thank heavens." "Oh, she's very generous. Probably she'd invite us, Mamma. Well, poor Nora, she loved her mother. I'm sorry for her." CHAPTER II ETHEL ENTERS COLLEGE The next morning Ethel Hollister walked up to Barnard and put in her application for admittance. The following week upon her first examination she failed, but she entered the class with conditions. The girl studied hard and soon made good. She liked the girls of her class. They were intelligent, athletic, and agreeable. Her former friends and companions from La Rue's declared that of late--in fact, since she had become a Camp Fire Girl--Ethel Hollister had developed fads. This Barnard was one. But as Ethel kept on steadily progressing in college, and she was so very young--not yet seventeen--people began to consider her a girl of great ability and intelligence. Mrs. Hollister grew to be proud of hearing her praised on every side and Archibald seemed less worried over money matters. She was rather glad that things had changed. Perhaps it was all for the best, and people would respect them no less. Grandmother never wearied of hearing her grandchild tell of her visit. "And to think," she'd say, "that Susan has had all the trouble she tells of and has made no sign. How gladly would I have helped her. Still, had I done so we would have had no house. Well, the Lord knows what's best. We could only have offered her a home. I'm glad the Insane Asylum was endowed and the boys educated before the crash came." Nora did not visit New York in the winter. She went South with her father. The girls--Kate and Ethel--corresponded, and in that way Ethel heard all of the news. The Judge came often and took Patty and Kate on long motor trips. Mattie was doing nicely. She was employed in a Woman's Exchange where she received twelve dollars a week and taught cooking and sewing. Mollie was improving daily. Mr. Hastings had a fine position with Judge Sands. Honora was away, but the rest of the girls were as usual. The Camp Fires met weekly and everyone missed Ethel, but no one missed her as did Aunt Susan. "Why," wrote Kate, "she says the light has gone out of her life, and Tom roams around disconsolate. But," she added, "you should see the up-to-date way in which he dresses. He is the pink of fashion, I tell you." Ethel laughed, and while reading would stop every now and then to explain. Then Ethel answered: "I have joined Miss Westcott's Camp Fire Girls, and if you believe it, Mamma goes with me. She doesn't like it, but she's a great help to me and to the girls, for she teaches them so much. She's consistent and it will take her some time to overcome her prejudices. Nanny Bigelow belongs, and Harvey takes us when Mamma can not go. By the way, Harvey seems quite interested in medicine, and after graduating he is going to study it. We call him 'Doctor' Bigelow. "Dorothy Kip's Day Nursery has proved a great success. It is the dearest little flat, and the babies are sweet. Dorothy's old woman is a great help, and I want you to know that Dorothy works hard. Why, she almost runs the place on contributions and her allowance, and the little ones are just as happy and comfortable as possible. She has books and toys, and we girls take turns in going in and reading to the elder children, as well as amusing the younger ones. That is a good charity, and Grandmother (Kate noticed that Ethel had begun to call Mrs. Hollister 'Mother' and the old lady 'Grandmother') goes nearly every pleasant day and takes flowers. She generally spends the afternoon with them, so in a small way Dorothy Kip is emulating Jane Addams. Who knows but some day she may be her equal,--Oh!" The second letter said: "I must tell you something. The other evening Harvey Bigelow called. You know I never liked him any more than I liked Mattie nor Nora. Now I like Mattie and I am beginning to like Harvey. I hope I shall change towards Nora, but I see no sign now. Well, Harvey began. "'Miss Ethel,' he said, 'I've determined to become a physician. I presume you've heard that, and I'm determined to become a good one, too. You may not know it, but I have always liked boys. I don't say that I dislike girls,--but I do like boys. (Harvey is developing a sense of humor.) When I visited my college chum--Joe Atkinson--this last summer, I was surprised to learn that he was the Scout Master to a troop of eight boys. He lives in Springfield, Illinois. I had a corking visit and a fine time with the kids, two of whom are his young brothers. "'Do you know, I became mightily interested in the movement. I have studied and watched it and I think it's the finest thing ever started. I came home quite enthusiastic and I talked of it to the two younger Kip boys and Alan McAllister,--Grace's brother. If you'll believe it, before I realized what I'd done, these boys had formed a troop and began to importune me to be the Scout Master of it. There's the two Kips, Tom Wilder (Sara Judson's cousin), a brother of Grace McAllister, Tommy Westcott, and my cousin, Jack Atwater, besides two other boys from the East Side Y.M.C.A. Miss Westcott, the Guardian of the Camp Fire Girls, asked that they might be allowed to join, making eight in all.' "I caught him by the hand and I said: "'Harvey Bigelow, I take off my hat to you. I never liked you so well in my life." "He blushed awfully and seemed embarrassed, but he simply said: "'Don't you think it about time that I became in earnest over something in life? The opportunity presented itself and I grasped it--that's all.' "Well, to make a long story short, several of these boys are desirous of going West next summer and spending their vacations instead of East, and he called to ask me about the Muskingum Camp. He is going there, Kate, and he'll be near us. I made him write to Mr. Adams--your father's man--who did everything for us, and ask him to reserve a place for the Scouts. I'm just wild for summer to come. I'm going to bring Mother and Grandmother. Grandmother will visit Aunt Susan, and Mother can spend her time between Aunt Susan's, your house, and the Camp. She doesn't say much but I really think the change is a relief to her--poor dear little mother. I was the selfish juggernaut who made her sacrifice everyone for me. I realize it now, and thank God it's not too late to mend. "I am doing finely at college. I should like to form from some of my class another Company of Camp Fire Girls, but the trouble is they are too busy with study. They say that they're worn out when summer comes and have to go away to rest, but they intend to join during their third year. Then it won't be such a continuous _grind_ as it is now. "I am so glad that I had the good sense to start in college. I intend to be self-supporting after I graduate. I consider it a glorious thing for an unmarried woman--don't you? "Well, dear, I must close. Kiss Uncle John, etc." That was great news for Kate--that Harvey Bigelow should have become a man. It was too good to be true. She sent the letter to Aunt Susan, whom she knew would be interested in it. "I tell you, Ethel is made of good stuff!" ejaculated Uncle John. "She was in the right church but in the wrong pew--that's all." CHAPTER III ETHEL AND HARVEY BECOME FIRM FRIENDS Vacation arrived. Ethel had acquitted herself well, and her examinations were excellent. She and her mother began making preparations to go West. This time it was Grandmother and Mrs. Hollister whose wardrobes needed replenishing. Ethel bought for herself two new suits and some blouses. She had actually outgrown hers of the preceding summer. "My dear, I am spending very little money now," said Mrs. Hollister, "and I'm going to put some by for your trousseau." Ethel laughed merrily. "Why, Mother, where's the man?" "Never mind," replied her mother, "he'll come." "Mother, you're a born matchmaker!" exclaimed the girl. "I wish you had had other daughters." "Heaven forbid!" ejaculated Mrs. Hollister with a funny little smile. "One is enough." "Is that intended for a compliment?" laughed the girl. "If so it's a doubtful one." During the month of May, Harvey would invite her to go horseback riding up to Van Cortlandt Park. They had to make it Saturdays, as that was Ethel's only free day. They usually started early. On the country roads the apple and peach blossoms were like pictures. To the girl they brought back the previous spring at Aunt Susan's, and especially the morning when she had revealed to Ethel the sad story of her married life. On one of these excursions the girl related it to Harvey. "By George!" he ejaculated when she had finished, "that old lady is a sport and no mistake. She's all right. I imagined she was made of different stuff from other women, and do you know I sort of suspected that she hadn't all the money that your mother thought she had. She was too refined and showed good blood. Had she been so wealthy, from her dressing people might have taken her for a miser, and gentle folks are seldom misers. I thought that it was necessity that caused her to wear those old-fashioned clothes, so I argued that though Mrs. Hollister imagined her wealthy and that you were in a line to inherit her money there was a great mistake somewhere. But pshaw! as for that every mother is ambitious for her daughter. Why, my mother left no stone unturned until she had married Edith to Lord Ashurst, and I must admit that I was easily led by my mother. Why, I've been out for a rich wife ever since I left school; but, Ethel, I've changed. Now I propose to pay my bills with the money I earn, not with hers; nor shall I allow her to buy what she wears." "Does your mother realize how you feel?" asked Ethel, pushing her fair, curling locks from her eyes. "Bless you, yes. She and I had one long talk, and after it I tell you there was something doing in the Bigelow family; but Nannie who has lots of horse sense sided with me, and together we were too many for mother. She saw that it was up to her to make the best of it and she did, but like your mother she still cherishes her ambitions. Nan said to her: "'You have one daughter who has done the grand marriage stunt and she's some class. Do let us choose for ourselves." "What did your mother say to that?" laughed Ethel. "I think she boxed Nannie's ears and then apologized. She loses her self-control sometimes. Poor mother," and Harvey laughed. "Nannie has some temper, too, and don't you make any mistake." Ethel was beginning to have a real friendly feeling for Harvey. He asked many questions about her cousin Kate. "She rings true," he said. "I liked her from the first." "She _is_ true," replied Ethel. "You'll see her this summer, and I'm sure you'll like Uncle John and his wife. He's just a dear." Those were red letter days for Ethel. She enjoyed the air, the scenery, and the rides; and she enjoyed talking to Harvey, for now that he understood she could talk to him as though he were one of the family--without restriction and without embarrassment. "What puzzles me," said Ethel, "is the way our mothers argue. When they plan our marriages it's only money and position. Love never seems to enter into their heads. Oh! I grew so tired of it. Thank God it's over, and our family are now normal. Even Grandmother wished me to marry well. I had far rather be an old maid than to be tied to a man for whom I care nothing, and have to sit opposite and pour tea for him three hundred and sixty-five days in a year. Imagine the horrible monotony of that. I heard that advice given to a girl in a play and I never forgot it; and if only girls could be brought to realize beforehand the sin of it there would be fewer unhappy marriages." CHAPTER IV ETHEL'S SECOND TRIP The time arrived for the Hollisters to start. There were tears in Archibald Hollister's eyes as he kissed them goodbye at the train. Within the last year his life had been happier. He had seen more of his wife and had grown to love her better than he had since Ethel was a child. She and he were together nearly all of the time, and it was like reading over a forgotten love story. "Don't you worry, papa," said Ethel, patting his cheek. "We're going to keep well and have a lovely summer, and when you come up for your vacation you'll be like a boy again." "Yes, Archie," spoke up Mrs. Hollister "Be sure that Mirinda gives you good things to eat and has them well cooked. She'll have little else to do, and you go out and call on the Bigelows and Judsons. Take in the moving pictures and roof gardens. I'll trust you," she laughed, "but don't fail to write me three times a week, will you, telling me how things are going on. And don't let Mirinda's young man come to the house but once a week and on Sundays." "Remember everything," laughed Ethel. Grandmother kissed her son and murmured: "God bless you, Archie. I expect to take on a new lease of life." "Do mother," said the man, "we all need you." The trip was pleasant. The scenery was fine and the country looked as though it had been freshly swept and dusted, everything seemed so clean. Grandmother's eyes glistened with pleasure. They were to stop at Akron first, where they were to leave Grandmother, and after a visit of a week Ethel and her mother were to go on to Columbus and hence to Camp. As the train drew into the depot at Akron, there stood Tom with Aunt Susan, but what a metamorphosis! Tom just escaped being a fashionably dressed swell. He was too manly for that. He wore a blue serge suit, colored negligee shirt with tie to match, a Panama hat, and russet ties. His handsome face was so full of character that Mrs. Hollister whispered to Ethel: "What a remarkably distinguished looking man he is. You never told me of his being so." Ethel blushed when Tom took her up and kissed her as he might have done had she been his sister, and as for Aunt Susan, even Grandmother gazed at her with amazement. She was attired in a modish little automobile bonnet, close fitting and of grey, while her grey linen suit gave her an up-to-date air, for now, she proudly informed Ethel, Tom owned his own car. "Aunt Susan, you look out of sight," said Ethel, kissing her. "I never knew you." Mrs. Hollister was happy. Ethel had not half told her, and she was agreeably disappointed. They took their seats in the new and commodious car and soon reached the little house. The ingrain and rag carpets had disappeared. In their places were Oriental rugs. Striped red awnings shaded the windows and piazzas. The porch had been converted into the cosiest of lounging places with willow furniture, scarlet cushions, rugs, birds, plants, etc., as well as small tables filled with the latest magazines and Aunt Susan's sewing baskets. They had a hammock at either end, and altogether it was lovely. Mrs. Hollister simply raved over it and the artistic interior with its fine old furniture. "Ethel is responsible for this change," said Tom, removing his hat and wiping his handsome brow. "Last summer when she came here I dressed like a countryman, but in the most tactful manner she suggested high collars, different ties, and fairly talked my army hat right off my head, saying that I looked like a G.A.R. Little by little she's converted Aunt Susan into a fashionable woman. But how careless of me. Let me get you a cup of tea," he said to Mrs. Hollister, placing a table before her and a stool under her feet. He soon returned, bringing the tray and a plate of delicious jumbles. "You see," he continued, "Aunt Susan will not keep two girls, so I have to be waitress now and then. She is attached to Jane, who though is a good cook, but her trouble is she's set in her way and refuses to stay if we allow another girl to enter the house. We are handicapped, you see, for we can't spare Jane, nor could we replace her." Gradually he took Mrs. Hollister into his confidence and told her of his early life and of Aunt Susan's misfortunes. "But bless you," he continued, "the Lord is good to us. She'll never need a penny for my income is increasing and my practice is more than I can attend to. I should have a partner but she won't hear of my taking one. She is too cautious. So I have several young students who study law in my office and help me as well." Then he proceeded to extol Ethel. "Mrs. Hollister," he said, "she's a girl of wonderful character and she'll make a magnificent woman. I notice she's improved since she was here." "Yes, it's her college," replied her mother, "and the life at camp last summer. I must admit she knew more than I when she broke loose from my foolish and unwise influence. I was not fit to guide her, Mr. Harper, I realize it now." "Never mind, madam; it's to you she owes her beauty. Why, you and she look exactly like sisters," whereupon Mrs. Hollister capitulated to Tom Harper. She couldn't speak of him with enough enthusiasm and praise. She wrote pages to Archibald. "My dear, everyone says he'll yet be Governor, and while I wouldn't have you breathe it for the world I'm sure he's in love with Ethel. What a couple they'd make. Of course she has no suspicion of such a thing, nor would I hint it to her; but you wait and see." Mr. Hollister smiled as he read his wife's letter, and his heart was glad. He had known Tom Harper's father and had respected him highly. "Well," he thought, "this time Bella is on the right tack. I'll not interfere," and he softly whistled "Comin' Thro' the Rye." CHAPTER V CAMP AGAIN "Aunt Susan, you've grown so young," said Ethel, "and as for Tom, well he's the glass of fashion and mould of form. He looks fine. Oh! I'm so glad to be back and to have Mother and Grandmother with me; and Father will be here soon. It seems like a dream--too good to be true. Hasn't Mother grown lovely?" "Never saw anything like the change," replied the old lady. "In fact, you've worked wonders in us all, my dear," she said. "Look at me. Why! I feel like an up-to-date fashion plate." Ethel laughed. "Yes, Madam, you're up-to-date all right and no mistake. I didn't know you that day at the depot." "I often wonder," continued the elderly woman, "if people think I'm putting on airs. Really, Jane told me of some woman who said 'old Mrs. Carpenter was mighty upraised, dressing like a young girl.' It's funny, isn't it, what dress will do. But I should look young for I'm so happy to have Alice here again, and to think that we shall be together all summer. I don't yet seem to realize it." "Did you notice how Grandmother cried as this house came to view,--her birthplace?" "No wonder. She hasn't been here," said Aunt Susan, "since Mother's funeral, I presume it brought it all back to her. Poor Alice! I ought not to say it, but Archie Hollister was not the man to make her happy. He ran through with nearly all of her money. It slipped through his fingers just like water, and I guess her life with his family was none too peaceful and happy. They had the name of being great fighters. Of course she has her recompense in John and Archibald--that's something. A woman needs peace. Now take your mother, for instance. Why has she grown young? Because she's quit worrying--that is the secret." "Yes, and when I think that she did it all for me--why, Aunt Susan, I can't lay up anything against her; I love her too well. She sees now how useless it all was. But what do you know about Harvey Bigelow? Isn't he developing into a fine man?" "He certainly is," replied Aunt Susan, "and I always liked him. He looked one squarely in the eye, and such a man can be trusted." "I don't know," answered Ethel, "of late everyone seems to be changing for the better. The whole world appears different to me. It makes me happy to see others happy," and the girl went out to call her mother and Tom in to tea. "I'm transferring my allegiance to your mother, young woman," said Tom. "I'm not a bit jealous," replied Ethel. "Mother is really more interesting to men than I, and what's more, she's always been. But hurry in; Jane will be furious if her biscuits grow cold." The two weeks passed only too quickly. They spent their days touring all over Ohio, so it seemed to Ethel, and at night the young people came in shoals to see her, while the grown-ups had bridge parties. Said Mrs. Hollister: "How hospitable and lovely these Westerners are. I had no idea that they were so refined." "What did you expect to meet, Mother?" laughed Ethel--"not cowboys?" "Susan," said Grandmother one morning, "I notice that you curl your hair. It's very becoming, I think." "Alice, you don't consider me too old, do you? Sometimes I wonder if I'm not sort of making a fool of myself, but Ethel got me in the way of it and I try to keep the front as fluffy as possible, for she asked me to. And I've another confession to make," said Aunt Susan. "Alice, I blue my hair--regular bluing water so as to keep it white. There now--what do you think of that?" "So do I, Susan," laughed her sister. "I've done it for several years. It certainly does improve the color. Grey hairs grow so yellow looking. The child is right. We ought to keep ourselves up while we're able. We polish up old mahogany and keep it fresh and clean--why not old women?" and the two laughed merrily. "I think the Camp Fire business has made a woman of Ethel, don't you?" "How could it fail to?" said Aunt Susan. "Women are coming into their own, Alice. They're growing sensible and self-reliant. Look at our Grandmothers and at us. Do you notice the difference? And our grandchildren will be just as far ahead of us as we are of our grandmothers. Isn't it wonderful?" "I like you Western people," said Mrs. Hollister, coming in at that moment followed by Ethel. "I've just told Mother," said the girl, "that Western people can give points to us. They are natural, kind-hearted, hospitable, and they seldom measure their friendship by the amount of people's bank accounts. With them it's character that talks." "How did you like my sanitarium, Bella?" asked Aunt Susan. "I couldn't half express myself," replied Mrs. Hollister. "You're a wonderful woman, Aunt Susan, and the people here have cause to bless you. I've never before admitted this to Ethel, but I'm very glad that she came here last summer. I see my short-sightedness every day when I look back and realize how I was bringing her up," and Mrs. Hollister wiped her eyes. "You've been a lovely and kind mother to me," replied Ethel. "You have sacrificed far too much for me and I never half appreciated it." "I have been an unwise mother my dear," said she, "and you stopped me just in time. I only now begin to realize my limitations. I've been self-centered and conceited." Ethel kissed her mother affectionately, and the two old ladies coughed and knitted vigorously. "We are all liable to make mistakes, Bella," said Aunt Susan. "Yours has been in loving your child too dearly." CHAPTER VI UNCLE JOHN'S They arrived in Columbus where Uncle John greeted them affectionately and insisted upon kissing his sister-in-law. Mrs. Hollister was persuaded not to go to camp until after a few days, when the girls should be settled. Then Uncle John was to take her up. So Ethel, Kate, and the girls, with one new member, went alone. Save that Nora Casey wore mourning and seemed quiet, everything was the same as the summer before. Patty Sands was wild with delight upon seeing Ethel. Edna Whitely was the same happy-go-lucky Edna as of old. Mollie Long and Edith Overman had grown very tall, while Sallie Davis had become a perfect roly poly. She had gained twenty pounds and was constantly dieting and taking long walks. Mattie Hastings cried when she beheld Ethel. Mattie had grown quiet and dignified, while in her face she showed more character. Ethel looked at them all, especially at Honora. "Can I not put my dislike of that girl behind me?" she thought. "Why can't I be nice to her?" She tried hard. She began asking her of her mother, and tears filled Nora's eyes, but after a while her voice began to take on its old shrill tones, while in her manner there came that indescribable something that had always repelled Ethel. "That girl is my cross," she thought. "I must like her, and yet I can't. I shall never become worthy to be a Camp Fire Girl until I overcome it. I wonder if she'll affect Mother as she does me." Ethel was now a Fire Maker. In addition to her Wood Gatherer's ring she wore the pretty silver bracelet of the Fire Maker. The second evening they had a Council Fire. The wood and kindling had been gathered and brought by Edna Whitely and a new girl named Kate Winthrop, who had never been to Camp before. Edna couldn't seem to advance. She was actually too lazy to work for honors and it worried Kate Hollister not a little. "What's the difference?" she would say. "Someone will have to gather wood and we have but one new girl--that's Kate. You may be glad that I stayed." The girls looked pretty in their brown ceremonial gowns and their long hair banded with the ceremonial band. Ethel advanced and lighted the fire, intoning the usual Fire Makers' song. Then they had the exercises. Honors were awarded and several girls advanced to the next higher grade. This is the Fire Makers' ode to Fire that they intoned as Ethel lighted the Council Fire: "Oh, Fire, long years ago when our fathers fought with the great animals you were their protection. From the cruel cold of winter you saved them. When they needed food you changed the flesh of beasts into savory meat for them. During all the ages your mysterious flame has been a symbol to them for Spirit. So (tonight) we light our fire in remembrance of the great Spirit who gave you to us." In the darkness of the woods with the bright flames shooting upward the effect of the chanting was weird, mysterious and unusual. Then Kate showed Ethel the typed copy of the Legend of Ohio which had been attached to each count book, handing her a copy for her own. The roll was called, reports read of the last Council Fire, and of the weekly meeting. Edna Whitely had really exerted herself and had written it in clever rhyme. Then to their surprise a report of Ethel's and Patty's kindness to Mattie Hastings was read. It seems that Mattie's conscience had troubled her and at one of the meetings she had confessed it all and how she had been saved by the two girls. She also requested that it should be read upon Ethel's return. It told how under unusual distress she had been tempted to do a great wrong,---how the two girls caused her to make restitution, and how after that they placed Mollie in the Cripples School, and that now she was on her way to recovery. It said that she began from then to try and lead a better life and that with God's help she was doing so. The girls looked at one another, but although they made no sign they knew what the wrong was. But they smiled at Mattie in the most friendly way, Nora grasping her by the hand said: "I hope yere sister will be after walkin' soon." Then came the Wohelo ceremony. Mattie came forward and lighted a branch, throwing it on the ashes, while Patty Sands knelt and lighted it chanting: "Wohelo means work. We glorify work because through work we are free. We work to win, to conquer, to be masters. We work for the joy of working and because we are free." Then she stepped back and Edith Overman came forward chanting and lighting another branch. "Wohelo means health. We hold on to health because through health we serve and are happy; in caring for the health and beauty of our persons we are caring for the very shrine of the Great Spirit. Wohelo means health." Then Sallie Davis stepped forward while Edith retired. She lighted the third branch which crackled and threw up numberless red sparks, after which she chanted the last verse: "I light the light of love, for Wohelo means love. We love Love, for love is life and light and joy and sweetness. And love is comradeship and motherhood and fatherhood, and all dear kinship. Love is the joy of service so deep that self is forgotten. Wohelo means love." After that this song was sung: "Lay me to sleep in thy sheltering flame. O Master of the Hidden Fire. Wash pure my heart and cleanse for me My Soul's desire. In flame of sunrise bathe my soul O Master of the Hidden Fire. That when I wake clear-eyed may be My Soul's desire." This is by Fiona Macleod. They stood around talking to Miss Kate for a little while, who walking over to Mattie kissed her tenderly, after which each girl followed her example before retiring, and poor Mattie was all broken up over it. CHAPTER VII MRS. HOLLISTER'S VISIT TO CAMP When the morning dawned on the day Mrs. Hollister was expected, great were the preparations made for that lady. "Listen to me, girls; she's the cleverest woman you ever met," said Cousin Kate. "She has not been exactly in favor of our organization, so I wish each of you girls to do your best, and Mrs. Hollister can teach you so many useful things." "Yes, indeed," said Ethel. "Cousin Kate is right. There's very little that Mother can not do." Old Mr. Adams came up with a load of delicacies which had been ordered by the thoughtful Uncle John. He paid no attention to the girls but as on previous occasions he gave his entire attention to his horses. He wiped off their foaming sweat with his hands. Last year it had been his handkerchief varied with bundles of grass and leaves. After cleaning them to his satisfaction he calmly walked to the clear brook and washed his hands thoroughly. "Isn't that awful?" whispered Patty to Miss Kate. "I shall never feel like drinking water from that brook again." "Why my dear," laughed Kate, "that water changes every minute. It's gone now and in its place there's fresh--don't worry." "Here they are!" called Nora, and there came to view Uncle John and a lady whom from Ethel's resemblance to her they at once knew and fell deeply in love with, especially Mattie. And everything pleased Mrs. Hollister,--the girls, their costumes, their tents, and the delicious dinner cooked over an open fire interested her greatly. She even held one of the forked branches on which reposed the chicken and broiled it as well as a chef, but she thought the green corn was the most delicious thing that she'd ever tasted. After dinner she said: "Now girls, see if I have it correct: 'After tying a string to the end of each ear, soak the corn in water for an hour. Then lay it on the hot coals, turning frequently. Draw it out by the string and eat with salt and melted butter.' Well, it's simply great. I wish I were young again. I think I'd like to be a Camp Fire Girl." She was as enthusiastic as a child. Ethel looked at Kate and they smiled over the change that had taken place since the day Kate wished to explain to her aunt what the Camp Fire Girl was. "Don't you think that Mother grows young?" asked Ethel proudly of her cousin. "She's a changed woman," replied Kate, "in every way. She's simply lovely." Mrs. Hollister adapted herself and made friends quickly. She became tactful, a quality that had hitherto been unknown. She liked Nora and the girl loved Mrs. Hollister. Ethel marveled. That her mother who disliked anything savoring of loudness could tolerate Nora seemed wonderful. "The fault must lie with me," she thought. "Even Mother likes her." Mrs. Hollister went right to work and taught the girls how to cut and fit. She taught them many of the little arts and niceties of dressmaking, and the girls became proficient and at the next Council meeting each received several honors. Then she taught them to trim hats and make the daintiest bows; and after she had taught them how to crochet and make Irish lace their gratitude was boundless. She also taught them how to cook--how to make delicious corn bread with one egg, where they had been in the habit of using two, insisting upon their first scalding their meal. Then she made them delicious gingerbread, using cold coffee left from breakfast in place of milk or cream and many other dishes of which they had never heard. "Really, Aunt Bella," said Kate, as the girls were receiving their honors, "I feel that you deserve some of these beads." CHAPTER VIII THE SCOUTS ARRIVE Great was the surprise of the girls when the next afternoon they beheld walking towards the Camp two young men in Scout costume. They were none other than Harvey Bigelow and young Teddy Kip, the Master and assistant Scout Master of the "Flying Eagles" Scout Patrol. Each wore a small flag, and upon a red ground was a black and white eagle. As they advanced they gave their cry--"Yeh--yeh--yeh!" "Oh! Harvey," screamed Ethel, and rushed forward, greeting them warmly. Then Cousin Kate came and welcomed them cordially, introducing them to the nine girls. "Why, Mrs. Hollister," said Harvey, catching sight of her in her tent, "it does seem good to see you here," and he gazed at her thoughtfully and curiously. "'Pon my word you've grown so young I thought you were Ethel at first." She wore one of her daughter's costumes and really she did look wonderfully youthful. "Well, you can't complain. The Camp life has done you some good, and there you were so down on it." "Yes, I was, but people change. Look at yourself," replied she seriously. "Mrs. Hollister," said he, "I've been here only one week, but I already feel that I'm another man. It's splendid for both boy and girl. It's a boon to be able to get away from city people and fashionable resorts. Nan has put up a big fight and, Ethel, she's coming out to see you next month," he said. "Oh, how lovely! Kate, hear this: Nannie Bigelow is coming here to see us next month." "I shall be here until the middle," said Harvey, "and she'll go home with us. I've an aunt in Springfield and she'll go there for a visit first. After that she'll come on here and spend a few days if you girls want her to." "I'm so glad," said Ethel, and she ran to tell her mother. Teddy Kip was a handsome lad of about eighteen. Immediately Patty Sands suggested that he must see everything, so she took him off under her wing. The rest sat on the ground while Harvey related several anecdotes and funny experiences that had befallen his patrol since they came to Camp. "Now you must stay and dine with us," said Kate. "Our cooking may not surprise you, as it is the Scouts' way as well, but we'll give you a change--a shore dinner. Father sent up some very fresh clams. We'll steam them, and we'll have roasted potatoes, corn, and broiled chicken, a little salad and a ripe watermelon to finish." "Well, I declare--'pon my word, one might imagine himself in Rhode Island. We'll stay," and he smacked his lips. "Nora, will you take Mr. Bigelow and show him our cellar. And the boys--perhaps they'll help us to prepare our meal," said Kate. The young fellows were delighted to help the girls. Nora arose slowly and Harvey followed. Kate remarked to Ethel that Nora had changed so since her mother's death and asked her if she had noticed it. "Yes, I do notice that she seems more quiet," replied Ethel. "But you still dislike her though?" asked Kate. "I don't know," replied Ethel. "I'm ashamed to admit it, Cousin Kate, but I can never seem to overcome that antipathy to her. If only her voice would lower a little, and if she'd cease to come up and slap one on the back I might feel differently, but she's so rough and unladylike." "Ethel, environments may have had much to do with that. She seems to love your mother. But here comes Patty with young Kip." "What a dandy site you have here for a Camp," said the young man. "Gee! it's choice. It beats ours." When dinner was ready how they ate! They pronounced it equal to the best shore dinner ever prepared, and when finished there was nothing left excepting clam shells and corn cobs. That was Mrs. Hollister's last day in Camp. She had been with the girls for two weeks. After leaving Camp she was to spend half of her time with Kate's parents and the remaining with Aunt Susan. Harvey and Teddy stayed until nearly five o'clock, and it was with regret on both sides that they had to go. The next day being Sunday, Kate read the prayers while they all sung several hymns, after which each girl was left to do as she chose. Ethel proposed to ride horseback. Several joined together and hired a buckboard for the afternoon. "We'll meet you at the Lake," they said to Ethel, and off they went. It was a warm afternoon. The sky looked alternately bright, then cloudy, but they started not minding though it rained. Nora declined to join the buckboard party and strolled off by herself. She looked almost pretty in her clean, white linen suit and her hair tightly bound by a broad black ribbon. The goldenrod and sumac were opening, but the summer flowers looked old and tired, as though they needed new gowns and freshening up a bit. The girl thought of how alone she was and sighed. Then her mother came into her mind. To think that she had to be taken while so young--not yet forty-five, and the tears rolled down her cheeks. But "Thank God," she thought, "I never caused her any unhappiness, and I still have my dear, kind father," and Nora wiped her eyes. "It's Miss Ethel who dislikes me. No matter what I say to her nor how friendly I am, she won't like me. And when I try to joke or do her a little kindness, if she smiles sure her smile chills me. It's like a piece of ice going down me back. And her 'thank you, Honora' is as cold as charity. I like her mother the best. And yet Miss Ethel kissed me goodbye at the train last summer; but she was kissing everyone and I suppose she had to kiss me, for she's too much of a lady to slight a body. Yet she'd be glad to see the last of me--that I know." CHAPTER IX NORA GIVES SERVICE Honora was an unconscious lover of Nature. She turned and beheld the sun slowly sinking. "Ah! it must be nearly six o'clock," she thought. "I must make haste," but she stood spellbound, watching the glowing crimson, purple and yellow changing into orange, green, and greyish pink, and she gazed at the fiery ball sinking slowly behind the hills. "How lovely!" she thought, "and it's gone down in a cloud. That means rain. It's growing very dark. Me for a quick walk down these hills before I lose my way." She started down the path not a little worried. She had strayed off the main road and was on a side one leading through the woods. If only it would keep light until she reached Camp, and then if she could strike the broad road she'd be all right. Walking rapidly through the woods she suddenly fancied that she hard a low moan, as though from someone in pain. "It's a tramp perhaps," she thought. "He may be in trouble. Well, tramp or no tramp I must help him. I'll see." Unafraid, Nora walked to the spot whence the cry had proceeded. Her eye fell upon an object huddled together on the ground. As it was out of the beaten path she stepped from branches and logs to stones and rocks before she reached it. She stooped down and gazed at it intently; then she uttered an exclamation of surprise. "It's Miss Ethel!" she gasped. "God help her." She was right. There lay Ethel Hollister--the girl who had never liked her--the girl from whom, no matter how hard she might try, Nora could get nothing beyond a cool "Thank you very much, Nora." From the arm of this young woman trickled a stream of bright, red blood. Honora wondered if she was dead. She gently shook her. "Miss Ethel!" she called once and twice, "Are ye much hurt?" Then she half lifted her to a sitting posture and Ethel opened her eyes. "Oh, Miss Casey--Honora!" she gasped feebly. "Thank God it is you who have found me. I have been so frightened. Two men were searching for me. I passed them on the road before my horse took fright and threw me. I heard them say: 'It must be the same girl. She rode a white horse. Now I know who she is. She's the niece of John Hollister. Her father is a rich New Yorker. We can sell the horse. We've got him safe, and we can keep the girl for a ransom. Probably she's injured and is lying somewhere around here.' Nora, I dared not breathe lest they should find me. I prayed to God as I've never prayed before to let them pass me and to send me help. He has answered my prayer and I'm grateful. When I heard your footsteps I thought they had returned. Oh! I am so glad that it's you," and she burst into tears. Nora knelt down and took her by the hand. "Where is your pain, my dear?" she asked. "My leg. I guess it must be broken, and my arm---I have had that nearly cut off. The horse became frightened and unmangeable. He turned into these woods and started to run. I was knocked off by the branch of a tree. I don't know how long I've lain here--it seems for hours. I must have fainted, but Nora the pain in my arm and leg is terrible. Whatever can we do?" The girl's hat hung from the tree. Her hair was unloosed and hanging about her face. Evidently she was suffering agony, and to make matters worse upon the leaves overhead Nora heard a pattering of rain. "This will never do," she said to herself. Not a sign of a house or a vehicle in sight. A damp chill pervaded the air. They were too far from the main road to seek assistance. "Your arm has been cut by this jagged stone, Miss Ethel," said Nora, kneeling and starting to roll from the girl's arm the sleeve of her blouse. "I don't think there are any bones broken. But first I must stop its bleeding." Nora, having had considerable experience with cuts, wounds and bruises, went to work as though she were about to teach the girls "first aid." Her handkerchief was soiled. Ethel had lost hers. Both women wore silk petticoats. How could she manage to secure a bandage? Suddenly her mother wit came to the rescue. She slipped off her linen skirt. It was perfectly clean. With her strong teeth she tore into strips the front breadth. "Hark!" she exclaimed. "Glory be to God! I think I hear running water." She said it devoutly and in gratitude, for now it was water that she needed. Taking Ethel's hat from the tree she started up the road where to her joy she beheld a watering trough that was fed by a little waterfall trickling down the side of the rocks. After thoroughly washing the long linen strips so as to be sure that the starch was out of them she filled Ethel's hat with water and hurried back. "Here, dearie," she said, "Let me wash your face. I brought the water in your hat," and with the balance of her skirt she washed the girl's face and then proceeded to tear open the sleeve, cleansing the wound with a fresh hatful of water. She did it carefully and thoroughly, with the skill of a surgeon. It was an ugly wound, but she bound the arm firmly with the strips. "There now! So much for that," ejaculated Nora, rising and pushing back from her brow one curly lock that always insisted upon falling over her eyes. "Oh, Honora! you are an angel," exclaimed Ethel, "and I have always been so unfriendly." Nora appeared not to hear but went on: "Can you stand, my dear?" she asked. "No," sobbed the girl, "I guess my leg must be broken. However are we to reach Camp? Oh, Nora, for God's sake don't leave me. I should die of fright were you to do so, and the men may be hiding near even now. Don't go, I beseech. I know I am selfish and I've been unkind to you, but forgive me, Nora. I'll be your slave after this if only you'll stay with me. Don't go for help. Just stay here until I die," and the girl fell to sobbing. "I'm cold," she murmured--"I'm so chilly, Nora," and she shivered. Quickly Nora removed her heavy white sweater that she had just put on, and raising Ethel to a sitting posture she first put in her good arm. Then she fastened the sweater about the girl's neck. "There, dear, that will keep you warm, and I'll not be after leaving you--never fear--not if we stay together all night in these woods. But I must think how we can manage with you and your injuries. Faith it's raining and you may catch your death." "And I have your sweater on, Nora!" exclaimed Ethel. "Oh, how selfish I am." "Keep still," replied Nora. "I couldn't wear it now, for I'm going to try and carry you home." For a moment Nora gazed tentatively at Ethel. Then suddenly there appeared a dawn of hope in her strong honest face. "Miss Ethel, listen," she began. "When a child did ye ever play pig-a-back? Perhaps I might get you home that way." "Yes, Nora. Papa always carried me up to bed that way," and the girl burst into tears. "Ye mustn't cry," said Nora. "If ye do I shan't be able to carry ye. Now wipe your pretty eyes and help me carry ye as Papa used to. Forget your pain and try to be patient, for, Ethel, we must reach camp some way. Doubtless they are searching for us even now, but this is a side road far from the main one. They'll never think to look here, nor could they hear us were we of call. And then those men you spoke of. They may be near. There's no time to lose. Get on my back and cling for dear life." Nora had great sense. She realized that until she had thoroughly frightened Ethel she would not exert herself and forget her pain. Then, too, if what she had told her were true, the men might really be lying in wait to capture the supposed wealthy New York girl. Sitting on the ground with her back before Ethel she first gently raised the wounded arm, bringing the other one around to meet it. Thanks to the low branch of a tree and to Nora's recent physical culture exercises, making an almost superhuman effort she arose with her burden on her back. Then grasping the girl's knees she held them firmly, thereby supporting her injured leg, and started for the road, stopping now and then by a fence or stone to take breath and rest. On and on in that failing light she bravely walked. As she descended the hill she seemed to have gained new strength. Now and then she'd speak cheering words to the wounded girl, trying to encourage her to bear her pain. The rain pelted in Honora's face, often blinding her. The thunder rolled and the lightning played, but she showed no sign of faltering. Onward she went, even faster. Soon to her joy she beheld the main road, and after a few more rods a light from the Camp Fire. "Shure," she thought, "now I know why men in olden times looked for the fire from their camps. It does cheer a body and give them new life." She was ready to drop when she reached Camp. Ethel was no light weight. While in Camp she had gained, and now she weighed nearly a hundred and thirty-seven pounds. As Nora neared home she saw parties of men about to start on searching tours. They had sent word by Mr. Adams to Harvey, and there he and his patrol stood ready to start. Uncle John with the second party were there as well. In some way the horse had escaped from the two men and had returned to Camp, but without Ethel. Then they knew that she had been thrown. And as for Nora, something dreadful must have happened to her, for Nora was so strong and self-reliant. A shout rent the air when they beheld Nora Casey drenched to the skin, hatless, coatless, with nearly all of her skirt missing, and carrying on her back a hysterical, shrieking girl, while with no apparent effort she walked steadily towards them. Harvery Bigelow's admiration for one so strong and courageous showed itself on every line of his face. Uncle John took Ethel from Nora and laid her on the Camp bed that had been brought from the tent. "By Jove!" ejaculated Harvey as he examined Ethel's ankle and pronounced it a compound fracture, "you're all right, Miss Casey, first to staunch the blood and bandage her arm, and second to bind her ankle in such a surgeon-like manner, say nothing of carrying her on your back for over a mile and a half and holding her leg so that you saved her pain. I take off my hat to you, Miss Casey. You have the nerve and strength of a man." "I don't see," said Uncle John, "how in the name of heaven you managed to raise her, wounded as she was, upon your back--let alone bringing her through the pouring rain a dark night like this. Why! it's been a regular thunder shower. I'm glad that her mother knows nothing of it." Nora sighed. She was very tired. Miss Kate came forward and put her arm around her. "My dear, you are an honor to the Camp Fires. We owe a vote of thanks to this brave girl," and taking Nora's face between her hands she kissed her affectionately. "I've done nothing wonderful," replied Nora simply, taking her sweater from Patty Sands. "Luckily I heard her moan and found her. I couldn't go away and leave her helpless and alone in a blinding storm, and two men waiting to seize her." Then she told Ethel's story of the conversation that she had overheard. "Nor could we stay in the woods over night alone." A buckboard appeared and Mrs. Hollister jumped out. She had heard of the accident through Mr. Adams and had made him bring her up. After seeing Ethel for a few moments she rushed out and threw her arms about Nora. "You are a dear brave girl," she sobbed, kissing her. "You have saved Ethel's life. Never while I live shall I forget it." "Nor I," broke in Uncle John, grasping the hands of the girl. "Miss Nora, you're a fine young woman and you're father has cause to be proud of his daughter." "Miss Nora," ejaculated Harvey, "allow me to congratulate you. You're a dead game sport," and he wrung her hands heartily, after which Teddy Kip grasped her by the arm saying: "Why, Miss Casey, you're a regular Scout--you are, and no mistake." Nora smiled faintly. "Thank you all," she said. "I am very tired. I think I shall go to bed. Good night." CHAPTER X A HEROINE So Nora Casey became the heroine of the Camp. An account of her bravery was in all the papers and the entire Camp was written up. The once neglected and disliked girl was now in a fair way to be spoiled. But Nora could not be spoiled. She was too sensible. "I say, Miss Nora," exclaimed Harvey the next day, "I don't think I'd dare marry a woman with your strength. You'd put me to shame." Nora laughed good naturedly. "Quit yere blarney," she said. As for Ethel, she couldn't bear to let Nora out of her sight, and Nora whose heart was tender and whose nature was forgiving devoted herself to the girl, reading aloud, relating funny stories of her father, and when tired of talking Patty, Mattie, she and Ethel would play bridge. The men considered that Ethel had had a narrow escape. Uncle John consulted with Judge Sands as to what was best to do about the kidnapers. A few days later two suspicious looking creatures were arrested. They had escaped from Joliet jail and admitted having been for days in the woods. Ethel rode to the trial and identified their voices but she had not seen their faces. They were returned to jail in Joliet and before they left they confessed that they had contemplated finding the girl and holding her for a ransom. They were intending to sell the horse but they had not tied him securely and he had broken loose. They were ugly looking customers. The next week before the breaking up of camp, when Mr. Casey came to take Nora home, everyone flocked around him telling of his daughter's brave act. He took Ethel by the hand and remarked simply: "It was like Honora to do that. There's none more brave than she--God bless her." From that day Nora had no better friend than Ethel. She felt that the girl had saved her life and her gratitude was boundless. "Tell me," asked; Nora, "why did you dislike me so?" "I was wicked, Nora," replied Ethel, "I am ashamed of it now." "But," persisted the girl, "did you think me vulgar?" "No," replied Ethel. "I thought you had a loud voice, and there's something about a loud voice that I dislike. But even so I should have overlooked that, had I been a good girl. You are so far above me, Nora, that I am ashamed to even acknowledge it." "Miss Ethel--" said Nora. "Call me Ethel in future," said the girl--"please do." "Well--Ethel--you are not the first one who has criticised my voice. My teachers have always done so, and even my mother used to say, 'Not so loud, Nora dear. Speak more gentle like.'" "Did she?" asked Ethel. "Yes, my mother had her faults, Ethel, but at heart she was a lady. So your dislike of me was not so strange after all." "But," interrupted Ethel, "Nora, perhaps I wasn't thankful to hear your loud voice when I lay there wounded and helpless, and I'm ashamed to even have told you." "I wish you to help me," broke in Nora. "I wish to make myself different--more of a lady. Will you tell me when I talk too loud? It will be a favor if you will." Ethel assented and kissed Nora affectionately. Nannie Bigelow arrived and the girl became a general favorite. She at once fell in love with Nora. "Why, she's a heroine," she said. "She'd give her life for another. I think she's splendid." Nannie had much to say of their New York Camp Fire, and of the girls who belonged. "You know some of them are quite unlike us, but Miss Westcott says they'll improve--that being with us will make them more gentle. And you have no idea how they _are_ improving. And as for Dorothy's nursery, it's just booming. There is a waiting list a mile long," and she chatted on, entertaining the girls with her talk. At the next and last Council Meeting, the girls received honors for having slept three months out of doors, for learning to swim, and rowing twenty miles on the Muskingum River, and for sailing a boat without help for fifty miles. They also received extra honors for cooking, and for learning and making a mattress out of the twigs of trees; for long walks, and for washing and ironing, which the girls did well. Whenever she looked at Nora, Ethel's conscience troubled her. She seemed to feel her own unworthiness. Mrs. Hollister suggested to Mr. Casey that Nora should visit them for a couple of months in the city. "I'll gladly let her go to ye next winter, Ma'am, but not to visit. I would like her to be wid a grand lady like yourself, and if you'll let me pay her board I'll consider it a great favor. And if she might go to some fine school, Ma'am, where she could learn how to be a lady and stay at your house I would pay any price." At first Mrs. Hollister objected to the money part, but Mr. Casey begged so hard that, realizing what Nora had done for Ethel, she felt she should be willing to do anything to benefit her. So she consented. "You can put me anywhere," said Nora, "I will be like one of your family." Mrs. Hollister put her arm around the girl. "My dear," she said, "the best I have ought not to be good enough for you. It's little enough for me to take you, and I should like to do so without having your father pay me a penny." So it was all arranged. In November, Nora was to become an inmate of the Hollister household. Ethel had made up her mind to give the girl her room, she taking one on the top floor. "I would gladly sleep on bare boards for her," she said to her mother,--"the brave girl to whom I have been so unjust. I'm glad she's coming. I'll devote all my extra time to her happiness." CHAPTER XI BREAKING UP OF CAMP AND A SURPRISE The time had arrived for the girls to separate. The Scouts came up and carried Nannie off. She had become a great favorite. As Patty expressed it, Nannie was a comfortable visitor because she seemed to "belong." She made no fuss and adapted herself to their ways. She promised to return the following summer and Harvey pronounced their camp as fine as any place they might select. "So there's no reason why we boys should not come back, too; but you must let us entertain you Camp Fire girls next year. It's been all on your side this." So they all went to the train to see them off, and people crowded around as though they might be a circus troupe, staring curiously at them and making remarks. Then after saying goodbye the different members went to their homes. Ethel and her cousin Kate were to go to Akron for a week or so, as Uncle Archie Hollister was coming up to spend his vacation. The girls met him at the train and Ethel was overjoyed. "Oh, Papa," she said, "if only you could have been here before Camp broke up. But we are going up for the day and give you a regular Camp Fire dinner," and she kissed him affectionately. "Next year I'll get off earlier," replied Mr. Hollister, "but our President was very ill and none of us liked to leave." They gave Mr. Hollister a rousing dinner. Nearly all of the girls were present. They did their cooking like desserts, bread, etc., at home, but the meat, corn and potatoes were roasted on the coals. They had Uncle John, Judge Sands, Mr. Casey and Mr. Hollister for guests, and everything went off finely. Mr. Hollister was loud in his praises of the cooking, and in fact, the whole organization. "It's great," he said, smacking his lips. "I think the person who invented it should have a gold medal." They spent a few days at Columbus. Ethel went to see Mattie and her mother. She also spent the night with Nora. Their home was very handsome and Ethel could not help but respect kind-hearted Mr. Casey, who tried to make it so pleasant for her. She had grown very fond of Nora. She saw her good traits,--her splendid unselfishness, and her tenderness towards her father as she tried to take her mother's place with him. "What a narrow, selfish girl I've been," she thought, "never to have noticed them before. Why, the way Nora shielded Mattie when the girl took her ring was a lesson to me, and I never took it." During their stay at Uncle John's Mrs. Hollister came up, and the meeting between her husband and self was like lovers. Ethel was glad. "And it was I that kept them apart," she told Kate--"I with my society and expensive schools. Poor Father! what could he do but grind from morning until night; and Mother with her hopes and ambitions--what could she do? Why, they had no time to speak to each other except on business and money. It was all so false and wrong. Now they are as they should have been, but think of the lost years, and all for me." "Never think of it, Ethel," said Kate, "it's past and over. Everything has come smooth. Forget it, dear; you were not to blame." Judge Sands called nearly every evening. He and Uncle Archie struck up quite a friendship. The Judge took him on auto trips far into the country, Kate, Patty, and Ethel going along. One evening, after they all had gone back to Akron, Judge Sands called Patty into the library. "I wish to have a little talk with you, my dear," he said. "Are you going to scold me for running over my allowance last month?" she replied, "because if you are I just couldn't help it. I wanted to give all of the girls a little remembrance, and--" "Patty, my child, have I ever scolded you for anything--think? Haven't you done exactly as you chose since your childhood?" "Yes," replied the girl, "but I know that there are times when you should scold me, Papa, for I know I am self-willed and disobedient." "Well, we shall forget that. You're a pretty good girl considering that you have but one parent. Now this is what I wish to see you about. Your mother died when you were three, dear, and you've been with me ever since. It's been lonely for both of us at times, and for me especially so while you are away at school. Patty, how should you like a mother? Of course, no one can take the place of her who has gone, but I mean another one." The girl began to cry. "I should not like it, Papa." Then she looked at him. He was a handsome man, and if ever she were to marry he would be alone, in the prime of life. "I suppose I'm selfish," she sobbed, clinging to him, "but I should hate a stepmother. Think of her taking Mamma's place. Oh, Papa! I couldn't bear it." "But supposing she was a woman of whom you were fond. Would you feel that way then?" "I couldn't be fond of her." "You might be fond of her already," said the Judge. "Who--who can it be?" asked Patty, wiping her eyes and pushing back her hair. The Judge smiled. "Think, my dear." "Is it Miss Kate Hollister?" cried the girl joyfully. "Tell me quick." Then Judge Sands blushed like a schoolboy. "Yes," he said, "she is the only woman who can take your mother's place, Patty. No--not that--no one can take her dear place; but she is the only woman upon earth whom I should ask to be my wife." Then Patty jumped up and kissed her father many times. "Oh, Papa!" she said, "why didn't you tell me at first and not frighten me to death. Oh! I should love her so, and I should never be jealous of her. Are you engaged?" "No," laughed the Judge, "I have never asked her. I thought you deserved the compliment of being first consulted on the matter." "But, Papa, perhaps she'll refuse you." "That's my end of it," laughed her father, "but when I do ask her I wish to say that you desire it, too, for Kate might not think it agreeable to you." "Papa, she's got to say 'yes.' I'll go along and make her if you wish. I'd just love her for a mother," and the girl clung to his neck and wept. "I only now realize how lonely you must have been all these years, and you've done it for me. But don't let her refuse. Tell her I desire it above all things." "All right, dearie," said the Judge. "I'll go tonight." "And wake me up, Papa. I shall be so anxious." Judge Sands laughed and promised. That night no matter how hard Patty tried she couldn't keep awake. Now that she knew who it was that her father desired she was happy, and one can always sleep when one is happy. The Judge ran up the stairs two steps at a time and woke his daughter with a kiss. "Will she, Papa?" "Yes, dear," he answered. "She has been good enough to say 'yes.' We'll make her happy, won't we, Patty?" "We shall," replied the girl. "And how young you seem to have grown!" she gasped. "I never noticed it before. I'm glad for you and I'm glad for her. She's a dear. I've always loved her and she's such a stunning looking woman, too. I tell you, we'll be proud of her, Papa." They talked for half an hour over the virtues of Miss Kate, and each went to sleep thinking of how lovely she was. When Kate and Patty met they said not a word, but from the quiet, sincere embrace each knew that the other would try and make her happy. Congratulations poured in from all sides. Archie and his wife with Aunt Susan, Grandmother and Tom, motored all the way over to Columbus to offer theirs. Ethel was wild with joy. "Why," she exclaimed, "everything is getting better! People are doing such sensible things lately, just as they should do. Isn't it wonderful? But, Tom, I always thought that you cared for Cousin Kate." "So I have all along, but just as I was considering, in walked the Judge and took her off under my very nose. While I was a poor lawyer I felt that she might refuse me and I took no chances, but I never imagined she'd look at a man of his age. She's certainly met the one for her. What a splendid couple they'll make." "You always were slow, Tom; that's your fault," laughed Ethel, "and you'll always get left. It serves you right." "Yes, that's going to be my fate, I fear. Before I can muster up courage to propose, these girls will be snatched up--every one of them." Judge Sands and Kate were to be married in November. They were to go to New York, Washington, etc., on a wedding trip, after which they were to meet Patty and sail for Egypt to be gone indefinitely. "Oh, dear! who can take your place at Camp?" said the girls. "We'll never find another Guardian like you." "I'll ask Louise Morehouse," said Miss Kate. "She's lovely, and very much interested in this Camp Fire movement. She'll be one of you just as I have been." "Yes, and then she'll meet someone and go off and marry," said Mollie Long. "There should be a law against it. A Guardian should be obliged to serve for five years unmarried--it isn't fair," and the girls voted that Mollie was correct. CHAPTER XII MATTIE MAKES GOOD After Camp had broken up, Mattie Hastings, who was now associated with a Woman's Exchange in Columbus, started one afternoon to call for Patty Sands. It was Saturday and the Exchange closed early. Mattie was doing well. She received a good salary and her heart was light. Her sister was beginning to walk. The doctors considered that next year she could discard her brace. The child was not only attending school but she was learning many useful things and Mattie was happy. Her mother had entirely given up the drug habit; her father was with Judge Sands and everything seemed as though it had come straight like a fairy story. This lovely autumn afternoon they were going to Sallie Davis's to look at a wonderful centerpiece done by her mother. Mattie, whose fingers were extremely clever, had offered to do the work of copying it, while Patty was to pay for the silks, linen, etc. Then, jointly, they were to give it to Miss Kate for an engagement present. In case the servant should be out Sallie had given Patty her latch key. "This is Sophronia's day out, and mother is going to a bridge party. I have an engagement, so here's the key. When you leave the flat, put it on the hall stand. Sophronia and mother will be back before I am, and they will let me in. I'll leave the centerpiece on the piano." The apartment was on the seventh story and commanded a wonderful view of the city. After looking at the centerpiece and studying the different stitches the girls went to a window and looked out. "Have you put the key on the hall stand?" asked Mattie. "Yes," replied Patty. "I put it there when I first came in." Suddenly Mattie exclaimed: "I smell smoke." They looked around. The odor was plainly perceptible. "Let's go into the kitchen," said Patty. Together they ran through the pantry and opened the kitchen door. The smoke was very thick. "Why, Mattie, the house is afire!" said Patty Sands. "Let's get out quickly." They opened the hall door, closing it tightly after them. They had far better have stayed in the apartment and have descended by the fire escape, but they thought of it too late. The hall door had locked behind them. The outer halls were black with smoke. People were rushing wildly up and down. The entrance leading to the roof was locked. The elevator boy called "last trip," and opened the iron doors. Frightened women and little children crowded in with servants and elderly people. "Room for one more," yelled the boy, "quick, for God's sake!" "You go, Mattie," said Patty. "You go." Then Mattie Hastings lifted Patty Sands up bodily and fairly threw her into the crowded elevator. "If the cable holds I'll come back, Miss," cried the boy half choked with smoke. Through the smoke Mattie peered at the cable. Through the shaft she saw the angry flames shooting upward. The sparks were flying. The elevator had made its last trip and she realized it. She turned to the hall window and looked down upon the crowd. A ladder was raised. Someone had seen her. "Thank God!" she said, "I may yet be saved." The smoke was now black and the flames came nearer and nearer to the brave girl, who so unselfishly had given her place to her friend. She leaned out of the window. She watched the fireman ascending. Then she knew no more but fell back into the flames unconscious. "I've got her," said the fireman, "but I guess she's gone. No one could live in the smoke up there. She's badly burned, too, poor girl--her back and arms. Lift her carefully, boys." Patty rushed forward. "She has given her life for me," she shrieked. "Mattie, Mattie dear! don't you hear me? Speak--oh! speak to Patty." The dying girl opened her eyes and half smiled. Patty knelt beside her and put her ear close to Mattie's mouth. "Patty," she whispered, "tell Ethel that I made good." Then she closed them wearily and the brave soul of Mattie Hastings passed on. It took Patty Sands many years to recover from the shock of her friend's death. She was too ill to even know when the funeral took place. She had told her father and Kate of Mattie's last words. Ethel Hollister sent a telegram requesting that Mattie's funeral might be postponed until she arrived. The Camp Fire girls were the pallbearers. Fortunately the cruel flames had left Mattie's face untouched and she looked lovely. The church was crowded to overflowing, as well as the street. The text of the sermon was: "Greater love hath no man than he who lays down his life for a friend." Mattie had "given service" as well as laying down her life for a friend, and the whole town marvelled at her bravery. CHAPTER XIII JUDGE SANDS AND KATE MARRY In November Kate was married. The wedding was quiet, as Patty was still an invalid. They took her with them and left her at Mrs. Hollister's while they went on their trip. Nora had arrived for the winter two weeks before. Mrs. Hollister had entered her in Madam La Rue's school. Ethel had insisted upon giving Nora her room and had moved up stairs. The three girls were sad. They talked of Mattie and Patty cried constantly. So after a while they avoided speaking of her in her presence. Nora looked like one to the manner born. Mrs. Hollister, having carte blanche to buy for her anything she saw fit, purchased the loveliest second mourning costumes imaginable, and Nora wore them remarkably well. She had grown more quiet since Mattie's death. A great change seemed to have come over her. She was one of Madam's brightest pupils and very popular. Mrs. Hollister was genuinely fond of her and they went everywhere together. When Mr. Casey came to New York he was surprised at the change. He'd say to Mrs. Hollister: "Faith, ma'am, it's a perfect lady you're afther makin' of my girl. Her mother would bless you were she here," and Mrs. Hollister would reply: "She is naturally a perfect lady, Mr. Casey, so it's not hard work. I consider Nora a very superior girl and I'm very fond of her," at which the father's eyes would grow half tearful, and he'd seem proud to hear it. Nannie Bigelow and Nora became very intimate and she was made much of by Dorothy Kip and Sara Judson. Nora took an active interest in the Day Nursery and donated generously for its maintenance. Twice a week she'd go and read to the elder children and get on the floor and play with the younger ones, for she adored babies. She was especially sweet and generous to Grandmother, spending hours with her lest she should become lonely. It was like a mother and daughter, instead of a girl and chaperon, to see Mrs. Hollister and Nora go about together. "I wish I had a son, Nora," said that lady one day. "Then I should never have to see you leave me." Nora blushed rosy red, saying: "I wish you had, Mrs. Hollister. I dislike to think of our separation." Mr. Casey sent the most wonderful barrels of apples and potatoes from his own place to the Hollisters, and when he came to New York he'd order fruit from the most expensive fruiterers to be sent three times a week, say nothing of boxes of flowers which came regularly throughout the entire winter. CHAPTER XIV A BIRTHDAY PRESENT On one of Mr. Casey's flying trips to the city it happened to be Mrs. Hollister's birthday. Nora told him of the fact and after school together they whisked away in a taxi to shop. Upon their return he presented Mrs. Hollister with a large box, and in the most delicate manner begged her to accept it as a slight token of his gratitude for her interest in and kindness to Nora. "Ye've been a mother to my girl and she loves ye well. Her own mother--God rest her soul--as I've often told ye, would be proud of her, and she'd know better what to give a lady, but if ye'll accept these, ma'am, Nora and I will be pleased." Mrs. Hollister was visibly affected. She actually wiped her eyes. "I will accept them with pleasure, Mr. Casey," she said, "but don't forget Nora is a great comfort to all of us. We have grown to love her as our own," and she opened the box thinking it might contain a pretty waist or something of that sort when to her surprise there she beheld a most magnificent set of sables. She couldn't speak. The poor woman had never dared to dream of owning such a thing. Her heart stood still and she turned and took Nora in her arms, kissing her fondly. Then she shook Mr. Casey's hand as though she would never stop. "Mr. Casey, you are too generous. I have always loved sables, but I never expected to own a set. I don't know how to thank you for your kindness." "Say nothing about it," replied the man. "Nora and I consider it a privilege if ye'll wear our gifts, don't we, Nora?" "Indeed we do," replied the girl. "There are so many things that you do for me, Mrs. Hollister, that money can not compensate." Ethel was now eighteen. One evening Harvey Bigelow invited her to the theatre. On their way home he asked her if she ever could care for him enough to become his wife. "Oh, Harvey!" gasped Ethel, "I am so sorry. Why did you spoil our lovely friendship? I'll have to answer 'no,' and I dislike to hurt your feelings." "That's all right, little girl," said Harvey, swallowing hard. "I was an ass to even imagine that you could care for me, but you see I'm coming on so well that I shall soon put out my sign, and I felt that you might be such a help to me; that is, if you could care for me a little bit." "And there are so many nice girls," she said, "waiting for just such a good man as yourself." "But, Ethel, I don't want any girl. I want one. If I can't have her I guess I'll stay single. Anyway, I suppose a man needs to practice a lot before he marries. There's a couple of years in the Hospital. But I'm glad I know the truth, Ethel. By Jove! it's off my chest. I've tried to speak of it before but I couldn't." "I wish I could say 'yes,' Harvey; but can't we still remain the good pals that we are?" "Why, sure," replied the man, and he took her hand. "A man needs a woman friend, don't you think?" "Yes," replied Ethel, "and I hope to prove my friendship for you." Ethel never spoke of her proposal, nor did Harvey; but there was a firmer bond between them than formerly. Patty wrote often. "You never saw two people so in love as Papa and Kate. It is wonderful and remarkably right. I only feel sorry to think that through all of these years they might have been so happy, and I'm sure papa kept single for me. How selfish daughters are, Ethel; and at the same time how little they realize that they are selfish." Ethel folded the letter and said: "What she writes is true. You and Papa might have had all of the years of my youth to be happy in, but you sacrificed them for me, and they'll never, never come back." "That's all right," said her mother, kissing her. "My happiness since you entered college has compensated for it, believe me, my dear little girl," and she kissed her tenderly. CHAPTER XV MRS. HOLLISTER ENTERTAINS That winter Mrs. Hollister again had her teas and bridge parties, but there was no more worry about where the money was coming from; in fact, thanks to Mr. Casey's generosity she was able to pay all of her bills and put some away for a rainy day. Her little functions were delightful as usual, and the young people came in throngs to the house. Ethel was happy in seeing her mother so contented, and in knowing that her father had no more worries. Grandmother had grown younger, and better than all, after Christmas Tom was coming to bring Aunt Susan. He had business East and he was to leave her for three weeks, after which he was to return for her. Nora seemed less sad. She had developed into a very stylish up-to-date young woman and everyone admired and liked her. Mrs. Hollister was in her glory. Things for her were now so comfortable and easy that she couldn't believe but what it was a dream from which she might awaken and find everything the same old way. Mrs. Bigelow made much of Nora, taking her around and introducing her to her friends. Harvey called regularly and invited her twice a week to the theatre. He was now a young surgeon in Roosevelt Hospital on the ambulance, with a fine career open before him, and what's more he worked very hard--often until late at night. People prophesied a great future for Harvey and his parents were delighted, but none more so than Ethel, whose encouragement was genuine and like the encouragement of a sister. Teddy Kip kept up a great correspondence with Patty, who sent him postals from every place. "By George!" he said to the Hollisters, "do you know I correspond with three girls who are abroad and they never write letters--only postals--and if you believe it, I've got nearly a hamper filled with them--'pon my word I have. If only Miss Patty would write a fellow a real letter once in a while I'd be grateful." Nora received a letter from Edna Whitely. "I have some news for all of your girls. Mollie Long and Sallie Davis are going to marry clergymen. They are brothers. Sallie's husband is going to be a missionary to China." "Isn't that awful?" said Mrs. Hollister. "Sallie will be massacred as sure as fate--that's the end of missionaries. I had a second cousin who went and both she and her husband were victims. I wouldn't allow a child of mine to marry one. Let him stay in his own country, but to drag a young girl out into those heathen places--it's an outrage." "Well, our Ohio Camp Fire will resolve itself into only half, I fear," said Nora. "There's poor Mattie, Miss Kate, Sallie and Mollie from right there. I wonder who's going to take their places." "Perhaps," said Ethel, "little Mollie Hastings if she's pronounced cured. It may be of great benefit to her. Let's see what can be done." "Dorothy Kip might become an Ohio girl and spend her summers up there with us too," suggested Nora. "And if Dr. Bigelow goes with the Scouts Nannie can join." "We'll see," replied Ethel. "It's quite a few months before next summer. 'Sufficient unto the day, etc.'" Ethel was getting along famously at Barnard. "What profession shall you follow--the law or ministry?" Harvey would ask jokingly. "Something that shall enable me to become self supporting," Ethel would reply seriously. "There's where you make a mistake," said Harvey. "A woman was made to be supported by a man--not to support herself." "Why not?" asked Ethel. "How many wives today support their husbands? Have you any idea of the number?" "Oh, well, then it's because the men are lazy or sick. No decent, self-respecting man would allow it." "Supposing a woman can not marry. She can't propose to a man. What can she do in that case--starve? No, Dr. Bigelow, you can't even argue. Every woman should have in her hand, say, a weapon or trade with which to take care of herself. Then when the time comes she's ready to start in the battle of life, and not sit around helpless while others do for her, or become dependent upon charity, or worse. The day of Elsie Dinsmores has gone. In her place we have strong, capable, broad-minded women. Seldom do we hear of a woman fainting today, yet look back sixty years and recall the Lydia Languish females with long ringlets and wasp waists, who invariably carried smelling salts. I'm proud to belong to the women of today--healthy, strong, athletic, and brave--women who _do_ and are not ashamed of it. Look at Aunt Susan. There's a woman who is an example. I hope I may amount to as much as she before I die." "Ethel, I fear you are strong-minded," laughed Harvey. "Don't fear, but know it. I try to be strong in mind and body. I believe in a woman getting all that's coming to her and working for that end." Harvey laughed. "Well, I shan't argue with you." "Because you agree with me, and you know it," said Ethel quietly. "You have made yourself amount to something. Look where you were three years ago. What were your views of life then? A rich marriage. Behold the change! Now you are a man." "Thanks," said Harvey, rising and making a low bow. CHAPTER XVI CHRISTMAS EVE Christmas was near. The Hollisters wrote and invited Mr. Casey to spend the Christmas holidays with them. They also wrote Tom Harper to see if it were possible to bring Aunt Susan to be with them during the holidays. Tom replied he would make it possible. So they were to have a house full. Nora and Ethel vied in dressing up the rooms tastefully with holly and mistletoe. Every chandelier and door had a piece of mistletoe fastened above it. "What a grand kissing time there'll be," said Archibald. "When do we begin--on Christmas morning?" "Now, Papa, don't you get gay," laughed Ethel. "You've led an exemplary life for fifty years. Please keep on and don't let this mistletoe make of you a different man." Well--first came Mr. Casey. Every day he and Nora boarded a taxi and went shopping, returning with huge boxes and parcels which gradually filled Nora's closets as well as under her bed. Then came Tom and Aunt Susan, even looking younger than before. "Really it's ridiculous, Aunt Susan," said Ethel, "for you to keep growing so much younger and more stylish. You've got to stop." And the bell rang so often that Mrs. Hollister was obliged to hire an extra maid for Christmas week. Everyone was so perfectly happy that it was a joy to enter the house. Harvey was there as often as his hospital practice would admit of, and he was the first to kiss Aunt Susan under the mistletoe; and Aunt Susan, if you please, now appeared in the daintiest of gowns--up-to-date and rather youthful. Ethel and Grandmother laughed over it. "Why, Grandmother, how old is Aunt Susan?" "She's about sixty-one," said her sister--"why?" "Nothing, but I've been thinking wouldn't it be funny if she should marry again? She's mighty attractive in her up-to-date gowns." "I don't see whom she could marry," said Grandmother with some asperity, "unless Mr. Casey or Dr. Bigelow." Ethel laughed. Christmas eve arrived. They had a large tree and distributed the gifts. Everyone received exactly what he or she desired. Mr. Casey's generosity was boundless. He gave Mrs. Hollister a small limousine with the understanding that all bills should be sent to him. "Madam," he said, "you and Nora have a great deal of shopping and social duties to perform. Nora tells me that you go by the cars and rarely in a taxi, and that you seldom allow her to pay her fare. Now this will set everything right, and Grandmother--God bless her--must have her ride daily. It is money well invested, for you and Nora can take comfort. I have engaged a good chauffeur and have made arrangements with a garage near by. All bills are to be sent to me. Nora will attend to the sending of them." Mrs. Hollister couldn't speak. They stood under the mistletoe. She just raised herself up and gave Mr. Casey two hearty smacks, at which there arose a shout. "I shan't try to thank you," she said, "for I can not." Then another surprise came in shape of a wonderful diamond la valliere or pendant, and poor Mrs. Hollister was most embarrassed. "Mr. Casey," she said, "you are going to get me in wrong. People may criticise me." Then Tom's present came--a lovely grey silk evening wrap trimmed with chinchilla, and verily Mrs. Hollister was nearly off her head. Grandmother received a long silk coat lined with fur and trimmed with a large lynx collar and cuffs--from Mr. Casey also. "Don't think that I bought out a furrier," he said, "but I know people always need them." Ethel received a lovely pendant from Mr. Casey and one from Tom, while Nora presented her with a beautiful diamond ring. Everyone was happy this Christmas eve and strange to say Mr. Casey took Aunt Susan right under the mistletoe and kissed her, which made Grandmother laugh immoderately. During one of the moments when people were rather quiet, Harvey Bigelow took Nora by the hand and walked up to Mr. Casey who was standing under the mistletoe; in fact, he had stood nowhere else during the evening. "Mr. Casey," he said, "I ask of you the most valuable gift that a father can give. I ask the hand of this dear girl," and he kissed Nora gently. Mr. Casey, who had imbibed somewhat plentifully of punch, and who was quite warm, looked at the two for a moment. "An' is it this that ye two have been up to?" he said. "Nora, me child, do ye wish it to be?" "Yes, Papa," faltered the girl, "I love Harvey." "An' suppose I withhold my consent--what then?" "Then I shall still love him, but I shall never marry without it." "Hear that now. Nora, my good girl," and taking her hand he placed it in Harvey's, "I give her to ye. All I ask is that ye shall make her happy. Let her niver regret this day--that's all," and he wiped his eyes. Nora flung her arms around him while Harvey wrung his hand. "You'll never have cause to regret, nor shall she," he said. "I'll love and cherish her until death parts us, and I'll work for her so that she'll be proud of me." Ethel kissed them both; in fact, so did everyone. Aunt Susan and Tom were delighted. "I always liked him," she said. "Anyone who looks me square in the eye, Mr. Casey, I'll bank on every time." It was long after midnight when the Xmas party broke up. The young man who had always played at Mrs. Hollister's teas for the sum of three dollars played the Virginia Reel, and everyone danced,--even Grandmother. Mr. Casey took so many funny fancy steps that it was hard to get him through with the figures, after which Nora and Ethel showed the elderly people how to dance the turkey trot, which of course was shocking. When the young musician left he was richer by fifty dollars--gifts of Mr. Casey, Tom Harper, and Mrs. Hollister, for she told of how lovely his mother was and how she had been her bridesmaid. "And here's a gift for her," said Mr. Casey. "Take it and buy her a fur-lined coat," at which everyone shouted, for poor Mr. Casey's gifts had all been so comfortable and warm. "Niver mind," he laughed, "I bet she'll like one. And give her me compliments and a Merry Christmas. And let me have your address, sir." CHAPTER XVII CHRISTMAS DAY It was a typical Christmas day. There was even snow on the ground. The pretty limousine stood before the Hollisters' door and a well-groomed good-looking chauffeur was taken in and presented to Mrs. Hollister, his future mistress. Grandmother, in her handsome new cloak, and Aunt Susan with Mr. Casey, took the first ride. Mr. Casey was in high spirits over Nora's choice. "Shure they till me that he has a great future." "Of course he has," said Grandmother. "Why, he's advanced to the operating room and he is in line to be second assisting surgeon. Think, Mr. Casey, of the lives he may save. I think Nora has made a wise choice, and he cared for her for herself--not for her money--for he's always said that his wife's money should be settled on herself--that only the husband should pay the bills. And Nora, dear child, has improved so. She's grown so handsome and has a face full of character." "That's so, ma'am. I would that her poor mother--God rest her soul--could but see her." "She does," said Aunt Susan. "I firmly believe that our loved ones see us and are near us constantly. Wait a bit; I have to stop," and Mr. Casey got out at a market. "Now what is he up to?" said Grandmother. "Susan, he's the kindest-hearted and most generous man that I ever knew." They could catch a glimpse of him now and then. Presently he emerged with an immense basket containing a large turkey, a pair of ducks, and paper bags of vegetables, and in one corner a smaller basket of delicious fruit and a couple of wreaths. From a card he read an address to the chauffeur, who placed the Christmas basket beside him. "Now where is he going, I wonder?" said Aunt Susan. "Perhaps some of his poor relations." The chauffeur drove up before a cheap flat, alighted, and left the basket. Returning he nodded "yes" to Mr. Casey. Mr. Casey said in a hesitating manner: "The young piano player,--I thought I'd surprise him and his mother. Mrs. Hollister speaks highly of the mother and I need just such a young man with me in Columbus. I think I can find an opening for him in my office; if not, in the office of some of my friends. There are too many young men in New York; there are not enough places for them all. Now wid me they have a chance to advance, and when I'm gone they'll take my place. I've no son." "Yes," said Grandmother, "this young musician supports his mother. My daughter-in-law says that the mother comes from a good old family. She and Mrs. Hollister were at school together in Elmira, New York state. Then when my son married Bella this lady was her bridesmaid. Bella said she was a raving beauty, but she married a man who drank himself to death, leaving her with her child alone in the world and without a penny. The boy was musical and someone taught him how to play. He used to go to school through the day and practice at night. Then he graduated and obtained a position as clerk, receiving a very moderate salary. Bella met them one night in the cars and had them come up to the house. She did all that she could for them, and employed him every time she had a tea or needed music. He played well and was glad to get his little three dollars. I know that Bella always sent home a box of refreshments to the mother." "Well, I shall persuade them to go back wid me, and they'll have enough then, I'm thinkin'." "Mr. Casey, you are a good man," said Aunt Susan. "The world would be better if we had more like you." "But, Mrs. Carpenter, I think this way. The Lord has been good to me. He has caused me to prosper. Why should I consider it all me own? No, I think whenever I can help a fellow man He expects me to do so--that's all--and I try to make good." The elderly women made no reply. He was a rough self-made man--a Roman Catholic, although not a churchman, who could give them points on charity and who did his good deeds quietly and without boasting. Mr. Casey was a Scout, although not a young one, for that was the way they were taught to do their good deeds. Upon their arrival home he directed the chauffeur to get his dinner or luncheon and return, and after the Hollister luncheon, Nora, Harvey, Ethel and Tom went to Van Courtlandt Park, where there was skating, returning in time for six o'clock dinner. "I think, ma'am," said Mr. Casey, "we have monopolized your car pretty well, and you never have been inside of it." "But I'm too busy, Mr. Casey. Today is Christmas and I love to view it from the window. Just to think that it belongs to me! I can't realize it. Mr. Casey, you are my fairy Godfather and nothing else. How can I ever repay you?" "By always being a mother to my girl, ma'am, as ye have been since she met ye. Why, ye deserve a whole garage of automobiles for the kindness ye've shown her, and see the good man she now has through ye. Don't thank me, ma'am. It's ourselves who can't thank ye enough." CHAPTER XVIII ANOTHER SURPRISE After a delicious Christmas dinner the Bigelows came over. They welcomed and embraced Nora. Mrs. Bigelow really seemed sincere on this occasion. Mr. Casey liked them at once, especially Mr. Bigelow and Nannie. "They'll make her happy all right. My girl has chosen wisely," he thought. Tom and Ethel went out together during Christmas week. They skated and visited all the art galleries, enjoying every moment. They had many serious talks, and Ethel took Tom to call on several of her friends. The girls voted him delightful and Ethel was proud of him. They spoke of Mattie Hastings. "Tom, Patty will never get over it," she said, "of that I'm sure." "Ethel, don't you see, Patty witnessed it, and the shock is indelibly stamped on her memory. Time will help remove it--nothing else." "But what a brave act, wasn't it?" continued Ethel. "Patty sends orders for flowers once a week for her grave, and they say it looks very lovely. And I even disliked her once. I said her eyes were too close together and I misjudged her. Then I fairly hated Nora--think!--she who saved my life. Each one has done something. What have I done? Whom have I benefited? Who is better for having had me for a friend?" They were sitting on a bench in the picture gallery of the Metropolitan Museum Ethel looked very lovely. She wore a bunch of Tom's orchids and a grey velvet suit. Her eyes were bright and her cheeks were burning red. She was visibly excited. Tom saw that she felt her life had been a failure. "Ethel," he said, taking her hand, "think of the joy you have brought to Aunt Susan. Can't you see how much happier she is today than when you first knew her? Look at Nora. Through you she has changed from an awkward girl into a cultivated and charming woman, engaged to a fine young physician belonging to one of New York's oldest families. Indirectly you are responsible for it all. Look at little Mary Hastings. Through you she has been, or will be completely cured of her spine trouble. And lastly, look at me, Ethel, you have brought sunshine and happiness into my life. It is not always the big things that go to make happiness. It is the small things as well; and in your sweet, quiet way you have scattered light and joy in many paths. I had not intended, my dear, to speak to you of my love. I wished to wait until I had more of a name for you, and until you had come out and had a chance to choose from many men more worthy perhaps than I, but I can not keep my secret. I love you, dear, and I would have you for my wife. Can I hope? Do you care for me a little?" Ethel's eyes shone like stars. She looked up into his face and said: "I care for you a great deal,--until you spoke I never knew how much. If you wish I will be your wife." Then Tom lifted her hand to his lips. "I will make you as happy as I know how," he said. "I had a feeling that I couldn't keep my secret back after today. Come, dear, let us go and tell them all; and never under-rate yourself again." People stared at the handsome couple and at their beaming faces. Joy was stamped on their countenances and happiness shone from their eyes. When they arrived home, Tom walked up to Mrs. Hollister, and kissing her he said: "I have asked Ethel to be my wife. Will you and Mr. Hollister give her to me?" Mrs. Hollister gasped. "Why Tom! Ethel! Is it true?" Ethel put her arm around her mother. "Yes, Mamma, Tom has asked me to marry him and I said 'yes,' for I know that you and Papa like him. Now you say 'yes'--do dear." "Yes, I will say it gladly. Tom, I have always liked you and I'm sure you and Ethel will be happy. I give my consent with all my heart," and Tom took her in his arms and kissed her tenderly. "Thank you," he said, "you have given me a precious gift. You shall never regret it." Then they sought Mr. Hollister and were closeted with him for a long time, after which Grandmother and Aunt Susan had to be told, and lastly Nora. So that Christmas brought two engagements in the Hollister circle. Ethel decided to finish college before marrying, and Nora her school. The men had to be content. "We'll have one more year at Camp anyway," said Nora. "I shall be glad to spend my last single summer there." "And Tom and Harvey will practically be with us," said Ethel. "Nora, are you not a happy girl?" "I am," said Nora. "So am I," rejoined Ethel. CHAPTER XIX MR. CASEY BUYS A HOUSE Aunt Susan at once began to make plans. In the meanwhile Mr. Casey asked Mr. Hollister and his mother to give him a few moments conversation on business. "I understand that ye own this house, ma'am," he began. "What would ye sell it for?" Mrs. Hollister looked at her son. "Why?" she asked. "Because I'm about to buy a house for Nora and the Doctor, and I want to buy one in this neighborhood. I also have a proposition to make to ye, Mr. Hollister. Frankly, what might be yere salary?" Mr. Hollister reddened. "I mean no disrespect or pryin', sir. It is a business proposition I have to make to ye, before I do to anyone else." "My salary is three thousand a year, Mr. Casey," said Archibald Hollister. "I'm with an old and respected firm and have been with them for thirty years." "Thin they don't value your services as they should,--pardon my sayin'. This minnit they ought to give ye more. Now I need a man like yourself to be me representative in New York. I give you the first option. Will ye come and accept the position for six thousand a year?" Mr. Hollister acted dazed. Grandmother spoke up: "Answer, Archibald," But still Archibald kept quiet. "Is it because ye think it not honorable to leave them? Thin tell thim that I have offered ye more and see if they will do the same. I'll give you a week to see." "And now, ma'am, I have heard that ye wished to sell. Yere Granddaughter will marry and this house will be too big for the three of yees. A pretty apartment on the Park will be far better for ye. What is yere price for the house?" "We refused thirty thousand for it in 1900," replied Mrs. Hollister, "and real estate has increased in value since that." "Very well," said Mr. Casey, "I know what ye say is true, and I will pay a fair price. I will give ye fifty thousand for this house, ma'am, and I will have it remodeled for my girl." "I will accept," said Mrs. Hollister, in a prompt businesslike way. "There is no mortgage on the house," she added. "Yere more of a business woman than yere son. Faith, he's worryin' over hurtin' feelings of his employers I do be thinkin'," and Mr. Casey laid back and laughed. But Archibald felt as though the earth was slowly slipping from under his feet. His luck was changing too rapidly. It was coming upon him too late in life, and Mr. Casey! Well, he was indeed the fairy Godfather. He and his wife had so longed for an apartment overlooking the Park, but Grandmother would never hear of selling. "When I die will be time enough," she would say, and now she had actually seemed glad. And to think she would have fifty thousand dollars to live on for the rest of her life. Then this new offer from Mr. Casey, double the salary he was now receiving--it was like a dream. And his girl engaged to one of the finest men in the West. God was too good to him--he didn't deserve it. His wife was overjoyed. "Oh, Archie," she said "how wonderful it all is. It seems to have happened since Ethel joined the Camp Fire girls. I'm sure they have brought her luck. They have brought Nora to us and her dear father, who has been so generous, and but for the Camp Fire she never would have met Nora. Isn't it strange?" Archibald Hollister laid the case before the Company by which he had been employed for thirty years, not telling how much his new salary was to be. "Mr. Hollister," they said, "we can not afford to increase your salary. To be sure you have served us faithfully, but you are no longer young, and you know we need young blood in business. There are plenty waiting for your place." That was a terrible blow to Archibald. He had not expected to get three thousand extra, but he had looked for an increase of a thousand rather than they should let him go, and to hear them calmly sit and tell him that they needed young blood was too much. He left the office, and the next morning in place of Archibald Hollister there arrived his resignation. So thirty years of faithfulness to their interests and strict attention to business didn't count with them, and there he had been so loyal to the concern! "Ah!" said Mr. Casey, "what did I tell ye? Do ye think these corporations care for the man? No. It's for what they can get out of him--for the amount of work he can do, and for how small a salary. Let them hire their young blood and you come along with me, and we'll see how much better off they'll be!" CHAPTER XX ARCHIBALD'S CHANGE FOR THE BETTER So Archibald Hollister found himself the New York manager of a large Ohio Realty Company, with four clerks under him and a couple of handsome offices; and Mr. Casey was proud of his personal appearance, for Archibald was a handsome man. One of the clerks was the young fellow who on Christmas eve had played Money Musk for them to dance the Virginia Reel, and whose mother received on the following morning the Christmas basket from Mr. Casey. "Now yere where ye belong," said the kind-hearted man. "I tell ye, Mr. Hollister, an honest employee should have been appreciated, and ye were not." The family moved from the house and took a pretty apartment overlooking the Park. They were delighted with the change and every day Ethel took long walks around the reservoir. Mr. Casey began to renovate the interior of the house and modernize the outside. The family lived in the limousine, and everyone seemed happy. Aunt Susan did not go home with Tom but stayed on until the family were settled in their new house. Then Tom who only wished for an excuse came on East for her. It was nearly Easter. They persuaded him to stay over, which he did. And so here we shall leave them. After one more year there will be a double wedding, and Ethel and Nora will marry. We see Harvey making rapid strides in his profession, and Tom building a pretty home for his Ethel, while Aunt Susan will be busy embroidering towels, napkins, etc., for their linen chest; and not only for them, but for Nora as well, for was it not through Nora and Mr. Casey that much of their happiness came? 
29528	----	[Illustration: Cover art] [Frontispiece: The motor boat kept dashing back and forth, making swimming almost impossible.] CAMP FIRE GIRLS SERIES, VOLUME IV The Camp Fire Girls In the Mountains or Bessie King's Strange Adventure by JANE L. STEWART THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY Chicago ---- AKRON, OHIO ---- New York MADE IN U. S. A. Copyright, 1914 By The Saalfield Publishing Co. THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS SERIES 1. THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS IN THE WOODS 2. THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS ON THE FARM 3. THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS AT LONG LAKE 4. THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS IN THE MOUNTAINS 5. THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS ON THE MARCH 6. THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS AT THE SEASHORE TABLE OF CONTENTS I. PEACEFUL DAYS II. FOREBODINGS OF TROUBLE III. A NEW PLAN IV. A FRIEND IN TROUBLE V. A TANGLED NET VI. BESSIE KING'S PLUCK VII. BACK AT LONG LAKE VIII. A NOVEL RACE IX. THE PATHFINDERS X. THE SIGNAL SMOKES XI. OFF TO THE MOUNTAINS XII. ENEMIES WITHOUT CAUSE XIII. A PLAN OF REVENGE XIV. THE SPIRIT OF WO-HE-LO XV. COALS OF FIRE The Camp Fire Girls In the Mountains CHAPTER I PEACEFUL DAYS On the shores of Long Lake the dozen girls who made up the Manasquan Camp Fire of the Camp Fire Girls of America were busily engaged in preparing for a friendly contest and matching of skill that had caused the greatest excitement among the girls ever since they had learned that it was to take place. For the first time since the organization of the Camp Fire under the guardianship of Miss Eleanor Mercer, the girls were living with no aid but their own. They did all the work of the camp; even the rough work, which, in any previous camping expedition of more than one or two days, men had done for them. For Miss Mercer, the Guardian, felt that one of the great purposes of the Camp Fire movement was to prove that girls and women could be independent of men when the need came. It was her idea that before the coming of the Camp Fire idea girls had been too willing to look to their brothers and their other men folks for services which they should be able, in case of need, to perform for themselves, and that, as a consequence, when suddenly deprived of the support of their natural helpers and protectors, many girls were in a particularly helpless and unfortunate position. So the Camp Fire movement, designed to give girls self-reliance and the ability to do without outside help, struck her as an ideal means of correcting what she regarded as faults in the modern methods of educating women. Before the camp on Long Lake was broken up they hoped to have a ceremonial camp fire, but there were gatherings almost every night around the big fire that was not a luxury and an ornament at Long Lake, but a sheer necessity, since the nights were cool, and at times chilly. This fire was never allowed to go out, but burned night and day, although, of course, it reached its full height and beauty after dark, when the flames shot up high and sent grotesque shadows dancing under and among the trees, and on the sandy beach which had been selected as the ideal location for the camp. At these meetings everyone had a chance to speak. Miss Eleanor, or Wanaka, as she was called in the ceremonial meetings, did not attempt to control the talk on these occasions. She only led it and tried, at times, to guide it into some particular channel. It would have been easy for her to impress her own personality on the girls in her charge, since they not only admired, but loved her, but she preferred the expression of their own thoughts, and she knew, also, that to accomplish her own purpose and that of the founders of the Camp Fire, it was necessary for the girls to develop along their own lines, so that when they reached maturity they would have formed the habit of thinking things out for themselves and knowing the reason for things, as well as the facts concerned. "I think we're too likely to forget the old days when this country was being explored and opened up," Eleanor said one night. "Out west that isn't so, and out there, if you notice, women play a much bigger part than they do here. Those states in the far west, across the Mississippi, give women the right to vote as soon as women show that they want it. They are more ready to do that than the states in the east." "Why is that, Wanaka?" asked Margery Burton, one of the Fire-Makers of the Camp Fire. "In the west," said Eleanor, answering the question, "men and women both find it easier to remember the old days of the pioneers, when the women did so much to make the building of our new country possible. They faced the hardships with the men. They did their share of the work. They travelled across the desert with them, and, often, when the Indians made attacks, the women used guns with the men." "But there isn't any chance for women to do that sort of thing now," said Dolly Ransom, or Kiama, as she was known in the ceremonial meetings. "The Indians don't fight, and the pioneer days are all over." "They'll never be over until this country is a perfect place to live in, Dolly, and it isn't--not yet. Some people are rich, and some are poor, and I'm afraid it will always be that way, because it has always been so. But everyone ought to have a chance to rise, no matter how poor his or her parents are. That was the idea this country was built on. You know the words of the Declaration of Independence, don't you? That all men are created free and equal? This was the first country to proclaim that." "But what is there to do about that?" "Ever so many things, Dolly. Some men who have money use it to get power they shouldn't have, to make people work without proper conditions, and for too little money. Oh, there are all sorts of things to be made right! And one reason that some of them have gone wrong is that women who have plenty of comforts, and people to look after them, have forgotten about the others. There is as much work for women to do now as there ever was in the pioneer days--more, I think." "The Camp Fire Girls are going to try to make things better, aren't they, Wanaka?" asked Margery Burton. For once she wasn't laughing, so that her ceremonial name of Minnehaha might not have seemed appropriate. But as a rule she was always happy and smiling, and the name was really the best she could have chosen for herself. "Yes, indeed," said Eleanor. "So far we've been pretty busy thinking about ourselves, and doing things for ourselves, but there has been a reason for that." "What reason, Miss Eleanor?" asked Dolly. "Well, it's hard to get much done unless you're in the right condition to do it. You know when an athlete is going to run in a long race, he doesn't just go out and run. He trains for it a long time before he is to run, and gets his body in fine condition. And it's the same with a man who has some mental task. If he has to pass an examination, for instance, he studies and prepares his mind. That's what we have to do; prepare our minds and bodies. In the city, in the winter, we will take up a lot of these things. I'm just mentioning them to you now so that you can think about them and won't be surprised when we start to go into them seriously." "I know something I've thought about myself," said Dolly, eagerly. "In some of the stores at home they have seats so that the girls can sit down when they don't have to wait on people. And in some they don't. But in the stores where they do have them, the girls get more done, and one of them told me once that she felt ever so much stronger and better when the rush came in the afternoon, if she'd been able to sit down instead of standing up all day." "Of course. And that's a splendid idea, Dolly. Some of the stores make the girls stand up all day long, because they think it pleases the women who come in to shop. But if you could make those store keepers see that they'd really get more work done by the girls if they let them rest when the stores are empty, they'd soon provide the chairs, even if the law didn't make them do it." "This place looks as if pioneers might have lived here, Wanaka," said Margery Burton. "They passed along here once, Margery, years and years ago, but they were going on, and they didn't stop. You see, the reason this country has stayed so wild is that it's hard to get at. The trees haven't been cleared away, and roads haven't been built." "Isn't it good land? Wouldn't it pay to plough it, after the trees were cut down?" asked Bessie King. "It would, and it wouldn't, Bessie. It's just about the same sort of land as in the valleys below, where there are some of the best farms in the whole state. But we need the forests, too. You know why, don't you?" "No, I don't," said Bessie, after a moment's thought. "I know they're beautiful, and that it's splendid for people to be able to come up here and live, and camp out. But that isn't the only reason, is it?" "No, it isn't even anywhere near the most important, Bessie. You know what a dry summer means, don't you? You lived long enough on Paw Hoover's farm at Hedgeville to know that?" "Yes, indeed! It's bad for the crops; they all get burned up. We had a drought two or three years ago. It never rained at all, except for little showers that didn't do any good, all through July and August, and for most of June, as well. Paw Hoover was all broken up about it. He said one or two more summers like that would put him in the poor-house." "Well, if there weren't any forests, all our summers would be like that. The woods are great storehouses of moisture, and they have a lot to do with the rain. Countries where they don't have forests, like Australia, are very dry. And that's the reason." "They have something to do with floods, too, don't they, Wanaka?" asked Dolly. "I think I read something like that, or heard someone say so." "They certainly have. In winter it rains a good deal, and snows, and if there are great stretches of woods, the trees store up all that moisture. But if there are no trees, it all comes down at once, in the spring, and that's one of the chief reasons for those terrible floods and freshets that do so much damage, and kill so many people." "But if that's so, why are the trees cut down so often?" "That's just one of the things I was talking about. Some men are selfish, you see. They buy the land and the trees, and they never think, or seem to care, how other people are affected when they start cutting. They say it's their land, and their timber; that they paid for it." "Well, I suppose it is--" "Yes, but like most selfish people, they are short-sighted. It is very easy to cut timber so that no harm is done, and in some countries that really are as free and progressive as ours, things are managed much better. We waste a whole forest and leave the land bare and full of stumps. Then, you see, it isn't any use as a storehouse for moisture, which nature intended it to be, and neither is it any use to the timber cutters, so that they have to move on somewhere else." "Could they manage that differently?" "Yes, if they would only cut a certain number of trees in any particular part of the woods in any one year, and would always plant new ones for every one that is taken out, there wouldn't be such a dreadful waste, and the forests would keep on growing. That's the way it is usually done abroad--in Germany, and in Russia, and places like that. Over there they make ever so much more money than we do out of forests, because they have studied them, and know just how everything ought to be done." "Don't we do anything like that at all?" "Yes, we're beginning to now. The United States government, and a good many of the states, have seemed to wake up in the last few years to the need of looking after the woods better, and so I really believe that in the future things will be managed much better. But there has been a terrible lot of waste, here and in Canada, that it will take years to repair." "They don't spoil the woods about here that way, do they?" "No; but then, you see, this is a private preserve, and one of the reasons it is so well looked after is that some of the men who own it like to come here for the shooting." "I know," said Margery. "I thought that was why the guides were kept here." "It is, but it's only one reason. A few miles away, if we go that way, I can show you acres and acres of woods that were burned two years ago, and you never saw such a desolate spot in all your life. It's beginning to look a little better now, because, if you give nature a chance, she will always repair the damage that men do from carelessness, and from not knowing any better." "Oh, I think it would be dreadful for all these lovely woods to be burned up! And that wouldn't do anyone any good, would it?" "Of course not! That's the pitiful part of it. But a terrible lot of fires do start in the woods almost every year. You see, after a hot, dry summer, when there hasn't been much rain, the woods catch fire easily, and a small fire, if it isn't stamped out at once, grows and spreads very fast, so that it soon gets to be almost impossible to put out at all." "I saw a forest fire once, in the distance," said Dolly. "It was when I was out west, and it looked as if the whole world was burning up." "I expect it did, Dolly. And if you'd been closer, you'd have seen how hard the rangers and everyone in the neighboring towns had to fight to get control of that fire. It doesn't seem as if they could burn as fast as they do, but they're terrible. It's the hardest fire of all to put out, if it once gets away. That's why we have such strict rules about never leaving a camping place without putting out a fire." "Would one of the little fires we make when we stop on the trail for lunch start a great big blaze?" "It certainly would. It's happened just that way lots and lots of times. Many campers are careless, and don't seem to realize that a very few sparks will be enough to start the dry leaves burning. Sometimes people see that their fire is just going out, as they think, and they don't feel that it's necessary to pour water on it and make sure that it's really dead. You see, the fire stays in the embers of a wood fire a long, long time, smouldering, after it seems to be out, and then--well, can't you guess what might happen?" "I suppose the wind might come up, and start sparks flying?" "That's exactly what does happen. Why, in the big forest preserves out west they have men in little watch-towers on the high spots in the hills, who don't do anything but look for smoke and signs of a fire. They have big telescopes, and when they see anything suspicious they make signals from one tower to the next, and tell where the fire is. Then all the rangers and watchers run for the fire, and sometimes, if it's been seen soon enough, they can put it out before it gets to be really dangerous." "Well, I know now why I've got to be careful," said Dolly. "I wouldn't start a fire for anything!" "Good! And I think it's time to sing the good-night song!" CHAPTER II FOREBODINGS OF TROUBLE "I think we'll beat those old Boy Scouts easily when we have that field day, Bessie," said Dolly Ransom to her chum, Bessie King. "Look at the way we beat them in the swimming match the other day." A friendly rivalry between the Camp Fire Girls and the Boy Scouts of a troop that was camping at a lake some miles away had led, a short time before, to a swimming contest in which skill, and not speed and strength, had been the determining factors, and, vastly to the surprise and disgust of the boys, the girls had had the best of them. "We don't want to be over-confident," said Bessie. "You know they thought we were easy, and I don't believe they tried as hard as they might have done. After all, girls and boys aren't the same, and if boys are any good, they're stronger and better at games than girls, no matter how good the girls are." "Oh, they tried right enough," said Dolly. "They just couldn't do it, that's all." "Another thing, Dolly, we've got to remember, is that those weren't races. If they had been we'd have been beaten, because those boys could really swim a lot faster than we could. It was just a case of doing certain things and doing them just the right way. Anyone can learn that if they're patient enough, and it's not really very important. I'm glad we won, because I think boys sometimes get the idea that girls can't do anything, and it's just as well for them to find out that we can." "You're getting on, Bessie. When you first came from Hedgeville you wouldn't have believed that, or, if you had, you wouldn't have said it." "Oh, I think I would have, Dolly. You know about the only boy I had much to do with in those days was Jake Hoover, and you saw him when he tried to help get me back where I'd be bound over to that Farmer Weeks until I was grown up." "That's so, Bessie. You wouldn't have much use for boys if you thought they were all like him, would you?" "I know they're not, though, Dolly. So I never got any such foolish ideas." "What sort of things will we do in this field day, Bessie? Do you know?" "Not exactly. Miss Mercer hasn't arranged everything yet with their Scoutmaster, Mr. Hastings. You know the reason we're going to have it is that Mr. Hastings used to tease Miss Mercer about the Camp Fire Girls." "That's what I thought. He said we really couldn't manage by ourselves, didn't he, if we were caught out in the woods without a man to do a lot of things for us?" "I think he did. They say a lot of the Boy Scouts think the Camp Fire Girls are just imitating them, and that isn't so at all, because I got Miss Eleanor to tell me all about it. The Camp Fire Girls are more serious. They want to prepare girls to make good homes, and look after them properly, and to help them to make things better in their own homes. "The Boy Scouts were organized partly to give boys something to do, and to keep them out in the open air as much as possible, to make the boys stronger, and healthier, and keep them from being idle and getting into mischief." "Well, that's what we're for, too, isn't it?" "Yes, but not so much. Girls don't get into just the same sort of mischief that boys do, so it's a different thing altogether. But, anyhow, Miss Eleanor says it's silly for one to laugh and jeer at the other; that all the Camp Fire people, the ones who are at the head of the movement, approve of the Boy Scouts and think it's a fine thing, and that most of the men who started the Boy Scout movement are interested in the Camp Fire, too." "Then she's going to try to prove that we really can manage by ourselves?" "Yes. And I think the idea is for their troop of Boy Scouts and our Camp Fire to make a march on the same day, going about the same distance, and doing everything without any help at all; cooking meals, finding water, making camp, getting firewood, and everything of that sort. A certain time is to be allowed for eating, and we are to make smoke signals when we reach the camping place, and again when we leave. There aren't to be any matches; all fires are to be made by rubbing sticks together. We're to cook just the same sort of meals, and the party that gets back to the starting point first wins." "We're not to go together, then?" "No. Won't it be much more exciting? You see, we won't know how nearly finished they are. And they won't be able to see how fast we are working. So each side ought to work just as fast as it can. It's a new sort of a race, and I think it will be great sport." "Oh, so do I! We're each to spend the same amount of time eating?" "Yes, because if we didn't, one side could hurry through its meal, or eat almost nothing at all, and get a start that way. And there's no object in eating fast. It's to see how quietly we can march and prepare our food and clean up afterward that we're having the test. It isn't to be exactly like a race. The idea is to get as much fun and good exercise out of it as anything else." "Still it really will be a race, because each side will want to win. Don't the Boy Scouts have contests like that among themselves, sometimes?" "Oh, yes. That's where the idea came from, of course." "My, Bessie, but I'm glad everything is so quiet around here now! It doesn't seem possible that we've had such exciting times since we've been here, does it?" "You mean about the gypsy who mistook you for me and tried to kidnap you?" "Yes. I think he's safe for a time now. Did you see Andrew, the guide, when he came in to tell Miss Eleanor about how they'd taken those gypsies down to the town, where the sheriff took hold of them?" "No. What did he say?" "Why, it seems that on the way down, John--he's the one who actually carried me off, you know--tried to bribe them and get them to let him go free. He said he had a friend who would pay a whole lot of money if they would let him escape, and they could pretend that he just got away, so that no one would ever know that they had had anything to do with it." "I suppose they just laughed at him?" "They certainly did, and tied him up a little tighter, so that there wouldn't be any chance of his managing to get away." "Did he want them to let Lolla and Peter go, too?" "No, that's the funny part of it. He didn't seem to care at all what happened to them, so long as he didn't have to go to jail. He's just as mean as a snake, Bessie. I've got no use for him at all." "He was glad enough to have them help him when he wanted to get hold of us, Dolly. But when he saw a chance to desert them he didn't remember that, I suppose. What did Andrew think they would do to them?" "Well, he didn't know. He said that when the people in the town heard what the gypsies had done they were pretty mad, but, of course, they didn't really start to do anything to hurt them. The sheriff said he'd see that they were kept tight until they could be tried, and Andrew guessed they wouldn't have much chance of getting off when the people around the town would be on the jury. The men in those parts haven't any use for gypsies, you see, and they'd be pretty sure to see to it that they were properly punished." "I wouldn't mind seeing Lolla get off, Dolly. I don't think she's as bad as the others." "Oh, I do, Bessie. I think she's worse. Why, she did her best to get you into the same trap I was in! She was treacherous and lied to you." "I know all that, too, Dolly. But it was because John made her do it. He frightened her, I think, and besides that she's going to be married to him, and among the gypsies a woman isn't supposed to do any thinking when her husband tells her to do something. She just has to do it, whether she thinks it's right or not. It isn't as if she had planned the whole thing out." "Well, she hurt you more than she did me. If you don't want her to be punished, I don't see why I should." "I don't think I want anyone to be punished, Dolly. But it isn't just what I want that counts, and I suppose that if that man John got off so easily it would be a bad thing, because if he's punished it may frighten some others who'd be ready to do the same thing, and make them understand that they'd better be careful before they do things that are against the law." "Well, I'd like to see him in jail, just to get even for the fright he gave me when he snatched me up and carried me off through the woods. And he left me there in that place he found, too, with a handkerchief in my mouth, and tied up so that I couldn't move, so I don't see why I shouldn't be glad to see him suffering himself. It was awful, Bessie, and if you hadn't followed me and had a chance to sneak in there and cheer me up, I don't know what I would have done." "We'll have to tell what we know about what happened to us, I suppose," said Bessie. "I don't like the idea of that, but Miss Eleanor says we can't help it; that the law will make us do it." "Oh, I think it will be good fun. We'll get our names in the newspapers, Bessie, and maybe there will be pictures of us. I won't have any trouble telling them, either. I don't believe I'll ever forget the things that happened to us that day, if I live to be a hundred years old." "No, neither shall I." They had no more chance to discuss the matter, for just then they heard the voice of Eleanor Mercer, the Guardian of their Camp Fire, calling them. When they answered her call, finding her in the opening of her own tent, her face was very grave. "I've just had a letter from Charlie Jamieson, my cousin, the lawyer," she said. "I wrote to him about the extraordinary attempt that this gypsy made to kidnap Dolly, and of how certain we were that Mr. Holmes was back of it." "I wish we knew why Mr. Holmes is so anxious to get hold of me, or to get me into the same state I came from, so that Farmer Weeks can keep me there until I'm twenty-one," said Bessie, looking worried. "I wish so, too, Bessie," said Eleanor, anxiously. "I don't know how much Dolly knows about this business, but I'm very much afraid that she may be drawn into it from now on. And Mr. Jamieson agrees with me." "Why, how is that possible?" asked Bessie. "You don't mean that they may try to take her away?" "I don't know, Bessie. That's the worst part of it. You see, they may think she knows too much for it to be safe to leave her out of any plans they are making now. We don't know what those plans are. This last time, you see, Mr. Holmes evidently thought he had a splendid chance to get hold of you through this gypsy, without being suspected himself." "He thought everyone would just blame the gypsy and never think about him at all, you mean?" "You see, the gypsy misunderstood--or rather Mr. Holmes misled him by accident. He thought Dolly was Bessie, and the other way around. So Dolly really suffered in your place that time, Bessie." "I'm very glad I did!" said Dolly, stoutly. "I know that, Dolly. You're not selfish, no matter what your other faults may be. But I think you've got to understand just what we know about the reasons for all this, though it isn't very much. Bessie doesn't know much about her parents. They left her--because they had to--when she was a very small girl, in charge of Mr. and Mrs. Hoover, farmers, in Hedgeville." "I know about that, Miss Eleanor. The place where we first met Bessie and Zara, you mean." "Yes. And Mrs. Hoover and her son Jake didn't treat Bessie well. In fact, they treated her so badly that finally she ran away. You know that the Camp Fire thinks people ought to stay at home, even if things aren't very pleasant, but Bessie was quite right, I believe, to run away then, because they had no real claim to her." "I should say she was!" "Well, you know about Bessie's chum, Zara, too. Her father was in trouble, and was to be arrested. And when Zara and Bessie found out that Zara was to be taken by this Mr. Weeks, a miser and a money lender, Zara ran away, too, and we Camp Fire Girls helped them to get away from that state and have been looking after them since." "And then they stole Zara away!" "No, not exactly. They lied to Zara, and told her things that made her willing to go with them. Mr. Holmes seems to have been responsible for that. You remember yourself how Mr. Holmes tricked you and Bessie into going for a ride with him in his automobile, when we were all at the farm?" "I certainly do! I ought to, because all the trouble we had then was my own fault." "Well, never mind that, because, as it turned out, it was owing to that ride that we got Zara back. She's with us now, and we are going to try to keep her, and get her father out of prison, because Mr. Jamieson is sure he is innocent. But we've got to be mighty careful, because we don't know how Mr. Holmes happens to be mixed up with Farmer Weeks, and why either of them should care anything about Bessie and Zara and Zara's father. That's why I wanted to be sure that you understood as much as we do ourselves." "I see, and I'll promise to be as careful as I can, Miss Eleanor. I wouldn't get Bessie or Zara into any more trouble for the world." "I know you wouldn't, Dolly, and I hope it won't be very long before the whole thing is straightened out. Mr. Jamieson is working hard to try to find out what it is all about, and I think he's sure to find out soon. This letter I had from him today is a new warning, really. He says Mr. Holmes has hired lawyers to try to get that gypsy off." "That proves that he hired him, too, I should think," said Bessie. "It seems to, certainly, but I'm afraid it isn't legal proof, even though it satisfies us. But the chief point is that Mr. Jamieson is worried about you two when you have to testify." CHAPTER III A NEW PLAN "Why, there couldn't be anything they could do to us then, I should think!" exclaimed Dolly. "I hope not," said Miss Mercer. "But, well, we've had reason to learn to be careful when we're dealing with these people. And Mr. Jamieson seems to think that the thing to fear most is the other gypsies." "I thought of that, too," said Bessie, gravely. "They stick to one another, don't they?" "Yes, they certainly do. They're very clannish. And Mr. Holmes, I'm afraid, is clever enough and unscrupulous enough to be willing to use them for his own purposes. He wouldn't tell them directly what he wanted, you see. He'd just hire someone who was clever enough to get them inflamed and worked up to the point of being willing to hurt you two, and, if they could get at her, Zara, too, by way of revenge." "We can't help going down there if they send for us, I suppose, Miss Eleanor?" "No. There's no way out of it. You see, if someone does you an injury--borrows money from you and doesn't pay it back, say--the law will help you get it, if you want to be helped. You can decide whether you want to do anything or not. But if a crime is committed, then it's a different matter, and you've got to get the law's help, whether you want to or not. "For instance, if someone robs your house, you might be willing to forgive the robber, but the law has to be satisfied, because that's the sort of crime that affects everyone, and not just you alone." "I see. And I suppose that this time the law feels that if they are not punished, those gypsies might try to kidnap someone else?" "Yes. The idea isn't just punishment. It's the way people who live together in towns and countries have to protect themselves. In the early days there wasn't any law. If a man was robbed, and he was strong enough, he protected himself by going out and fighting the robber. But that wouldn't work very well, because if a man was very strong, and wicked as well, he could rob his neighbors, and no one of them was strong enough to protect himself. "So it wasn't very long before people began to find out that, while no one of them was strong enough to stop such robbers, a whole lot of them banded together were stronger than any one man. And so they made the first laws." "Oh, I see," said Dolly. "Bessie isn't strong enough by herself to do anything to Mr. Holmes, or to stop him from doing what he likes to her, because he's rich. But if all the other people who live in the state take her side he can't fight against them. That's it, isn't it?" For a day or two after that peace reigned over the camp by Long Lake. The girls looked forward eagerly to the field day that had been planned, but they looked forward to it, too, with a certain degree of regret, for it would mark the climax and the end, as well, of their stay at the lake, which, though it had been so exciting, had also been so delightful that all the girls wished for nothing better than to stay there indefinitely. But they could not do that, as Miss Mercer explained to them. "We've got to make way for others," she said, in telling them of the new plans. "You see, my father is only one of the owners of this preserve, and we take it in turns to use this lake for a camping site. Now Mr. Spurgeon, one of the other owners, is going to bring up a party of his friends, and we must make room for them." "Are we going home?" asked Margery Burton, disappointedly. "Why, don't you want to go home?" asked Eleanor, with a laugh, which was echoed by the other girls, who heard the note of sorrow in the question. "Oh, I suppose so," said Margery. "But one is home quite a good deal, after all, in the winter, and we do have such a good time when we're out in the woods this way. I love to get right close to nature." "Well, you needn't be frightened, Margery, because I've got a plan that will keep us as close to nature as anyone could want to be." A chorus of excited voices was raised at that. "Where are we going next, Miss Mercer?" "What are we going to do?" "Shall we get to the seashore this summer?" "Later on, I expect," she answered, to the last question. "You do love the beach and the surf, don't you? Well, so do I, and I expect we shall want to spend a little time there. But first I've a plan I think some of you will like even better." "We're sure to like anything you plan, Miss Eleanor," said Dolly, with enthusiasm. "I don't believe any Camp Fire has as nice a Guardian as you. It seems to me you spend all your time thinking up ways of giving us a good time." "What is the new plan?" asked Margery. "I wonder if I can guess?" "I don't know. You might all try, and see how near you come to it." "I think we're going to go home by walking!" said Margery. "I believe we'll go through the chain of lakes that begins at Little Bear in a boat, or in boats!" said Dolly. But, though they all took turns in guessing, Eleanor only smiled wisely when the last guess had been made. "You were very nearly right, Margery," she said. "We are going to tramp home, but not the way we came. We're going to take the long way round. We're going straight up and through the mountains and down the other side, and then we'll have a long trip on fairly level ground, but we won't go straight home." "Where, then?" asked Dolly. "Why, we'll combine everything on the one trip, Dolly, and we'll wind up at the seashore. By the time we've had a little swimming and sailing there it'll be time to think about what we're going to do in the autumn--school, and, work, and all the other things." "Oh, that's splendid!" cried Margery, her eyes shining. "I've always wanted to go up in the real mountains, where you were so high that you could see all around the country. We'll do that, won't we? Here we're in the mountains, really, but it doesn't seem like it. Everything's so high, you can't see over." Eleanor pointed to the distant hills, blue in the haze that hung over them. "Do you see Mount Grant, the big one in the center, there?" she said. "And do you see that other mountain that seems to be right next to it? That's Mount Sherman. And right between them there's a little gap. Really, it's quite wide, though you can't tell that from here. Well, that's Indian Notch, and we get through the mountain range by going through it. It's a fine, wild country, but there's a good road through the notch now, and sometimes one meets quite a lot of automobiles going through. I think it will be a glorious trip, don't you, girls?" "I certainly do!" said Bessie King. "I'm like Margery. I've always wanted to see the real mountains. I used to dream about them, and sometimes I'd think I'd really been there. But I guess it was just because I dreamed so much that I got to thinking so." Eleanor looked at her curiously. "Maybe your people came from the mountains, Bessie," she said. "It's very strange that some natural things seem to get into the blood of peoples and races. Like the mountains, and the sea, and great rivers. Sometimes all the men in a family, for generations, will be sailors, even if their parents have planned something else for them. The sea is in their blood, and it calls them." "Sometimes I think the mountains are calling me just that way," said Bessie. "But I never really understood that before." "It's the same way with mountaineers. The Swiss are never really happy except among their mountains. And that's true of every mountainous race. The people who live along the Mississippi, here, and along the Don and the Vistula, and the other great rivers in Russia, never seem to be able to live happily unless they can see the great river rolling by their homes every day. If they go far away they get homesick." "I'm not a bit like that!" exclaimed Dolly. "One place is just as good as another for me, if I like the people. I like to travel and see new places. I'd like to be on the move all the time." "I think a great many Americans are getting to be that way," said Eleanor, reflectively. "It's natural, in a way, you see. For generations the young men and women have been moving on, from settled parts of the country to new land, where there were greater opportunities to make a fortune." "I've read about that," said Dolly. "You mean like the people from New England, who went west to Oregon and Washington?" "Yes. But that can't go on forever, you see, because about all the new land is taken up and settled now. Of course, out in the far west, there's still room for people; lots and lots of room. But this whole country is settled now. Law and order have been established about everywhere. And we'll begin to settle down soon, and our people will love their homes, and the places where they were born, just as the Virginians and the other Southerners do now." "Oh, it isn't that I don't like my own home!" said Dolly. "If I were away from it very long I know I'd get dreadfully homesick, and want to go back. But I don't want to stay there or anywhere else all the time." "You're a wanderer," laughed Eleanor. "That's what's the matter with you, Dolly. You want to see everything that's to be seen. Well, I'm a little that way myself. When I was a little bit of a kiddie I always got tremendously excited if we were going on a journey. I guess it's a pretty good thing, really, that we are that way. It's the reason this country has grown so wonderfully, that spirit of enterprise and adventure. That's what made the pioneers." "It isn't just Americans who do it, either, is it?" said Margery. "The Italians and the other foreigners who come here seem to be just as anxious to find new places--" "Oh, but that's different," said Zara, the silent one, quickly. "I know, because my father and I are foreigners. And do you know why we came here? It was because we couldn't live happily in our own country!" The girls looked at her curiously, so fiery was her speech, and so much in earnest was she. "We come from Poland," she said. "Over there, a man can't call his soul his own. Soldiers and policemen used to come to our house, and wake us up in the middle of the night to look for papers. And often and often they would steal anything we had that they liked. Oh, how I hate the Russians!" Eleanor sighed. Gradually, slowly but surely, she felt that she was finding her way into the secret of Zara and her father. "Then you came here because you had heard that this was a free country and a refuge for those who were oppressed?" she ventured, gently. "Yes," said Zara. "And it's not true! There are kind people here, like you, and Bessie, and Mr. Jamieson. But haven't they put my father in prison, just the way they did in Poland and in Sicily, when we tried to live there quietly? And didn't all the people in Hedgeville persecute him, and tell lies about both of us? We haven't been happy here." "I'm afraid that's true, Zara. But you are going to be, remember that. You have good friends working for you now, you and your father both. And it isn't the fault of this country that there are bad and wicked men in it, who are willing to do wrong if they see a chance to make money by doing so." "But if this country is all that people say about it, they shouldn't be allowed to do it. The law is helping them. In Poland, it was just the same. The law was against my father there--" "Listen, Zara! The law may seem to help them at first, but you may be very sure of one thing. If your father has done nothing wrong, and his enemies have lied and deceived the people in authority in order to get the law on their side, they will pay bitterly, for it in the end." "But the law ought to know that my father is right--" "The law works slowly, Zara, but in the end it is sure to be right. You see, your father's case is a very exceptional one. The people who made the law in the beginning couldn't have expected it to come. But the wonderful thing about the law is that, while it is often very hard, it will always find out the truth sooner or later. "Sometimes, for a little while, people who are innocent have to suffer because they are unjustly accused. But the law will free them if they have really done no wrong, and, what is more, it will punish those who swear falsely against them. Be patient, and you will find that you and your father made no mistake when you believed that this was the land of the free and the home of those who are oppressed in their own countries." Zara's eyes, dark and sombre, seemed to be full of fire. "Oh, I hope so," she cried, passionately. "For my father's sake! He has been disappointed and deceived so often." "We'll have a good long talk sometime, Zara," she said, finally. "Then maybe I'll be able to explain some things to you better, and make you understand the real difference between this country and the ones you have known." Then she brightened, and turned to the other girls, who had all been rather sobered by the sudden revelation, through Zara, of a side of life hidden from them as a rule. "We're not going to take that trip just for ourselves and our own fun," she said. "We're going to be missionaries, in a way; we want to spread the light of the Camp Fire, and see if we can't get a lot of new Camp Fires organized in the places we pass through. It's just in such lonely, country places that the girls need the Camp Fire most, I believe." "That will be splendid," said Margery Burton. "We could stay and teach them all the ceremonies, and the songs, and how to organize new Camp Fires, couldn't we?" "Yes. We want to make them see how much it has done for us. When they know that they'll do the rest for themselves, I think. I shall expect all you girls to help, because you can do ever so much more than I. It's the girls who really count--not the Guardians, you know." CHAPTER IV A FRIEND IN TROUBLE The next morning Eleanor Mercer, summoned from the group of girls with whom she was discussing some details of the coming contest with the Boy Scouts by the appearance of a man who had rowed up to the little landing stage, accompanied by one of the guides, old Andrew, called Bessie King and Dolly Ransom to her with a grave face. "This is Deputy Sheriff Rogers, from Hamilton," she explained. "He says that you must go there today to testify against those gypsies." "Sorry, ma'am, if it's awkward jest now," said the officer. "But law's law, and orders is orders." "Oh, we understand that perfectly, Mr. Rogers," said Eleanor. "You have to do your duty, and of course we are anxious to see that the law is properly enforced. Don't think we're complaining. But I will admit I am nervous." "Nervous, ma'am? Why, there ain't nothin' to be nervous about!" "I hope you're right, Mr. Rogers. But there are things back of this attempt to kidnap my two girls here that haven't come out at all yet. I don't suppose you've heard of them. And it's been suggested to me that it might not be quite safe for them at Hamilton." The deputy sheriff laughed heartily at that. "Safe?" he said. "Well, I should some guess they'll be safe down there! Sheriff Blaine--he's my boss, ma'am, you see--would jest about rip the hide off of anyone who tried to tech them young ladies while they was there obeyin' the orders of the court. Don't you worry none. We'll look after them all right enough." "As long as you know that there may be some danger, I shall be relieved, and feel that everything is all right," said Eleanor, pleasantly. "It's when we're not expecting their blows that the people we are afraid of have been able to strike at us successfully. There is a Mr. Holmes--" "I know him well, if it's Mr. Holmes, the big storekeeper from the city you mean, ma'am," interrupted Rogers. "Say, if he's a friend of yours, you can be sure you'll be looked after all right down to Hamilton. We think a sight of him down there. He's a fine man, m'am; yes, indeed, a fine man!" Eleanor looked startled, and only Bessie's quick pinch of her arm prevented Dolly from crying out in surprise and disgust. Knowing what they did of the treachery and meanness of Holmes, this praise of him was disturbing to a degree. But Eleanor never changed countenance. She understood, as if by some instinct, that this was a time for keeping her own counsel. "I shall go to Hamilton with you," said Eleanor, decidedly. "Will you be able to wait a little while, Mr. Rogers, while we get ready?" "Surely, ma'am," said Rogers. "We want to get the train that goes down from the station here at noon, and that gives us lots of time. If we start two hours from now we'll catch it, with time to spare." "Then if you'll sit down and make yourself comfortable," she said, "we'll be ready when it's time to start." As soon as Rogers had taken himself off, Eleanor called the girls together in her own tent. "I feel that it is my duty to be with Bessie and Dolly at Hamilton," she explained. "And, because I rather foresaw this, I have arranged for a friend of mine to come over here and take my place as Guardian at short notice. She is Miss Drew--Miss Anna Drew--and some of you must have met her in the city. She has had plenty of experience as a Camp Fire Guardian, and you'll all like her, I know. "Please make it as easy for her as possible. Do just as she tells you, even if she doesn't have the same way of doing everything that I have. I'll get back as soon as I can, and I want you to have a good time while we're gone." "We'll see that she doesn't have any trouble, Wanaka," said Margery Burton loyally. "She'll find that this Camp Fire can behave itself, all right!" "Thanks! I knew I could count on all of you," said Eleanor. "Now I'm going to send her a note by Andrew. Her people own some of this land, and she happens to be in their camp at one of the other lakes, so that she'll be able to get here before we go if she starts at once." Andrew was quite ready to carry the note, and went off while Eleanor and the two girls made the simple preparations that were necessary for their trip. "I'm so glad you didn't say anything when the deputy sheriff spoke that way of Mr. Holmes," she said to Bessie and Dolly. "I was afraid one of you would cry out and I really couldn't have blamed you if you had." "I would have--I was just going to," said Dolly honestly, "but Bessie pinched me, so I shut up, though I couldn't see why. I still think he ought to know that this man he seems to think so much of is the very one they ought to watch most carefully if they really want to make sure that we don't get into any trouble while we're going down there." "The trouble is that he wouldn't believe it, Dolly, and it would simply discredit us with him and all the other authorities at Hamilton, so that they wouldn't believe us when we had something to tell them that we were sure was true." "But we're sure that Mr. Holmes was behind this gypsy. We've got the letter he wrote to him to prove it!" "Yes, but Mr. Jamieson doesn't want anyone to know we have that letter until the proper time comes. He wants to catch Mr. Holmes in a trap if he possibly can, so that he'll be harmless after this. You can see what a good thing that would be." "Oh, yes. I never thought of that! He doesn't want to put him on his guard, you mean?" "Just exactly that, Dolly. You see, if Mr. Holmes thinks we don't suspect him, it's possible that he may betray himself in some fashion. He'll feel sure that this man John hasn't betrayed him, and if he thinks we don't know anything about the part he had in this kidnapping plan, he may try to do something, else that will get him into serious trouble. "And we've got to move very slowly and very carefully, because it's quite plain that he has a lot of friends at Hamilton and that they won't believe anything against him, no matter how serious it may be, unless they get absolute proof." "Oh, I do hope Mr. Jamieson will be able to catch him this time! I'd feel ever so much better about Bessie and Zara if I knew that they didn't need to be afraid of him any longer." "So would I, Dolly, and so would Mr. Jamieson. It's this man who is worrying us more than all the other enemies Bessie and Zara have, put together." "Because he's so rich?" "Partly that, and because he's so clever, too. And if all I hear about him is true, the more he is beaten, the more dangerous he becomes. He doesn't like to be beaten, and it makes him so angry that he takes all sorts of chances, and does the wildest, most desperate things to get even. They say he was very unfair to a lot of small shopkeepers in the city when he was building up his big store." "How do you mean, Miss Eleanor?" "Why, he did everything he could to make them sell out to him for a small price, and, if they wouldn't do it, he did his best to ruin their business. He would circulate false stories about them, and he used his influence with the police and the city authorities to make all sorts of trouble for them. "Then he would open a store next door to them, sometimes, and sell everything they did cheaper, at a loss, so that people would stop buying from them. You see, he could afford to lose money doing that, because he knew that if he once got them out of the way, he could put prices up again, and get his money back." "You didn't know all that the day after Zara was taken away, did you, Miss Eleanor?" asked Bessie. "Don't you remember how you laughed at me then for saying I didn't like him, and that I thought he might be mixed up in Zara's disappearance?" "Yes, I do remember it very well, Bessie. I've often thought what a good thing it was that your eyes were so sharp, and that you suspected him even when all the rest of us thought he was all right. If it hadn't been for that, Mr. Jamieson would never have looked up the records that gave him the clue to where Mr. Holmes had hidden Zara." "I think Bessie would make a pretty good detective," said Dolly. "They do have women detectives now, don't they? And she seems to be able to tell from looking at people whether they can be trusted or not." Bessie laughed heartily at that suggestion. "I can't do anything of the sort," she said. "And, even if I could, I wouldn't be a detective, Dolly. The trouble with you is that you read too many novels. You think people behave in real life just the way the people in the books you read do, and they don't." The return of old Andrew, the guide, who had rowed across the lake on his return from carrying Eleanor's note to Miss Drew, was the signal to complete the preparations for departure. "I caught her, all right, Miss Eleanor," said Andrew. "Says she won't be able to come over here till after lunch, but she'll be right over then with a bundle of sticks to keep the young ladies in order till you get back yourself." "Good!" laughed Eleanor. "That's all right, then, and I can leave here with a clear conscience. Andrew, you'll sort of keep an eye on things till I get back, won't you?" "Leave it to me, ma'am," said Andrew. "Say, me and some of the boys was thinking maybe you'd like to have some of us turn up, sort of casual like, down at Hamilton?" "Why, it's very good of you, Andrew, but I don't believe we'll need any help from you, thanks." "You can't always sometimes tell," said Andrew, sagely. "Now, this here Rogers is a good fellow enough, but obstinate as a mule, and the sheriff might be his twin brother for that. They're birds of a feather, see? And onct they get it into their heads that a thing's so, there ain't nothin' I know of, short of a stick of dynamite, will make them change their minds. So we thought that mebbe it wouldn't be a bad idea to have some of us within call." "I'll let you know if we need any help, Andrew," promised Eleanor. "And it's very good of you to offer to come. But Mr. Jamieson will be there--you know him, don't you?" "Mister Charlie? Indeed I do, ma'am, and a fine young chap he is, too. I've often hunted with him through these woods up here. If he's goin' to look after the law part of this for you, you'll have a good chance to beat them sharks down there. Some pretty smart lawyers there at Hamilton, they tell me, ma'am. I ain't never been to law myself. Any time I get into a fight I can't settle with my tongue, I use my hands. Cheaper, and better, too, in the long run." "It's the old-fashioned way, Andrew. Most people can't settle their troubles so easily. Well, you'll row us to the end of the lake, I suppose?" "Get right in, ma'am! Might as well start, so's you can take it easy on the trail. Not a bit of use hurryin' when there ain't no need of it, I say. There's lots of times when it can't be helped, without lookin' for a chance." So, with the strains of the Wo-he-lo cheer rising from the girls who were left behind, they started in the boat for the first stage of the short journey to Hamilton. Andrew insisted on going with them as far as the station, and as the train pulled out, they heard his cheery voice. "Now, remember if you need me or any of the boys, all you've got to do is to send us word, and we'll find a way to get there a bit quicker than we're expected," he cried. "Ain't nothin' we wouldn't do for you and the young ladies, Miss Eleanor!" "You leave them to us, old timer," Rogers called back from the car window. "We'll guarantee to return them, safe and sound. And it won't take any long time, neither. There's a good case against that sneaking gypsy, and we'll have him on his way to the penitentiary in two shakes of a lamb's tail." "If you don't, I'll vote for another sheriff next election," vowed Andrew, "if I have to vote a Demmycratic ticket to do it, and that's somethin' I ain't done--not since I was old enough to vote." Rogers was reassuring enough in his speech and manner, but Eleanor had a presentiment of evil; a foreboding that something was wrong. The railroad trip to Hamilton was not a long one, and within two hours of the time they had left Long Lake the brakeman called out the name of the county seat. Eleanor and the two girls, with Rogers carrying their bags, moved to the door, and, as they reached the ground, looked about eagerly for Jamieson. He was nowhere to be seen. But Holmes was there, avoiding their eyes, but with a grin of malicious triumph that worried Eleanor. And Rogers, a moment after he had left them to speak to a friend, returned, his face grave. "I hear your friend Mr. Jamieson is arrested," he said. CHAPTER V A TANGLED NET "Arrested?" cried Eleanor, startled. "Why, what do you mean? How can that be?" "That's all I know, ma'am," said Rogers, soberly. "Even if I did know anything more, I guess maybe I oughtn't to be saying anything about it. I'm an officer, you see. But here's the district attorney. Maybe he'll be able to tell you what you want." He pointed to a tall, thin man who was talking earnestly to Holmes, and who came over when Rogers beckoned to him. "This is Mr. Niles, Miss Mercer," said Rogers. "I'll leave you with him." "Glad to meet you, Miss Mercer," said Niles, heartily, "though I'm sorry to have dragged you away from your good times at Long Lake. These, I suppose, are the young ladies who were kidnapped?" "Yes, though of course they weren't really kidnapped, because they got away before any real harm was done," Eleanor replied. "But, Mr. Niles, what is this absurd story about my cousin, Mr. Jamieson? Mr. Rogers said something about his having been arrested." Niles grew grave. "I hope you're right--I hope it is absurd, my dear young lady," he said. "Your cousin, you say? Dear me, that's most distressing--most distressing, upon my word! However, you will understand I had nothing to do with the matter. "I have to take cognizance, in my official capacity, of any charges that are made, but I am allowed to have my own opinion as to the guilt or innocence of those accused--yes, indeed! And I am quite sure that Mr. Jamieson had nothing to do with this attempted kidnapping!" "What?" gasped Eleanor. "Do you mean to say that it is on such a charge as that that he has been arrested?" She laughed, in sheer relief. The absurdity of such an accusation, she was sure, would carry proof in itself that Charlie was innocent. No matter who was trying to spoil his reputation, they could not possibly succeed with such a flimsy and silly charge. "I'm glad it seems so funny to you, Miss Mercer," said Niles, stiffly. "I'll confess that it looked serious to me, although, as I say, I do not believe in Mr. Jamieson's guilt. However, he will have to clear himself, of course, just as anyone else accused of a crime must do. Where I have jurisdiction, no favors are shown. "The poor are on a basis of equality with the rich; I would send a guilty millionaire to prison with a light heart, and on the same day I would move heaven and earth to secure the freedom of an innocent beggar, though men of wealth were trying to railroad him to jail!" He finished that peroration with a sweeping and dignified bow. And then he stopped, thunder-struck, as a clear, girlish laugh rose on the air. It was Dolly who laughed. "I couldn't help it," she said, afterward. "He was so funny, and he didn't know it! As if anyone would take a man who talked such rot as that seriously!" But the trouble was that, vain and pompous as Niles plainly was, his official position made it necessary to take him seriously. Though at first she was disposed to agree with Dolly, and had, indeed, had difficulty in keeping a straight face herself while he was boasting of his own incorruptibility, Eleanor discovered that fact as soon as she had a chance to talk with Charlie Jamieson. "I shall be glad to arrange for you to have an interview with your cousin, Miss Mercer," Niles informed her. "Theoretically, he is a prisoner, although of course he will be able to arrange for his own release on bail as soon as he finds some friend who owns property in this county. But I have given orders that he is not to be confined in a cell. I trust he is making himself very much at home in the parlor of Sheriff Blaine. If you will honor me, I will take you there." "I should like to see him at once," said Eleanor. "Come, girls! Mr. Niles, I am sure, will find a place where you can wait for me while I talk with Mr. Jamieson." Charlie greeted her with a sour grin when she was taken to the room where, a prisoner, he was sitting near a window and smoking some of the sheriff's excellent tobacco. "Hello, Nell!" he said. "First blood for our friend Holmes on this scrap, all right. First time I've ever been in jail. It's intended as a little object lesson of what he can do when he once starts out to be unpleasant, I fancy. He must know that he hasn't any sort of chance of keeping me here." "Why, Charlie, I never heard anything so absurd!" said Eleanor, hotly. "As if you, who have done everything possible for those girls, would do such an insane thing as hire that gypsy to kidnap them. And especially when we know who did do it!" "That's just the rub! We know, but can we prove it? You see, it's my idea that Holmes is starting this as a sort of backfire. He thinks we're going to accuse him, and he wants to strike the first blow. He's clever, all right." "I don't see what good it can do him, Charlie." "A lot of good, and this is why. He puts me on the defensive, right away. He wants time as much as anything else. And if he can keep me busy proving my own innocence, he figures that I'll have less time to get after him. It's a good move. The more chance he has to work on those gypsies, the less likely they are to say anything that will make trouble for him. He can show them his power and scare them, even if he can't buy them. "And I think the chances are that he won't find it very hard to buy them. They pinched me as soon as I got off the train this morning. I've sent out a lot of telegrams, asking fellows to come up here and bail me out, but of course I can't really expect to get an answer today--an answer in person, at least." "Mr. Niles seems friendly. He said that he doesn't believe you're guilty, Charlie." "That's kind of him, I'm sure. Niles is an ass--a pompous, self-satisfied ass! Holmes is using him just as he likes, and Niles hasn't got sense enough to see it. He's honest enough, I think, but he hasn't got the brains of a well-developed jellyfish." Eleanor laughed at the comparison. "Well, if he's honest, you don't have anything to fear, I suppose," she said. "I'm glad of that, Charlie. I was afraid at first that he might be just a tool of Mr. Holmes, and that he would do what Mr. Holmes told him." "I'd feel easier in my mind if he were a regular out-and-out crook, Nell. That sort always has a weakness. Your crook is afraid of his own skin, and when he knows he's doing things for pay, he'll always stop just short of a certain danger point. He won't risk more than so much for anyone. But with this chap it's different. He's probably let Holmes, or Holmes's gang, fill him up with a lot of false ideas, and they're clever enough to get him to wanting to do just what they want him to do." "And you mean that he'll think he's doing the right thing?" "Yes, and not only that, but he'll persuade himself that he figured the whole thing out, thought it out for himself, when really he'll just be carrying out their own suggestions. We've got to find some way to spike his guns, or else Holmes will work things so that his gypsy will get off, and there'll be no sort of chance to pin the guilt down to him, where it belongs." "Then the first thing to do is to get you out, isn't it?" "Yes, but I've done all that can be done on that. There's really nothing to be done now but just wait--and I'd rather do pretty nearly anything I can think of but that." "I don't know, Charlie. Why can't I give bail for you? You know, Dad made over all that land up in the woods around Long Lake that he owns to me. So I'm a property holder in this county--and that's what is needed, isn't it?" "By Jove! You're right, Nell! Here, I'll make out an application. You send for Niles, and we'll get him to approve this right now. Then we'll get the judge to sign the bail bond, and I'll get out. I never thought of that--good thing you've got a good head on your shoulders!" Eleanor, pleased and excited, went out to find Niles, and returned to Charlie with him at once. "H'm, bail has been fixed at a nominal figure--five thousand dollars," said Niles. "I may mention that I suggested it, knowing that you would not try to evade the issue, Mr. Jamieson. We have heard of you, sir, even up here. If the young lady will come to the judge's office with me, I have no doubt we can arrange the matter." Before long it was evident there was a hitch. "I am sorry, Miss Mercer," said Niles, with a long face, "but there seems to be some doubt as to this. You have not the deed with you--the deed giving title to this property?" "No," said Eleanor. "But the records are here, are they not? Certainly you can make sure that I own it?" Niles shook his head. "I'm afraid we must have the deed," he said. For the moment it looked as if Charlie would have to stay in confinement over night, at least. But suddenly Eleanor remembered old Andrew and his offer to help. And twenty minutes later she was explaining matters to him over the telephone. "Why, sure," he said. "I can fix you up, Miss Eleanor. I've saved money since I've been working here, and I've put it all into land. I know these woods, you see, and I know that when I get ready to sell I'll get my profit. I'll be down as soon as I can come." "Don't say a word," said Charlie. "It wouldn't be past them to fake some way of clouding the old man's title if they knew he was coming. We'll spring that on them as a surprise. Evidently they figure on being able to keep me here until to-morrow, at least. They've got some scheme on foot--they've got a card up their sleeves that they want to be able to play while I'm not watching them. I don't just get on to their game--it's hard to figure it out from here. But if I once get out I won't be afraid of them. We'll be able to beat them, all right, thanks to you. You're a brick, Nell!" Andrew was as good as his word. He reached the town in time to go to the judge with the deeds of his property, and though Holmes, who was evidently watching every move of the other side closely, scowled and looked as if he would like to make some protest, there was nothing to be done. He and his lawyers had no official standing in the case--they could only consult with and advise Niles in an unofficial fashion. And, though Niles held a long conference with Holmes and his party before the bail bond was signed, it proved to be impossible for the court to decline to accept it. Some things the law made imperative, and, much as Niles might feel that he was being tricked, he could not help himself. Once he was free, as he was when the bail bond was signed, Jamieson wasted no time. He saw Eleanor and the two girls settled in the one good hotel of Hamilton, and then rushed back to the court house. And there he found a strange state of affairs. Holmes had brought with him from the city two lawyers, though Isaac Brack, the shyster, was not one of them. And the leader, a man well known to Jamieson, John Curtin by name, now appeared boldly as the lawyer for the accused gypsies. Moreover, he refused absolutely to allow Charlie to see his clients. In answer to Charlie's protests he merely looked wise, and refused to say anything more than was required to reiterate his refusal. But Charlie had other sources of information, and an hour after his release, meeting Eleanor, who had walked down to look around the town, leaving the girls behind at the hotel, he gave her some startling news. "They're trying to get those gypsies out right now," he said. "They were indicted, you know, for kidnapping. Now Curtin has got a writ of habeas corpus, and he's kept it so quiet that it was only by accident I found it was to be argued." "What does that mean?" asked Eleanor. "I don't know as much about the law as you do, you know." "It means that a judge will decide whether they are being legally held or not, Nell. And it looks very much to me as if Holmes had managed to fix things so that they'll get off without ever going before a jury at all! Niles isn't handling the case right. He's allowed Holmes and his crowd to pull the wool over his eyes completely. If we had some definite proof I could force him to hold them. But--" Eleanor laughed suddenly. "I didn't suppose it was necessary to give this to you until the trial," she said. "But look here, Charlie--isn't this proof?" And she handed him the letter found on John, the gypsy--a letter from Holmes, giving him the orders that led to the kidnapping of Dolly. Charlie shouted excitedly when he read it. "By Jove!" he said. "This puts them in our power. You were quite right--we don't want to produce this yet. But I think I can use it to scare our friend Niles. If I'm right, and he's only a fool, and not a knave, I'll be able to do the trick. Here he is now! Watch me give him the shock of his young life!" Niles approached, with a sweeping bow for Eleanor, and a cold nod for Jamieson. But the city lawyer approached him at once. "How about this habeas corpus hearing, Mr. District Attorney?" he asked. "Are you going to let them get those gypsies out of jail?" "The case against them appears to be hopelessly defective, sir," returned Niles, stiffly. "I am informed by counsel for the defense that there are a number of witnesses to prove an alibi for the man John, and I feel that it is useless to try to have them held for trial." "Suppose I tell you that I have absolute evidence--evidence connecting them with the plot, and bringing in another conspirator who has not yet been named? Hold on, Mr. Niles, you have been tricked in this case. I don't hold it against you, but I warn you that if you don't make a fight in this case, papers charging you with incompetence will go to the governor at once, with a petition for your removal!" "I--I don't know why I should allow one of the prisoners in this case to address me in such a fashion!" stuttered Niles. "I don't care what you know! I'm telling you the truth, and, for your own sake, you'd better listen to me," said Jamieson, grimly. "I mean just what I say. And unless you want to be lined up with your friend Curtin in disbarment proceedings, you'd better cut loose from him. I suppose Holmes has told you he'll back your ambitions to go to Congress, hasn't he?" Niles seemed to be staggered. "How--how did you know that?" he gasped. As a matter of fact, Charlie had not known it; he had only made a shrewd guess. But the shot had gone home. "There's more to this than you can guess, Mr. Niles," he said, more kindly. "It's a plot that is bigger than even I can understand and they have simply tried to use you as a tool. I knew that once you had a hint of the truth, your native shrewdness would make you work to defeat it. You understand, don't you?" Coming on top of the bullying, this sop to the love of Niles for flattery was thoroughly effective. Charlie was using the same sort of weapons that the other side had employed. And Niles held out his hand. "I'll take the chance," he said. "I'll see that those fellows stay in jail, Mr. Jamieson. As I told Miss Mercer, I was sure from the beginning that you were all right. May I count on you for aid when the case comes up for trial?" "You may--and I'll give you a bigger prisoner than you ever thought of catching," said Charlie. CHAPTER VI BESSIE KING'S PLUCK "We've got them, I think," Jamieson said to Eleanor Mercer and the two girls after his talk with District Attorney Niles. "There's just one thing; I don't understand how Holmes can be so reckless as to take a chance when he must remember that he hasn't got a leg left to stand on." "He probably doesn't know that we know anything about it," said Bessie. "And I guess he thinks that if we had had that note all this time we'd have produced it before, so that he thought it was safe to act." "You're probably right, Bessie," said Eleanor. "I thought that letter would be useful, Charlie, when we took it from that gypsy. I don't suppose I really had any right to keep it, but just then, you see, Andrew and the other guides were the only people around, and they would never question anything I did--they'd just be sure I was right." "Good thing they do, for you usually are," laughed Charlie. "I've given up expecting to catch you, Nell. You guess right too often. And this time you've certainly called the turn. Niles is convinced. All I'm afraid of now is that he won't be able to hold his tongue." "You want to surprise Mr. Holmes, then?" "I certainly do. I'd give a hundred dollars right now to see his face when I spring that letter and ask for a warrant for his arrest. Mind you, I don't suppose for a minute we'll be able to do him any real harm. He's got too much influence, altogether, with bigger people than Niles and this judge here." "You know I'm not very vindictive, Charlie, but I would like to see him get the punishment he deserves. I'd much rather have them let those poor gypsies off, if only they would put him in prison in their place. I feel sorry for them--really, I do. It seems to me that they were just led astray by a man who certainly should know better." "That part of it's all right enough, Eleanor. But if one accepted the excuse from every criminal that he was led astray by a stronger character, no one would ever be punished. Pretty nearly everyone who ever gets arrested can frame up that excuse." "You don't think it's a good one?" "It is, to a certain extent. But if our way of punishing people for doing wrong is any good at all, and if it is really to have any good effect, it's got to teach the weaklings that every man is responsible himself for what he does, that he can't shift the blame to someone else and get out of it that way. "You remember the poem Kipling wrote about that? I mean that line that goes: 'The sins that we sin by two and two we must pay for one by one.' It seems pretty hard sometimes, but it's got to be done. However, even if Holmes gets out of this, it's a thundering good thing that we've got as much as we have against him." "I don't see why, if you say he's going to get off without punishment." "Well, I think it's apt to make him more careful, for one thing. And for another, some people will believe the evidence against him, and he'll have the punishment of being partly discredited at least. That's better than nothing, you know. One reason he's in a position to do these rotten things without fear of being caught is that he's supposed to be so respectable. Let people once begin to think he isn't any better than he should be, and he'll have to mind his p's and q's just like anyone else, I can tell you." "That's so! I didn't think of that." "The thing to do now is to make sure that the trial comes off at once. I've got an idea that they'll try to get a delay, now that they've had to give up their hope of rushing it through while I was tied up and couldn't tell whatever I happened to know. They'll figure that the more time they have, the more chance there is that they can work out some new scheme, or that something will turn up in their favor--some piece of luck. And it's just as likely to happen as not to happen, too, if we give them a chance to hold things up for a few weeks. You want to get away, too, don't you?" "We certainly do, Charlie. The girls would be dreadfully disappointed if we didn't get back in time to make the tramp through the mountains with them." "Well, I guess we'll manage it all right. Leave that to me. You've had bothers and troubles enough already since you got here. I ought to have a nurse! Here I come to look after your interests, and see that nothing goes wrong with you and your affairs, and the first thing you have to do is to get me out of jail!" Eleanor returned his laugh. "We really enjoyed it, though you've got Andrew to thank, not me," she said. "Do you really think they'll manage to get it postponed after to-morrow?" "Not if I have to sit up with Niles and hold his hand all night, to keep him in line," vowed Jamieson. And, indeed, the morning proved that there was no cause for worry. Niles, stiffened by Jamieson, refused even to see the men from the other side, who were employed by Holmes, when they came to his office to beg for an adjournment, or to ask him to consent to it, at least, since only the judge had the power to grant it. And the trial began at the appointed time. Charlie, not being actively engaged as a lawyer in the case, could not spring his sensation himself. But he sat near Niles, waiting for the opportune moment, and, before the morning session was over, since he saw that the time was drawing near, he wrote a note to Niles, explaining his plan to surprise Holmes fully, which he handed to him in the quiet courtroom. "That's great--great!" said Niles. "It's immense, Jamieson! I never dreamed of anything like that. Heavens! How I have been deceived in this man Holmes! You have the original letter, you say?" Jamieson tapped his breast pocket significantly. "You bet I've got it!" he said. "And it doesn't leave my possession, either, until it's been read into the records of this court. You'll have to call me as a witness, Niles. That's the only way we can get this over, since I can't very well act as counsel for either side of the case." "All right. First thing after lunch," said Niles. Holmes was in the courtroom, and Jamieson, happening to look up just as Niles spoke to him, caught the merchant pointing to him, the while he bent over and talked earnestly with a sinister, scowling man who was unknown to the lawyer, but who seemed to be on the most intimate terms with Holmes. However, he thought nothing of the incident. He had understood from the first that in opposing Holmes, and doing all he could to spoil his plans regarding Bessie and Zara, he was incurring the millionaire's enmity, and he did not greatly care. "You know," he had said to Eleanor, "this chap Holmes thinks--or he did think, at least--that I'd be scared by his ability to help or hurt a man in my profession in the city. But I think a whole lot of that is bluff on his part. I don't believe he can do as much as he thinks he can. And I don't know that I care a whole lot, anyhow. He hasn't gone out of his way to help me so far, and I've managed to get along pretty well. I guess I can do without him to the end of the chapter." Just after the court adjourned for lunch, Niles was called away by Curtin, the leader of the lawyers Holmes had hired to defend the gypsy prisoners, and Jamieson saw them talking earnestly together for several minutes. Naturally, he did not try to overhear the conversation, but he could not have done so in any case, for Curtin kept looking about him, so that it was evident that he, at least, regarded what he had to say as both important and confidential. But Charlie waited patiently, sure that Niles would tell him all he wanted to know, unless he should again go over to the other side. "They're wise to us," said Niles, when he returned. "Curtin knows we've got something up our sleeves, and maybe he wasn't anxious to find out what it was!" "You didn't tell him, I hope?" "Not I! Trust me to know better than that! But I think he's got an inkling." "Lord, why shouldn't he?" said Charlie to himself, bitterly. "Of course, there's no reason why that gypsy shouldn't tell him! He probably doesn't realize what the letter means, but we do, and if the rascal has told them that it was taken away from him they would realize at once that they were up against it, and hard!" "Well, you haven't told me the whole story," he said, with a suggestion of being offended in his tone. "So I can't give you my advice as I would be glad to do if you had taken me into your confidence." "You'll know it all pretty soon, Niles," said Charlie. "Don't think you're being slighted--you're not. I know just how valuable you are to us, and that we couldn't get along without you. And, what's more, I'll say that I never saw a case handled better than this one. You're all right. Don't worry; I don't care much if they do know. It's too late for them to do anything now. I'm going to run back to the hotel. I've got to get a few papers from my room. Then I'll be back." Leaving Niles with little ceremony, he hurried back to the hotel, and went directly to his room, without telling anyone where he was going. As he passed through the lobby the clerk happened to be busy and did not see him, and, since his room was on the second floor, he did not wait for the elevator, but walked up. Seemingly, the only person who was interested in his movements was the sinister, black-browed man who had been talking so earnestly with Holmes in the courtroom half an hour before. And Charlie, in a great hurry, paid no attention to him--probably did not even know that he was in the hotel. With the man, however, matters were very different. He watched Charlie go up the stairs with the keen eyes of a hawk; and, a minute later, followed him up. And when, ten minutes after he had entered his room, Charlie opened the door to come out, he was met with a sharp blow on the chest that staggered him and sent him reeling back into his room. In an instant the sinister man he had dismissed so readily from his mind when he had seen him talking with Holmes was on him, the door closing as he flung himself through it, and Charlie, taken completely by surprise, was overpowered before he could even begin to put up any sort of resistance. Even his belated impulse to call for help came too late. A gag was thrust into his mouth as he was about to open it, and then, with no pains to be gentle, his assailant produced stout cord from his pocket and tied him securely to the bed. While he was thus rendering Charlie impotent to obstruct him in any way the ruffian said nothing whatever. Now, however, standing off a minute, and looking at his victim with much satisfaction, he broke his silence. "Trussed up as neat as a turkey for Thanksgiving," he said, in a hoarse whisper that seemed to be his natural speaking voice. "You won't do any more damage, I guess." And then Charlie, who had been bewildered by this attack, realized at last its meaning. For his assailant came close to him, began to search his pockets, and, in a moment, drew out, with a cry of triumph, the precious letter from Holmes to the gypsy--the letter without which the whole case against Holmes was bound to collapse! Charlie struggled insanely for a moment, but then suddenly he grew quiet. For his eyes had happened to wander toward the window, which the thief, with the carelessness for details that has caused the downfall of so many of his kind, had left uncovered. And, peering straight at him from a window across a small light shaft, he saw Bessie King. He was longing to communicate with her when the thief suddenly addressed him again. "Say, bo," he said, in the same hoarse whisper, "I ain't got nuttin' against you, see? If youse wants this here writin', you can have it--if youse is willin' to pay more fer it than the other guy!" He looked greedily at Charlie, and, though the lawyer understood thoroughly that the man was only trying to add to the money that Holmes had promised him, and would probably not give up the paper, no matter how much was offered, he jumped at the chance to gain time. Bessie had disappeared, and he was sure that she had gone for help. If he could hold the robber for a few minutes he might beat him yet. To talk with the gag in his mouth was, of course, impossible, and he managed to lift his bound hands toward his mouth to remind the robber of this. "Say, that's right," said the thief. "Here, I'll ease youse a bit so youse can talk. But no tricks, mind!" "How much do you want?" gasped Charlie, when he was able to speak. The man stood over him, ready to silence any attempt to cry out, and he knew that it would be useless to call. "How much you got? I don't mean in your clothes, but what youse has got salted away in your room," asked the thief. "I ain't got time to look for it or I'd leave you tied up," he added, with a leer. "You've got something to sell, so name your price," said Charlie, still trying to kill time. "That's for you to do. What does the other side offer you?" "Gimme two hundred bucks!" suggested the robber. "That's a lot of money," said Charlie, pretending to hesitate. "I might give it to you, but I haven't got it here. I could get it for you or give you a check----" "Cash--and cash down!" leered the robber. "An' say, if youse thinks some of them dames youse is workin' with can help youse out of this hole, guess again. They're all locked up, same as you--from the outside. And there ain't no telephones in the rooms in this hotel." For a moment Charlie's heart sank. If this was true, even though she realized his danger, Bessie could not help him. He did not know what to do, or what to say. But, fortunately for him, he was spared from deciding. For there was a sudden crash at the door, and in a moment it gave way before the onslaught of the proprietor, two or three clerks, and a couple of stout porters. In a second the robber was overpowered and a prisoner, and then Charlie saw Bessie, her eyes alight with eagerness, in the background. "I climbed down the waterspout!" she cried. "I knew I had to get them to help you!" CHAPTER VII BACK AT LONG LAKE "Why, Bessie's a regular brick!" said Charlie, as they sat at dinner that night. Eleanor and the two girls were going back to Long Lake on the first train in the morning, and they were celebrating with the best dinner the town of Hamilton could afford. "I told you I needed a nurse, Nell, and here one of you had to save me for the second time since I came here to look after you!" "That man was terribly clever," said Eleanor, gravely. "I never even knew I was locked in--I was let out before I had had a chance to find it out for myself." "Bessie and I didn't know it, either, until she saw him tying Mr. Jamieson up," said Dolly. "We'd have found it out as soon as we wanted to leave the room to go down for lunch, of course, but he was so quiet about locking us in that neither of us heard him at all." "He was just a little bit too clever," said Charlie. "If he hadn't been so anxious to make a little more money out of me, he would have got clean away and given that paper to Holmes." "Not getting it seemed to upset Mr. Holmes a good deal, didn't it?" laughed Eleanor. "Is it true that he left town by the first train after he heard that the letter had been found when they searched that wretched man?" "Quite true," said Charlie, happily. "Just what did happen in court this afternoon?" asked Dolly. "I thought we were going to be witnesses and have all sorts of fun. And now it's all over and our trip down here has just been wasted!" "Why, Holmes's lawyer, Curtin, threw up the case as soon as he heard about that letter, Dolly. There wasn't anything else for him to do. With that, added to the stories you two girls had to tell, there wasn't any way of getting those gypsies off." "Are they going to send them to prison?" "John will go to jail for six months. He's the one who actually carried Dolly off, you know. As for Peter and Lolla, who helped him, they get off easily. They were sentenced, too, but the judge suspended sentence. If they forget, and do anything more that's wrong, they'll have to serve out their term." "I'm very glad," said Eleanor. "Poor souls! I don't believe they understood what a dreadful thing they were doing." "It was a good thing for them they decided to plead guilty and take their medicine," said Charlie. "Or, I should say, it's a good thing that Curtin decided it for them. Don't worry about them any more. Holmes will have to pay John a good deal of money when he comes out of jail to make him keep quiet--if he manages, first, to shut up the people here, so that the whole story doesn't come out." "Can he do that, now that they've seen that letter?" "I'm half afraid he can. He's got a tremendous lot of money, you see, and this is a time when he naturally wouldn't hesitate much about spending it. And I don't know that it's such a bad thing. It gives us a starting point, you see. And if the thing isn't made public, he may get more reckless, and give us another chance to land him where he belongs, and that's in the penitentiary. He's cleared out now and we couldn't persuade these people to go after him, even if it was worth while, which I don't believe it is." "How on earth did you get down?" Eleanor asked Bessie. "Oh, I saw there wasn't anything else to do," said Bessie, modestly. "If you could have seen that man's face! I was terribly frightened. I didn't know what he might be going to do to Mr. Jamieson, so I just knew I had to get help. And I was afraid to call out of the window." "Why? Someone would have been sure to hear you," said Eleanor. "Because I thought the only person who was absolutely sure to hear me was that man who was tying Mr. Jamieson up. And I didn't know what he would do, but I was afraid he might do something dreadful right away if I called out and he knew that he was being watched." "You're all right, Bessie!" said Jamieson, admiringly. "Was it very hard, going down the waterspout?" "No, it really wasn't. Dolly was afraid I was going to fall, and she wanted to go herself. But I said I had seen it, and made the plan, and so I had a right to be the one to go. It really wasn't so far." "Far enough," said Jamieson, grimly. "You might easily have broken your neck, climbing down three flights that way." "Oh, but it wasn't three! It was only one. You see, there was a balcony outside the window, and on the next floor there was another, and I thought that window was pretty sure to be open. It was, so I got inside, and then I found the room I was in was empty, and the door was open, so all I had to do was to walk down the stairs and tell the manager. They all came up and, well, you know what happened then yourself." "I certainly do!" said Jamieson. "And I don't think I'm likely to forget it very soon, either. That was a pretty tough character. I'll remember his face, all right." "Well," said Eleanor, happily, "all's well that ends well, they say. I really believe Dolly had the worst time, when you think about it. She had to watch Bessie climbing down that waterspout." "That was dreadful," said Dolly, shuddering at the memory. "But I think it was much worse for Mr. Jamieson and Bessie than for me." "Bessie was so busy getting down that I don't believe she had much time to think about the danger," said Eleanor. "And Mr. Jamieson didn't know her door was locked, so he had the relief of thinking that she'd been able to get help in just an ordinary fashion. Of course, if he or I had known what a risk she was running we'd have been half wild with anxiety about her. So you see it really was hard for you not to scream or do anything to startle that man." "That was what I was afraid of most," said Bessie. "I don't know what I'd have done if Dolly had screamed." "You needn't have been afraid! I was too frightened even to open my mouth," said Dolly, honestly. "I couldn't have uttered a sound, no matter what depended on it, until I saw you were all right. And then I just slumped down and laughed--as if there was something funny." "Well, we can all laugh at it now," said Eleanor. "Are you going back to the city to-night, Charlie?" "No, I guess I'll be held up here until about noon to-morrow," he answered. "I've got to appear against that poor chap, and there are one or two other matters I want to attend to while I'm here. I'll see you on your train in the morning, and I'll try to look out for myself when you're gone." It was an enthusiastic and eagerly curious crowd of girls that welcomed them back to Long Lake the next day when, in the middle of the morning, the well-remembered camp appeared. Miss Drew, who had taken Eleanor's place as Guardian, laughed as she greeted her friend. "I don't know how you do it, Nell," she said. "I never saw anything like these girls of yours. They did their best not to let me know, but I managed to find out, without their knowing it, that you did about everything in a different way from mine--and a much better way." "Nonsense!" said Eleanor. "I've made a few changes in the theoretical rules of the Camp Fire. All Guardians are allowed to do that, you know. But it's only because they seemed to suit us a little better--my ideas, I mean." "You know," said Anna Drew, thoughtfully, "I think that's the very best thing about the Camp Fire. It doesn't hold you down to hard and fast rules that have got to be followed just so." "If it did, it would defeat its own purposes," said Eleanor. "What we want to do--and it's for Guardians, if they're youngsters like you and me, as well as for the girls--is to train ourselves to attend to our jobs properly." "Why, what jobs do you mean?" "The job every girl ought to get sooner or later--running a home. It's a lot more of a job, and a lot more difficult, and important, too, than waiting on people in a shop, or being a stenographer, and yet no one ever thinks an awful lot about it before it comes along." "That's so, Nell. I never thought of it just that way. But you're right. We get married, and a whole lot of us don't have any idea at all of how to look after a house." "It isn't fair to the men who marry us. Marriage is supposed to be a partnership--husband and wife as partners. But if the man knew as little about his part of the job as the woman generally does about hers when she gets married, most married couples would be in the poorhouse in a year." "That sounds old-fashioned, but I don't believe it is, somehow." "It certainly is not. It's what I try to keep in mind. That's why we don't go in much for talking about votes for women. I'm not saying we ought not to vote, or that we ought to. But I do think there are a lot of things we ought to think about first. Times have changed a lot, but after all women and men don't change so very much. Or, at least, they ought not to change." "I think I see what you're driving at. You mean that your great grandmother and mine probably spun cloth and made clothes for themselves and most of the family, and did all sorts of other things that we never think of doing?" "Yes. And I don't mean that we ought to go back to that. A man can buy a better shirt in a shop now for less money than you or I would have to spend in making him one. But there are plenty of other things we could do in a house that we never seem to think of, somehow." "I don't see how you think of all that! I thought I'd spent a lot of time studying the Camp Fire, but I never got hold of those ideas." "Oh, they're not all mine--not a bit of it! You ought to talk to Mrs. Chester, our Chief Guardian. She'd make you think, and she'd make you believe you were doing it all by yourself, too." "Yes, she's wonderful. I don't know her very well, but I hope to see more of her this winter. I want to be Guardian of a Camp Fire of my own. I've had just enough of the work, substituting for other girls, to want to spend a lot more time at it." "You'll get the chance all right--don't worry about that! It's Guardians we need more than anything else. It isn't as easy as you would think to get girls and women who've got the patience and the time for the work. But that's chiefly because they don't know how fascinating it is, and how much more fun there is in doing it than in spending all your time going about having what people call a 'good time.' I've never had such a good time in my life as since we got up this Manasquan Camp Fire." "Well, I wish I could stay with you, and go on this wonderful tramp with you. But I've got a lot of girls coming up to visit me, and I've simply got to be there to entertain them. So if you're really going to stay, and don't need me any more, I'll have to be getting Andrew to take me back home again." "I wish you could stay, too, but if you can't, you can't. I'm ever so grateful to you for coming. I can tell you right now that there aren't many people I'd trust my girls to, as I did with you!" "I know it's a compliment, Nell, so you needn't talk about gratitude. I'm the one to be grateful, I'm sure. The more experience I get before I'm a regular Guardian myself, the better chance I'll have to make good when the time comes." "I'm ever so glad you feel that way about it, Anna. You know, there are ever and ever so many girls who could do the work, and won't try. I'm not sure that it's so much 'won't' as--oh, I don't know! I think they're afraid--they haven't any confidence in themselves. They think it would be absurd for them to try to direct others. I felt that way myself." "Nearly everyone who is at all likely to make good does, Anna. That's the strangest part of it. When I hear a girl talking about how easy it is to be a good Guardian, 'and how sure she is that she'll make good, I'm always afraid she's going to fail. If you make the girls understand they've got to help you, and that you know that if they don't you won't be able to succeed, you get them ever so much more interested." "That's easy to understand. It makes them feel that they really do have a part in the work. I noticed that about your girls, particularly, Nell. They seemed to feel that they were all a part of the Camp Fire." "Well, that's the spirit I've always tried to put into them. I'm very glad if I've really succeeded in doing it. It was a good deal of a trust for me, as well as for them--leaving them to you. It shows, I think, that the Camp Fire is in good shape and able to get along, not exactly by itself, but under different conditions. I might easily have to leave them, you know, and if they couldn't go right ahead under another Guardian, I'd feel that my work had been, in a way, at least, a failure." "All ready, Miss Drew!" called old Andrew, and then the girls gathered on the beach and sung the Wo-he-lo song as the boat glided off. Eleanor welcomed the quiet days that followed, during which she completed the plans for the field day in which the Boy Scouts were also to take part, and for the long tramp she planned as the chief event of the summer for her girls. "It seems sort of slow, now that those gypsies have gone, and there's no one to make trouble for us," Dolly complained. But Bessie and Zara, who heard her, only laughed at her. "You'd better be careful," said Zara. "First thing you know you'll be starting some new trouble." "She's right," said Bessie. "You said when we got away from that gypsy that you'd had enough excitement for awhile, Dolly." "Oh, well," Dolly pouted, "it is slow up here--no place to buy soda, no moving picture shows--nothing!" "I call the swimming and the walks pretty exciting," said Zara. "I'm really learning. I went about twenty yards this afternoon." "But I know how to swim, and one walk is just like another," said Dolly. "Well, we'll have the field day pretty soon, and then, after that, we'll start on our long walk. There'll be plenty of excitement then, and one walk won't be just like another. I bet you'll be wishing for a train before we're down in the valley again." CHAPTER VIII A NOVEL RACE The morning of the long-awaited field day dawned clear and bright. The camp was stirring with the first rays of the rising sun, that gilded the tree tops to the east, and painted the surface of the lake, smooth as a mirror, with a hundred hues. The day promised to be hot in the open, but there was no danger of great heat on the march, which was entirely through the woods. "We won't worry about how hot it's going to be under the sun," said Eleanor Mercer as the girls sat at their early breakfast. "No. Our work is under the trees, until we get to the camping spot," said Margery Burton. "Now here's the plan of campaign," said Eleanor. "I am going to send two girls ahead to build the fire. That's the most important thing, really--to get the fire started." "We can't use matches, can we?" asked Zara. "No, the fire must be made Indian fashion, with two sticks. But we all know how to do that, I think. The idea of sending two girls ahead is to have that part of the work done when the main body reaches our camping ground." "Where is that? We can know now, can't we, Wanaka?" asked Margery. "Yes, it's all right to tell you now. You know those twin peaks beyond Little Bear Lake--North Peak and South Peak?" "Yes," came the answer, in chorus. "Well, our place is on North Peak, and Mr. Hastings will take his Scouts to South Peak. The trails are different, but they're the same length." "Why was that kept such a secret?" asked Bessie. "Because Mr. Hastings and I decided that it would be fairer if there was no chance at all to go over the trail first and learn all about it. Then there was the chance that if either party thought of it they could locate kindling wood and fallen wood that could be used for the fire-making. On a regular hike, you see, you would go to a place that was entirely strange, and it seemed better to keep things just as near to regular hiking conditions as we could." "Oh, I see! And that's a good idea, too. It's just as fair for one as for the other, then." "Who are going to be the two girls to go ahead? And why can't we all get there at the same time?" asked Dolly. "One question at a time," said Eleanor, with a laugh. "I'll answer the second one first. We've got to carry all the things we need for making camp and getting a meal cooked. So if we send out two girls ahead, with nothing to carry, they can make much better time than those who have the heavy loads." "Will they do the same thing?" asked Zara. "The Boy Scouts, I mean?" Eleanor smiled. "Ah, I don't know," she said. "They will if Mr. Hastings thinks of it, I'm sure, because it would be a good move in a race." "Is it quite fair in case they don't happen to think of it?" asked Margery, doubtfully. "Why not? This isn't just like a foot-race. It isn't altogether a matter of speed and strength, or even of endurance--" "I should hope not!" declared Dolly. "If it was, what chance would we have against those boys?" "Suppose we found some new way of rubbing sticks that would make fire quicker than the regular way, it would be fair to use that, wouldn't it, Margery?" asked Bessie. "That's the idea. Bessie's right, Margery," said Eleanor. "We have a perfect right, and so have they, to employ any time-saving idea we happen to get hold of. And I'm quite sure this is a good one, and that Mr. Hastings will think of it, too." "Well, I hope he doesn't do anything of the sort!" said Margery, wholly converted and now enthusiastic for the plan. "You haven't told us yet who is to go ahead," said Dolly. "I'm just crazy to be one of the two--" "We all are! Who wouldn't like to get out of carrying a load?" cried two or three girls in chorus. Eleanor laughed at the eagerness they displayed. "It won't be all fun for the pathfinders, as we'll call them," she said. "They've got a lot of responsibility, you see." "What sort of responsibility?" asked Margery. "All they've got to do is to go just as fast as they can and make a fire when they get to the peak." "That isn't all they've got to do, though. They've got to make a smoke signal, for one thing, by stopping the smoke with a blanket, and then letting it rise, straight up, three times. And they've got to go to work and get enough wood to keep the fire going, as soon as they've lighted it." "But they'll be able to go along ever so easily on the trail!" "It isn't a very well marked trail. Neither of the trails to the peak is, for that matter. And the pathfinders, if they find they're in any danger of making a wrong turn, must make a sign for us who follow. That might easily save us a good many minutes in getting there. So you see it isn't quite as easy as you thought. Now, I'll call for volunteers. Who wants to join the pathfinders?" Every girl there put up her hand at once, amid a chorus of laughs and jesting remarks. "Heavens! Well, you can't all be pathfinders, or there'd be no one to carry the dinner! We'll have to figure out some way of picking out two, because that's all there can be." "We might draw lots," said Margery. "I don't like that idea much," said Eleanor. "If you're all so anxious to go, we ought to make it a reward of some sort--a prize. It's too bad I didn't think of it earlier, because then we could have had a really good competition." She frowned thoughtfully for a moment. "I know what we'll do," she said. "There are just eight of you, and we'll divide all the dishes from breakfast into eight even piles. We can do that easily. Then you shall all start together--" "Oh, that's good!" said Dolly. "And the ones who finish first will be pathfinders?" "Yes, those who finish first, and put their dishes away properly, Dolly--not just finish washing and drying. I'll be the judge. Come on, Margery, we'll arrange the piles." So the arrangements were made, and then, with each girl standing over her own pile of dishes, they waited eagerly for the word. "I'll start you," laughed Eleanor. "Now, are you ready? Take dishes--wash!" And at once there was a great splashing and commotion. But Eleanor broke in with a laugh. "Time!" she called. "Stop washing'" Everyone stopped, and looked at her curiously. "Here's a rule," she said. "I only just thought of it. Anyone who breaks a dish is out of the race, even if she finishes five minutes ahead of the next girl. Understand?" "Yes," they cried. "All right. Dolly, you kept on washing for nearly half a minute after the others had stopped. When I give them the word to start again, don't you do it. I'll give you a starting signal of your own. You, too, Mary King! I'll call your names when you two are to start." Then they bent to their piles again, and waited for Eleanor's "Ready? Wash!" Dolly and Mary King, forced to restore the time they had unwittingly stolen from the others, waited as patiently as they could until they heard "Now, Dolly!" and after a moment more, "All right, Mary!" "Oh, this is fine sport!" cried Dolly, washing with an energy she had never displayed before. "I think we ought to have races like this ever so often. They're much better fun than most of the games we play!" "Anything that makes you act as if you liked work is a fine little idea, Dolly," said Margery. "But I haven't got time to talk--I've got to wash. I never thought anyone could wash dishes as fast as you're doing it!" "I'm in practice," laughed Dolly. "I hate them so, that I'm always trying to get them done just as quickly as I can." And a moment later Dolly, to the general surprise, had put away her last dish, an easy winner. It was plain to her in a moment that the struggle, now that she was out of it, would be between Margery and Bessie. They had finished washing almost at the same moment, with Margery perhaps a couple of spoons ahead. "Hurry, Bessie, do hurry!" pleaded Dolly. "We've done so much together up here, we ought to be pathfinders together, too. Can't I help her, Miss Eleanor?" "No, that wouldn't be fair, Dolly," laughed Eleanor. "Each one has got to win or lose on her own merits in this race." Bessie smiled as she heard Dolly's impulsive appeal. She wanted to win, too, because it was impossible for her to engage in any contest without wanting to come out ahead, or as far ahead as she could. This time, of course, second place was all she could hope for, but she was not one of those people who, if the chief prize is beyond their reach, relax their efforts to do as well as they can. As she finished wiping each dish dry she arranged it, stacking her dishes in order of their size, so that they could all be carried easily to the tent where they were to be laid away. Margery, on the other hand, grew nervous as she neared the end. Once a plate slipped through her hand, but, fortunately, her cry of dismay as it fell was premature, for it did not break. But she was putting her dishes down anywhere, without regard for their size or for convenience in carrying them, and as a result, though she had finished the actual drying nearly a minute before Bessie, she was still frantically gathering her piled dishes together in her arms when Bessie wiped the last spoon. Then, without haste, Bessie picked up her whole pile, and, starting before Margery, walked carefully over to the tent. She put away her last dish before Margery was half done, and the contest was over. "Go on, girls!" cried Eleanor, as she saw that interest was slackening with the choice of the second pathfinder. "You don't want to be last, do you? I should think you'd all want to avoid that!" The reminder was enough, and the others were soon busily finishing their tasks. Zara was fourth, right after Margery, and then there was a wild scramble among the last four. They finished almost together, and Eleanor, with a laugh, had to declare that there was a tie for sixth, seventh and eighth places. "So no one was really last!" she declared, merrily. "My, but that was good fun! It certainly was, if you enjoyed racing half as much as I did watching you! It's a pity we never thought of that before." "I'll beat you next time, you two!" vowed the panting Margery, shaking her first in mock anger at Bessie and Dolly. "More haste, less speed! That's what beat me! But I'll know better next time." "We'll have a team race some time," said Eleanor. "Two teams of four--that ought to be good fun. Oh, there are lots of ways of having a good time if you only think of them!" Then she clapped her hands as a sign for attention. "Now we've got to take our fun for the rest of the day more seriously," she said. "You girls will have to take your fire-making sticks, and an old blanket. You understand how to make smoke signals, don't you?" "Yes, indeed!" cried Dolly and Bessie, in one breath. "All right, then. How will you make signs to show us which way to go?" "With a hatchet. We'll blaze the trees," suggested Bessie. "Then you'll be sure to see it. There's no way that a sign like that can be blown away, or get moved by accident. With the thin end of the blaze in the direction you are to take, if there's a choice." "All right. Hatchet, old blanket, fire-making sticks. You'd better carry water bottles, for you'll be thirsty on the way." "Why, we'll find plenty of water. There must be springs!" Dolly protested. "Undoubtedly; but you don't know just where they are, and you'd waste time looking for them. If you have your water bottles, with a little bit of lemon juice in the water, you can have a drink wherever you like." "I like the taste of lemon juice, too." "It isn't only because you like it that it's a good thing to have it, but it will quench your thirst better than plain water, and it will make your water last better, too, because you don't need to drink so much of it." "It's fine if you're hot, too," said Margery, approvingly. "A little lemon water will cool you off better than half a dozen of those ice-cream sodas you're so fond of, Dolly." Dolly made a face at her. "I think it's mean of you to tease me about soda when you know I can't have it, no matter how much I want it," she said. "But I don't care, really. I wouldn't have an ice-cream soda now, if I had a pocket full of money and I could get one by going across the street!" Eleanor smiled at her. "What a reckless promise! Only you know you are perfectly safe," she said, half mockingly. "I really mean it," protested Dolly. "I'm going to swear off--for a long time, anyhow. Bessie and Zara and I are going to try to get enough honor beads to be Fire-Makers as soon as we get back to the city, and that's one of the ways I'm going to try." "Then you've started already?" said Eleanor. "No, not yet," said Dolly. "I'm going to wait--" A shout of laughter interrupted her. "Oh, yes, we know! Until you have just one or two last ones--" Dolly flushed dangerously for a moment. But her new control over herself, that she was fighting so hard to maintain, saved her from the sharp reply that was on her tongue. "You might let me finish," she said. "If I swore off now I suppose the time while we're here would count toward an honor bead, but what's the use of swearing off something I can't get, anyhow? I'm going to swear off the first time I see a soda fountain!" "Good for you, Dolly!" exclaimed Eleanor, heartily. "That's the right spirit." CHAPTER IX THE PATHFINDERS It did not take the two pathfinders long to get so far ahead of the main party that they were out of sight and almost out of hearing. The girls who carried the necessary provisions and utensils, however, made their way light by singing Camp Fire songs as they walked, and their voices echoed through the woods. "This is great! Oh, I love it!" said Dolly, happily. "I'm so glad you beat Margery, Bessie!" "I thought you liked Margery, Dolly?" "I do, but you're my very dearest chum, Bessie! I think Margery's great, but she is just a little bit superior, sometimes. I expect I deserve it when she gives me a lecture, but I like you because you don't preach, though you're just as good as she is any day in the week!" "I'll probably lecture you some time, Dolly, if I think you need it." "Go ahead! I don't mind when you do it, or if you do it. I don't know why, but it's the same way with Miss Eleanor. She's scolded me sometimes, but she isn't a bit like my Aunt Mabel, or the teachers at school." "How do you mean? They're kind to you, I suppose? It isn't that that makes the difference?" "No. I don't just know what it is, except that she makes me feel as if I had made her unhappy, and they always talk just as if they thought it was their duty." "It probably is, Dolly. You ought to have had the sort of scoldings I used to get from Maw Hoover! Then you'd know what a real scolding is like." "Oh, I just hate that woman, Bessie, for the way she treated you. Don't you hate her, too?" "I don't know. I used to, but I'm sort of sorry for her, Dolly." "I don't see why!" "Well, since I've been away from the farm, I've seen that she didn't have a very much better time than I did. She had to work all day long, and she never got much pleasure." "That wasn't any excuse for her treating you so badly." "I think maybe it was, Dolly. I suppose she was nervous, like a whole lot of other women, and she had to have something to wear herself out on. She took things out on me. I'm beginning to think that maybe she wasn't really mad at me when she acted like that. I believe she used to get so upset about things that she had to sort of kick out at whatever was nearest--and it happened to be me." "Well, I hate her, just the same! You can forgive her if you like, but I'm not going to!" "It's a good thing she never did anything to you, Dolly. If you hate her like that when you've never even seen her, what would you do if you had some real reason for it?" Dolly laughed. "I suppose I am silly," she said, "but I can't help it. I just feel that way, that's all. Do you know what I wish, Bessie?" "Nothing dreadful, I hope, Dolly." "She'd think it was, I'm sure--spiteful old cat! I wish you'd find out all about your father and mother, and that they'd not be lost any more." "Oh, Dolly, so do I! But that wouldn't seem dreadful to Mrs. Hoover, I'm sure. I think she'd be glad enough." "Let me finish. I wish you'd find them or that they'd find you, and turn out to be ever so rich. They might, you know. It might all be a mistake, or an accident, or something." "I wouldn't care if they weren't rich, Dolly, if only I knew what had become of them, and why they had to leave me there all that time with the Hoovers." "I just know there's some good reason, Bessie. You're so nice that you're bound to be happy some time. Of course you'd like to have your father and mother, whether they were rich or not. But wouldn't it be great if they really were rich?" "I don't know. I don't know what it's like to be rich, Dolly." "Oh, you could do all sorts of things! You could make them take you back to Hedgeville in an automobile, just for one thing." "There are lots and lots of places I'd rather go to, Dolly." "Oh, yes, of course! But think of how everyone would stare at you, and how envious they would be! I bet they'd be sorry then that they weren't nice to you." Bessie smiled wistfully at the fantastic idea Dolly's lively brain had conjured up. "It would be fun," she sighed. "They did tease me dreadfully, some of the girls. You see, the Hoovers didn't have so very much money, and my clothes were mostly old things that Maw made over to fit me when she was through with them." "You could go back in better dresses than any of those Hedgeville girls ever even saw, Bessie. And just think of how that horrid Jake Hoover would feel then." "Oh, well, there's no use thinking about it, Dolly. It won't ever happen. So I shan't be disappointed, anyhow." "Well, it might happen and I think it's simply great to dream about things that might happen to you. It doesn't do any harm, and it's awfully good fun." "You do the dreaming, Dolly, and tell me about your dreams. You can do it better than I could. I'm no good at dreaming that way at all." "All right, that's a bargain. And right now I guess we'd better stop thinking about dreams and attend to pathfinding. Here's a turn. Which way ought we to go?" "Straight ahead, I'm sure," said Bessie. "See how the trail narrows in the other direction, and it doesn't look as if it had ever been made like the main trail. It's more as if people had just broken through one after another, until a sort of trail was made." "Yes, and it isn't straight ahead, either. When there's a big tree in the way, the trail goes around it, and on the regular trail the guides went along a straight line and chopped down trees when they had to." "All right. Give me the hatchet, and I'll mark the proper way to go." Deftly Bessie, who had had long practice in the use of a hatchet when she lived with the Hoovers, cut off a strip of bark on a tree at the meeting point of the two trails, so that it formed a plain and unmistakable guide to anyone who knew anything at all of woodcraft. Then they pressed on. They walked fast, and, with nothing to delay them, they made good time, pausing only once in a while to take a sip from their water bottles. "I can't hear the girls singing any more, can you?" asked Dolly, presently. "No," said Bessie, pausing to listen. "I guess we must be quite a little way ahead of them now. We ought to be, of course." "How much sooner than they ought we to reach the peak?" "That's pretty hard to tell. I don't know how far it is. But I should think we ought to walk about four miles to their three. So if it's ten miles, we ought to be about two miles and a half ahead of them when we get there--and they ought to walk that in about half an hour--say a little more, forty minutes." "That would give us plenty of time to get things ready." "I should hope so! We really haven't so very much to do when we get there. It's quite an honor for us to be allowed to make the fire, isn't it?" "Yes, it is. But we won the right to do it, Bessie. You must remember that. And, of course, it isn't like a ceremonial fire." "No, but it's a real fire, and an important one. Look! We're beginning to go down hill now. We'll be climbing again before we get there, though." "Let's hurry! I'm just crazy to get the fire started. Who is going to make the light?" "Why, you are, Dolly! You won the dish-washing race, so you've certainly got the right to do that." "I'll let you do it if you want to, Bessie. I don't care about the old race." "No. You earned the right. And I believe you can do it better than I can, anyhow." "It's just a trick, when you once know how. I used to think it was a wonderful thing to do, but it's just as easy as threading a needle." "That's another thing that isn't easy until you know just how to do it, though." "I guess that's so. I've seen boys try to do it, ever and ever so many times, and they usually threw the needle and thread away two or three times before they managed it." "Are we to cook lunch as soon as we all get to the camping spot?" "I don't think so. It would be too early, you see." "I guess the fire will be made, though. Do you know what we are going to have?" "Potatoes. I saw those. And I believe we're going to have a ham, too. And coffee, of course, and a lot of fruit for dessert." "Well, the ham would take quite a long time to cook. I guess maybe we'd have to start in cooking right away to get finished in time." "The boys ought to be having just the same sort of meal that we do. Or else it wouldn't be fair, because some things take longer to cook than others, and you can't hurry them, either." "Oh, I remember now that Miss Eleanor spoke about that. That's one of the rules." "I believe we're getting near, for the trail is rising pretty sharply now," said Dolly. "That's so. See how hilly it is getting to be. It's quite clear on top of the peaks, I believe. I wonder if we'll be able to see them on the other peak and if they'll be able to see us?" "We'll see the smoke, anyhow. There's nearly half a mile between the two peaks, Miss Eleanor said." "Come on, let's hurry. I'll be dreadfully disappointed if they get their fire started first." "So will I." Then the ascent grew so sharp that for a time they needed all their breath for the climb before them. But the prospect of reaching their destination prevented them from being weary; they were too excited by this strange sort of race in which the contestants could not see one another at all. "I think this is splendid!" panted Bessie. "This being on our honor. Either side could cheat, and the other wouldn't know it--but neither side will." "Oh, there's no fun in cheating," said Dolly, scornfully. "If I win anything, I want to know I've really won it, not that I got it because I was smarter than someone else that way." "That's right. Of course it's no fun to cheat! I always wonder why people who cheat play games at all. I don't believe they really know themselves, or they wouldn't do it." Then came the last part of the ascent, and they went at it with a will, though they were ready for a rest. But when they reached the summit, and were able to stand still at last in an open space almost altogether clear of trees they were amply rewarded for all their exertions. First of all they looked eagerly to the south, toward the peak that was the twin of their own. A happy exclamation burst from them simultaneously. "No smoke there yet!" cried Bessie. "We're here in time!" echoed Dolly. "We mustn't waste any time, though," cried Bessie. "Get your sticks started while I lay a fire, Dolly." Swiftly Dolly sank to her knees and arranged her fire-making apparatus, the bow, the socket and the drill. Then, while she drew the bow steadily and slowly, making the drill revolve in the socket which was full of punk, Bessie brought small, dry sticks and a few leaves, so that when the spark came in the punk, it would have fuel upon which to feed. "There it is--the fire!" cried Dolly. "See how it runs along in the leaves, Bessie." First a little glowing ember; then tiny flames, that crackled and sputtered. And then arose a wisp of smoke. Carefully Bessie piled on stick after stick, carefully chosen and well dried by sun and wind, so that they would burn quickly. "Oh, the beautiful fire!" cried Dolly. "I do love it, Bessie. See, how it runs along. Really, it's a splendid fire!" Merrily it blazed up, bright and clear. "Now we want some green wood that will make a smoke," said Dolly. "Here's some. I think it's burning well enough now, don't you?" "Yes. Let's make the smoke now." On went the green, damp wood, resinous and full of oil. And in a moment a thick smoke hid the bright, leaping flames. "Here's the blanket!" cried Dolly. "Catch the other side--now!" Standing on either side of the fire, the blanket held over it, they dipped it down now, so that the smoke was caught and held under the obstruction. Then they lifted it clear of the fire altogether, and the smoke, released, rose straight up in a long, tall column, that was visible for miles where the trees did not obscure the view. Once and again they repeated this, making three separate columns of smoke before they left the fire to itself. And still there was no answering smoke from the other peak. The girls had won their race. "Did the Indians really use those signals?" asked Dolly. "They certainly did. Out on the plains, you see, smoke like that could be seen for miles and miles. And so, if there were Indians a few miles apart, signals could go very, very quickly for great distances, and they could send messages for hundreds of miles almost as quickly as we can send them now by telegraph." Then they piled on more dry wood, and built the fire up so that it was a great, roaring blaze. "Now we will just find the water. They'll need that for cooking." In less than five minutes after they separated to look for the spring they knew was near, Dolly cried out that she had found it. And in the same moment the first smoke rose from South Peak. CHAPTER X THE SIGNAL SMOKES "There's smoke, Dolly!" cried Bessie, triumphantly. "Oh, but we've beaten them on this! Ours must have gone up twenty minutes before theirs, and they must have been able to see it when they were building their fire, too." "Good! Oh, we'll take them down a peg or two before we're done today, Bessie!" "Don't be too confident yet, Dolly. Remember this is only the start. There's ever so much more to be done before we've won." "I don't care! You and I have done our share, anyhow." "You certainly have," said Eleanor Mercer's laughing voice. "But Bessie's right; it isn't time to celebrate yet. Come on, now, we're all going to be busy cooking and getting ready to cook." Dolly and Bessie looked at the girls emerging from the trail in surprised delight. "Well, you've done your share, and more, too," said Bessie. "We thought we came pretty fast, and we didn't expect you for another fifteen minutes, anyway." "Well, we didn't exactly loiter on the way. I expect we'd all be glad of a chance to rest a little, but that will have to come later. We'll be able to take things easy while we're eating. We're each to allow a full hour for that, you see, no matter when we get ready." "But if we're ready to start eating first we can start clearing up first, too, can't we?" asked Dolly. "Certainly! That's the object of hurrying now. When we're ready to sit down we're to make two smokes, and they are to do the same, and again when we've finished, or when our hour is up, at least. We'll keep tabs on one another that way, you see, and each side will know just how much the other has done. There's got to be some such arrangement as that to make it interesting." "Yes," said Margery Burton. "It wouldn't really seem like a race unless we knew a little something about what the other side was doing, I think." "Well," said Eleanor, "I see you've got a splendid fire. I'll appoint you chief cook, Margery. You are to be here at the fire, and Zara shall help you." Zara sprang to attention at once, and she and Margery unwrapped the ham, and got out the big boiler in which it was to be cooked. "You go and get water, Dolly and Bessie," said Eleanor, then. "There are the buckets. Hurry, now, so that the water can be boiling while the others are fixing the ham." And so dividing up the tasks that were to be done, she assigned one to each girl. They were all as busy as bees in a moment, and the work flew beneath their accustomed fingers. Miss Eleanor knew the girls thoroughly, and while, as a rule, she saw to it that each girl had to do a certain number of things that did not particularly appeal to her since that made for good discipline, she managed matters differently today. It was a time to give each girl the sort of work she most enjoyed, and which, therefore, she was likely to do better and more quickly than any of the other girls. Although a stranger, hearing the singing, and seeing the bustling group of girls without understanding just what they were doing, might have thought he was looking on at a scene of great confusion, order really ruled. Each girl knew exactly what she was to do, and there was no overlapping. Things were done once, and once only, whereas, at the ordinary picnic there are half a dozen willing hands for one task, and none at all for another. "Too many cooks spoil the broth," says the proverb, and the same rule applies doubly to such meals as the one the girls were so busily preparing. But there was no spoiling here, and in a surprisingly short time most of the girls were able to rest. Places were laid for the meal; plenty of water had been provided for the cooks, and there was an ample heap of firewood beside the fire. "I'll be ready for dinner when it's time, all right," said Dolly, sniffing the delicious odor of the cooking ham as it rose from the fire. "My, but that smells good!" "I've heard some people who had to cook meals say that it spoiled their appetites, and that they didn't enjoy meals they had to cook themselves," said Eleanor. "But I don't believe that applies to us a bit. You'll be able to eat with the rest of us, won't you, Margery--you and Zara?" "I can't speak for Zara," said Margery, laughing. "But I certainly can for myself. Just you watch me when dinner's ready! Let's start the coffee, Zara." A great coffee pot had been brought, and a muslin sack full of coffee. This sack was now put in the coffee pot, which was filled with water, and the pot was set on the fire. There is no better way of making coffee. The finest French drip coffee pot in the world can't equal the brew that this simple and old-fashioned method produces. And anyone who has ever tasted really good coffee made in such a fashion will agree that this is so. "Can those boys really cook, Miss Eleanor?" asked Dolly, looking toward the other peak, whence smoke was rising steadily. "Can't they, just!" said Eleanor, heartily. "What makes you ask that, Dolly?" "I don't know. It seems sort of funny for them to be able to do it, that's all. You expect boys to do lots of other things, but cooking seems to be a girl's business." "Oh, there are lots of times when it's a good thing for a man to be able to cook himself a meal, especially when he's camping out. And they certainly can do it--those Boy Scouts." "Have you ever tasted any of their cooking?" "I certainly have. One day I was out for a long tramp near the city, and I managed to lose way in some fashion. You know some of the roads are pretty lonely, and I managed to go a long way without coming to any sort of a house where I wanted to stop and ask them to let me have something to eat, and I was nearly starved." "What did you do? Wasn't there even a store where you could have bought something?" "I didn't find it, if there was. Well, finally I decided to try a short cut through some woods, and I hadn't gone very far when I ran plump into this same troop of Boy Scouts that is on the other peak now!" "I bet you were glad to see them!" "Indeed I was. I knew Mr. Hastings, you see, and when I told him I was lost and hungry, he made me sit down right away, and he explained that they were just going to have an early supper." "That must have been good news!" "If you knew how hungry I was, you'd believe it. Well, I never have had a meal that tasted half so good. They had crisp bacon, and the most delicious coffee, and real biscuit!" "Biscuit! And had they cooked them themselves?" "They certainly had--and they were so good and flaky they fairly melted in my mouth. If you'd tasted that supper you'd never ask again if boys could cook. Those boys over there today will fare just as well as we do ourselves, and they'll have just as good a time getting the meal ready, too." "I guess they're better able to look after themselves than most of the boys we know at home." "Dinner!" cried Margery, then. "Everything else ready? We'll be all ready for you in a jiffy now. The ham's cooked, and so are the potatoes and the corn is all roasted!" "We're ready whenever you are," said Eleanor, with a glance at the "table." "Dolly, you and Bessie can send up your two smoke signals now. I do believe we're ready to eat before they are!" "Oh, we're going to beat them all the way!" said Dolly, happily. Bessie and Dolly, holding the blanket together, wasted no time in making the signal that let those on the other peak know that the Camp Fire was ahead in another stage of the race, and, just as the second smoke was made, a faint cheer was carried across the space between the two peaks by the wind, which had shifted. But it was fully twenty minutes after the girls had begun their meal before two pillars of smoke rose from South Peak as a sign that over there, too, the meal was ready. "What a shame that we've got to waste a whole hour eating!" said Dolly. "I don't call it waste. I'm dog-tired," said Margery. "I'm mighty glad to sit down and rest, and I'm mighty hungry, too." "So'm I," said Bessie. And there were plenty to echo that. "Well, if no one else will say it, I will," said Margery, presently. "This _is_ a good dinner, if I did help cook it." "No one ever praises your cooking any more; they're too busy eating," said Eleanor. "You established your reputation long ago." "Well, this was the sort of dinner you couldn't spoil," admitted Margery, frankly. "And when people are frightfully hungry, you only waste your time if you do any really fine cooking for them. All they want is food, and they don't care much what it is, or how it's cooked." "You don't go on that principle, though, Margery. I notice you take just as much trouble with your cooking whether it's likely to be appreciated or not." "I do that for my own sake because I really enjoy cooking. I know what I'm going to do next year if I can. Teach cooking in the high school. And I think I can get the work, too." "That's fine, Margery. I know you'll enjoy it." "I think it will be pretty good fun. You know, it isn't only just the girls in school. A whole lot of older girls come down--brides, and girls who are going to be married. And they are the silliest things, sometimes!" "Time's nearly up," said Eleanor, looking at her watch. "Bessie, signal four times with the smoke. I want to see if my watch is right by Mr. Hastings'." Four times the smoke rose, and from the other peak rose two short answering smokes. "We arranged that signal, you see," said Eleanor. "Now, watch! He'll show the time by his watch. Count the smokes carefully." First of all came two smokes. "That's the hour; two o'clock," said Eleanor. "Now count the next lot carefully; that'll be the first digit of the minutes." Four smoke pillars rose, at regular intervals. And then, after a well-marked pause, six more went up. "All right," said Eleanor. "Answer with four smokes. That means it was forty-six minutes past two, fourteen minutes to three, when they started signalling. And my watch and his agree exactly, so that's all right." "We'll have a good lead when we are able to start cleaning up," she continued. "But we can't waste any time. We start at two minutes to three, and you want to remember that they know just how far behind they are, and we won't be able to gain any more time from now on." "Why not, Miss Eleanor," asked Margery, "if we've done it so far?" "It's going to be very different now, Margery. I don't say that they exactly despised us before, but I certainly do believe they underestimated us. They thought they were going to have an easy time, and they probably loafed a little this morning. But now, you see, they know that they're in for a licking if they don't do mighty well, and they'll strain every nerve to beat us." "Oh, I suppose so, but we've really got a splendid lead." "Yes. And do you know what will happen if we don't look out? We'll be over-confident, just the way they were this morning, and it will have just the same result. In a race, you know, a good runner will very often let a slower one stay ahead until they are near the finish. They call it making the pace. And then, when he gets ready, he goes right by, and wins as he likes." But the warning, although Eleanor was sure that it had been needed, seemed to spur the girls on. They were waiting eagerly when she gave the word to start cleaning up, and each girl, her task assigned to her in advance, was at work as soon as the command to go was given. In no time at all, as it seemed, the dishes ware washed. Then Bessie and Dolly, as tenders of the fire, brought buckets of water and poured them over the glowing embers, for the rule of the Camp Fire never to leave a spark of flame behind them in the woods was strictly enforced. They put the fire out while the others finished packing the things that had to be taken back. All the rubbish had been burned before water was poured on the fire, and when everything was finished and the girls were ready to start the march back to Long Lake there was no sign of their visit except the blackened ring where the fire had burned. "Zara, I'm going to leave you here as a sentry when we start," said Eleanor. "I'll carry your pack until you join us." "How long am I to stay?" asked Zara. "Until you see that their fire is put out. That will mean that they will be ready to start within two minutes, and I want to know just how much of a start we have on the hike home." "I see. As soon as they put it out I'm to start after you and report?" "Yes. Here's my watch. Remember the exact time. If they catch up with us, it will be on this hike." Then they started, singing happily as they went down the hill. The homeward path was easy. Burdens were lighter than they had been on the trip from Long Lake, and the path was mostly down hill. And, moreover, the Camp Fire Girls had the consciousness that, in order to win, they needed only to hold the advantage they had gained. "Here's Zara!" cried Bessie, who had been looking behind her. "Good! What time did they put out their fire?" asked Eleanor. "Just ten minutes after you started," said Zara. "I came as quickly as I could, but you must have been walking fast." "I told you they'd begin gaining on us," said Eleanor. "See, they picked up ten minutes in clearing up. Come on, now, we must hurry!" Hurry they did, and when they reached Long Lake there was a brief period of bustle. A new fire had to be made, and they worked with feverish haste. But they were in time. Bessie and Dolly sent up the first smoke signal before any pillar appeared at the other end of the lake. But the margin was small, for the first Boy Scout pillar rose just as they sent up their third! CHAPTER XI OFF TO THE MOUNTAINS Two days after the triumph over the Boy Scouts in the test of the trip to Twin Peaks and back, and bidding good-bye regretfully to Long Lake, the girls started on the long tramp that was to take them through the mountains and to the valley below them on the other side. "I've decided not to try to do any camping on the trip," said Eleanor, "We could have more fun that way, perhaps, but it would mean carrying a lot more, and I think the loads we've got are plenty big enough. I know my own pack is going to feel heavy enough when we strike some of the real climbing later on." "I should think we could do much better, too, in the way of interesting others in the Camp Fire," said Margery, "if we stay at farm houses or wherever they will take us in. We'll seem to be more among them, and of them. Don't you think so?" Eleanor smiled at Margery, pleased that she should have guessed one of her reasons for adopting the course she had chosen. She was already thinking seriously of the time when Margery should be able to take her place as a Guardian. "We won't start tramping right away, you know," said Eleanor, as they disembarked from the boats at the end of Long Lake, and started over the trail for the railroad. "We could tramp through these woods, but it's very slow going, and I feel that we'd do better if we took the train to Crawford, or Lake Dean, where we strike the road through the notch. That will give us a good start, and give us very beautiful and interesting country for our first day's walk." "Shall we go on the same railroad we came up on, Miss Eleanor?" asked Bessie. "For a little way. We change a few stations further on, though, and get on the line that climbs right up into the mountains. There's no real road that we could follow. We'd have to take wood trails. So we'll save a lot of time here, and have it for the part of the trip where we can have some really good walking." The trip to Moose Junction did not take long. The place seemed hardly worthy of its name. There was no imposing station, but only a little wooden shack with a long platform for freight. But at one side of the shack was a train that provoked exclamations of delighted laughter. "Why, that train hasn't grown up yet!" exclaimed Dolly, immensely amused when she saw it. "It's a narrow gauge railroad, you see, Dolly," said Eleanor. "This road is really only used in the summer time. In the winter no one is up here except a few guides who haven't any use for trains, anyhow, and the tracks are covered with snow." "I suppose it was cheaper to build than a regular railroad would be?" "Yes, a good deal cheaper. The cars are smaller, you see, and then, when they built it, they had a chance to get their cars and engines very cheap. In the old days, a great many railroads were built like this, even the regular roads that were used all the year round. But gradually they were all changed, and the rails were made the same on railroads all over the country, and then these people were able to get their cars and the other things they needed second hand. And it's plenty good enough, of course, for all the use anyone wants to make of this." Two puffing little engines were at the head of the two-car train that was waiting at the junction, and, in a little while, after the passengers for Crawford, the terminal station of the road, were all aboard, they pulled out with a great snorting and roaring that amused the girls immensely. But, ridiculous as they looked, the little engines were up to their work, and they took the sharp, steady climb well enough. "I like this," said Dolly. "It's awfully slow, but you can see the country. On some of those big trains you go so fast you can't see a thing, and this is really worth seeing." "It certainly is!" exclaimed Bessie, who was gazing raptly out of the window. "Look back there where we came from! Who would ever have thought that there were so many lakes and ponds?" "We're getting so high above them now that we can see them, Bessie. Look, there's Long Lake, and I do believe I can see Loon Pond, too!" "I'm sure of it, Dolly. Oh, this is splendid! But we can't see much up ahead, can we?" "Nothing but trees. It's like the old story of the man who wanted to see a famous forest, and when he was in the very middle of it he said he couldn't see the forest because there were so many trees." "I've seen mountains before," said Zara. "But they weren't like this. Where I used to live there would be one or two big mountains, but they stood out, and you could see all the way up no matter how close you were." "Were they all covered with trees, like this?" "No, not at all. There were lots of little farms, and olive trees, and gardens. And sometimes there would be smoke coming from the top of the mountains." "You mean the volcanoes, don't you?" said Dolly. "I'd like to see an eruption some time. Like the ones at Vesuvius." "I never saw one," said Zara, with a shudder. "But I've seen the paths where the lava came down, and the places where people were killed, and where whole villages were wiped out. I'm glad there aren't any around here." "So is Dolly, Zara," said Bessie, dryly. "She's always wishing for things she doesn't really want at all, because she thinks they would be exciting." That would have started an argument without fail, if Dolly had not just then had to devote her attention to something that she noticed before anyone else. She sniffed the air that came in through the car windows once or twice. "I smell smoke," she said.. "And look at the sun! It's so funny and red. See, you can look at it without it hurting your eyes at all. And it's a good deal darker, the way it gets before a thunder shower, sometimes." "She's right," said Bessie. "I believe the woods must be on fire somewhere near here." "I'm afraid they are," said Eleanor Mercer, who had stopped in the aisle beside them and had overheard Bessie's remark. "But not very near. You know the smoke from a really big forest fire is often carried for miles and miles, if the wind holds steady." "Well, it can't be so very far--not more than twenty or thirty miles, can it, Miss Eleanor?" "It's impossible to say, but I have known the smoke from a fire two hundred miles away to make people uncomfortable. They can't smell it, but it darkens the air a little." "Why, I had no idea of that!" "Well, here's something stranger yet. I heard you all talking about volcanoes. A good many years ago there was a frightful eruption in Japan, or near Japan, rather, when a mountain called Krakatoa broke out. That was the greatest eruption we know anything about. And a long time afterward people began to notice that the sunsets were very beautiful half the way around the world from it, and no one knew why, until the scientists explained that it was the dust from the volcano!" "Well, I hope this fire isn't where we are going!" said Dolly. "So do I," said Eleanor. "That's the very first thing I thought of, though. It wouldn't do to go into a country while the fire was on, because it might be dangerous and we'd certainly be in the way of the people who were fighting it, and that wouldn't be right." "Whatever should we do, Miss Eleanor? Go home?" "Oh, I hardly think it's likely to be as bad as that. We might have to stay at Crawford for a day or two, but I was planning to spend tonight there, anyhow. Some friends of ours have a big camp on the lake, and they said we could stay, if we wanted to." "Is it as pretty a place as Long Lake?" "I think so. But it's quite different. Lake Dean is a great big place, you know. It's more than thirty miles long, and you could put Long Lake into it and never know where it was. But it's very beautiful. And it's the highest big lake anywhere in this part of the world. It's right in the mountains." "I suppose there will be lots of people there?" asked Dolly. "Plenty," said Eleanor, smiling back at her. "But we won't have much to do with them, we'll be there such a short time." "Oh, well, I don't care!" said Dolly, defiantly, as she heard the laugh that greeted Eleanor's answer. "I probably wouldn't like them, anyhow!" "I really do think it's getting darker. We must be getting nearer to the fire," said Bessie, who had been looking out of the window. "Do you suppose it was some careless campers who started it, Miss Eleanor?" "That's pretty hard to say. But a whole lot of fires do get started by just such people in the woods. It shows you why we are so careful when we build a fire and have to leave the place." In the next hour, as the train still crawled upward, the smoke grew thicker and thicker, until presently it was really like dusk outside the car, and, though it was hot, the windows had to be closed, since the smoke was getting into the eyes of all the passengers and making them smart. "I used to think a forest fire would be good fun," said Dolly, choking and gasping for breath, "but there isn't any fun about this. And if it's as bad as this here, think of what it must be like for the people who are really close to it." "It's about the most serious thing there is," said Eleanor, gravely. "There's no fun about a forest fire." At Crawford they saw the big lake, but much of its beauty was hidden since it lay under a pall of heavy smoke. Even then they could see nothing of the fire, but the smoke rose thickly from the woods to the west of the lake, and they soon heard, from those about the station, that a great section of the forest in that direction was ablaze. "Good thing the lake's in the way," said one of the station porters. "That's the only thing that makes us safe. It can't jump water. If it wasn't for that it'd be on us by morning." "There are cottages and camps on the other side of the lake though, aren't there?" asked Dolly. "Yes, and they're fighting hard to save them," said the porter. "They ain't got much chance, though, unless the wind shifts and sends the fire back over the ground it's burned over already. It's got out of hand, that's what that fire's been an' gone and done." "We'll have to stay here until it's out," said Eleanor, with decision. "Our road begins right up there"--she pointed to the northwest end of the lake--"and the chances are the fires will be burning over that way before the night's over. However, I don't believe there'll be a great amount of damage done, if they can save the buildings on the shores of the lake." "Why not, Miss Eleanor?" asked Margery. "It looks like a pretty bad fire." "Oh, it is, but there isn't a great deal to burn. About two or three miles back from the lake there's a wide clearing, and the fire must have started this side of that, or it wouldn't have jumped. And it can't have been burning very long, or we'd have had the smoke at Long Lake." Then she went off to make some inquiries, and was back in a few minutes. "Come on, girls," she said. "It's only about ten minutes' walk to Camp Sunset, where we are to stay." And she led the way down to the lake, and along to a group of buildings made out of rough hewn logs, that stood among trees near the water. "Oh!" gasped Dolly, when they were inside the main buildings. "They call this a camp! Electric lights, and it couldn't be better furnished if it were in the city!" "The Worcesters like to be comfortable," said Eleanor, with a smile, "even when they pretend they're roughing it. It is a beautiful place, though I like our own rough shacks in the Long Lake country better." "Come on! I want to explore this place, Bessie!" cried Dolly. "May we, Miss Eleanor?" "Go ahead, but be back in half an hour. We've got to help to get dinner, even if we are in the midst of luxury!" So off went the two girls, and Dolly, always delighted by anything new, was all over the place in a few minutes. "Look at those summer houses--places for having tea, I bet," she said. "Hello! Why, there's another camp, just like this!" Sure enough, through the trees they could see other buildings, all logs outside, but probably all luxury within. And, even while they were looking at them, Dolly suddenly heard her own name. "Dolly! Dolly Ransom! Is that really you?" Dolly and Bessie looked up, surprised, for the call came from above and a girl began to climb down from a tree above them, and they saw that she had been hidden on a platform that was covered by leaves and branches. "Gladys Cooper!" said Dolly. "Well, whoever would have thought of seeing you here?" "Oh, there are lots of us here!" said Gladys, rushing up to Dolly as soon as she reached the ground, and embracing her. "We're all in a regular camp here, about a dozen of us. We're supposed to do lessons, but I haven't looked at a book since I've been here, and I don't believe any of the other girls have, either!" "Oh," said Dolly, suddenly remembering Bessie. "This is Bessie King, Gladys. And this is my friend Gladys Cooper, Bessie. We used to go to school together before her parents sent her off to boarding-school." Suddenly Gladys broke into a roar of laughter. "Oh, this is rich!" she exclaimed. "I forgot--why, you must be one of the Camp Fire Girls who are coming here, aren't you, Dolly?" "I certainly am--and Bessie's another," said Dolly, a little resentfully. "Why are you laughing?" "Oh, it seems so funny for you to belong! None of our crowd do, you know, except you. We were furious when we heard you were coming. We couldn't see why the Worcesters let you people have the camp. But you'll spend all your time with us, won't you, Dolly? And"--she seemed to remember Bessie suddenly---"bring your friend along, sometimes." "Indeed, and I'll stay with my own friends!" she said, flushing hotly. CHAPTER XII ENEMIES WITHOUT CAUSE "Horrid little snob!" commented Dolly, as, with the surprised Bessie following her, she turned on her heel abruptly and left Gladys Cooper standing and looking after her. "Why, Dolly! What's the matter? And why did she talk that way about the Camp Fire Girls?" "Because she's just what I called her--a snob! She thinks that because her father has lots of money, and they can do whatever they like that she and her family are better than almost anyone else. And she and her nasty crowd think the Camp Fire Girls are common because some of us work for a living!" Dolly's honest anger was very different from the petulance that she had sometimes displayed, as on the occasion when she had been jealous of poor Bessie. And Bessie recognized the difference. It seemed to reveal a new side of Dolly's complex character, the side that was loyal and fine. Dolly was not resenting any injury, real or fancied, to herself now; the insult was to her friends, and Bessie realized that she had never before seen Dolly really angry. "As if I'd leave you girls and stay with them while we're here!" cried Dolly. "I can just see myself! They'd want to know if I didn't think Mary Smith's new dress was perfectly horrid, and if I said I did, they'd go and tell her, and try to make trouble. Oh, I know them--they're just a lot of cats!" "Oh, don't you think you may be hard on her, Dolly?" asked Bessie. Secretly she didn't think so; she thought Gladys Cooper was probably just what Dolly had called her. But it seemed to her that she ought to keep Dolly from quarreling with an old friend if she could. "Maybe she just wanted to see you, and she knew you, and didn't know the rest of us." "Oh, nonsense, Bessie! You're always trying to make people out better than they are. I don't know these girls who are up here with her, but she'd say she knew me, and that we lived in the right sort of street at home, and that her mother and my aunt called on one another, so I'm all right. I know her little ways!" And Bessie was wise enough to see that to argue with Dolly while she was in such an angry mood would only make matters worse. Bessie loved peace, because, perhaps, she had had so little of it while she lived in Hedgeville with the Hoovers. But Dolly wasn't in a peaceful mood, and words weren't to bring her into one, so Bessie decided to change the subject. "We'd better hurry back," she said. "I really think it must be almost time to start getting supper ready." "Good!" said Dolly. "We haven't really come so far, but it's taken us a long time, hasn't it? That old train from Moose Junction is about the pokiest thing in the way of a train I ever saw." So they made their way back to the big building that, as they had already learned, was called the "Living Camp." The sleeping rooms were in other and smaller buildings, that were grouped about the central one, in which were only three rooms, beside the big kitchen, a huge, square hall, with a polished floor, covered with skins instead of rugs, to bear out the idea of a rough woods dwelling, and two smaller rooms that were used as a dining-room and a library. And, as soon as they arrived, they found that they were not the only ones who had had an encounter with their next door neighbors. Margery Burton was talking excitedly to Eleanor Mercer. "I didn't know I was on their old land!" she was saying. "And, if I was, I wasn't doing any harm." "Tell me just what happened, Margery," said Eleanor, quietly. "Why, I was just walking about, looking around, the way one always does in a new place, and the first thing I knew a girl in a bathing suit came up to me!" "'I beg your pardon,' she said, 'but do you know that you are trespassing?' "I said I didn't, of course, and she sort of sneered. "'Well, you know it now, don't you?' she said, as if she was trying to be just as nasty as she could. 'Why don't you go to the land you're allowed to use? I do think when people are getting charity they ought to be careful!'" "That's another of that crowd of Gladys Cooper's," stormed Dolly. "What did you say, Margery? I hope you gave her just as good as she sent!" "I was so astonished and so mad I couldn't say a thing," said Margery. "I was afraid to speak--I know I'd have said something that I'd have been sorry for afterward. So I just turned around and walked away from her." "What did she do? Did she say anything more, Margery?" asked Eleanor, who, plainly, was just as angry as Dolly, though she had better control of her temper. "No, she just stood there, and as I walked off she laughed, and you never heard such a nasty laugh in your life! I'd have liked to pick up a stone and throw it at her!" "Good for you! I wish you had!" said Dolly. "It would have served her right--the cat! Bessie and I met one of them, too, but I happened to know her, so she asked me to come and spend all my time with them while we were here! I'm glad I sailed into her. Bessie seemed to think I was wrong, but I'm just glad I did." Eleanor Mercer looked troubled. She understood better than the girls themselves the reason for what had happened, and it distressed and hurt her. The other girls who had heard Margery's account of her experience were murmuring indignantly among themselves, and Eleanor could see plainly that there was trouble ahead unless she could manage the situation--the hardest that she had yet had to face as a Camp Fire Guardian. "You say it was Gladys Cooper you saw, Dolly?" she said. "The Gladys Cooper who lives in Pine Street at home?" "Yes, that's the one, Miss Eleanor." "I'm surprised and sorry to hear it," said Eleanor. "How does she happen to be there, Dolly? Do you know? The Coopers haven't any camp here, I know." "Oh, it's a girls' summer camp, Miss Eleanor. You know the sort. They're run for a lot of rich girls, whose parents want to get rid of them for the summer. They're supposed to do some studying, but all they, ever really do is to have a good time. I'd have gone to one this year if I hadn't joined the Camp Fire Girls instead. Gladys laughed at me in the city when she heard I was going to join." "Mrs. Cooper wouldn't like it, I know that," said Eleanor, thoughtfully. "She's a charming woman. She and my mother are great friends, and I know her very well, too. There's nothing snobbish about her, though they have so much money. I remember now; they went to Europe this summer, and they didn't take Gladys with them." "I wish they had!" said Dolly, viciously. "I wish she was anywhere but here." "Well," said Eleanor, "I'll find out in the morning just where the line comes between the two camps, and we'll have to be careful not to cross it." "I'm sure none of us want to go into their camp," said Margery. "But there's no fence, and there aren't any signs, so how is one to know?" "We'll find some way to tell," said Eleanor, decisively. "And we won't give them any chance to make any more trouble. They've got a right to warn us off their property, of course, though they're just trying to be nasty when they do it. But as long as they are within their rights, we can't complain just because they're doing it to be ugly. We mustn't put ourselves in the wrong because nothing would suit them better." "Oh, I hope we'll be able to get away to-morrow!" said Margery, angrily. "I don't want ever to see any of them again." Eleanor's eyes flashed. "I've made up my mind to one thing," she said. "We're going to stay here just as long as we like! I don't intend to be driven away in that fashion. And I shouldn't wonder if we could start our missionary work better with them than with anyone else!" "That's right--about staying here, I mean!" said Dolly, enthusiastically. "Why, Margery, if we ran away now, they'd think they had scared us off. You wouldn't want that, would you?" "No, I guess not!" said Margery. "I hadn't thought of that. But it's true. It would be giving them an awful lot of satisfaction, wouldn't it?" "Understand, Dolly, and the rest of you," said Eleanor, firmly, "I don't mean to have any petty fighting and quarrelling going on. But I won't let them think they can make us run away, either. Pay no attention to them and keep out of their way, if you can. But we've got just as much right to be here as they have to be in their camp, because we're here as the guests of the Worcesters." "I know Miss Worcester," said Margery, hotly. "I'll bet she'd be furious if she knew how they were acting." "She doesn't need to know, though, Margery," said Eleanor. "This is our quarrel, not hers, and I think we can manage to settle it for ourselves. Don't begin thinking about it. Remember that we're in the right. It will help you to keep your tempers. And don't do anything at all to make it seem that we're in the wrong." "My, but Miss Eleanor was angry!" said Dolly, when she was alone with Bessie' after supper, which, despite the unpleasantness caused by the girls next door, had been as jolly as all meals that the Camp Fire Girls ate together. "I'm glad to see that she can get angry; it makes her seem more lake a human being." Bessie laughed. "She can get angry, all right, Dolly," she said. "I've heard it said that it isn't the person who never gets angry that ought to be praised; it's the person with a bad temper who controls it and never loses it. Miss Eleanor was angry because she is fond of us and thought those other girls were being nasty to us. It wasn't to her that they'd been nasty." "No, and just you watch Gladys Cooper if she gets a chance to see Miss Eleanor! The Mercers have got just as much money as the Coopers, and they are in just as good society. But you don't see Miss Eleanor putting on airs about it! Gladys would be nice enough to her, you can bet!" "Dolly, why don't you go over and see Gladys, if you know her so well? You might be able to talk to her and make her see that they are in the wrong." "No, thank you, Bessie! I'm no good at that sort of thing. I'd just get angry again, and make the trouble worse than ever. If she's got any sense at all, she must know I'm angry, and why, and if she wants to be decent she can come over and see me." Nothing more happened that night. The girls, tired from their journey, were glad to tumble into bed early. They all slept in one house, which contained only sleeping rooms, and, because of the smoke, which was still being blown across the lake when they went to bed, windows had to be closed. The house was ventilated by leaving a big door open in the rear and on the side away from the wind and the smoke, and of course all the doors of the sleeping rooms were also left open. "I'm awfully sorry that smoke is blowing this way," said Dolly. "Look here, Bessie, there's a regular porch running all the way around the house. And do you see these screens that you can let down? I bet they sleep out here." "They do," said Eleanor. "This sleeping porch arrangement is one of the very best things about this camp, I think. But I don't see how we can use it to-night, for the smoke is much too thick." So they regretfully closed their windows. And in the morning they found that visitors had been at the house during the night. Every window was firmly closed from the outside, wedges having been driven in in such a fashion that it was impossible to open the windows from within. The doors, too, were barred in some manner. "That's a joke those girls from the next camp played on us!" cried Dolly, furiously. "Look there! They must have done it. No one else could have managed it." The house resembled nothing so much as a hive of angry bees. The girls buzzed with indignation, and loud were the threats of vengeance. "How are we going to get out?" cried Margery, indignantly. "What a wicked thing to do! Suppose the place had caught fire? We might all have been burned up just because of their joke!" But Bessie had busied herself in seeking a means of escape instead of planning revenge, and now she called out her discovery. "Here's a little bit of a window, but I think I can get through it," she said, emerging from a closet that no one had noticed. "If you'll boost me up I'm pretty sure I can get out." "But you'll only be on the porch when you do get out, Bessie," said Dolly. "I think maybe I can get those wedges out of the windows if I get out there. If I can't, I'm quite sure I can manage to get to the ground and get help. You see, everything downstairs is barred the same way. I don't see how they could have done all that without our hearing them." "We were sleeping pretty soundly, Bessie," said Eleanor, her cheeks red with indignation at the trick that had been played upon her girls. "If the windows had been open, they couldn't have done it." Bessie had hard work getting through the tiny closet window, which had been overlooked by the raiders, but she managed it somehow, and in a moment she was outside. She first ran to the edge of the porch to look around, and, to her anger and surprise, she saw a group of girls, all in bathing suits, watching her and the house. At her appearance a shout of laughter went up, and she recognized Dolly's friend, Gladys Cooper, who was evidently a ringleader in the mischief. Bessie was sorely tempted to reply, but she realized that she would only be playing into their hand if she seemed to notice them at all, and, going to the other side of the house so that they could not see her, she examined the windows. But she decided very quickly that she could do nothing without tools of some sort, and she had none to work with. Without any further hesitation, she slipped over the rail of the porch, being still out of sight of the raiders, and went down the pillar, which, being nothing more than a tree with its bark still clinging to it, gave her an easy descent. Once on the ground, her task was easy. She worked very quietly, and in a minute or two she had one of the ground floor windows open. Eleanor Mercer, who had heard her at work, was waiting for her. "Oh, Miss Eleanor," said Bessie, tensely, "those girls are all around at the other side of the house, watching. They laughed at me like anything when they saw me, and I'm sure they think we'll have to get the guide to let us out." "Good," said Eleanor, snappily. "Do you think we can get behind them, Bessie?" "I'm sure we can, if we go out this way and go around through the trees." So bidding the other girls to stay behind for the moment, Eleanor climbed out, and followed Bessie off the porch and around to the back of the house. They swung around in a wide arc, moving quietly and making as little noise as possible, until they heard laughter in front of them. And a moment later they came around, and faced the astonished raiders. CHAPTER XIII A PLAN OF REVENGE Bessie had to laugh at the sight of Gladys Cooper's face when Dolly's friend saw Miss Eleanor. It fell, and Gladys turned the color of a beet. Evidently she had had no idea that Miss Mercer was with the Camp Fire Girls. "How do you do, Gladys?" said Eleanor, pleasantly. "Do you know that you are trespassing?" "The--the Worcesters gave us permission to come on their land whenever we liked," stammered Gladys. "Yes, when they supposed that they and their guests were to receive the same sort of courtesy from you. But the Worcesters aren't here just now, and I must ask you girls not to come across the line at all, unless you wish to behave in a very different manner." "I--I don't know what you mean, Miss Mercer. We haven't done anything--" "That's silly, Gladys. I'm not going to do anything about it, but I think it would be very easy to prove that it was you and your friends who locked us in. Didn't you stop to think of what would have happened if there had been a fire?" Gladys grew pale. "I don't suppose you did," Eleanor went on. "I don't think you mean to be wicked, any of you. But just try to think of how you would have felt if that house had caught fire in the night, and some of us had been burned to death because we couldn't get out." "I didn't--we never thought of that," said Gladys. "Did we, girls?" "Well, I don't suppose you did. But that doesn't excuse the trick you played at all. I'm not going to say anything more now, but I think that if you stop to consider yourselves, you'll find out how mean you were, and what a contemptible thing you've done." With heads hanging, and tears in the eyes of some of them, completely crushed by Miss Eleanor's quiet anger as they would not have been had she heaped reproaches upon them, the raiders started to return to their own camp. Eleanor stood aside to let them pass; then, with Bessie, she went back to the camp. "I hardly think we'll have any more trouble with them," she said. "I don't see why they dislike us so much," said Bessie. "We haven't done anything to them." "I don't know how to explain it, Bessie. It isn't American; that's the worst thing about it. But you know that in Europe they have lords and dukes and an aristocracy, don't you? People who think that because they're born in certain families they are better than anyone else?" "Yes." "Well, there's a good deal of excuse for people to feel that way over there, because it's their system, and everyone keeps on admitting it, and so making the aristocrats believe it. They're the descendants of men who, hundreds of years ago, really did do great things, and earned certain honors that their children were allowed to inherit." "But it isn't the same over here at all, Miss Eleanor." "No, and that's just it. But these girls, you see, are all from rich homes. And in this country some people who have a lot of money are trying to make an aristocracy, and the only reason for being in it is having money. That's all wrong, because in this country the best men and women have always said and believed that the only thing that counted was what you were, not what you had." "Well, I'm not going to feel bad about them, Miss Eleanor. I guess that if they really were such wonderful people they wouldn't think they had to talk about it all the time, they'd be sure that people would find it out for themselves." "You're very sensible, Bessie, and I only hope the other girls will take it the same way. I really couldn't blame them if they tried to get even in some fashion, but I hope they won't, because I don't want to have any trouble. I'm afraid of Dolly, though." "I think Dolly's perfectly fine!" said Bessie, enthusiastically. "They were willing to be nice to her, but she stuck to us, and said she wouldn't have anything to do with them." "That's what the Camp Fire has done for her, Bessie. I'm afraid that if Dolly hadn't joined us, she'd have been as bad as they are, simply because she wouldn't have stopped to think." Bessie considered that thoughtfully for a moment before she answered. "Well, then, Miss Eleanor," she said, finally, "don't you suppose that if that's so, some of those girls would be just as nice as Dolly, if they belonged to the Camp Fire and really understood it?" "I'm sure of it, Bessie--just as sure as I can be! And I do wish there was some way of making them understand us. I'd rather get girls like that, who have started wrong, than those who have always been nice." Contrary to Bessie's expectations, when they reached the Living Camp, Eleanor made no appeal to the girls to refrain from trying to get even with the raiders. Eleanor knew that if she gave positive orders that no such attempt was to be made she would be obeyed, but she felt that this was an occasion when it would be better to let the girls have free rein. She knew enough about them to understand that a smouldering fire of dislike, were it allowed to burn, would do more harm than an outbreak, and she could only hope that they would not take the matter too seriously. "We're all going in bathing this afternoon after lunch," said Dolly to Bessie, after breakfast. "I asked Miss Eleanor, and she said it would be all right. The water's cold here, but not too cold, and with this smoke all over everything, I think it will be better in the water than it would be anywhere else." "The wind hasn't shifted much yet, has it?" said Zara. "It's shifted, but not altogether the right way," said Bessie. "I think the houses along the lake are all right now, but the wind is blowing the fire in a line parallel with them, you see, and it will burn over a lot more of the woods before they can get it under control." "Miss Eleanor says we'll have to stay here a couple of days, at least," said Margery. "Girls, what do you think about those cats in the next camp?" Dolly's teeth snapped viciously. "I think we ought to get even with them," she said. "Are we going to let them think they can play a trick like that on us and not hear anything at all about it?" "Oh, what's the use?" said Margery. "I think it would be better if we didn't pay any attention to them at all--just let them think we don't care." "You were mad enough last night and this morning, Margery," said Dolly. "You didn't act then as if you didn't care!" "No, I suppose I didn't. I was as mad as a wet hen, and there's no mistake about that. But, after all, what's the use? I suppose we could put up some sort of game on them, but I'm pretty sure Miss Eleanor wouldn't like it." "I think you're right," said Bessie. "If we let them alone they'll get tired of trying to do anything nasty to us. You ought to have seen the way they sneaked off when Miss Eleanor spoke to them this morning. They acted just the way I've seen a dog do after it's been whipped." "Oh, that's all right, too, Bessie," said Dolly. "But that won't last. They probably did feel pretty cheap at first, but when they've had a chance to talk things over, they'll decide that they had the best of us. And I know how Gladys Cooper and the rest of the girls from home will talk. They'll tell about it all over town." "Let them!" said Margery. "I'm not going to do a thing. And you can't start a war all by yourself, Dolly. If you try it you'll only get into trouble, and be sorry." "Oh, will I?" said Dolly, defiantly. "Well, I'm not saying a word. But if I see a good chance to get even with them, I'm going to do it--and I won't ask for any help, either! Just you wait!" "Let's quit scrapping among ourselves, Dolly. Wouldn't they just be tickled to death if they knew we were doing that! Nothing would please them any better." But even Margery's newly regained patience was to be sorely tried that afternoon, when, after an early lunch, the Camp Fire Girls donned their bathing dresses and went in swimming off the float in front of the Worcester camp. "Come on, Dolly," she cried. "See that rock out there? I'll race you there and back!" They went in together, diving so that their heads struck water at just the same moment, while the rest of the girls watched them from the float. On the outward journey they were close together, but they had not more than started back when there was a sudden outburst of laughter from the float where Gladys Cooper and her friends were watching, and the next moment a white streak shot through the water, making a terrific din, and kicking up a tremendous lot of spray. "Whatever is that?" cried Zara. "A motor boat," said Mary King. "Look at it go! Why, what are they trying to do?" The answer to that question was made plain in a moment. For the motor boat, into which three or four of the girls from the next camp had leaped, kept dashing back and forth between the float and the rock. It raised great waves as it passed, and made fast swimming, and for that matter, swimming of any sort, almost impossible. Moreover, it was plain from the laughter of those on board that their only purpose was to annoy the Camp Fire Girls and spoil their sport in the water. Dolly and Margery, exhausted by their struggle with the waves from the motor boat, struggled to the float as best they could and came up, dripping and furious. "See that!" cried Dolly. "They can't be doing that for fun. All they want to do is to bother us. You'd think we had tried to do something mean to them the way they keep on nagging us." "They certainly seem to be looking for trouble," said Margery, "But let's try not to pay any attention to them, girls." Margery knew that Eleanor Mercer expected her, so far as she could, to help her on the rare occasions when it was necessary to keep the girls in order, and she realized that she was facing a test of her temper and of her ability to control others: She was anxious to become a Guardian herself, and she now sternly fought down her inclination to agree with Dolly that something should be done to take down the arrogant girls from the next camp, who were so determined to drive them away. "I shall have to speak to whoever is in charge of those girls," said Eleanor. "I'm quite sure that no teacher would permit such behavior, but I can imagine that anyone who tried to control those girls would have her hands full, too." "You bet she would!" said Dolly. "Miss Eleanor, isn't there some way we can get even?" Eleanor ignored the question. All her sympathies were with Dolly, but she really wanted to avoid trouble, although it was easy to see that unless the other girls changed their tactics, trouble there was bound to be. So she tried to think of what to say to Dolly. "Try to be patient, Dolly," she said, finally. "Did you ever hear the old saying that pride goes before a fall? I've never known people to act the way those girls are doing without being punished for it in some fashion. If we give them the chance, they'll do something sooner or later that will get them into trouble. And what we want to do, if we can, is to remember that two wrongs don't make a right, and that for us to let ourselves become revengeful won't help matters at all." But for once Dolly did not seem disposed to take Miss Eleanor's advice as she usually did. Stealing a look at her chum's face, Bessie knew that Dolly would not rest until she had worked some scheme of revenge, and she felt that she couldn't blame Dolly, either. She could never remember being as angry as these rich, snobbish girls had made her. Time and again,--every time, in fact, that any of the Camp Fire Girls ventured into the water--the motor boat returned to the charge. Their afternoon's sport in the water, to which all the girls had looked forward so eagerly, was completely spoiled, and the tormentors did not refrain even when Miss Eleanor, who had intended to sit on the float without swimming at all, challenged two or three of the girls to a race. She did that in the hope that the other girls might respect her, but her hope was vain. To be sure, Gladys Cooper seemed to be a little frightened at the idea of bothering Miss Eleanor. "Let's keep off until she's through," Bessie heard Gladys saying. "That's Miss Mercer--she knows my mother. We oughtn't to bother her. She comes from one of the best families in town." But Gladys was laughed down. "She'll have to suffer for the company she keeps, then," said a big, ugly-looking girl. "Can't play favorites, Gladys! We want to make them see they're not wanted here. My mother only let me come here because we were told this was an exclusive place." And Miss Eleanor, like the others, was soon forced to beat a retreat to the float. Dolly was strangely silent for the rest of the day. Bessie, watching her anxiously, could tell that Dolly had some trick in her mind, but, try as she would, she could not find out what her plan was. "No, I won't tell you, Bessie," said Dolly, when her chum finally asked her point-blank what she meant to do. "You're not a sneak, and I'm not afraid of your telling on me, but you'll be happier if you don't know." Bessie felt that whatever Dolly might try to do to the other girls would serve them right, but she was worried about her chum. And when Dolly slipped off by herself after dinner, Bessie determined that she would not let her chum run any risks alone, even if she was not a sharer of Dolly's secret. It was not a hard matter to trace Dolly, even though Bessie let her have a good start before she followed. She knew that any plan Dolly had must involve going to the other camp, and she hid herself, moving carefully so as to avoid detection, in a place that commanded the approach. And in a very abort time she heard Dolly coming; and saw that she was carrying a large basket with the utmost care. CHAPTER XIV THE SPIRIT OF WO-HE-LO Bessie stole along silently behind Dolly. She wanted very much to say something, but she was afraid of what might happen if she let Dolly know that she was spying on her. And she had made up her mind, anyhow, that she would do more harm than good by interfering at this time. Whatever it was she was doing might be wrong, but, after all, she had a good deal of provocation, and she had been far more patient already than anyone who knew her would have expected her to be. "I bet they're just trying to work her up to trying to get even," Bessie reflected to herself. "Gladys Cooper knows her, so she must know what a temper Dolly has, and she must be surprised to think that she hasn't managed to arouse her yet." That thought made Bessie gladder than ever that she had decided to follow Dolly. While she was not in the plot herself, she meant to be in it if Dolly got into trouble, or if, as Bessie half feared, it turned out that her chum was walking into a trap. Moreover, she was entirely ready to take her share of the blame, if there was to be any blame, and to let others believe that she had shared Dolly's secret from the first and had deliberately taken part in the plot. Dolly's movements were puzzling. Bessie had expected her to go to the back of the camp, and when she heard laughter and the sound of loud talking coming from the boathouse, which was, of course, on the very shore of the lake, Bessie breathed a sigh of relief, since it seemed to her that the fact that the other girls were there would greatly increase Dolly's chance of escaping detection. But instead of taking advantage of what Bessie regarded as a great piece of luck, Dolly paused to listen to the sounds from the boathouse, and then turned calmly and walked in its direction. For a moment an unworthy suspicion crossed Bessie's mind. "I wonder if she can be going to see them--to make up with them?" Bessie asked herself. But she answered her own question with an emphatic no almost as soon as she had asked it. Dolly's anger the night before and that afternoon had not been feigned. As she neared the boathouse, Dolly moved very cautiously. Even though she could see her, Bessie could not hear her, and she even had difficulty in following Dolly's movements, for she had put on a dark coat, and was an inconspicuous object in the darkness. From the boathouse there now came the sound of music; a phonograph had been started, and it was plain from the shuffling of feet that the girls inside were dancing. Dolly crept closer and closer, until she reached one of the windows. Even as she did it a sharp, shrill voice cried out, and Bessie saw someone rush toward her from the darkness of a clump of trees near the boathouse. It was a trap, after all! Bessie rushed forward, but before she had taken more than a couple of steps, and before, indeed, her assailant could reach her, Dolly had accomplished her purpose. Still running, Bessie saw her lift the basket she carried, and throw it point-blank through the window, first taking off the cover. And then the noise of the phonograph, the shout of Dolly's assailant, and all the noises about the place were drowned in a chorus of shrill screams of terror from inside the boathouse. Bessie had never heard such a din. For the life of her she could not guess what Dolly had done to produce such an effect, and she did not stop to try. For the girl who had seen Dolly and rushed toward her, although too late to stop her, had caught hold of Dolly and was struggling to hold her. Bessie rushed at her, however, and, so unexpected was her coming, that the other girl let go of Dolly and turned to grapple with the rescuer. That was just what Bessie wanted. With a quick, twisting motion she slipped out of the other girl's grip, and the next moment she was running as hard as she could to the back of the camp, where, if she could only get a good start, she would find herself in thick woods and so safe from pursuit. She knew Dolly had recognized her at once. But neither had called the other's name, since that would enable whoever heard them to know which of the Camp Fire Girls was responsible for this sudden attack. As she ran Bessie could bear Dolly in front of her, and she knew that Dolly must be able to hear her. Otherwise she was sure her chum would have turned back to rescue her. Behind her the screams of the frightened girls from the boathouse were still rising, but when Bessie stopped in ten minutes, she could hear no signs of pursuit. "Dolly!" she cried. "It's all right to stop now. They're not chasing us any more." Dolly stopped and waited for her, and when she came up Bessie saw at once that Dolly was angry--and at her. "Much good it did you to try to stop me, didn't it?" said Dolly, viciously. "You got there too late!" "I didn't try to stop you, and I was right behind you all the time!" said Bessie, angrily. "I was behind you so that if you got into any trouble I'd be there to help you--and I was. You're very grateful, aren't you?" "Oh, Bessie, I am sorry! I might have known you wouldn't do anything sneaky. And you certainly did help me! I was going to thank you for that anyhow, as soon as I'd scolded you. But I knew you didn't want to try to get even with them, and I supposed, of course, that you were there to stop me." Suddenly she began to laugh, and sat down weakly on the ground. "Did you hear them yell?" she gasped. "Listen to them! They're still at it!" "Whatever did you do to them, Dolly? I never heard such a noise in my life! You'd think they really had something to be afraid of." "Yes, wouldn't you? Instead of just a basket full of poor, innocent little mice that were a lot more frightened than they were!" "Dolly Ransom!" gasped Bessie. "Do you mean to say that's what you did?" Bessie tried hard to be shocked, but the fun of it overcame her of a sudden, and she joined Dolly on the ground, while they clung to one another and rocked with laughter. "I wasn't able to stop and watch them. That's all I'm sorry for now," said Dolly, weakly. "But hearing them was pretty nearly as fine, wasn't it?" "Never heard of such a thing to do!" panted Bessie. "However did you manage it, Dolly? Where did you get the mice?" "Promise not to tell, Bessie? I can't get anyone else into trouble, you know." Bessie nodded. "It was the guide--the Worcester's guide. He's just as mad at them as we are. It seems they've bothered him a lot, anyhow, and he didn't like them even before we came. He suggested the whole thing, and he was willing to do it. But I told him it was our quarrel, and that it was up to one of us to do it if he would get the mice. So he did, and put them in that basket for me. The rest of it was easy." "They'll be perfectly wild, Dolly. I bet they'll be over at the camp complaining when we get back." "Let them complain! It won't do them much good! Miss Eleanor is going to give me beans for doing it, but she won't let them know it! I know her, and she won't really be half as angry as she'll pretend to be." "It was a wild thing to do, Dolly." "I suppose it was, but did you think I was going to let Gladys Cooper tell all over town how they treated us? She'll have something to tell this time." "Well, you got even, Dolly. There's no doubt of that. We'd better hurry back now, don't you think? They're quieter down there." "I'm going to tell Miss Eleanor what I did just as soon as I see her," said Dolly. "She'd find out that it happened sooner or later, and I'm not ashamed of having done it, either. I'd do the same thing to-morrow if I had as good a reason!" And, sure enough, as soon as they reached the camp, Dolly marched up to Miss Eleanor, who was sitting by herself on the porch, and told her the whole story. "And was Bessie in this too?" asked Eleanor, trying to look stern, but failing. "No, she was not. She didn't know what I was going to do at all. She just followed to see that I didn't get into any trouble. And I'd have been caught if she hadn't been there." "I--I'm sorry you did it, Dolly," said Eleanor, almost hysterically. She was trying to suppress the laughter that she was shaking with, but it was hard work. "Still, I don't believe I'll scold you very much. Now you've got even with them for all the things they've done--more than even, if the screams I heard mean anything. We didn't know what was up." "Not exactly _what_ was up," said Margery, who had overheard part of the conversation, "but we knew who was up as soon as we found you were gone, Dolly." Margery looked at Miss Eleanor, then she choked, and left the porch hurriedly. And the next moment roars of laughter came from the other girls, as Margery told them the story. "But I'm glad you've told me all about it, Dolly," said Eleanor. "I don't mind saying that I think you had a good deal of excuse--but do try to let things work out by themselves after this. The chances are you've only made them hate us more than ever, and they will feel that it's a point of honor now to get even with us for this. All the girls will have to suffer for what you did." Even as she spoke, Bessie saw two or three figures approaching from the direction of the other camp, and a shrill voice was raised. "There she is, Miss Brown. She's the one who's supposed to look after them." Gladys Cooper was the speaker, but as soon as she saw Eleanor look around she dropped back, leaving a woman whose manner was timid and nervous, and whose voice showed that she had little spirit, to advance alone. "Miss Mercer?" she said, inquiringly, to Eleanor. "I am Miss Brown, and I have been left in charge of Miss Halsted's Camp this summer while she is away. She is ill. I am one of the teachers in her school--" "Sit down, Miss Brown," said Eleanor, kindly. One look at poor Miss Brown explained the conduct of the girls in her care. She was one of those timid, nervous women who can never be expected to control anyone, much less a group of healthy, mischievous girls in need of a strong, restraining hand. "I'm--really very sorry--I don't like--but I feel it is my duty--to speak to you, Miss Mercer," stammered Miss Brown. "The fact is--the young ladies seem to think it was one of your Camp Fire Girls who let loose a--number of mice in our boathouse this evening." "I'm afraid it was, Miss Brown," said Eleanor, gravely. "And I need hardly say that I regret it. I naturally do not approve of anything of the sort. But your girls have themselves to blame to a certain extent." "Why, I don't see how that can be!" said Miss Brown, looking bewildered. "Now, Miss Brown, honestly, and just between us, haven't they made your life a burden for you ever since you've been here with them alone? Let me tell you what they've done since we've been here." And calmly and without anger, Eleanor told the teacher of the various methods of making themselves unpleasant that the girls in the camp had adopted since the coming of the Camp Fire Girls. She raised her voice purposely when she came to the end. "Now, mind, I don't approve of this joke with the mice," she said. "But I do think it would be more plucky if your girls, after starting all the trouble and making themselves as hateful as they possibly could, had kept quiet when the tables were turned. When they worried us, we didn't go over to make a complaint about them. I must say I am disappointed in those of your girls whom I happen to know, like Gladys Cooper. I thought she was a lady." There was a furious cry from the darkness beyond the porch, and the next instant Gladys herself was in front of Eleanor, with tears of rage in her eyes. "You shan't say I'm not a lady," she cried. "I don't care if you are Miss Mercer! We don't want your horrid charity girls up here, and we tried to make them understand it--" "Stop!" said Eleanor, sternly. "Listen to me, Gladys! I like your mother, and I'm sorry to see you acting in such a way. What do you mean by charity girls?" "They haven't got the money to come up here," stammered Gladys. "It hasn't been given to them, if you mean that," said Eleanor. "We don't believe in idle, useless girls in the Camp Fire. And every girl here, even those like Dolly Ransom, who could have got the money at home very easily, have earned all their expenses for this vacation, except two who didn't have time, and are here as my guests. Don't talk about charity. They have a better right to be here than you have. Now go away, and if you don't want to have unpleasant things happen to you, don't do unpleasant things to other people." Quite cowed by the sudden anger in Eleanor's voice, Gladys didn't hesitate. And Miss Brown, before she left the porch, looked wistfully at Eleanor. "I wish I had your courage, my dear," she whispered. "That served Gladys right, but if I spoke so to her, I should lose my position." "Well, I suppose it wasn't a nice thing to do," said Dolly, as she and Bessie prepared for bed that night. "But I really do think we won't have any more trouble. I think Gladys and the rest of them have learned a lesson." "I hope so, Dolly," said Bessie. "I wouldn't have done it myself, but I really am beginning to think that maybe it was the best thing that could have happened. Thunderstorms clear the air sometimes; perhaps this will have the same effect." It was well after midnight when the girls were awakened by loud knocking below. "Oh, that's some trick of theirs," said Dolly, sleepily, and turned over again. But a few minutes later Eleanor's voice, calling them, took them downstairs in a hurry. They found her talking to Miss Brown, who was in tears. "Girls," said Eleanor, "Gladys Cooper and another girl are lost, and they must be out on the mountain. It's turned very cold. Shall we help find them? We haven't been friends, but remember what Wo-he-lo means!" CHAPTER XV COALS OF FIRE There wasn't a single dissenting voice. Once they knew what was required, the girls rushed at once to their rooms to dress, and within ten minutes they were all assembled on the porch. Mingled with them were most of the girls from Miss Halsted's camp, thoroughly frightened and much distressed, and evidently entirely forgetful of the trouble that had existed as late as that evening between the two camps. "Now, I'll tell you very quickly what the situation is," said Eleanor. "Don't mind asking questions, but make them short. It seems that some of the other girls over there were angry at Gladys when they got back there after Miss Brown came here to see me. And they told her she had been wrong in setting them against us." "I knew she was the one who had done it!" Dolly whispered to Bessie. "She and one other girl, Marcia Bates, were great chums, and they got angry. They said they wouldn't stay to be abused--isn't that right, Miss Brown?--and they decided to go for a walk in the woods back of the lake here." "They've often done it before," said Miss Brown. "I thought it was all right and they would have gone, anyhow, even if I'd told them not to do it." "When they started," Eleanor went on, "the moon was up, and there were plenty of stars, so that they should have been able to find their way back easily, guided by the moon or by the Big Bear--the Dipper. But it's clouded up since then and it's begun to rain. The wind has changed, too, and they might easily have lost themselves." "Wouldn't they be on a regular trail?" asked Margery Burton. "There aren't any regular trails back here," spoke up one of the girls from the Halsted camp. "There are just a lot of little paths that criss-cross back and forth, and keep on getting mixed up. It's hard enough to find your way in daylight." "They have sent for guides from the big hotel at the head of the lake," said Eleanor. "They will get here as soon as they can, and a few men are out searching already. But I think the best thing for us to do is to organize a regular patrol. We'll beat up the mountain quickly, and pretty well together, in a long line, so that there won't be more than a hundred feet between any two of us. Then when we get to the ridge about half way up we'll start back, and cover the ground more carefully, if we haven't found them." "Why won't we go beyond the ridge?" asked Dolly. "We'll leave that part to the men. I think myself that it's most unlikely they would go beyond that. I've had our guides here make up a whole lot of resinous torches. They'll burn very brightly, and for a long time, and each of us will take as many as she can carry, about fifteen or twenty. "And I've made up a lot of little first-aid packages, in case one of the girls is hurt, or has twisted her ankle. That may be the reason they're out so late. When we start to come back we'll break up in twos, and each pair will go back and forth, instead of coming straight down, so that we'll cover the whole side of the mountain." "How shall we know if we find them?" asked Bessie. "I mean how will the others know?" "I've got one horn for every two of us," said Eleanor. "One toot won't mean anything, just that we're keeping in touch. But whoever finds them is to blow five or six times, very close together. It's very still in the woods, and a signal like that can be heard even when you're a long way from it." "Can't some of us go and help, Miss Mercer?" asked one of the Halsted girls, the one, incidentally, who had been the ruling spirit in the trick to spoil the pleasures of swimming for the Camp Fire Girls. "I think you better stay at home, and get a lot of good hot coffee or broth or something ready for them when they get back," said Eleanor. "They'll need something of the sort, I can promise you. And really, I'm afraid you'd be rather useless in the woods. Our girls, you see, have to be able to find their way pretty well. You'll be more useful at home." "I don't expect to find them on the way up," said Eleanor, as they started. "We might, of course, but we'll look better coming back, and it's then that I think we'll have the best chance. Come on, now! Shout every little while." The night was pitch black now. A fine mist of rain was falling and threatening to become a steady downpour. It was a bad night for anyone, even those who were hardened, to be out in the woods without shelter or special covering, and it was about as bad as it could be for girls who were not at all used to even the slightest exposure. Eleanor's face was very grave, and she looked exceedingly worried as she crossed back and forth in front of the line of Camp Fire Girls, lifting her own voice in shouts to the lost ones, and giving hints here and there for the more important homeward journey. The trip up the mountain produced no results. The rain was falling more heavily, and, moreover, the wind was rising. It blew hard through the trees and the silence of the woods that Eleanor had spoken of was a thing of the past. The wind sighed and groaned, and Eleanor grew more and more worried. "We've got to search just as carefully as we can," she said. "We mustn't leave any part of this ground uncovered. With all the noise the wind is making, we might easily pass within a few feet of them and shout at the top of our lungs without them hearing us. It is going to be even harder to find them than I feared, but we have just got to do the best we can." At the top of the ridge of which she had spoken, Eleanor marshalled her forces. She told them off two by two, and Bessie and Dolly were assigned to work together. "I'm going to cover the whole ground, and keep in touch with all of you," she said. "Keep blowing your horns, there's more chance that they will be heard. You all have your pocket compasses and plenty of matches, haven't you? I don't want any of my own girls to be lost." "All right," she said, when they had all answered. "Now I want each of you to take a strip about six yards wide as we go down, and just walk back and forth across it. If you come to any gullies or holes where they might have fallen down be particularly careful. Light your torches, and look into them. Don't pay attention to the paths or trails, just cover the ground." "Oh, I do hope we can find them!" said Bessie, as they started. "I'd hate to think of their being out here all night on a night like this." "Yes, and in a way it's really my fault," said Dolly, remorsefully. "Why, Dolly, how can you think that?" "It was because Gladys quarrelled with the rest of them that she went out. And if I hadn't thrown those mice in at them there wouldn't have been any quarrel. Don't you see?" "I think it's silly to blame yourself, though, Dolly. She might have gone out just the same, anyhow." "Well, I'll never forgive myself if anything happens to them, Bessie. I might have kept my temper, the way you and Margery did. They didn't do any more to me than they did to the rest of you. Oh, I am sorry, and I am going to try to control myself better after this." Then they went on in silence for a time. Bessie felt sorry for Dolly, and she really did think that Dolly's conscience, now that it was beginning to awaken, was doing more than its share. It was unlike the care-free Dolly to worry about anything she had done, but it was like her, too, to accuse herself unsparingly once she began to realize that she might possibly be in the wrong. It was Dolly's old misfortune that was grieving her now; her inability to forecast consequences before they came along to confound her. For a long time they had no results, and the blowing of horns and the occasional flash of a torch between the trees showed them that the others were meeting with no better success. Sometimes, too, Eleanor joined them for a moment. She could tell them nothing, and they continued to search with unabated vigor. "Look, Bessie!" said Dolly, suddenly. She had lighted a torch to explore a gully a few moments before, and it was still burning brightly. Now it showed them the opening of what looked like a cave, black and dismal looking. "Why, do you think they might be in there?" asked Bessie. "I'll blow my horn in the mouth. They'd hear that, and come out." But blow as hard as she would, there was no answer. She turned away in disappointment. "I'm afraid they're not there," she said. "I'm going in to find out," said Dolly, suddenly. "They might not have heard us. You can't tell what that horn would sound like in there; it might not make any noise at all." "Oh, I don't believe they're in there," said Bessie. "And I think it might be dangerous. There might be snakes there, or a hole you would fall into, Dolly." "I don't care! This is all my fault, and I'm going!" And without another word, she plunged into the dark entrance. Bessie tried to call her back, but Dolly paid no heed. And in a moment, first leaving behind signs of their having gone in, Bessie followed her, lighting another torch. She had not gone far when she heard a happy cry from Dolly. "Here they are! I've found them!" Dolly shouted. "They're sound asleep, and I don't believe there's a thing the matter with them!" Nor was there. Both the lost girls slept soundly, and when Gladys finally woke up, blinking at the light of the torches, she looked indignantly at Dolly. "You're a sneak, Dolly Ransom!" she said. "I should think you would want to stay with your own sort of people--" But Dolly was too happy at finding the pair of strays to care what Gladys said to her. "Oh, come off, Gladys!" she said. "I suppose you don't know that you're lost, and that half the people around the lake are out looking for you? Come on! You'll catch a frightful cold lying here with those thin dresses on. Hurry, now!" And finally she managed to arouse them enough to make them understand the situation. Even then, however, Gladys was sullen. "That's that silly old Miss Brown," she said. "It's just like her to go running off to your crowd for help, Dolly. I suppose we ought to be grateful, but we'd have been all right there until morning." Dolly didn't care to argue the matter. Her one thought now was to get outside of the cave and send out by means of the horns the glad news that the lost ones were found. In a few moments she and Bessie, blowing with all their might, announced the good tidings. "Now you two will just walk as fast as you can, so that you can get into bed and have something warm inside of you. I'll be pretty mad if you get pneumonia and die after all the trouble we've taken to save you!" she said, laughing. Gladys wasn't in any mood, it seemed, to appreciate a joke. As a matter of fact, both she and Marcia Bates had awakened stiff from the cold, and though she wouldn't admit it she was very glad of the prospect of a warm and comfortable bed. And when the searchers and the rescued ones reached the Halsted Camp, Gladys wasn't left long in doubt as to the fate of the vendetta she had declared against the Camp Fire Girls. For, even while she was being put to bed, she could hear the cheers that were being given by her own chums for the girls she had tried to make them despise. "Oh, Miss Mercer, I think you and the Camp Fire Girls are splendid!" said Emily Turner, the big girl who had been the ringleader of the tricks with the motor boat. "You're going to stay here quite a while, aren't you?" "No," said Eleanor, regretfully. "It was only the fire that made us stay here as long as we have. Now this wind and rain have ended that, and we'll go on as soon as the storm is over; day after to-morrow, if it clears up to-morrow, so that it will be dry when we start." "Well, I hope we'll see you again--all of you," said Emily. "Come on, girls, let's give the school cheer for the Manasquan Camp Fire!" They gave it with a will and then Dolly sprang to her feet. "Now, then, the Wo-he-lo cheer!" she called. They sang it happily, and then, as they moved toward their own camp, their voices rose in the good-night song of the Camp Fire: _Lay me to sleep in sheltering flame_. "I believe Miss Eleanor was right, after all," said Bessie. "Those girls really like us now." "All but Gladys Cooper," said Dolly. "But then she doesn't know any better. And she'll learn." SUMMER SNOW AND OTHER FAIRY PLAYS By GRACE RICHARDSON Finding there is a wide demand for plays which commend themselves to amateurs and to casts comprised largely of children, Miss Richardson, already well and widely known, has here given four plays which are unusually clever and fill this need. They call for but little stage setting, and that of the simplest kind, are suited to presentation the year around, and can be effectively produced by amateurs without difficulty. PUCK IN PETTICOATS By GRACE RICHARDSON Five plays about children, for children to play--Hansel and Gretel, The Wishing Well, The King of Salt, The Moon Dream, and Puck in Petticoats. Each is accompanied by stage directions, property plots and other helpful suggestions for acting. Some of the plays take but twenty minutes, others as long as an hour to produce, and every one of the five are clever. HANDY BOOK OF PLAYS FOR GIRLS By DOROTHY CLEATHER Not one of the six sparkling plays between these covers calls for a male character, being designed for the use of casts of girls only. They are easily, effectively staged--just the sort that girls like to play and that enthusiastic audiences heartily enjoy. FICTION FOR GIRLS BETTY, The SCRIBE By LILIAN TURNER Drawings by KATHARINE HAYWARD GREENLAND Betty is a brilliant, talented, impulsive seventeen-year-old girl, who is suddenly required to fill her mother's place at the head of a household, with a literary, impractical father to manage. Betty writes, too, and every time she mounts her Pegasus disaster follows for home duties are neglected. Learning of one of these lapses, her elder sister comes home. Betty storms and refuses to share the honors until she remembers that this means long hours free to devote to her beloved pen. She finally moves to the city to begin her career in earnest, and then--well, then comes the story. "Miss Turner is Miss Alcott's true successor. The same healthy, spirited tone is visible which boys and girls recognized in LITTLE MEN and LITTLE WOMEN."--The Bookman. Elizabeth Hobart at Exeter Hall By JEAN K. BAIRD Illustrated by R. G. VOSBURGH A spirited story of every-day boarding-school life that girls like to read. Full of good times and girlish fun. Elizabeth enters the school and loses no time in becoming one of the leading spirits. She entertains at a midnight spread, which is recklessly conducted under the very nose of the preceptress, who is "scalped" in order to be harmless, for every one knows she would never venture out minus her front hair; she champions an ostracized student; and leads in a daring plan to put to rout the Seniors' program for class day. The Saalfield Publishing Co., AKRON, OHIO THE BRADEN BOOKS FAR PAST THE FRONTIER By JAMES A. BRADEN The sub-title "Two Boy Pioneers" indicates the nature of this story--that it has to do with the days when the Ohio Valley and the Northwest country were sparsely settled. Such a topic is an unfailing fund of interest to boys, especially when involving a couple of stalwart young men who leave the East to make their fortunes and to incur untold dangers. "Strong, vigorous, healthy, manly."--Seattle Times. CONNECTICUT BOYS IN THE WESTERN RESERVE By JAMES A. BRADEN The author once more sends his heroes toward the setting sun. "In all the glowing enthusiasm at youth, the youngsters seek their fortunes in the great, fertile wilderness of northern Ohio, and eventually achieve fair success, though their progress is hindered and sometimes halted by adventures innumerable. It is a lively, wholesome tale, never dull, and absorbing in interest for boys who love the fabled life of the frontier."--Chicago Tribune. THE TRAIL OF THE SENECA By JAMES A. BRADEN In which we follow the romantic careers of John Jerome and Return Kingdom a little farther. These two self-reliant boys are living peaceably in their cabin on the Cuyahoga when an Indian warrior is found dead in the woods nearby. The Seneca accuses John of witchcraft. This means death at the stake if he is captured. They decide that the Seneca's charge is made to shield himself, and set out to prove it. Mad Anthony, then on the Ohio, comes to their aid, but all their efforts prove futile and the lone cabin is found in ashes on their return. CAPTIVES THREE By JAMES A. BRADEN A tale of frontier life, and how three children--two boys and a girl--attempt to reach the settlements in a canoe, but are captured by the Indians. A common enough occurrence in the days of our great-grandfathers has been woven into a thrilling story. The Saalfield Publishing Co., AKRON, OHIO MARY A. BYRNE'S BOOKS THE FAIRY CHASER "Telling of two boys who go into the vegetable and flower-raising business instead of humdrum commercial pursuits. The characters and situations are realistic."--PHILADELPHIA TELEGRAPH. LITTLE DAME TROT One of the most pleasing of juveniles, made pathetic by the strength with which the author pictures the central figure, a little girl made miserable by her mother's strict adherence to a pet "method" of training. THE LITTLE WOMAN IN THE SPOUT "This pleasing story may have been developed from real life, from real children, so true a picture does it portray of girlish life and sports."--GRAND RAPIDS HERALD. ROY AND ROSYROCKS A glowing Christmas tale, fresh and natural in situations, that will interest both boys and girls. It tells how two poor children anticipate the joys of the holiday, and how heartily they enter into doing their part to make the day merry for themselves and others. PEGGY-ALONE The chronicles of the Happy-Go-Luckys, a crowd of girls who did not depend upon riches for good times. This club was very stretchible as to membership, so they elected Peggy-Alone from pity of her loneliness. Freed from governess, nurse and solicitous mother, she has the jolliest summer of her life. Illustrated by Anna B. Craig The Saalfield Publishing Co., AKRON, OHIO THE BILLY WHISKERS SERIES BY FRANCES TREGO MONTGOMERY Billy Whiskers--frolicsome, mischief-making, adventure-loving, Billy Whiskers--is the friend of every boy and girl the country over, and the things that happen to this wonderful goat and his numerous animal friends make the best sort of reading for them. As one reviewer aptly puts it, these stories are "just full of fun and good times," for Mrs. Montgomery, the author of them, has the happy faculty of knowing what the small boy and his sister like in the way of fiction. TITLES BILLY WHISKERS BILLY WHISKERS' KIDS BILLY WHISKERS, JR. BILLY WHISKERS' TRAVELS BILLY WHISKERS AT THE CIRCUS BILLY WHISKERS AT THE FAIR BILLY WHISKERS' FRIENDS BILLY WHISKERS, JR. AND HIS CHUMS BILLY WHISKERS' GRANDCHILDREN BILLY WHISKERS' VACATION BILLY WHISKERS KIDNAPED BILLY WHISKERS' TWINS BILLY WHISKERS IN AN AEROPLANE BILLY WHISKERS IN TOWN BILLY WHISKERS IN PANAMA The Saalfield Publishing Co., AKRON, OHIO THE BETTY BOOKS By ALICE HALE BURNETT (For Girls 8 to 10 years old) Four very interesting stories, each complete in itself, relating the many doings of Betty and her friends. The characters are _real_ girls and a happy, healthful tone lends the books additional charm. Betty and Her Chums Amy and Louise visit Betty and the three girls spend a happy summer together. A picnic supper on the mountain-top, at sunset, furnishes much pleasurable excitement for a large party of girls and boys. Betty's Attic Theatre With the help of their friends, Betty, Amy and Louise give a play which is full of laughable mishaps. They have lots of fun getting ready for the great event and it is voted a huge success. Betty's Carnival The girls gave an affair for the benefit of the Fresh Air Fund. Decorated floats sent down the river and viewed by the audience seated on the shore. A lemonade and cake booth also help to make the affair a most enjoyable one. Betty's Orphans Betty and her two chums entertain three little orphans at her country home. The city waifs find much to surprise and amuse them and to their great joy all of them are finally adopted in pleasant homes. Illustrations in Color. The Saalfield Publishing Co., Akron, Ohio 
30825	----	[Illustration: FAIRLY LEAPING THROUGH THE WATER, THE LAUNCH CAME ON THE SCENE. _The Camp Fire Girls on Ellen's Isle._ _Page 80._] THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS ON ELLEN'S ISLE OR The Trail of the Seven Cedars By HILDEGARD G. FREY AUTHOR OF "The Camp Fire Girls in the Maine Woods" "The Camp Fire Girls at Onoway House" "The Camp Fire Girls Go Motoring" "The Camp Fire Girls At School" "The Camp Fire Girls' Larks and Pranks" A. L. BURT COMPANY Publishers--New York Copyright, 1917 By A. L. Burt Company THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS ON ELLEN'S ISLE THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS ON ELLEN'S ISLE CHAPTER I AS USUAL It was the hottest day of the hottest week of the hottest June ever recorded in the weather man's book of statistics. The parched earth had split open everywhere in gaping cracks that intersected and made patterns in the garden like a crazy quilt. The gray-coated leaves hung motionless from the shriveling twigs, limp and discouraged. Horses lifted their seared feet wearily from the sizzling, yielding asphalt; dogs panted by with their tongues hanging out; pedestrians closed their eyes to shut out the merciless glare from the sidewalks. The streets were almost deserted, like those of a southern city during the noon hours, while a wilted population sought the shelter of house or cellar and prayed for rain. On the vine-screened veranda of the Bradford home three of the Winnebagos--Hinpoha, Sahwah and Migwan--reclined on wicker couches sipping ice cold lemonade and wearily waving palm-leaf fans. The usually busy tongues were still for once; it was too hot to talk. Brimming over with life and energy as they generally were, it seemed on this drowsy and oppressive afternoon that they would never be able to move again. Mr. Bob, Hinpoha's black cocker, shared in the prevailing laziness; he lay sprawled on his back with all four feet up in the air, breathing in panting gasps that shook his whole body. A bumble bee, blundering up on the porch, broke the spell. It lit on Mr. Bob's face, whereupon Mr. Bob sprang into the air, quivering with excitement, and knocked Hinpoha's glass out of her hand. Hinpoha picked up the pieces with one hand and patted Mr. Bob with the other. "Poor old Bobbles," she said soothingly, "what a shame to make him move so fast! Lucky I had finished the lemonade; there isn't any more in the pitcher and we used the last lemons in the house." Sahwah, roused from her reverie, sat up and began fanning herself with greater energy. "Of all summers to have to stay in town!" she said disconsolately. "I don't remember having such hot weather, ever." "Neither does anyone else," said Migwan with a yawn. "So what's the use wasting energy trying to remember anything worse? Didn't the paper say 'the present hot spell has broken all known records for June?'" "It broke our thermometer, too," said Hinpoha, joining in the conversation. "It went to a hundred and six and then it blew up and fell off the hook." "And to think that we might all have been out camping now, if Nyoda hadn't gone away," continued Sahwah with a heavy sigh. "This is the first summer for three years we won't be together. I can't get used to the idea at all. Gladys is going to the seashore and Katherine is going home to Arkansas in three weeks, and Nyoda is gone forever! I just haven't any appetite for this vacation at all." And she sighed a still heavier sigh. The three lapsed into silence once more. Vacation had as little savor for the other two as it did for Sahwah. Now that the summer's outing with Nyoda had to be given up the next three months yawned before them like an empty gulf. "I'm never going to love anybody again the way I did Nyoda," remarked Hinpoha cynically, after a long silence. "It hurts too much to lose them." "Neither am I," said Migwan and Sahwah together, and then there was silence again. "I'd like to see something wet once," said Sahwah fretfully, after another long pause. "Everything is so dry it seems to be choking. The grass is all burned up; the paint is all blistered; the shingles are all curling up backwards. It makes my eyes hurt to look at things. It would do them a world of good to see something wet for once." Fate or the fairy godmother, or whoever the mysterious being is that always pops up at the right moment in the story books, but who is practically an unknown quantity in real life, proved that she was not a myth after all by suddenly and unceremoniously granting Sahwah's wish. Round the corner of the house came Katherine, dripping water on all sides like Undine, her skirts clinging limply to her ankles, while little rivulets ran from her head over her nose and dripped from the ends of her lanky locks. Up on the porch she came, all dripping as she was, and sank down on the wicker couch beside Sahwah. "Why, Katherine _Adams_, what has happened to you?" cried the three all together. "Nothing much," replied Katherine laconically, tipping the lemonade pitcher over her head and putting out her tongue to catch the last drop. The drop missed the tongue and landed full in her eye, whence it joined the stream trickling over her nose into her lap. "I just stopped to investigate a garden hose on the way over," she continued. "It was on a lawn close by the sidewalk and the thinnest little stream you ever saw was coming out. I was so thirsty I simply couldn't go by without taking a drink, and I just turned the nozzle the least little bit when it suddenly came out in a perfect deluge and sprinkled me all over. Then, seeing that I was wet anyhow I didn't make any haste to get out from under the cooling flood. There, ladies, you have the whyness of the thusness. I'm thoroughly comfortable now and inclined to think lightly of my troubles. Why don't you follow my example and stand under the hose?" "Thanks," said Sahwah, edging away from Katherine's dripping proximity, "I'm all right as I am. Besides, no hose could squirt my troubles away." "It didn't seem to dispel your gloom, either, Katherine," said Migwan, looking closely at Katherine, who, after the first moment of banter, had lapsed into silence and sat staring gloomily into the curtain of vines that covered the end of the porch. "What's the matter?" she asked curiously, brushing back the damp hair from Katherine's forehead with a gentle hand. It was easy to see how Katherine was idolized by the rest of the Winnebagos. For her to act depressed was unheard of and alarming. At Migwan's words Sahwah and Hinpoha stared at Katherine in dismay. "Oh, I'm just low in my mind," said Katherine, with her head still resting on her hands. "Got a letter from the folks at home today, telling me not to come home for the summer, that's all. Father and Mother have been invited to go on an automobile trip through California and there's no room for me. Aunt Anna will be glad to keep me all right, but Cousin Grace will be gone all summer--she left yesterday--and it will be pretty dull for me. Aunt Anna is so deaf----" She finished with an eloquent gesture of the hands. "You poor thing!" cried Migwan, drawing Katherine close to her in spite of her wet garments. "We'll all have to combine to make the summer lively for you. You'll have some fun even if your aunt is deaf and would rather read than talk. Don't worry." Katherine's head suddenly went down on her knee. "What's the matter?" cried the three in added dismay. "It isn't because I don't want to stay," said Katherine in a choking voice, "it's because I want to go home. It's hotter out there than a blast furnace, and our one-story brick shack is like an oven, and we haven't one-tenth of the comforts that people have here, but it's--home!" Migwan rolled Katherine over and took her head into her lap. "I know just how you feel," she said softly. "After you've been away from home a whole year nothing looks good to you any more but that. And when you've been crossing off the days on your calendar and been cheered up every night when you realized that you were that much nearer home it must be an awful bump to find out that you're not to go after all. But cheer up, it won't be so bad after all, once you get used to the idea. Think what a good time your folks are having, and then start out and hunt up some adventures of your own." Thus she comforted the doleful Katherine and the others pressed around to express their sympathy and none of them heard the automobile stop in front of the house. They all started violently when Gladys burst into their midst, and regardless of the prostrating temperature, danced a jig on the porch floor. "Oh, girls," she cried, waving a palm-leaf fan over her head like a triumphal banner, "listen! Papa has bought Lake Huron and we're all going camping!" And without noticing the tears in Katherine's eyes, she pulled her out of Migwan's lap and danced around with her. "Your papa has done _what_?" cried Migwan, her voice shrill with amazement. "Oh, how do you do, Mrs. Evans." For Gladys's mother, proceeding more leisurely up the walk than her impetuous daughter, was just coming up the steps. "What's this about Mr. Evans buying Lake Huron?" "Oh, nothing so startling as that," said Mrs. Evans, laughing in great amusement. "We haven't started out to own the world yet. But without any effort on his part, Mr. Evans has become the owner of a small island somewhere in Lake Huron. Some time ago he lent a large amount of money to a company owning the island to establish a bottling works for mineral water, which flowed from a spring on the island. But after the money had been spent to get the business under way the spring was discovered to be much smaller than had at first been supposed; in fact, not large enough to be profitable at all. The company went bankrupt, and the island, which had been put up as security for the loan, became the property of Mr. Evans. Owning an island so far away was so much like having a castle in Spain that none of us thought much about it until just now, when Mr. Evans has suffered a severe nervous breakdown and the doctor has ordered him to get away from his work and from the city altogether and spend the summer living close to nature. This made our trip to the seashore, with its hotels and its throngs of people, out of the question, and then we thought of the desert island up in Lake Huron. But when we talked it over we decided that it would be pretty lonesome up there with just the three of us, and Gladys suggested that we round up all the girls who would otherwise stay in town all summer and take them up with us. Do you suppose any of you could go?" Mrs. Evans looked rather wistfully from one to the other. "Will we go?" shouted Sahwah, likewise forgetting the heat and capering madly about the porch, "I should say we will! We were just resigning ourselves to the dullest summer that ever happened." "I would love to go," said Migwan a little less vehemently, but none the less sincerely, "and I don't think my folks will have the slightest objection. Mother was really worried about my having to stay here during the hot weather. She's afraid I've studied too hard." "And I am sure I can go," said Hinpoha. "The Doctor and Aunt Phoebe are going East to a lot of conventions, and while I could go along, I suppose, rather than stay at home, I'd lots rather go with you." "How about you, Katherine?" asked Mrs. Evans. Katherine was holding her head up again and her eyes were sparkling with animation. "You blessed people!" she exclaimed in extravagant accents. "You came to the rescue just in the nick of time. If I had had to languish here all summer there wouldn't have been enough left of me to go to college in the fall. Think what a misfortune you have averted from that institution! An hour ago I was wallowing in the slough of despond; now I am skittering on the heights once more. Hurrah for the spring that broke the company that owned the island that sheltered the camp that Jack hasn't built yet but will very soon!" And she danced up and down until the heat overcame her and she sank on the couch weak and exhausted, but still feebly hurrahing. Gladys turned to Migwan in perplexity. "I thought Katherine was going home for the summer," she said. Then Migwan explained and Gladys expressed unbounded delight at the turn of fate, which permitted Katherine to go camping with them. It really would not have been complete without her. Plans for the summer trip were made as fast as tongues could move. Nothing would do but they must go out in the heat and risk the danger of sunstroke to see Veronica and Nakwisi and Medmangi, and tell them the glorious news. Katherine, utterly forgetting her bedraggled condition, rose enthusiastically to go with them. "Oh, mercy," said Migwan, shoving her back on the couch, "you can't go out on the street looking like that." Katherine sighed and accepted the inevitable. "That's right," she said plaintively, "turn your back on me if you like. There never was any sympathy for the poor victim of science." "Victim of science?" muttered Gladys, noticing Katherine's plight for the first time. "Yes," said Katherine. "In the interests of science I tried to find out if troubles could be drowned with a garden hose. Now when I've found out once for all that they can't, and handed the report of my investigations on a silver platter to these lazy creatures and saved them the trouble of finding out for themselves, they won't be seen on the street with me. It surely is a cruel world!" And she settled herself comfortably on the couch and devoured the last two cookies on the plate. Nakwisi jumped with joy when they told her; she, too, had been sighing for some place to go. Veronica and Medmangi, however, had their summer plans already made. "My, won't the Sandwiches envy us," said Sahwah that night, as they all met at Gladys's house to talk over their plans more fully. "I wonder----" began Mrs. Evans. "They're hunting a place to go camping, but so far they haven't found one," continued Sahwah, speaking to Hinpoha. "What did you wonder, my dear?" said Mr. Evans, speaking to his wife. "I was going to say," continued Mrs. Evans, "I wonder if it wouldn't be possible to take the boys along with us, too. It certainly would add to our fun a great deal to have them with us. From your description, the island is certainly large enough to let them have a part of it." Mr. Evans looked thoughtful. "Something of the kind occurred to me, also," he said. "That and something more. Oh, Gladys, where can I get hold of that man who took you folks on that snowshoe hike last winter?" "It's the Captain's uncle," explained Gladys. "Let's go and see the Captain," said Mr. Evans, and they went right away to the home of Dr. St. John. As luck would have it, Uncle Teddy was there that night, having come into town on business. He listened to Mr. Evans' proposal quietly, nodding his head here and there at different points in the conversation. When the conference was ended he called Aunt Clara over from the other end of the porch. She said "yes" enthusiastically in answer to several questions and then the Captain was called out and taken into the council. Once the Captain heard the news there was no more keeping quiet about it. The secret was out. Mr. Evans, who had no experience in camping, was afraid he could not manage it alone, and had invited Uncle Teddy and Aunt Clara to come along and stay all summer. With them were to come as many of the Sandwiches as were able. "It's no use talking," said Hinpoha a little later to the group. "We Winnebagos weren't meant to be separated. Just as soon as we settle down to the idea of spending the summer away from each other along comes fate and throws us all into the same basket again. It happened last summer and the summer before last. And today, while we were in the midst of our lament, in steps fate, just as usual." "Just as usual," echoed the other Winnebagos. CHAPTER II ELLEN'S ISLE "My breakfast, 'tis of thee, Sweet bunch of hominy, Of thee I sing!" sang the Captain in a quavering baritone, as he stirred the hominy cooking in a kettle swung over a wood fire in the "kitchen" on Ellen's Isle. "Oh, I say, look out, you're getting ashes into it," called Katherine warningly, looking up from her little "toast fire" nearby, where she was crisping slices of bread held on the end of a forked stick. Katherine and the Captain were cooks that morning and had the job of getting breakfast while the rest took an early dip in the lake. It was the first week in July. Three days ago Ellen's Isle was an uninhabited wilderness and the only sound which broke the stillness of its dark woods was the rushing of the wind in the pine trees, or the lapping of the water on the little beach. Moreover, it bore the plebian name of Murphy's Island, after the president of the ill-fated Mineral Spring Water Company. Then one day had changed everything. A procession of boats had set out from St. Pierre, the little town on the mainland, which was the nearest stop of the big lake steamer, headed straight for Murphy's Island and unloaded its cargo and crew on the beach, who formally took possession of the island by setting up a flag in the sand right then and there. The invading fleet was composed of two launches, one very large and one smaller; five rowboats fastened together and towed by the one launch, and five canoes towed by the other. The crew comprised two men and two women, six merry-eyed girls and six jolly boys. The explorers had evidently come to stay. They immediately set about raising tents and nailing down floor boards, clearing spaces for fires and setting up pot hangers, repairing the landing pier and setting up a springboard, and in a hundred other ways making themselves at home. Two tents were set up at each end of the island; these were the sleeping tents, one pair for the men and boys and the other for the women and girls. These were completely hidden from each other by the thick trees in between, but the dwellers in one settlement could make those in the other hear by shouting. Besides these tents another larger one was set up in a little open space; this was the kitchen and dining room for bad weather use. In fair weather the campers always ate outdoors. They cooked over open fires as much as possible, because driftwood was plentiful, but there were two gasoline stoves and two alcohol heaters in the kitchen tent. The outdoor kitchen was just outside the indoor kitchen, and consisted of a bare spot of ground encircled by trees. The "big cook stove" was two logs about ten feet long, laid parallel to each other about a foot apart. The space between the logs was for the "frying fire," and the ease with which a whole row of pans balanced themselves and cooked their contents to a turn in record time gave proof of its practicability. Besides the "big range," there were various arrangements for hanging a single kettle over a small fire, a roasting spit with fan attachment to keep it turning constantly, and a reflecting oven. And over it all the high pines rustled and shed their fragrance, and the sunlight filtered through in spots, and the breeze blew the smoke round in playful little wreaths, while the birds warbled their approval of the sensible folks who knew enough to live outdoors in summer. It was all too beautiful to express in words, and much too beautiful to belong to a place called Murphy's Island, so the campers decided before the first night was over. "It reminds me of Scotland," remarked Mr. Evans, "the scenery is so wild and rugged." "Then let's rename it Ellen's Isle, after the one in 'The Lady of the Lake,'" said Gladys promptly. "It's our island and we can change the name if we want to. How important it makes you feel to own so much scenery to do what you like with!" "Ellen's Isle" seemed such a suitable name for the beautiful little island that they all wondered how anyone could ever have called it anything else, even for a minute. One side of it curved in a tiny crescent, and there the water was calm and shallow, running up on a smooth, sandy beach. Behind the beach the land rose in a steep bluff for about fifty feet and stood high out of the water, its grim, rocky sides giving it the look of a mediæval castle. A steep path wound up the hillside, crossed in many places by the roots of trees growing along the slope, which were both a help in gaining a foothold and a fruitful source of mishap if you happened to be in too much of a hurry. On three sides of the island the waves dashed high against the rocky cliffs, filling the sleepers in the tents with pleasant terrors at night. The island being so high it afforded a fine view of the country round. On the one side rose the heavily wooded slopes of the mainland, with the spires and roofs of St. Pierre in the distance. A mile or so to the left of St. Pierre a lighthouse stood out in the water, gleaming white against the dark land behind it. It was only visible by day, however, for it was no longer used as a beacon. The changing of the channel and the building of the breakwater in the harbor of St. Pierre had made it necessary to have the light there and the old one was abandoned. It now stood silent and lonely, gradually falling into decay under the buffeting of wind and waves. Looking south from the island the eye was greeted only by a wide waste of waters; the seemingly endless waters of Lake Huron. This was the place where the Winnebagos and the Sandwiches, with Mr. and Mrs. Evans and Uncle Teddy and Aunt Clara, had come to spend the summer. Katherine finished making the toast, and stacking it up in a tempting pile she set the plate in the hot ashes to keep warm while she turned her attention to mixing the corn fritter batter. "Want me to help fry?" offered the Captain obligingly. "It'll take you a year to do enough for sixteen people." "Indeed, and I'm not thinking of frying the batter," replied Katherine, breaking the corner off a piece of toast and sampling it. "There are four frying pans; that's one to every four persons; they can each fry their own with neatness and dispatch. I belong to the Society for the Prevention of Leaving It All to the Cook! Blow the horn there, that's part of the Second Cook's job." "What's the matter with the family this morning?" she asked when the first blast had echoed itself away without any other reply. "They don't seem to be in any great hurry for breakfast." The Captain blew several more long, lusty blasts, which were answered by shouts from different directions of the compass. "Now they'll be here in a minute," said Katherine, turning to look at the lake, which was her chief delight these days. "Oh, look!" she cried. "The gulls are coming already! I believe they heard the horn and know what it means." The white birds were flying down on the beach in large numbers patiently waiting for the scraps, which would be thrown to them when the meal was finished. Katherine and the Captain watched them with interest and delight. A crunching sound behind them made them turn quickly and there they saw Sandhelo calmly helping himself to the toast on the plate. "Shoo! Get out!" cried Katherine, snatching the plate away and pelting him with pine cones and lumps of dirt. Sandhelo licked his lips and regarded her benevolently, but never a step did he take. Then he sat up on his haunches and begged for more toast by waving his forefeet. He was perfectly irresistible and Katherine just had to give him another piece. The hungry campers reached the spot in time to witness the performance and protested vigorously against having their breakfast devoured by a donkey. "First come, first served," remarked Katherine. "Sandhelo always comes the minute the horn blows and that's more than the rest of you do. Sit down, and help yourselves to batter. The grease is already in the pans. You can each fry your own fritters." "I refuse to fritter away my time," said Uncle Teddy, hungrily helping himself to hominy. The rest made a grand rush for the frying pans and in a few minutes the fryers were retiring to the sidelines with golden brown cakes on their plates. "How do they taste?" asked Katherine modestly of the Bottomless Pitt, who had his mouth full. "A bit thick," replied Pitt, "but bully." "They don't taste just like those Aunt Clara made the other day," said Gladys, chewing her mouthful somewhat doubtfully. Aunt Clara hastily took an experimental bite. "Why, Katherine!" she exclaimed with a little shriek of laughter, "you haven't put any baking powder in them. I thought mine looked awfully flat when I was frying it. Did you think the dough would rise of itself, like the sun?" And then they all laughed uproariously at Katherine's cooking, but she didn't mind at all, and calmly mixed the baking powder with a little more flour and stirred it into the batter, whereupon it blossomed out into the most delicious corn fritters they had ever eaten. "Too bad Harry had to miss this," said the Captain, looking around at the family sitting on stumps and eating their second and improved edition of fritters. Harry Raymond was the only one of the Sandwich boys who could not come along on this camping trip. All the rest were there; the Captain, Slim, the Bottomless Pitt, Munson McKee, popularly known as the Monkey, Dan Porter and Peter Jenkins, all ready for the time of their lives. The Winnebagos were also six in number: Gladys, Hinpoha, Sahwah, Migwan, Katherine and Nakwisi. Last but not least of the campers was Sandhelo, the "symbolic" donkey. He had been brought along because they thought he might be useful for carrying supplies if they should want to go on a long hike. He was so small and nimble that he could go up and down the path to the beach without any trouble. It was not necessary to tie him, as it was impossible for him to run away, and the first night he wandered into the boys' tent and brayed into Slim's ear, who gave such a startled jump that his bed went down over the side of the flooring, and Slim landed on the ground outside. After that Sandhelo was tied at night, but allowed to roam the island by day. After breakfast the campers scattered to amuse themselves in various ways, but it was not long before they heard the sound of the tom-tom, which one of the boys had made to be beaten as a signal to call them all together. Uncle Teddy was beating the tom-tom and he stood on a large, flat rock close to the edge of the bluff. This rock had been named the Council Rock by the Winnebagos as soon as they laid eyes on it. "Be seated, everybody," said Uncle Teddy when they had all arrived. "We are about to have a family council. I have just thought of a method of organization for the company while we are together here. We will be a tribe." "A real Indian tribe? Oh, goody!" cried Sahwah, jumping up and upsetting Gladys, who was sitting at her feet. "You can be the Big Chief." "Uncle Teddy will be the Big Chief!" they all echoed. Uncle Teddy pounded on the tom-tom for silence, boom, boom! "Hear and attend and listen!" he said. "If Mr. Evans hadn't brought us up here there wouldn't have been any tribe, so being in a sense the founder of the tribe he ought to be the chief." "But I didn't propose bringing you all up here," confessed Mr. Evans, "it was Mrs. Evans. So she's the founder of the tribe, and, therefore, the Chief." "But I only said we'd come if Aunt Clara St. John would come along and help me look after the girls, because I didn't feel equal to the responsibility myself," said Mrs. Evans hastily. "So the founding of the tribe depended upon Aunt Clara." It was the most amusing situation they had ever faced, and the whole tribe laughed themselves red in the face while each one of the four candidates for the position of leader insisted that it belonged by right to one of the others. After half an hour's arguing the question back and forth they were no nearer a solution, when suddenly Katherine reached out and struck the tom-tom a resounding boom, boom, which was the signal that she had something to say. "Why don't all four of you be chiefs?" she suggested, when they had turned to her expectantly. "Four chiefs in a tribe ought to be four times as good as one. You each have an equal claim." "Fine!" cried the Winnebagos. "Bully!" echoed the Sandwiches. "Speech from the Chiefs!" cried Katherine, delighted that her suggestion had found such immediate favor. "You first, Mrs. Evans." "But," protested Mrs. Evans, "it seems to me we four have no better right to be Chiefs than you girls. If you hadn't wanted to come camping there wouldn't have been any tribe at all. It seems to me the Winnebago girls have the best right to be chiefs of any here." "We haven't any better claim than the Sandwich boys," said Katherine. "If it hadn't been for them there wouldn't have been any Uncle Teddy or Aunt Clara to help you so you would feel equal to the responsibility of bringing us up here." "That settles it," said Uncle Teddy. "If we all have an equal right to be Chief of this tribe, by all means let us enjoy our rights and all be Chiefs. There are sixteen of us. We intend to remain up here eight weeks. Dividing up and giving each one a turn we would have a different pair of leaders every week. There are equal numbers of men and women and girls and boys, so the arrangement is just about ideal. Every week we will have a high council meeting on this rock where all questions of moment will be considered. The Chiefs will preside at the meeting. "They will also blow the rising horn, sit at the head of the table, say grace, serve the food, pat the chokers on the back and see to it that Slim does not eat past the bursting point. The Chiefs will also lead the singing in the pine grove every morning after breakfast. They will settle all disputes according to the best of their ability, and will plan the Principal Diversions for the week. These latter will be announced at the Council Meetings. Needless to say, the Chiefs will do no menial labor during the week of their Chiefhood. Is that a fair proposition all the way around?" "It surely is!" they all cried together. "Hurray for the tribe of Chiefs!" A schedule of the order in which they would take their turns was quickly written on a sheet of birchbark with an indelible pencil and tacked to a big pine beside the Council Rock. It was as follows: First week, Uncle Teddy and Aunt Clara; second week, Mr. and Mrs. Evans; third week, Katherine and the Captain; fourth week, Hinpoha and Slim; fifth week, Gladys and the Bottomless Pitt; sixth week, Sahwah and the Monkey; seventh week, Migwan and Peter Jenkins; eighth week, Nakwisi and Dan Porter. As soon as the Chiefs for that week were established, Uncle Teddy was immediately besieged with questions in regard to the Principal Diversion. "It's a--oh, my gracious!" said Uncle Teddy, catching himself hastily and winking mysteriously at Mr. Evans. "It's a secret!" And not another word would he say. Soon afterward he and Mr. Evans prepared to take a trip in the launch. "Where are you going?" casually inquired the Captain, who had followed them down the hill. "Oh, just over to St. Pierre to get some supplies," replied Uncle Teddy in an offhand manner. "Want any help?" asked the Captain wistfully. He was just in the mood for a ride across the lake this morning with his two adored friends. "Not at all, thank you," said Uncle Teddy, hurriedly starting the engine and backing the launch away from the shore. "You look after the camp in our absence." And the launch leapt forward and carried them out of speaking distance. It was nearly dinner time and the men had not yet returned. The potatoes were done, the corn chowder had been taken from the fire, and the cooks and hungry campers sat on the edge of the high bluff looking toward St. Pierre to see if the launch were in sight. "There's something coming now," said the Captain, who was the most far-sighted of the group, "but it doesn't look like a launch; it looks like a sailing vessel. That can't be our men." "There's a launch just ahead of it," said Sahwah a moment later. "There is," agreed the Captain, "and, sure enough, it's towing the other thing, the sailing vessel. That is our launch, see the Stars and Stripes floating over the bow and the girls' green flag at the back? Oh, mercy, what are they bringing us?" "I'm going down on the landing," said Sahwah, unable to restrain herself any longer. She raced down the path, followed closely by the girls and boys and at a more dignified pace by Mrs. Evans and Aunt Clara. "Look what it is!" cried Gladys to her mother when she arrived on the scene. The launch was just heading in toward the pier. "It's a war canoe!" "With sails!" echoed Sahwah, nearly falling off the pier in her excitement. It was, indeed, a war canoe, a beautiful, dark-green body some twenty-five feet long and about three feet at the widest part through the center. The three sails were of the removable kind. Just now they were set and filled out tight with the breeze. The sun glinted on the shining varnish of the cross seats and the paddles lying under them. There was one great shout of "Oh-h!" from the girls and boys, and then a silence born of ecstasy. "Here's the man-of-war!" called Mr. Evans, enjoying to the utmost the pleasure caused by the arrival of the big canoe, "now, where's the crew?" "Here, here!" they all cried, tumbling over each other in their haste to get to the landing and into the boat. "All aboard, my hearties," cried Uncle Teddy, cutting the canoe loose from the launch and holding it steady against the pier. "But dinner's ready," protested Aunt Clara. "Can't you wait until afterwards for your ride?" "Not one minute," her husband solemnly assured her. "Not one of us will be able to eat a mouthful until we have had a ride on the new hobby horse. Dinners will keep, but new war canoes won't." "You're as bad as the boys and girls," said Aunt Clara, shaking her finger at him knowingly. "I believe you want to go worse than any of them." "I surely do," replied Uncle Teddy. "It was all I could do on the way over to keep from climbing over the back of the launch into the canoe and coming home in her." "I'm going to be bow paddler," cried Sahwah, hastily scrambling into the front seat and getting her paddle ready for action. "We won't need much in the paddling line with those sails," said Uncle Teddy, "but we can be ready in case we become becalmed." "'Become becalmed,'" said Migwan mischievously, "doesn't that sound as if you had your mouth full of something sticky?" Uncle Teddy wrinkled up his nose in a comical grimace and ordered her to take her seat in the canoe without any more impudence. As most of the seats were wide enough for two to sit on there was plenty of room for all sixteen of them. Mrs. Evans hung back at first, but at Aunt Clara's urging ventured to sit beside her. Uncle Teddy took up the stern paddle and shoved out into the lake; the wind caught the sails, and away went the canoe like a bird. It was wonderful going with the wind, but when they decided it was time to turn around and come home they found that the sails absolutely refused to work backward, so they lowered them and paddled. As the canoe leaped forward under the steady, even strokes, the Winnebagos began to sing: "Pull long, pull strong, my bonnie brave crew, The winds sweep over the waters blue, Oh, blow they high, or blow they low, It's all the same to Wohelo! "Yo ho, yo ho, It's all the same to Wohelo!" They landed reluctantly and ate the long-delayed dinner, discussing all the while what they should name the war canoe. "Let's call it the _Nyoda_," said Hinpoha. "That would surely please Nyoda. Besides, it's a fine name for a boat." They agreed unanimously that the war canoe should be named _Nyoda_, and Mr. Evans promised to take it to St. Pierre the next day to have the name painted on her bow. As soon as dinner was over they were out in her again with the sails up, until the ever-stiffening wind made the lake too rough for pleasure. They could hardly land when at last they reached the shore, the canoe plunged so, and Uncle Teddy jumped out and stood in the water up to his waist holding her steady. "In for a bit of weather, eh?" said Mr. Evans, helping to pull the _Nyoda_ far up on the beach out of harm's way. The wind was whistling around the corner of the bluffs. "Just a puff of wind," replied Uncle Teddy, "but I would advise you all to batten down the hatches, I mean, tie your tent flaps." As he spoke a white towel came fluttering over the bluff from one of the tents above and went sailing off over the lake. At that they all scattered to make their possessions secure. All through the afternoon the storm raged. There was no rain, just a steady northwest wind increasing in violence until it had reached the proportions of a gale. High as the cliffs were on three sides of the island, the spray was dashing over the top. When supper time came Aunt Clara called to Uncle Teddy: "Where are the eggs and bread and milk you brought from St. Pierre this morning?" Uncle Teddy and Mr. Evans both jumped from the comfortable rock on the sheltered beach where they had been sitting watching the storm and blushed guiltily. "We never brought them!" they both exclaimed together. "We were so completely taken up with the business of getting the war canoe from the steamer dock that we forgot all about the supplies." "Well, we'll just have to do without them, but we can't have the supper we planned," returned Aunt Clara. "A great Chief you are! Can only think of one thing at a time! I could have brought in a dozen war canoes and never forgotten the affairs of my household." "So you could, my dear," admitted Uncle Teddy cheerfully, and returned unruffled to his contemplation of the tossing lake. By and by he took his binoculars and looked intently at a white spot against the dark waters. "What is it, Uncle Teddy," asked Sahwah, straining her eyes to follow his glance. "Appears to be a sailboat," said Uncle Teddy, without removing the glass from his eyes. "They've taken the sail down, but they're having a grand time of it out in those waves. They are being driven toward us. Now I can make out a man and a girl and a boy in the boat. Whew-w! What a blast that was!" A dry branch came hurtling down from some tree on the bluff, landing at their feet. The next moment Uncle Teddy gave an exclamation. "They're flying distress signals," he said. At that the girls and boys all sprang to their feet and crowded around Uncle Teddy excitedly. "What shall we do?" they asked. "We'll take the big launch and go out and bring them in," he answered calmly. "Are you ready, Mr. Evans?" "Quite so," said Mr. Evans quietly, buttoning up his coat. "Oh, let me go along," begged the Captain. "Let me go, too," cried Sahwah, dancing up and down. "May I, Uncle Teddy? You said I might go out with you some time when the lake was rough." "Let us all go," cried the Sandwiches. Uncle Teddy waved them away. "No, no, what are you thinking of?" he said. "I can't have the launch full. Besides, it's too dangerous to go out now. We wouldn't think of going if it were not for those people out there." And as he was Chief there was no murmur at his decision. As quickly as they could, Uncle Teddy and Mr. Evans got the launch under way, and the watchers on the shore held their breaths as the light boat was dashed about on the waves, now climbing to a dizzy height, now sinking out of sight altogether. The sailing boat was in a sad plight when they reached her, for, in addition to being nearly capsized by every wave, she had sprung a leak and was filling gradually in spite of frantic bailing. The launch arrived just in time and took off the three sailors, landing them safely on shore some fifteen minutes later. The man was dressed in white outing flannels and looked very distinguished in spite of his windblown appearance. The girl and boy were about thirteen years old and looked just alike. Both were pale and thin and had light hair and light blue eyes. "This is Judge Dalrymple," said Mr. Evans to the group eagerly waiting on the beach. (They would have guessed that he was at least a judge, anyway; he looked so dignified.) "And these are the twin Dalrymples, Antha and Anthony. Judge, this is my wife and that is Mrs. St. John, and the rest of the folks are the Tribe." "We are greatly indebted to your husbands for rescuing us," said the judge with a courtly bow to the ladies. "We are very glad they were able to do it," said Mrs. Evans, "and we welcome you to Ellen's Isle." The Winnebagos and Sandwiches looked with interest at the twins, Antha and Anthony. Antha was paler and thinner than her brother and her mouth had a peevish droop to it. Both looked chilly and scared out of their wits. "Weren't you horribly frightened when the boat sprang a leak?" asked Hinpoha. Anthony immediately swelled out his chest. "No, I wasn't a bit afraid," he said grandly. "I'm not a fraidy cat. But _she_ was," he said, pointing to his sister, "she yelled bloody murder." "I didn't either," contradicted Antha. "It was you that yelled the loudest and you know it was. Papa told you to keep still." "Didn't either," declared Anthony. "Did, too!" said Antha, stamping her foot. "Didn't he, Papa?" And she interrupted her father right in the midst of his conversation with Mr. Evans. "Yes, yes, dear," answered the judge absently, and went on talking. "There now!" said Antha triumphantly. "Well, anyway," went on Anthony, "you yelled as loud as you _could_ yell, and I didn't." Antha promptly burst into tears. "Cry baby, cry baby," mocked her brother. Gladys and Hinpoha bore the weeping Antha away to one of the tents and the Sandwich boys took Anthony under their wing. The storm was still increasing and it was plain that the Dalrymples would have to remain for the night. "And no eggs or milk or bread for supper," wailed Aunt Clara. "And we can't bake anything because the oven won't heat in this wind." "There's loads of canned spaghetti," said Gladys, investigating the supplies. It was rather a hop-scotch meal that was served that night in the billowing supper tent, for, besides the bread and milk and eggs, the men had forgotten the canned beans which Aunt Clara had ordered for future use, but which would have helped admirably in this emergency. Then at the last moment they discovered that the sugar was out. But the hearty appetites of the Tribe were never dismayed at anything, and the spaghetti and unsweetened, black coffee disappeared as if it had been nectar and ambrosia. Judge Dalrymple waved aside Aunt Clara's profuse apologies for the gaps in the menu and ate spaghetti heartily, but Antha picked at hers with a dissatisfied expression and hardly ate a mouthful. The Winnebagos saw it and were greatly pained because they had nothing better to offer. "Ho-ho-ho!" scoffed Anthony. "Antha has to eat spaghetti because there isn't anything else. That's a good one on her. She never will eat it at home. Ho-ho-ho!" And he grimaced derisively at her across the table. Antha laid down her fork and dissolved in tears again. The judge, interrupted in his tale of the afternoon's experience by the tempest at the other end of the table, turned toward the twins impatiently. "Stop your eternal bickering, you two!" he ordered sharply. "Then make Anthony stop teasing me!" sniffled Antha. Just at that moment Gladys, who had been foraging desperately in the "pantry," came forth with a box of crackers and a small jar of jam, which Antha consented to eat in place of the spaghetti. They retired soon after supper because it was too windy to light a camp fire and it was no fun sitting around in the dark. Antha fell in the path to the tents, bumping her head and skinning her arm, and cried all the while she was being fixed up. Then she was afraid to go into the tent because it might blow down; she was afraid of the dark, of spiders, of everything. The girls were worn out by the time they had her in bed. "Isn't she a prune?" whispered Sahwah to Hinpoha. "I didn't know a girl could be such a fraidy cat." "If she cries any more the tent will be flooded," whispered Hinpoha in answer. "I never saw anybody cry so much." "I don't want to seem inhospitable," breathed Gladys behind her hand, "but I hope they won't have to stay long." But morning brought no letting up of the wind. The dawn showed the waves rolling as high as on the previous night. Breakfast was the same as supper, spaghetti and black coffee, which Antha again refused to touch, finishing the crackers and the jam. Breakfast over they all raced down to see how the beloved war canoe was faring. She was still safe and sound and looked as wonderful as she did the day before. With pride the boys and girls displayed her to the twins. "Huh," said Anthony disdainfully, "that isn't much of a war canoe. Some boys I know have one twice as big. And theirs has lockers in the ends. Yours hasn't any lockers, has it?" They were obliged to admit that the cherished _Nyoda_ carried no lockers. "You didn't get much of a war canoe, did you?" said Anthony patronizingly. "We got the best papa could afford," replied Gladys mildly. "Then I guess you're not very rich, are you?" said Anthony pityingly. "My papa, he's twice as rich as all of you put together. He's a judge, and my mother has money in her own right and so have I and so has Antha. And we'll get more yet when my grandfather dies. I could buy a dozen war canoes if I wanted them, but I don't want them. I'm going to have a yacht, a steam yacht, so all I have to do is sit on the deck and tell the captain to hustle and put on more speed. That's the life!" "It may be the life for you, but not for me," replied the Captain, throwing stones into the water to relieve his feelings. Not long after a series of agonized shrieks brought them running from all directions to see Antha racing along the path to the tents in mortal terror, with Sandhelo after her as hard as he could go. She had come across him as he was grazing, and he, seeing a cracker in her hand, had reached out his nose for it, and opened his mouth wide. Thinking he wanted to eat her up, she fled, screaming, while he, still intent on the cracker, followed determinedly. It took an hour's persuasion, and the combined efforts of all the Winnebagos, to assure her that Sandhelo was not a vicious animal with cannibal tendencies. Even then she would not go within ten feet of him. Meanwhile, Mr. Evans, showing Judge Dalrymple around the island, came upon the little mineral spring and told him how it had been the means of his coming into possession of the island. "So that little trickle was all the excuse the famous Minerva Mineral Spring Company had for incorporating and selling stock to the public," said the judge thoughtfully. "Yes," said Mr. Evans, "the whole thing seems to have been a dishonest scheme from the first. But it was handled so cleverly that a great many people were deceived. I was one of the latter, for I lent that company the money to go into business. But, as represented to me, the thing seemed a perfectly good enterprise--they even had signed statements as to the number of bottles the spring would produce yearly. But when the stock had been sold to a large number of unsuspecting people the company suddenly went out of business and then the truth about the spring was discovered. In the lawsuits which followed I was given the island, so I am not so badly off as the people who bought stock and got nothing out of it. I am genuinely sorry for them and feel almost guilty when I think that I furnished the money to start the enterprise, even if I did it in good faith. "You seem to know a good deal about the case. Do you happen to be acquainted with anyone who lost money in it?" "I was one of the heaviest stockholders," said the judge drily. Mr. Evans whistled. "But you must not think that I am blaming you for it," the judge continued hastily, as he saw the distressed look on Mr. Evans' face. "Besides," he added, "the service you rendered me by taking my children and myself off the yacht the other day makes me many times your debtor. Let us say no more about the other matter." All that day the judge and the junior members of the Tribe watched anxiously for the falling of the wind. The judge was concerned about Mrs. Dalrymple, who had no way of knowing where he and the twins were, and the Winnebagos and Sandwiches had about all they could stand of Antha and Anthony. Besides, the food was getting monotonous. Spaghetti and black coffee again for dinner, which Antha would not eat even though the crackers were gone. But by supper time her hunger got the better of her and she ate spaghetti without a murmur. "That shows she could have eaten it right away if she wanted to," whispered Sahwah to Gladys. That night it thundered and lightninged, and Antha nearly went into hysterics. She hid her head under the bed clothes and wanted them all to do likewise. Katherine snorted with disgust and delivered her mind about people who carried their fears to the verge of silliness. Antha cried some more and the atmosphere in the tent was becoming decidedly damp again when Hinpoha created a diversion by starting a pillow fight. The next morning the desired change in the wind had come to pass, and the lake was much smoother. With secret sighs of relief the Winnebagos and Sandwiches helped the twins into the launch and waved a heartfelt good-bye. "I never understood before what they meant by 'speeding the parting guest,'" said Sahwah, "but now I see it. All speed to the Dalrymple Twins; may they nevermore turn in their track! I never felt that way before, but I just can't help it!" And the Winnebagos and Sandwiches privately agreed with her. CHAPTER III THE CALYDONIAN HUNT The last trace of the storm had vanished. The lake lay calm and blue in the morning sunshine, its gentle ripples catching the gleam and turning to gold. The air was clear as crystal and the mainland seemed much nearer than it did under the lowering gray skies of the last few days. Having finished preparations for breakfast, Aunt Clara went down on the beach to watch for the Tribe, who were out practising in the war canoe. They were nowhere in sight. Except for the steamers in the distant harbor of St. Pierre the lake was empty. Aunt Clara adjusted Uncle Teddy's binoculars to her eyes and coaxed the horizon line some miles nearer to aid her in her search. But the vista was empty of what she sought. Then she looked around in the other direction at the mainland to the northwest of Ellen's Isle. As she looked she saw the bushes waving near the shore and then from the tangle of branches there emerged first a pair of antlers, then a head and then a pair of front legs, followed by a dark body, and a large bull moose stood silhouetted against the leafy background. A moment it stood there, calm and deliberate, and then turned and disappeared into the forest. "Oh, where are the folks?" cried Aunt Clara aloud in her excitement. "What a shame they had to miss it!" She stood a long time looking intently at the spot where the moose had disappeared, but it did not show itself again. As she stood there watching she heard a rhythmic chant coming across the water: "Strong, brother, strong, We smoothly glide along, Our paddles swing as we gaily sing This merry boating song." No one was in sight, and yet the voices came clear and true through the still morning air. It was several minutes before the war canoe came in sight around a high cliff far up the shore. "How far the sound carries across the water!" exclaimed Aunt Clara to herself in amazement. The _Nyoda_ looked no bigger than a caterpillar, crawling over the water, but she could plainly hear Uncle Teddy's voice giving commands: "One, two! One, two! Dip! Dip! Longer stroke, Katherine! Left side, cross rest! Right side, paddle! Both sides, ready, dip!" Now she could see the paddles flashing out on both sides, and the caterpillar became a creature with wings. In she came, straight for the landing, her crew sitting erect as pine saplings, dipping their paddles in unison. "Oh, the gallant crew, in this canoe They live on Ellen's Isle; They paddle all the livelong day And sing a song the while. So dip your paddles deep, my lads, Into the flying spray, And sing a cheer as you swiftly steer, _Nyoda_! YEA! YEA! YEA!" Up flashed the paddles on the cheer, giving the salute; then down again in time for the next stroke. "Ready! Back paddle! One! Two!" Down went the paddles, held stiffly against the sides of the canoe to stop her, while the water swished and foamed over the blades; then the strokes were reversed to back her up. "Cross rest!" The paddles lay idly across the gunwales and the _Nyoda_ floated in to the landing. "Disembark!" The girl behind the bow paddler stepped out on the dock, followed, one by one, by those behind her, while the bow paddler sat still and held the canoe fast to the pier. As the girls and boys stepped out they stood in a row with their paddles resting on the dock before them. When all the rest were out the bow paddler stepped up onto the deck. Uncle Teddy stood at attention, facing the crew. "Salute!" "Yea!" Up went the paddles. "Dismiss!" Crew practice was over. The crew dove off the sides of the dock like water rats and began to play tag around the war canoe, swimming around it, and under it and diving off the bow, until a far-echoing blast on the horn warned them it was time to come and play another sort of game. At breakfast Aunt Clara told about seeing the big moose break through the woods on the opposite shore, and immediately there rose a great clamor. "Oh, Uncle Teddy, can't we go over there and see if we can see it?" cried Sahwah. "Can't we have a big hunting party and kill it and bring home the antlers to hang in the House of the Open Door?" asked the Captain. "You forget it's not the hunting season," replied Uncle Teddy, "and don't seem to be aware of the fact that there are such things as game laws in this fair country." There was a chorus of disappointment from the Winnebagos and Sandwiches, whose imaginations had already gone forward to the great sport of hunting the moose and bringing his antlers home in triumph to hang in the House of the Open Door. Uncle Teddy saw the disappointment and sympathized with the boys and girls, for he was a great hunter himself and enjoyed nothing better than an expedition after game. "I'll tell you what we'll do," he said. "We'll hunt the moose anyhow, but we won't try to kill him. We'll just try to get a look at him. They are getting so scarce nowadays in this part of the country that it's worth a chase just to see one. If he really lives in those woods over there he'll probably let himself be seen sooner or later. All we have to do is find out where he goes to drink and then watch that place." The Winnebagos thought that hunting the moose for a friendly purpose was much nicer than killing him after all, and they were perfectly satisfied with the sport as it was. The boys, of course, would rather have hunted him down and secured his antlers, and thought that just looking at him was rather tame sport, but under the circumstances that was the best they could do. "I know what we'll do," said Migwan. "You remember the story of the Calydonian Hunt in the mythology book? Well, we'll pretend this is another Calydonian Hunt." "Oh, yes," said Hinpoha. "They went in a yacht called the _Argo_, didn't they, and the hunters called themselves the _Argonauts_, wasn't that it?" "Oh, Hinpoha," groaned Migwan, "how did you ever manage to get a passing grade in 'Myth?'" "The only kind of myths Hinpoha cared about were the 'Hero and Leander' kind," said Sahwah slily. "She knew that one by heart." Hinpoha blushed and made awful grimaces at Sahwah. "I should think that one would appeal to you particularly, Sahwah," said Migwan; "you're so fond of swimming." Sahwah snorted. "Leander was a fool. It was all right to swim the Hellespont on moonlight nights when the sea was smooth, but if he'd had any brains in his head he'd have rigged up a breeches-buoy for use in stormy weather and gone across in safety and style." There was a loud burst of laughter at the picture of the romantic Leander traveling across the Hellespont in a breeches-buoy, and when that had subsided Uncle Teddy remarked, "Well, have you made up your minds what you want to call this expedition in search of the moose? By the way, Mother, are you absolutely sure it was a moose and not a bossy cow you saw?" Aunt Clara did not deign to answer his teasing. "The War Canoe would make an awfully good looking ship _Argo_," said Migwan thoughtfully. "The original _Argo_ was an open boat and not a yacht, as the scholarly Hinpoha just intimated. We ought to combine the two and have a joint Argonautic Expedition and Calydonian Hunt." They all thought this was a fine idea. "Who will be Jason?" asked the Captain. "Wasn't he the captain, or the first mate, or the vessel owner, or something, the time they went looking for the golden calf?" "The Golden Fleece, not the golden calf," said Migwan quickly, while they all laughed harder than ever at the Captain's floundering attempt to quote mythology. "Well, the Golden Fleece, then," said the Captain. "Who's going to be Jason?" "Whoever's commander of the trip will be Jason," replied Uncle Teddy. "Who will that be?" asked Sahwah. "Whoever's Chief at the time we go," replied Uncle Teddy. "That will be you, because you're Chief this week," said Sahwah. "But Aunt Clara is Chief, too," protested Katherine. "Then there will be a Mr. and Mrs. Jason," said Sahwah promptly. "And all the rest of us will be Argonauts." "I protest," said Uncle Teddy, with a twinkle in his eye. "If there's a Mrs. Jason on board Jason himself won't have a word to say about the expedition. He'll be nothing but a figurehead. He'll be the original Argo-_nought_!" "You forget that the figurehead was the most important part of the ship in the eyes of the Greeks," said Aunt Clara sweetly. "If we don't hurry and get started," said Mr. Evans sagely, "that moose will be nowhere to be found. If you are going to argue as long over every detail of the hunt as you have about this much of it, the moose will have time to get clear over the Arctic Circle before we ever land on the other shore. I move we call ourselves the Argue-nots and go over this afternoon without delay. This weather is too fine to be wasted on dry land." Accordingly, right after dinner, the second great Argonautic Expedition put out to sea. Mrs. Evans, who had a headache, offered to stay at home and keep Sandhelo company and watch the island. The space under the seats of the _Argo II_, as she was temporarily re-christened, was stowed full of "supper makin's," for they planned to stay until after nightfall. It was not hard to imagine themselves engaged in one of the romantic quests of olden times, for the great war canoe with her rows of paddlers, speeding through the wide open water, was a sight to set the blood dancing in the veins and thrill the imagination. The forest on the northern shore seemed to spread out wider and wider as they approached it, and grew wilder and more dark looking. To their cityfied eyes the dense growth of underbrush between the trees was the wilderness itself. Somewhere in the back of every man's brain there slumbers the instinct of the explorer, a legacy from his far off ancestors who boldly set out to discover the unknown places of the earth, and even the modern boy and girl thrill with delight at the prospect of entering some new, wild region. Landing was extremely difficult because there was no sand beach, and great care had to be exercised that the canoe was not dashed on the rocks and her sides ripped. Both Mr. Evans and Uncle Teddy stepped overboard in water up to their knees and held the boat steady while the rest climbed out onto the rocks. This was an exciting business, for every few seconds a wave would wash up over those rocks, and if the leap was not made just at the right instant, the unwary lander got a pair of wet feet. But that only added to the fun. When all were out the canoe was pulled up and carried back a safe distance and left upside down with the paddles underneath it, so the sun could not shine on them and crack them. Sunshine, which gives life to most things, is absolutely fatal to wet paddle blades. It was hard walking. The woods were swampy in places and there were very few paths. But almost as soon as they landed they saw signs of the moose. In the soft mud and near the shore were his footprints, and numerous trees bore evidence that he had nibbled their twigs, while there were other marks on the bark which Uncle Teddy explained were made by his striking his antlers against the trunks and branches. Sir Moose himself was nowhere to be seen. His trail led into the woods and they were doing their best to follow. Of course they were making enough noise to scare away a herd of buffalos, but there didn't seem to be any way to remedy the matter. Hinpoha would shriek when she stepped on a rolling stick, thinking it was a snake, and Katherine was continually tripping over something and sprawling face downward. "The Argonautic half of the Expedition came up to our expectations," said Migwan, as they floundered on, "but the Calydonian Hunt seems to be a wild goose chase." "Where do mooses stay when they are in the woods?" asked Hinpoha, falling over a root and pausing to rub her ankle. "On the ground," said the Captain, trying to be funny. "How very odd," said Hinpoha. "I had an idea they climbed up into a tree and built a nest. I may not know much about your old mythology, but I do know a few things about a moose." "Maybe you do," replied the Captain with that maddening twinkle in his eye, "but anybody that calls the plural of 'moose' 'mooses' couldn't be expected to know much about them." "Oh, well," said Hinpoha, laughing with the rest, "have it your own way. By the way, what is the plural--meece? Anyway, I wasn't talking to you in the first place when I asked my question. I was talking to Uncle Teddy, and I'm going to ask him again. Where would you go to look for a moose in the woods?" "They like shallow water in summer and slow-moving streams," replied Uncle Teddy. "They wade out and eat the plants growing in the water." "I suppose if we see him at all we'll see him that way," said Hinpoha. "We'll probably only get a glimpse of him from a distance." "Probably," agreed Uncle Teddy, "unless----" "Unless what?" asked Sahwah, pricking up her ears. Uncle Teddy smiled mysteriously. Then from his pocket he produced something which looked like a trumpet made of birchbark. "What is it?" they all chorused, crowding around him. "Wait and see," he said, still with that mysterious smile. He did not seem to be going to do anything with the strange thing he held in his hand. He led the way through the trees, patiently holding aside the branches for the girls to go through, often stopping to examine a twig or patch of bark. When they had been going some time they came out on the bank of a river. Here was an open space and Uncle Teddy called the procession to a halt. "Everybody find a comfortable place and sit absolutely still," he ordered. "What's going to happen?" asked Hinpoha curiously. "Nothing--very likely," replied Uncle Teddy tantalizingly. "May we climb a tree?" asked the Captain. "Surely," replied Uncle Teddy, "if that's your idea of a comfortable place to sit. And if you will promise to be absolutely still when you get there and not fall out at the wrong time." The Captain swung himself up into a big cedar tree that stood nearby, and sat with his feet dangling over their heads. "What are you doing, Cap?" called Slim from the ground, "going to heaven?" "Looks like it," said the Captain, going a notch higher in search of a better seat. Slim had not climbed a tree. It was too strenuous for him. "Fine chance you'll have of getting to heaven, if you have to climb, Slim," jeered the Captain, now that he was comfortably settled. Slim only laughed and sat back comfortably against a stump. "Sh-h, you two," called out Gladys warningly. "Don't you see it's going to begin?" "What's going to begin?" asked the Captain, craning his neck downward to watch Uncle Teddy. Uncle Teddy put the birchbark trumpet to his lips and sent forth a strange call, that sounded like an animal. "Why are you doing that?" asked Sahwah. "I'm going to try and make old man moose come to see us," said Uncle Teddy. "It's lots easier than going to see him. You remember the saying about Mahomet and the mountain? Well, now the mountain is coming to see Mahomet. The sound made by this birchbark trumpet resembles the call of the female moose, and when the male hears it he comes to see what it means. Like his human brothers, Mr. Moose is a dutiful husband and comes when his wife calls him. Everybody sit still now and see if he comes." Again he sent the call echoing through the woods. The watchers strained ears and eyes, but nothing happened. A third time he blew on the birchbark trumpet. Then they heard a cracking and crashing among the branches nearby and suddenly a huge creature came trotting up a small path that led into the woods and emerged into the clearing. So sudden was his appearance that it took their breath away and they sat perfectly motionless, marveling at the wide spread of his antlers, his humpy, grotesque nose, and the little bell-like pouch that hung down from his neck. A moment he stood there, wearing a look of inquiry, his big nostrils quivering, and then he became aware of the presence of human beings, and turning in affright he fled up the path by which he had come. But in the moment he had stood there they had been able to get a good look at him. As soon as he was gone they all sprang to their feet and began excitedly comparing notes on what they had seen. "Did you ever see such big antlers?" said Sahwah. "So flat and wide. I always thought antlers were like the branches of a tree." "And the funny hump on his nose," said Hinpoha. "But did you ever see anything so funny as that thing hanging down from his neck?" said Katherine. "It looked just like a bell." "Let's follow him," said Sahwah enthusiastically, "and see if we can catch a glimpse of him again." For a while they could follow the footprints of the big creature in the soft mud along the river bank; then the tracks ceased abruptly. The moose had turned and dashed into the deep woods. "Now which way did he go?" asked Sahwah. "You are asking more than I can tell," answered Uncle Teddy. "Shall we go any further?" asked Hinpoha doubtfully. "These woods don't look very easy to walk through." "Oh, yes, let's go on," begged Sahwah. "We might get lost and not find our way back," said Hinpoha. "We'll remember this big cedar tree," said Uncle Teddy. "It's the only one around here and it's right near the river." Fixing the location of the big cedar tree in their minds they struck into the woods in the direction they thought the moose had taken. "It's queer we don't hear him," said Sahwah. "You'd think an animal as large as that would make a great noise running through the woods. Just listen to the racket Slim is making over there." "That's where the moose has a secret no man can find out," said Uncle Teddy. "Big and awkward as he is, he moves through the forest as silently as a phantom. How he does it no one knows. A horse or a cow, though smaller, would make ten times as much noise." "Do you suppose we'll find our way back to the cedar tree?" asked Gladys, beginning to look rather solemn as the trees and bushes closed around them in seemingly endless array. Uncle Teddy smiled and showed her a small compass he was holding in his hand. "We have been going straight west so far," he said. "If we turn for any reason we'll make note of the tree where we turn. It is as easy to find your way through the woods as it is through the city if you will only keep your eyes open for sign posts." As he was speaking they came upon another cedar tree, as big and as old as the first; the only one they had passed since that one. "Now there is a landmark worth noting," said Uncle Teddy, pointing to the tree. "Giant cedar, towering above other trees, only one in sight. Fifteen minutes' walk due west from the other cedar beside the river. And you see we will have to turn right here because there seems to be a path at right angles to the direction we have been traveling, while it is swampy straight ahead." He called the rest around him and made them all make a note of the trail they were taking. So they all jotted down, "Due west from cedar by river until you come to another; then turn south." And right in the path, a few steps ahead, was a soft, muddy place and in it there was a fresh footprint, which was just like those made by the moose on the river bank. "He _is_ around here!" cried Sahwah excitedly. "Maybe we'll see him yet if we keep going." They picked their way carefully, avoiding the swampy ground and pretty soon they came to a third cedar, just as tall as the other two, and also the only one in sight. "Another guidepost to remember," said Uncle Teddy, and made them jot it down. Just beyond this tree the swamp made them turn to the left. Several times more they saw the footprint of the moose in the soft mud near the path, but never a glimpse did they get of him. Some distance ahead stood a fourth big cedar and ten minutes' walk beyond that a fifth. "It will be as easy to find our way back as if we were walking down a street full of signposts," said Gladys, who had become fascinated with this method of looking for guideposts through the woods. "All we have to do is walk until we come to a cedar tree. It seems almost as if they had been planted that way on purpose. Let's keep on and see if there are any more." Sure enough, in about ten minutes they came to another one, and there the trail through the woods ended at the foot of a rocky hill. "That makes six cedar trees we've passed," said Gladys, jotting down the fact in her notebook. "Uncle Teddy, won't you please call the moose again," pleaded Sahwah. "Maybe he'd come again." "I doubt it," said Uncle Teddy. "He found out once that it wasn't his mate calling him." "Try it again, anyway," begged Sahwah. Uncle Teddy sent the call of the birchbark trumpet echoing far and wide, but though they watched in breathless silence, no moose appeared in answer to the call. "He's 'wise,'" said the Captain. "You can't blame him. Nobody could fool me twice either." "We might as well start back now," said Slim, beginning to think longingly of the supper cached under the first cedar by the river. "We've had our hunt, and seen the moose, which was what we came for. Aren't you all satisfied yet?" "Oh, Slim, are you very hungry?" asked Sahwah. "Katherine and I want to go up the hill a little way and poke into that ravine up there; it's so dark and mysterious looking." Slim sighed and looked longingly back toward the trail by which they had come. "Oh, never mind, we won't go," said Sahwah, seeing the look. "Oh, go on," said Slim good naturedly. Katherine fished in her pocket and drew out a tin foil-covered package. "Here's a piece of chocolate I've been carrying around with me ever since I've been at Ellen's Isle," she said. "It's pretty stale by this time, I guess, but it'll keep you from starving while Sahwah and I go and explore the ravine." Slim took the chocolate without any scruples regarding its staleness and Katherine and Sahwah started up the hill. Then the rest thought they would like to go into the ravine, too, and all came streaming after. The ravine was as dark and mysterious as they could wish, for its high sides kept out the sun and in the gloom the trunks of trees seem twisted into fantastic shapes. The ferns and brakes were very luxuriant, and they waded about in them up to their knees. "There's another cedar tree!" cried Gladys, pointing ahead of her. Springing from the steep side of the ravine and towering high above it stood a seventh cedar tree, more lofty and more ancient looking than the others. "What a peculiar place for a tree to take root," said Gladys. "It looks as though it would slide down the hill any minute." "I reckon it's firm enough," said Uncle Teddy. "It's been hanging on there for considerably over a hundred years, by its size." "What's this on the rock?" asked Sahwah, who had been examining the boulders which lay at the bottom of the ravine just under the tree. She pointed to a mark on one of the stones, an arrow chiseled out of the hard rock. They all crowded around and exclaimed in wonder. What could it mean? "Maybe somebody's buried here," said the Captain. "Rather a heavy tombstone," said Uncle Teddy. "And not much of an epitaph. I'll want more than an arrow on mine." "It must mean something," said Hinpoha, her romantic imagination fired immediately. But the consuming interest they had all shown in the arrow on the rock was driven out of them the next moment by a wild uproar at the other end of the ravine--the sound of a great crashing accompanied by a frightful bellow. Then there was another crash; the sound of rock striking against rock, a ripping, tearing, falling sound, a thud and another frightful bellow. "Goodness, what was that?" asked Uncle Teddy, running forward in the direction of the noise, followed by the others. They soon saw. On the ground at the upper end of the ravine lay the great bull moose they had seen that afternoon when he had come, in the pride of his strength, to answer the call of the birchbark trumpet. Now he lay in a heap, his sides heaving convulsively, beside a good-sized rock he had either carried over the edge of the precipice in his fall from above, or which had carried him. At the top of the ravine there was a deep hole in the soil where the ground had given away and hurled him over the edge. But the fall was not the worst of it. Down in the ravine there stood a broken sapling about two feet high, its sharp point standing up like a bayonet. Straight onto this the moose had plunged in his fall, ripping his chest open in a great jagged gash from which the blood flowed in a stream. Hinpoha turned away and covered her eyes with her hands at the dreadful sight. "Kill him, kill him," said Aunt Clara, catching hold of her husband's arm in distress, "I can't bear to see him suffer so." "I have nothing to kill him with," said Uncle Teddy, in equal distress. But the moose was beyond the need of a friendly bullet to end his sufferings, for after a few more convulsive heaves he stiffened out and lay still. "Is he dead?" asked Hinpoha. "Yes," answered Uncle Teddy. "I'm so glad," said Hinpoha, still keeping her eyes averted. "The poor, poor thing. Are you going to bury him?" "Bury him!" shouted the Captain in amazement. "Bury that moose? Not for a hundred dollars! Bury those antlers, and that hide? What are you thinking of?" "I forgot," said Hinpoha meekly. "I was only thinking of the poor moose himself, not his antlers or his hide." "Have we a right to take him?" asked Gladys. "This isn't the hunting season, you know." Mr. Evans smiled fondly at her. "Always wondering whether you have a right to do things, aren't you, puss? Yes, of course we have a perfect right to take his antlers and his hide. We didn't kill him out of season; he killed himself falling into the ravine, so we haven't broken any law. He just sort of dropped into our laps, and 'finders is keepers,' you know." "Well, your Calydonian Hunt was more successful than you expected," said Uncle Teddy, "for now you will really have the antlers as a trophy instead of just seeing the moose. If only all big game hunting were so easy!" The Argonautic Expedition seemed very argonautic, indeed, when Mrs. Evans welcomed it back into camp and heard the news about the moose. Of course, they could not bring it back with them in the war canoe, for it weighed twelve hundred pounds if it weighed an ounce. Uncle Teddy and Mr. Evans, with the Captain and a few more of the Sandwiches, went directly back in the big launch to bring in the carcass while the Winnebagos prepared a second supper to celebrate the triumphant outcome of the Calydonian Hunt. CHAPTER IV BY VOTE OF COUNCIL "Oh, what a peaceful day!" said Hinpoha, rising from the depths like Undine and seating herself on a rock to dry her bright hair in the breeze before she went up the hill. The Winnebagos and Sandwiches had been in swimming and were lying lazily about in the warm sand. Slim sat in the shade of Hinpoha's rock and fanned himself. Even a dip in the cool water made him warm and breathless. Gladys and Migwan were out in a rowboat, washing middies in the lake. "It _is_ peaceful," drawled Katherine, tracing designs in the sand with her forefinger. "One of those days when everything seems in tune and nothing happens to disturb the quiet. By the way, where's Sahwah?" "Gone to St. Pierre with Mr. Evans for the mail," answered Hinpoha. Katherine drew a few more designs in the sand and then rose and sauntered leisurely up the path. The rest lay still. "Ouch, my neck's getting sunburned," said Slim about five minutes later, and picking up Hinpoha's hat he set it on his head and panted across the beach toward the hill. The Captain sent a pebble flying after him, and carried the hat from his head. Slim went on his way without stopping to pick it up. "Slim is absolutely the laziest mortal on the face of this earth," said the Captain, strolling down to the water's edge and wading out to wash the sand off before he, too, started on the upward climb. "Watch me," he called, as he mounted a solitary rock that just reared its nose above the surface of the water, "I'm going to make one more plunge for distance. Will you row out about forty feet," he shouted to Gladys and Migwan, "and see if I can come out beside the boat?" Migwan and Gladys obligingly rowed out as he directed and rested their oars, waiting for him to come. The Captain made a clean leap from the rock and disappeared beneath the surface of the water. "I believe he's going clear under the boat and coming out the other side," said Hinpoha. The interval was growing long and the Captain had not risen to the surface yet. "He's been under almost a minute," said Uncle Teddy, springing up and watching the water keenly. "Where can he be?" He sprang into a boat and hurried along the line the Captain had taken, peering down into the depths. The girls and boys on the beach all hastened down into the water and swam or waded after him. When he was half way out to the rowboat where Migwan and Gladys sat waiting, the Captain's feet suddenly shot out of the water right beside him. Dropping the oars he caught hold of the feet and pulled the Captain into the boat. "What's the matter? What happened?" they all asked as the Captain shook the water out of his eyes and looked around with a relieved expression. "Suck hole, I guess," he said. "I had only gone about twenty-five feet when something caught hold of me and dragged me down, turning me around all the while. It lifted my feet and pulled me down head first, but I managed to hold my breath and not swallow water. Then all of a sudden some other current got ahold of me and shot me up and pretty soon somebody grabbed my feet and there was Uncle Teddy and the boat right beside me. It's a suck hole all right, I think." "Are you sure that was the place, where I pulled you out?" asked Uncle Teddy. "Quite sure," replied the Captain. "I came up right beside the boat." "We'll have to mark the spot in some way," said Uncle Teddy, "so we will know how to avoid it when we are swimming. Let's see, it's right about in line with those twin pines on the bank and about thirty feet from the shore. We'll rig up some sort of a floating buoy there and then give the place a wide berth. It's a good thing it's out of line with our sandy beach, so it won't interfere with any water sports we may want to have there." "Don't look so scared, I'm not drowned," said the Captain to Hinpoha, who was as pale as a ghost. "But you might have been," said Hinpoha in an agitated voice. "I thought I should die until I saw you coming up. I never was so scared." The Captain began to think it was worth while to go down in a suck hole to make Hinpoha feel so much concern about him. "I'm sorry I scared you," he said, "but it really wasn't so terrible after all. I wasn't very much frightened." Boylike, he must begin to boast of his exploit in the presence of his feminine friends. "Please be careful after this," begged Hinpoha. "Those suck holes are dreadful things. Why, once my cousin----" But the incident she intended to relate was never told, for just then a cascade of earth shot by the group on the beach like an express train, carrying with it something that looked like a pinwheel of waving hands and feet, all of which grew out of the head of a donkey. The cascade landed in the water with a mighty splash and from it emerged the forms of Slim, Katherine and Sandhelo, all looking decidedly astonished and not quite sure yet what had happened. A fresh hollow at the top of the hill and a ploughed-up trail of sand all the way down told the story. The earth had given way up there just as it had with the moose in the woods, and the three had tobogganed down the steep hillside into the lake. "I was sitting up there under that tree, just as politely," explained Katherine, her cracked voice shattered utterly by the tumble, "feeding Sandhelo long blades of grass, when Slim came up the path, puffing the way he always does when he climbs the hill, and sat down beside me to get his breath before going on to his tent. Pretty soon a spider ran across his neck and he jumped up and sat down again hard and that time when he sat down he broke through to China and we all went with him." "And down there came rockabye baby and all," sang Migwan, amid the general laughter. "Such a peaceful day," said Hinpoha. Nobody was hurt by the fall, as the sand was soft and the last landing had been in the water, and, as they had all been so frightened at the Captain's adventure a moment before, they became hysterical in their laughter over this last ridiculous accident. "That soft sand track down the hillside looks as if it would make a fine toboggan," remarked the Captain. "Believe I'll try coasting down into the lake." And, suiting the action to the word, he climbed the hill and slid down the sandy cut, landing with a fine splash. The others immediately swarmed up the hill to try the new sport, which was as good as the chute-the-chutes at the big amusement park at home. That was the sight which greeted Sahwah when she came back with Mr. Evans from St. Pierre, bringing the mail. She was sitting out on the very peak of the launch's bow, her feet almost dragging the water, waving the packet of home letters over her head. At the sight of her there was a general scattering in the direction of the tents, for the sliders suddenly remembered that it was dinner time and the mail would be distributed at the table. That night was Council Meeting on the big rock on the bluff. It was the end of Uncle Teddy's and Aunt Clara's Chiefhood, and the reins of government were to fall into the hands of Mr. and Mrs. Evans. After much beating of the tom-tom, Uncle Teddy presented Mr. Evans with a pine branch and Aunt Clara gave Mrs. Evans one, to hang over the door of their tents as a symbol of Chiefhood, "because pine was the _chief_ thing to be found on Ellen's Isle." Mr. and Mrs. Evans accepted the branches gravely, and took their places at the end of the rock reserved for the Chiefs. Then Mr. Evans announced that there was something special to be brought before the Council. He held a letter in his hand and the giggles and whispers came to an abrupt end, and all eyes were turned inquiringly toward him. "It is the power and the pleasure of this Council," he began in a businesslike tone, "to decide all questions regarding the life here at camp. Something has come up now which will require a frank expression of opinion from each one in order to reach a decision. I have here," indicating the sheet in his hand, "a letter from our recent acquaintance, Judge Dalrymple. The judge thanks us profusely for our entertainment of him and his children, and does us the honor to say that he never saw a group of people living together in such perfect harmony, or getting so much pleasure out of life. Then he makes a proposal. He has, among his goods and chattels, a pair of twins, which, as we have reason to suspect, are rather a handful for him to manage. He finds that business calls him back to the city for the entire summer, and as his wife has gone to a sanitarium to recover from nervous prostration, he is at a loss to know what to do with the aforesaid twins. He wants to keep them outdoors all summer, because neither are as strong as they should be. He has a fancy that Ellen's Isle is a good atmosphere in which to make spindly plants grow into hardy ones, and, in short, he asks us, nay, begs and beseeches us, if we will take the twins off his hands for the summer. What does the Council say to acquiring a good pair of twins at a reasonable price?" From all sides there rose a storm of protest. "We wouldn't have those twins up here for anything," said Gladys emphatically. "We had just as much as we could stand of them in two days. Have you forgotten what a cry-baby Antha was?" "And what a snob Anthony was?" said the Captain. "'I guess you didn't get much of a war canoe, did you?' 'I guess your papa can't be very rich, is he?'" The Captain mimicked Anthony's patronizing tone to perfection and recalled the scene vividly to the others. "Our whole summer up here would be ruined," continued Gladys. "Why can't we let well enough alone? This isn't a reform camp for spoiled children. We came up here to rest and play; not to wear ourselves out with people of that kind." Everywhere her sentiments were echoed. Mr. Evans gave no sign of his secret wish that the Council would take the twins. The others did not know the details of the failure of the spring water company, nor the judge's connection with it. "Then the Council decides that we shall turn down the judge's proposition?" asked Mr. Evans. "Let each one register his or her vote, for or against. If you want them to come, say yes, if not, no. Gladys." "No." "Slim." "No." "Migwan." "No." "Dan." "No." "Sahwah." "Nosiree!" "Peter." "No." "Katherine." "May I say something?" asked Katherine, instead of replying directly yes or no. "Certainly," said Mr. Evans, leaning forward a little. Katherine rose and stood in her favorite attitude, with her toes turned in and her shoulders drooped forward. "When the twins were here," she began, "I disliked them as much as the rest of you, and when the Council was asked to decide whether or not they should come I decided to vote no. But I just happened to think what Nyoda said to us at our last Winnebago Council Meeting up in the House of the Open Door, the night she went away forever. She gave the Winnebago fire into our keeping, and said that from it we must light new fires, and that we must begin in earnest to 'pass on the light that has been given us.' She said we should gain an influence over younger girls and show them how to have a good time as we had learned so well ourselves. Now I think the time has come. I think that Antha has been dropped at our door as a special opportunity, and I think that we should take it. "If you folks decide that Antha and her brother may come I will appoint myself her special 'big sister,' and will devote my time to her improvement. So instead of voting 'no,' I wish to vote 'yes.'" "Your point is well taken, Miss Orator," said Mr. Evans with unexplained warmth. "You would make a famous criminal lawyer. You have a line of argument which admits of very little defense. Does anyone else speak for Antha? If three speak for her she may come, like Mowgli in the 'Jungle Book.'" "I speak for her," said the quiet Nakwisi unexpectedly. Nakwisi admired Katherine intensely, and desired to follow her lead in all things. "Two have spoken for her," said Mr. Evans judiciously. "Will there be another?" "I will speak for her," said Hinpoha decidedly. Katherine's words had brought back the scene in the House of the Open Door vividly, and again she heard Nyoda's gentle voice urging them to "pass on the light." Completely melted, she also promised to be a big sister to Antha. Then Gladys and Sahwah and Migwan all spoke up and wanted to know if they could not take back their "no," because they had reconsidered the matter and now agreed with Katherine. "Does anyone speak for the boy, Anthony?" continued Mr. Evans. "I do," said the Captain promptly, who was anxious to find favor in Hinpoha's eyes. Then there was a pause. None of the boys liked Anthony, and they could not honestly say they wanted him. They had no memory of a beloved guardian to influence them. But after a moment Slim spoke up. He generally followed whither the girls led. "I'll be a big sister, or a grandfather or a Dutch uncle to the kid if I have the right to punch his head when he gets too fresh," he said naïvely, and the solemn meeting was stirred by a ripple of laughter. Then the Bottomless Pitt fell into line and said he felt the same about it as Slim did, and that settled the question. Of course, after that there was nothing for the Monkey and Peter and Dan to do but fall into line. Then after their decision had been made entirely by themselves, Mr. Evans rose and told them in a few words why he had been anxious to accommodate the judge, and how glad he was that they were honestly willing to do it. They all blushed under his praise, but all knew down in their hearts that if it hadn't been for Katherine they never would have done it. "How soon will they be here?" asked Gladys. "They are awaiting our answer in St. Pierre," said her father. "And if we are favorably disposed we are to go over with the launch tomorrow and fetch them back." "The die is cast," said Uncle Teddy gravely. "Now for the fireworks!" CHAPTER V THE D�BUT OF EENY-MEENY "The person who invented tan khaki," remarked Katherine, "ought to have a place in the hall of fame along with the other benefactors of humanity. It's as strong as sheet iron, so it doesn't tear even on a barbed wire fence; it doesn't show the mud; grass stains and green paint are positively ornamental. What more could be desired?" Katherine and Slim were sitting on the bluff looking idly over the lake. Around them there was a great silence, for the island was practically deserted. All the other Winnebagos and Sandwiches had gone over to St. Pierre in the launch with Mr. Evans and Uncle Teddy to fetch the Dalrymple Twins. Katherine had been wandering around the island in one of her absent-minded fits when they were ready to start and did not appear when called, and Slim had fallen asleep under a tree and they didn't have the heart to wake him. After they were gone Katherine stumbled upon Slim in the course of her wandering and dropped an acorn down the back of his collar. Slim woke up grumbling that he never could have a moment's peace, but readily accepted Katherine's invitation to sit on the bluff and throw pine cones at the floating signal which marked the suck hole. Katherine, with her usual heedlessness, had slid down part of the grassy embankment, and, as a result, the hem of her skirt was decorated at uneven intervals with large grass stains. She eyed the combination of tan and green thus affected with unconcealed admiration. It was then that she made the remark about the inventor of tan khaki being a benefactor of humanity. Slim tactfully agreed that the grass stains added to the artistic effect of the dress, and added that he thought tan and green were Katherine's special colors. It had just occurred to Slim that Katherine might be persuaded to make a pan of fudge while they waited for the others to return. He leaned back at a comfortable angle and waited for her to digest the compliment. The lake seemed enchanted today, an iridescent pool where fairies bathed. The water had a pale, silvery green tinge, with here and there a great bed of deepest purple encircling a center of bright blue--those contrasts of color which are the marvel of our northern lakes. "Where do those purple places come from?" asked Katherine, with a rapturous sigh for the sheer loveliness of it. "There isn't a cloud in the sky to throw a shadow." To Katherine's eyes, accustomed to unending stretches of prairie, browning under a scorching sun, this blue, cool lake was like a dream of Eden. "Maybe the color comes from below," said Slim, yawning as the light on the water made him sleepy again. "Wouldn't I like to go down underneath the water and lie there, though," he continued dreamily. "On a bed of nice soft sand that the fellows couldn't make collapse, and where you couldn't come along and shove burrs down my neck." "It was an acorn," corrected Katherine serenely. "Wouldn't I have a grand sleep, though," continued Slim, not heeding her interruption. "I'd stay there a week; maybe a month." "Yes," said Katherine, "and come up all covered with moss and with binnacles hanging all over you." Slim suddenly sat upright and shouted. "Binnacles!" he repeated. "That's good. You mean _barnacles_, don't you? Glory! Wouldn't I look great with binnacles hanging all over me!" And Slim leaned against the tree at his back and laughed until he was red in the face. "Well, take whichever you please," said Katherine with dignity, and turned her back on his mirth. Slim saw his dream of fudge fading and realized that he had made a misstep in laughing so loudly. "Don't get mad," he said pleadingly to the back of her head, "I won't tell any of the others what you said. But it was so funny I _had_ to laugh," he said in self-defense. Katherine kept her head turned the other way and remained deaf to his apologies. Slim sat back and looked sad. He hadn't meant to offend Katherine and he wanted her to make fudge. He cudgelled his fat brain for something to say, which would appease her. "Oh, I say----" he began when Katherine turned around so suddenly he almost jumped. "What's that floating out there in the lake?" she said abruptly. "Where?" asked Slim, sitting up. "Out there." Katherine pointed her finger. Slim looked in the direction she pointed. "I don't see anything." "It seems to have gone under," said Katherine, searching the surface for the thing she had seen the moment before. "There it is again," she said excitedly. "It just came up again. "Slim!" she shrieked, springing to her feet and dragging him up with her. "It's--it's a person, and it looks like a woman. It's red. A woman in a red dress. She's drowning. She went down when she disappeared and now she's come up again. Hurry! The little launch! Come on! Hurry!" She dragged Slim down the path so fast it was a miracle they both didn't go head over heels, untied the launch from the landing and sent it flying across the lake in the direction of the drowning woman. Katherine could run the launch as well as Uncle Teddy himself. Slim, panting and speechless, hung over the side trying to keep his eye on the red spot in the shimmery green water. "She's got one arm thrown up for help," he cried above the thumping of the engine. Slim was so softhearted he could not bear to see a creature in distress, and the sight of that arm thrown up in a wild gesture filled him with a quivering horror. He could not bear to look at it and turned his eyes away. Fairly leaping through the water, the launch came on the scene and Katherine stopped the engine. "Don't give up, we're coming," she shouted at a distance of fifteen feet. Slim stood up and prepared to drag the woman over the side. Then he and Katherine began to stare hard. Then they looked at each other. Then they quietly folded up in the bottom of the launch and went into spasms of mirth. "It's--it's----" began Slim, and then choked, while tears of laughter ran down his face. "It's--it's----" began Katherine, and choked, likewise. "It's a wooden lady!" they both shrieked together, with a final successful effort at breath. "Oh, oh, doesn't she look real?" giggled Katherine. "With her arm sticking up like that!" Slim remembered how that arm had nearly given him heart failure a minute ago and shook anew. "She's an Indian lady," said Katherine, leaning over the side to inspect the floating damsel. "She's a cigar store Indian," said Slim. "But she certainly did look real," said Katherine, "bobbing around out here and going under the way she did. Look at her one foot sticking up, too. She certainly had me fooled." "We ought to rescue her, anyway," said Slim gallantly. "It isn't right to let a lady drown under your eyes if she is only a wooden cigar store Indian." In a moment they had her on board and were speeding back to Ellen's Isle. She lay out stiffly in the boat, her painted eyes open in a fixed stare. They carried her up the path and set her against a tree. "She must be having a chill after being drowned," said Slim. "We ought to build a fire and set her beside it." Slim's mind was still on its first idea. It was only a step from fire to fudge. Katherine took up the ridiculous play with alacrity. "You build the fire while I get the blankets," she ordered. A few minutes later Mrs. Evans, who had been spending the afternoon on her bed with a sick headache, opened her eyes to see Katherine standing beside her with an excited, anxious face. "What is it?" she asked quickly. "Oh, Mrs. Evans," said Katherine in an agitated voice, "we just saw a woman drowning in the lake and we brought her in in the launch and we've got blankets and a fire, and, oh! will you please come quickly?" Mrs. Evans sprang to her feet and followed Katherine out of the tent at top speed. Sure enough, in the "kitchen" there was a big fire built, and beside it on the ground lay a figure rolled in blankets. "I'll get some brandy," said Mrs. Evans, turning and running into the tent. She reappeared in a minute with a bottle from the First Aid chest and a spoon. "Here, hold up her head," she commanded Katherine. Katherine lifted up one end of the still figure and turned back the blanket. Mrs. Evans, stooping with the spoonful of brandy in her hand, recoiled with a little scream and sat down heavily, spilling the brandy all over herself. Then Katherine introduced the rescued lady and Mrs. Evans laughed till she cried and declared that her headache had been completely scared out of her. She stood the figure upright and called the others to witness the lifelike attitude. "With her hand stretched out like that, she looks just as though she was counting 'Eeny, meeny, miny, mo,'" she said. "That's just what she does!" exclaimed Katherine. "I've been wondering all the while what that gesture reminded me of. Wouldn't it be great fun to name her Eeny-Meeny?" The name seemed so admirably suited to the droll figure that they began calling her that forthwith. "After such a strenuous experience I think Eeny-Meeny ought to be put to bed," remarked Slim artfully. He was trying to get the decks cleared for action with pan and spoon. "Of course," replied Katherine. "How thoughtless of me not to offer to do it sooner! Come on, poor dear, and have a nice nap. You carry her feet, Slim, and I'll carry her head. Put her in on Hinpoha's bed for a gentle surprise party. Here, hold her head while I slip the pillow underneath." Then she covered Eeny-Meeny carefully with the blanket so that only her outline showed and returned to the fire, which Slim was rapidly reducing to the proportions of a "kettle boiler." "Don't you think," said Slim, as she came up, "that Eeny-Meeny would like some fudge when she wakes up? There's nothing like fudge to restore you after you've been drowned." Katherine agreed with this idea also and soon had the ingredients bubbling in the kettle, while Slim glowed with satisfaction toward the world at large. "Here come the folks!" cried Katherine half an hour later, when the fudge was cool and most of it inside of Slim. "We must run down and tell them the great news." The boys and girls swarmed noisily out of the launch onto the beach, calling back and forth to one another. Slim and Katherine came hurriedly down the path with their fingers on their lips. "Sh-h!" said Katherine. "Don't make so much noise. Hello, Antha; hello, Anthony." She greeted them hurriedly and with a preoccupied air. "What's up?" asked Gladys. "Is mother's headache much worse?" "Sh-h!" said Katherine again. "There's a lady here who's very sick," continued Katherine in a low, grave voice. "She was getting drowned in the lake and Slim and I brought her in in the launch and revived her, and now she's in our tent asleep." A murmur of excitement rose up from the crowd, which Katherine stilled with uplifted hand. "Oh, the poor thing!" said Gladys in a whisper. "How dreadful it must be! Will she be all right now, do you think?" "She's out of danger," replied Katherine, "but she hasn't spoken yet. We worked for more than an hour over her." "Oh, why did I have to miss it?" wailed Sahwah. "After all the drill we've had reviving drowned persons, to think that when a real chance came you should be the only ones on hand!" "May we see her?" asked Gladys. "You may take a peep at her if you will be very quiet," replied Katherine in the tones of a trained nurse. With unnatural quiet they ascended the path to the tents, each resolved not to do anything to make a disturbance. The twins were carried along with them unceremoniously. "Which tent is she in?" asked Gladys. "Ours," replied Katherine. "I laid her on Hinpoha's bed, because I think it's the softest, and, anyhow, it's the only one that doesn't sag in the middle. You don't mind, do you, Hinpoha?" "I mind?" asked Hinpoha reproachfully. "I'm only too glad to let her have it, the poor thing." "Are you perfectly sure we won't disturb her by going in?" asked Gladys again, at the door of the tent. The flaps were down all around. "I think the girls had better go in first," said Katherine. "The boys can wait awhile." The boys fell back at this, and the girls passed into the tent as Katherine held the flap back. They were on tiptoe with excitement, and not a little embarrassed as they saw the long figure on the bed completely wrapped in blankets. A moment later the boys outside, standing around uncertainly, had their nerves shattered by a sudden loud scream of laughter which grew in volume until the tent shook. Then the girls came out, clinging to each other weakly, and doubled up on the ground. "It's--it's----" giggled Hinpoha. Sahwah clapped her hand over her mouth. "Let them look for themselves," she said. The boys made a rush for the tent. In another minute there was a second great roar of laughter, and out came the Sandwiches, dragging Eeny-Meeny with them. Katherine told over and over again the story of the thrilling rescue of Eeny-Meeny and how she had received her name. "What a peach of a mascot she'll make," said the Captain, when Eeny-Meeny's charms had all been inspected. "Sandhelo's too temperamental for the position." "It's too bad we didn't have her for the Argonautic Expedition," said Migwan. "Wouldn't she have looked great fastened on the front of the war canoe for a figurehead? Why, we could set her up on that high bluff like Liberty lighting the world--you could nail a torch to that outstretched hand beautifully." "And we can put her in a canoe filled with flowers and send her over the falls in the St. Pierre River like the Legend of Niagara," said Hinpoha. "Or float her down that little woods on the opposite shore like Elaine," said Gladys. "Elaine didn't go floating along with one arm stuck out like that," objected Sahwah. "Well, we could cover her with a robe of white samite," said Hinpoha, "and she wouldn't look so much as if she were kicking." "But, anyway, we can have more fun than a picnic with her," said Katherine. After supper, with much ceremony and speechifying, Eeny-Meeny was raised up on a flat rock for a platform, with her back to a slender pine, where she stood facing the Council Rock, with one foot forward to preserve her balance and her right arm extended toward the councilors, looking for all the world as if she were separating the sheep from the goats, and counting "Eeny, meeny, miny, mo!" CHAPTER VI THE VOYAGEURS When Katherine and the Captain became Chiefs the following Monday night, they announced that the Principal Diversion for that week would be a canoe trip up the river they had followed on foot in their search for the moose. This little river flowed into the lake at a point just opposite Ellen's Isle, running between high, frowning cliffs at its mouth. "It's to be a sure enough 'exploraging' party," continued Katherine, "and we won't come back the same day." A cheer greeted her words. "Won't the war canoe look fine sweeping up the river?" asked Migwan, seeing the picture in her mind's eye. "This will be a bigger Argonautic Expedition than the other." "We won't be able to take this trip in the war canoe," spoke up Uncle Teddy. "From what I have seen of that little river it is too shallow in places to float a canoe. If we made the trip in the small canoes we could get out and carry them along the shore when we came to the shallow places, which we couldn't do with the war canoe very easily." "Oh, I'm so glad we're going in the small canoes," said Sahwah, delighted. "It's lots more epic. Of course," she added hastily, "it's heavenly in the war canoe, all paddling together, but it isn't nearly so exciting. There one person does the steering and it's always Uncle Teddy, but in a small canoe you can do your own steering. And, besides," she continued in a heartfelt tone, "there's no chance of the war canoe's tipping, and there always is in a little one." "I take it that upsetting a canoe is one of the chief joys in life for you," remarked Uncle Teddy. "No trip complete for you without an upset, eh? I must make a note of that, and pack all the valuable cargo in the other canoes. And I shall order the crew of your vessel to wear full dress uniform all the time, namely, your bathing suits." The weather was fine and dry and, according to the signs as interpreted by Uncle Teddy, would remain so for the next few days. Orders were given to start immediately after breakfast the next morning. Ponchos had to be rolled for this trip, as they intended camping in the woods somewhere for one or, perhaps, two nights. "Don't tell Antha we're going to sleep on the ground," Gladys warned the others diplomatically, "or she'll make a fuss before we start." "We'll save that for a pleasant surprise," said Sahwah, with a grin over her shoulder. No special time had been set for the return of the "exploraging" party. They were simply going to paddle up the river as far as they could go and then turn back. The camp looked like an army preparing to move that Tuesday morning. Blankets were being stripped from beds and spread out on ponchos while their owners raced around hunting for the rest of their belongings which should go in. "Where's my toothbrush?" demanded Gladys, having turned the tent upside down in her search for the missing article. "Katherine, if you've borrowed it to stir that villainous paint mixture you were daubing Eeny-Meeny with I'll----" "What's that sticking out of the hole in the floor?" interrupted Katherine, pointing to the corner behind the bed. "Why, that's it," said Gladys. "I remember now, I poked it into that hole last night." "Whatever did you put it into that hole for?" asked Hinpoha curiously. "Why, after I was in bed," answered Gladys, "I got to thinking about that hole and how spiders and things could come crawling through and walk right into my bed, and I had no peace of mind until I got up and stuffed it. And the only thing I could find to stuff it with was the handle of my toothbrush. Then I went to sleep in peace." "As if all the spiders in the world couldn't walk in at the side of the tent," jeered Hinpoha. "I know it," said Gladys, laughing shamefacedly, "but somehow the spiders that might be coming in at the sides didn't bother me a bit, while those that might be coming through the hole did." "'Consistency, thou art a jewel,'" quoted Katherine, laughing. "What are the boys doing?" asked Hinpoha, hearing a commotion outside. The Captain was running toward the path, waving something over his head, and Slim was hot after him trying to get it away. "Oh, it's the thermos bottle," called Sahwah, who had run out after the two. Ever since Slim had taken the thermos bottle full of hot chocolate with him the time they went on the snowshoe hike, he had never been allowed to forget it. Wherever Slim went that thermos bottle was taken along for his benefit. The Captain had even taken it along to a school party and gravely handed it to Slim when he was trying to appear especially dignified in the presence of a stately young lady. This time Slim caught the Captain and downed him at the head of the path and they struggled for its possession while the onlookers held their breath for fear they would both roll down the hill. Slim finally got it away from the Captain, and succeeded in hiding it where it could not be found in time to take along. "What's going to be the order of procession?" asked Aunt Clara when they had finally got all their impedimenta down on the dock. "You and Uncle Teddy will be in the first canoe," said Katherine. Since she and the Captain were the Chiefs they had the right to be commanders of the trip, but they willingly agreed to let Uncle Teddy have that responsibility, as he was able to engineer a canoe party and they were not. "Let Katherine and the Captain go in the canoe with you," suggested Mr. Evans. "Then they can pretend they are commanding the expedition." Mr. and Mrs. Evans were not going on this trip. "No," said Uncle Teddy, "I would rather have my first aids in the last boat. Then they can watch the whole line of canoes ahead of them and see that everything is all right." So Katherine and the Captain had the place of honor at the tail of the line. When they were nearly ready to start, Katherine, who had returned to the tents for something, came toiling down the hill, carrying in her arms the stiff figure of Eeny-Meeny. "We can't go without our mascot," she said. "Didn't the old Greeks and Romans carry their household gods with them, and didn't the Indians take their 'Medicine' along on all their journeys? As fourth assistant sub-head of this expedition I use my authority to declare that she shall be taken along. There is one canoe left and we can tie that behind mine and tow her. Mayn't we, Uncle Teddy?" "You're the Chief this week," said Uncle Teddy, throwing up his hands in a helpless gesture. "You have the right to say whether she shall go or not. If you agree to tow her yourself I certainly have no objections to her going along. But remember, towing her will include carrying her overland when we come to the shallow places." "Now lie still and be good," admonished Katherine, when Eeny-Meeny had been laid in the canoe, looking ridiculously undignified with her one arm and foot sticking up in the air. "All ready there?" shouted Uncle Teddy from up front. "All right, cast off." The line of canoes moved forward. Nakwisi was up in the first canoe with Uncle Teddy and Aunt Clara, while the Bottomless Pitt made the fourth passenger. After them came Hinpoha and Slim, paddling the second canoe with Antha and Dan as passengers; then Sahwah and the Monkey, paddling Migwan and Anthony; and lastly, Katherine and the Captain with Gladys and Peter Jenkins, and Eeny-Meeny traveling in state behind them. The lake was smooth and paddling was easy. They sang as they bent to their paddles, as voyageurs of old. Soon they came to the mouth of the narrow river and ran in between the high banks. The current was strong and the paddling immediately became harder work. "I bet Slim loses five pounds on this trip," called out the Captain. "See him perspire!" "I'll bet he gains five," answered Katherine. "Working hard will give him such an appetite that he'll eat twice as much as he usually does. Too bad we didn't bring that thermos bottle; he will be wanting some nourishment very soon if he keeps up at that rate." Slim heard the jokes at his expense being tossed back and forth over his head, but his exertions had rendered him too breathless to say a word of protest. They passed the place where Uncle Teddy had called the moose with the birchbark trumpet on the occasion of the Calydonian Hunt. "Why don't you call another moose, Uncle Teddy?" asked Sahwah. "I should think there would be lots of them around." "I don't think so," replied Uncle Teddy. "This is a bit too far south for them. That other moose probably didn't live in these woods; he was just traveling here; spending his vacation, probably. And, like a good many of his human brothers, he didn't take his wife along with him. There were no signs of another." "He would have done better to stay at home with his wife," remarked Aunt Clara, "and then his head and his hide wouldn't be over in St. Pierre now, getting respectively mounted and tanned." "Mercy, but this is hard pulling," groaned Katherine, as they went farther and farther up against the swift current. Those up in the forward boats thought the same thing and the paddles were not dipping with anywhere near the briskness and regularity with which they started out. "This won't do!" shouted Katherine, making a trumpet of her hands. "We look like a row of lame ducks limping along. Get some style into your paddling. Let's sing and paddle in time to the music." Her voice cracked as usual and Gladys had to start the chorus: "Pull long, pull strong, my bonny brave crew, The winds sweep over the waters blue, But blow they high, or blow they low, It's all the same to Wohelo! "Yo ho, yo ho, It's all the same to Wohelo!" It is astonishing how much better everything goes to music. The ragged paddling straightened out into steady, rhythmic dipping; drooping backs stiffened up, and aching arms regained their energy. "That's the way!" shouted Katherine. "Now we have some style about us. This canoe seems much lighter than it did a few minutes ago. Hurrah for music!" Just at this moment her alert senses told her that something was wrong. She twisted her head backward and then she saw that the sudden lightening of the canoe was not due to the beneficial effects of music. For the canoe, which they had been towing, was no longer fastened to them. Far behind them they saw it, traveling rapidly back to the lake with the swift current, carrying with it their mascot Eeny-Meeny, her arm visible above the sides of the canoe, stretched out to them in a beseeching gesture. "Halt!" cried Katherine in a fearful voice, which broke in the middle of the word and leaped up fully two octaves. "What's the matter?" shouted Uncle Teddy, looking back in alarm. "We've lost Eeny-Meeny!" screeched Katherine. A roar of laughter went up from all the canoes, as the occupants, carefully turning their heads so as not to disturb the balance of their frail barks, caught sight of that runaway canoe with the imploring arm visible over the side. "I'll go after her!" said Katherine, bringing her canoe up alongside the bank and unceremoniously inviting Gladys and Peter to get out and lighten the boat. Then she and the Captain headed around into the current and started downstream paddling for dear life. It was so much easier going down than coming up that they fairly flew over the water, and caught up with Eeny-Meeny just before she reached the mouth of the river and went sailing out on the wide bosom of the lake. She was fastened on more firmly this time, and then began the long, hard paddle upstream again to overtake the others. Katherine would have been game to go on paddling all day rather than say Eeny-Meeny was a bother to tow, but she was very glad of the order given by Uncle Teddy, which gave her a chance to sit in the bottom of the canoe and do nothing but look at the scenery and keep an eye on Eeny-Meeny, lest she should give them the slip again. The change of paddlers brought Anthony to the place of bow paddler in the third canoe. "Now you'll see some real paddling," was his gracious remark when he took the seat the Monkey had vacated in his favor. "Look out you don't run over any snags," cautioned the Monkey. "There are some sharp stumps under the surface of the water and they're ugly customers." "You don't need to tell me about them," replied Anthony pertly, "I guess I know how to paddle as well as you do. You don't always need to be handing me directions how to do things." And he started off with a series of jerky dips, which set the canoe swaying from side to side so that Migwan had an effort to keep it straight in the line of the others. "Steady there, you third bow paddler," shouted Uncle Teddy, and Anthony subsided. In the last canoe Katherine and Gladys were lustily shouting: "Sing a song of paddling, A canoe full of Slim, Four and twenty haystacks Ain't as wide as him. When the boat goes over Won't there be a splash? All the fishes in the brook Will turn into hash!" The other canoes took up the song and shouted it until Slim, throwing handfuls of water in every direction, sprinkled the singers into silence. The country through which they were passing was for the most part thick woods. Sometimes there was a narrow meadow on each side of the river with the trees in the distance, sometimes there was a swamp, but more often they were passing between high bluffs crowned with forests. At times it was actually gloomy down there in the narrow passage, for the sun was behind the trees high above them; then again as the banks became low the hot sun shone unmercifully on their heads and made their eyes ache as it sparkled on the ripples. Just as they had settled down to nice steady paddling and were making good progress upstream, Uncle Teddy called out that he was aground. The river bed seemed suddenly to rise up and strike the bottom of the canoes. A few feet back the water was swift and deep; here a sand bar stretched across their path and brought them to a stop. "We'll have to get out and carry the canoes around," said Uncle Teddy, stepping over the side into the shallow water and pushing his canoe back where it would float. Then they all had to step ashore and "paddle the canoes with their feet," as the Bottomless Pitt called it. Slim began carefully lifting the "grub" supplies out of his canoe and piling them on the ground. "What are you doing that for?" asked Hinpoha. "So they won't fall out when we carry it, of course," replied Slim. "Just how were you planning to carry it?" asked Hinpoha curiously. "Why, on our heads, to be sure," said Slim. "Silly," said Hinpoha, "of course we won't carry them on our heads these few steps. We'll carry them right side up and leave all the supplies in." "I thought you always had to carry a canoe on your head when you made a portage," said Slim sheepishly, amid the laughter of the rest. "They always do it that way in the pictures," he defended himself. Katherine had double work, for in addition to her own canoe with its cargo, she had Eeny-Meeny to transport. But the Captain gallantly helped her and Eeny-Meeny made her overland journey with perfect ease. "This is a case of 'turn about is fair play,'" said Gladys. "First your canoe carries you and then you carry the canoe." On the other side of the sand bar the fleet was launched again and the interrupted paddling resumed. They were just going nicely when Uncle Teddy shouted, "Halt! We have to lighten the boats!" "What for?" shrieked Katherine in alarmed amazement. "Dinner time!" replied Uncle Teddy, and they all shouted with laughter again. Everybody had been quite frightened at his command to lighten the boats. They went ashore and cooked dinner over a fire of driftwood and succeeded in lightening the boats considerably. After an hour's rest in the shade of a large tree they pushed forward again. Only twice during the afternoon did they see any signs of people. In both instances it was a single tent set up among the trees by hardy folks who preferred the wilderness to the fashionable resorts along the lake front. Near one of the tents stood a man and a boy and they waved a friendly greeting to the voyageurs, who raised their paddles all together in salute. "Quite some style to that salute," said Katherine, and in her enthusiasm she brought her paddle down flat on the water with a mighty whack, showering those around her. "Oh, I say," cried Gladys in protest, "please bottle up your rapture. I'm drenched already. I don't know what would happen if you ever got really enthusiastic about anything." "I'm sorry," said Katherine apologetically, then with a lapse into her negro dialect, "Ah reahly couldn't help it. Ah got such protuberant spirits, Ah has! Ah 'clar to goodness----" "What's the matter up there? Why don't you go on?" The clear voice of the Captain cut sharply through Katherine's nonsense. "The third canoe has run on a snag," somebody called in answer. "Just as I expected," said the Captain under his breath. "That lobster of an Anthony doesn't know enough to watch out for snags." It was characteristic of the Winnebagos and the Sandwiches that there was no noise or confusion over the mishap. Everybody sat quiet while Uncle Teddy paddled alongside the impaled canoe and gave directions for releasing her. In a minute she was floating clear again, but with an eight-inch rip in the bottom, through which the water began to press rapidly. The snag was the broken stump of a tree, which had pierced the wood like a lance. "Paddle over to shore," commanded Uncle Teddy, and the disabled vessel was soon lying up on the sandy bank with her crew standing around inspecting the damage. The others landed also and stood waiting for orders what to do next. "Will we have to carry the canoe all the way back by land?" asked Slim anxiously, already fearing that he would have to help do the carrying and ready to put up a telling argument why Anthony should carry it all the way back alone, since he had been so clever as to run it on a snag. "Mercy, no," said Uncle Teddy. "Here is where traveling in a canoe has the advantage over every other mode of travel. All you have to do is fill the rip with pine pitch, harden it, and she's as good as ever. Company disperse into the woods and seek pine pitch. Forward march!" The pitch was procured and Uncle Teddy mixed it with grease. Then he laid a piece of canvas over the hole, smeared it with the pitch mixture and hardened it by searing with a torch. All that took time and the afternoon was gone before they had finished the mending. "Company seek sleeping quarters!" commanded Uncle Teddy, after a consultation with Aunt Clara, who was of the opinion that this was as good a place as any to spend the night. The pines were close together and the ground was dry and soft with its thick carpet of needles. As the ground was alike on both sides of the river the boys and Uncle Teddy decided to cross and make their camp on the other side, a little farther up around a bend. The two camps were hidden from each other by the thick bushes that fringed both banks of the river, but were not too far away from each other to be handy in case of emergency. Sleeping sites were soon picked out and the ponchos and blankets spread out on the ground. Of course, Antha made a fuss when she discovered the mode of sleeping and it took considerable coaxing to get her to consent. She was afraid of snakes; she was afraid of bugs; she was afraid of being carried away bodily. It was only when Katherine promised to be her sleeping partner and keep tight hold of her hand all night that she ceased her fussing. Great was the laughter as Katherine's poncho was unrolled and her laundry bag, full of clothes waiting to be washed, tumbled out. In her haphazard and absent-minded packing she had taken it instead of her pillow. Katherine promptly tied the bag shut and declared it was as good as any pillow. "You won't think so by the time the night is over," warned Hinpoha. "You've never slept on the ground before, but after this time you'll never forget your pillow again. That fact will be firmly fixed even in your forgetful mind." While supper was cooking, Hinpoha and the Captain, who had gone exploring on foot on the pretext of gathering firewood, reported a small waterfall a short distance up the river. A waterfall on the premises was too valuable a stage "prop" not to be used, and Hinpoha was soon seized with an inspiration. "Let's do our Legend of Niagara stunt here after supper," she proposed. "It'll be such fun to send Eeny-Meeny over the falls in the canoe. There isn't a particle of danger of dashing the boat to pieces on the rocks because there aren't any rocks below the falls, and even if Eeny-Meeny does fall out en route, we can fish her out again and drain her off. I think a waterproof heroine is the greatest thing that was ever invented!" In the soft glow of the sunset the great tragedy took place. The spectators sat around on the river banks and cheered the canoe as it appeared above the falls, filled with pine branches on which reposed the lovely form of Eeny-Meeny, her brows crowned with wreaths and a flowering branch in her outstretched hand. With increasing swiftness the canoe approached the falls, poised on the brink a moment, then tilted forward and shot downward, turning over and over and spilling Eeny-Meeny and her piney bed into the river. As the spill occurred, Hinpoha and Gladys and Sahwah and Katherine, who were playing the parts of the bereaved companions of the sacrificed maiden, tore their hair and uttered blood-curdling shrieks of despair. Just at that moment, with a suddenness which took their breath away, a man appeared on the river bank, coming apparently from the woods, and cried loudly, "Be calm! I will save her!" And, flinging his coat off, he sprang into the water before anyone could say Jack Robinson. He swam out to the form bobbing in the current, her arm thrown up as if for help; grasped that arm and then uttered a long, choking sputter, shoved Eeny-Meeny violently away from him and swam back to shore. They made valiant attempts not to laugh when he crawled out on the bank, dripping and disgusted. From his appearance he was an Englishman. He was dressed in a sort of golfing suit, with short, baggy trousers and long, checked stockings. He had sandy whiskers which were dripping water in a stream. Such a ludicrous sight he was as he stood there, with his once natty suit all limp and clinging, that, one by one, the boys and girls dissolved into helpless giggles. Uncle Teddy managed to hold on to his composure long enough to explain how it happened that Eeny-Meeny went over the falls in such a spectacular manner. The Englishman stared at him open mouthed. "Well, really!" he drawled at last in a voice which expressed doubts as to their sanity, and the few who had maintained straight faces so far lost control of themselves. Uncle Teddy offered the would-be rescuer dry clothing, but he declined, saying he and a friend had pitched a tent only a quarter of a mile up the river and he would hasten back there. The two of them were on a walking trip, he explained, making frequent stops where there was fishing. While his friend had been cooking supper this evening he had strolled off by himself and had come through the woods just in time to see Eeny-Meeny go over the falls. In the failing light he had mistaken her for a real person. "Oh, I say," he called back after he had started to take his departure, "if you should happen to run into my friend anywhere would you be so kind as not to mention this--er--mistake of mine? He is something of a joker and I am afraid he would repeat the story where it would cause me some embarrassment." And he solemnly withdrew, leaving them to indulge their mirth to their hearts' content. "Poor old Eeny-Meeny," said Katherine, "she seems born to be rescued. She must bear a charmed life. It's a case of 'Sing Au Revoir but not Good-bye' when she goes to meet a tragic fate." She dried Eeny-Meeny off with bunches of grass and stood her up against a tree to guard their "boudoir" for the night. "Hinpoha," said Gladys, drawing her aside when they were ready to retire, "what do you think of watching tonight? I've never done it and I'm crazy to try it once." "You mean sit up all night?" asked Hinpoha. "Yes," answered Gladys. "Go off a little way from the others and build a small fire and sit there in the still woods and watch. Nyoda always wanted me to do it some time, and I promised her I would if I got a chance." "We'd better ask Aunt Clara about it first," said Hinpoha. Aunt Clara said that after such a strenuous day's paddling, and with the prospect of another one before them it would be out of the question for them to sit up all night, but they might stay up until midnight if they chose and sleep several hours later in the morning. Everyone else was too dead tired to want to sit up, so the two of them departed quietly into the woods where they could not hear the voices of the others and built a tiny fire. The proper way to keep watch in the woods is to do it all alone, but Hinpoha and Gladys compromised by agreeing not to say one word to each other all the while they sat there, but to think their own thoughts in absolute silence. If the city girl thinks there is not a sound to be heard in the woods at night she should keep the watch some time and listen. Beside the calls of the whippoorwill and the other night birds, there are a hundred little noises that seem to be voices talking to one another in some soft, mysterious language. There are little rustlings, little sighings, little scurryings and patterings among the dry leaves, drowsy chirpings and plaintive croakings. The old workaday world seems to have slipped out of existence and a fairy world to have taken its place. And the girl who truly loves nature and the wide outdoors will not be frightened at being alone in the woods at night. It is like laying her ear against the wide, warm heart of the night and hearing it beat. And to sit by a lonely watch fire in the woods in the dead of night is to unlock the doors of romance. Strange fancies flitted through the minds of the two girls as they sat there, and thoughts came which would never have come in daylight. Somehow they felt in the calmness of the night the nearness of God and the presence of the Great Mystery. All the petty little daylight perplexities faded from reality; their souls became serene, while their hearts beat high with ambition and resolve. They had no desire to speak to each other; each was planning out her life on a nobler scale; each was steeped in peace profound. Without warning they were roused from their reverie by a startled yell that shattered the silence and made the night hideous. "What's the matter?" they both shrieked, starting to their feet in great fright. The yell had come from the direction of the girls' sleeping place, and, taking to their heels, Gladys and Hinpoha sped through the woods to their friends. There they found everybody up and standing around with their blankets over their shoulders. A fire had been left burning in an open space and beside this, Aunt Clara, looking like an Indian squaw, was talking to a man who looked as if he might be a brother of the man who had jumped into the river after Eeny-Meeny that evening. "What's the matter?" they asked of Katherine. "He ran into Eeny-Meeny," explained Katherine, "and it scared the wits out of him." There was another rush of feet and Uncle Teddy and the Sandwiches came on a dead run. They had heard the yell and were coming to see what was the matter. The strange man in the Norfolk suit, nearly dead from embarrassment, explained that he and his friend were camping some distance up the river and his friend had gone out walking in the early evening and come home with dripping clothes, having accidentally fallen into the river. Here the girls and boys looked at each other and had much ado to keep their faces straight. The friend had gone to bed and later in the evening had been taken with a severe chill. He had happened to mention that he passed a large camping party in his walk. Seeing the light of the fire through the trees and taking it to be this camp which his friend had seen he had taken the liberty of walking over to ask if Uncle Teddy had any brandy. But before he had seen any of the campers or come near enough to hail them he had run into something in the darkness, and upon scratching a match was horrified to see an Indian girl tied to a tree. (Katherine had tied Eeny-Meeny up so she wouldn't fall over in the night.) In his fright he had cried out, and that was what had aroused the camp. He was very sorry, but he had never come upon an Indian in the woods at night, even a wooden cigar store one, and thought he might be pardoned for being frightened. His exclamation when Eeny-Meeny was explained to him was just like that of his friend: "Well, really!" And there was that same shade of doubt in his voice as to the sanity of people who carried such a thing along with them on a canoe trip. "Oh--I say," he called back, when Uncle Teddy had given him a small flask of brandy and pointed out the nearest route back, "if you should happen to run into my friend anywhere while you are in these woods would you be so kind as not to mention this--er--mistake of mine? He is something of a joker, and I am afraid if this story came to his ears he would repeat it where it would cause me some embarrassment." And he departed as solemnly as the other had done, leaving the campers limp with merriment. The next day they ascended the river as far as they could go, with nothing more exciting than the dropping overboard of Katherine's poncho. On the return trip the punctured canoe began to leak, so her crew and supplies were transferred to Eeny-Meeny's canoe and she was towed along in the leaky one, with frequent stops to bail out the water when she seemed in danger of being swamped. They spent the second night in the same place where they had spent the first, and this time there was no disturbance. They mended the leaky canoe again and Eeny-Meeny finished her trip in comparative dryness. "Oh, dear," said Katherine, when they were back at Ellen's Isle once more, and had finished telling Mr. and Mrs. Evans their adventures, "what was there in life worth living for anyway, before we had Eeny-Meeny?" CHAPTER VII A FAST AND A SILENCE Being Chief that week it was Katherine's duty to blow the rising horn in the morning. The day after the return from the canoe trip was the morning for war canoe practice. The crew practised three mornings a week before breakfast. Katherine, who had gone to sleep with the idea firmly fixed in her mind that she must wake by a quarter to seven so that she could rouse the others, awoke with a start, dreaming that she had overslept and the others had tied her in her bed and gone off without her. The world was dull and grey and covered with a chilly mist. There was nothing to inspire a desire to go war canoe practicing. Katherine was still tired from the strenuous paddling of the past two days, and she stretched in delicious comfort under the covers. Then she pulled her watch from under her pillow and looked at it. "Gracious!" she exclaimed, sitting bolt upright in bed. "It's ten after seven. I have overslept! It's so grey this morning it seems much earlier." She seized the horn and blew a mighty blast at the other girls, who were still sleeping peacefully. One by one they opened their eyes drowsily. "Get up!" shouted Katherine. "We've overslept! This is the morning for crew practice and it's ten after seven already." "Seems as if I'd just fallen asleep," grumbled Hinpoha, half rising from the pillow and then sinking down into its warm depths again. "It's horrid and misty out," sighed Gladys. "Do we have crew practice if it isn't a nice day?" "We certainly do," said Katherine emphatically, buttoning the last button of her bathing suit and departing to wake the others. In the next tent she encountered the same sleepy protest. "I didn't think we went out when it was misty," said Migwan, regretfully leaving the warm embrace of her blankets. "I'm _so_ comfortable," sighed Nakwisi. Katherine stood in the doorway with arms akimbo and delivered her mind. "What kind of sports are you, anyway? Just because it's cold and misty you want to stay in bed all day and sleep. It's no test of energy to get out on a fine morning and paddle a canoe, that's pure fun; a cold, wet day is the real test of sportsmanship. What kind of Winnebagos are you? You sing: "'We always think the weather's fine in sunshine or in snow,' and then when the chance comes to prove it you back down." "We haven't backed down," said Migwan hastily, "and we aren't going to. See, I'm up already." And she reached for her bathing suit. Katherine passed out of the tent and took her position on the high place between the two encampments where her horn would awaken the boys. It took no end of lusty blowing before she heard the answering shout that told they had heard and were getting up. "Such a bunch of sleepy heads," she called aloud to the trees. "They paddle a few miles and think they're killed and have to sleep a week to make up for it. I won't have it while I'm Chief. We must get hardened down to all kinds of weather or else we're not true sports." And she marched back to her tent to see that none of the girls had slipped back to bed while she was out. They were all grumbling and yawning, but were dutifully getting into their bathing suits. "Mine's wet," wailed Hinpoha, "and--ouch! it's cold. I forgot to hang it up after our swim last night. I think it's cruelty to animals to make a person get into a wet bathing suit." "Serves you right for not hanging it up," said Katherine imperturbably. It was a chilly and unenthusiastic crew that manned the war canoe a few minutes later. The boys had been just as reluctant to leave their beds as the girls, though none of them would admit it. Katherine lectured them all on their doleful countenances and repeated her remarks about the test of sportsmanship. After that nobody dared open their mouths about the unpleasantness of the weather; in dogged silence they dipped their paddles and pushed out into the greyness. "Sing something," commanded Katherine, "and put a little life into your paddling! Ready now, 'We pull long, we pull strong.'" And obediently they opened their mouths and sang, but it sounded all out of tune and they couldn't keep together no matter how hard they tried. "Did the lake ever look so big and cold to you before?" asked Hinpoha in a forlorn voice after the attempt at singing had been given up. "And St. Pierre looks about a thousand miles away, and all grey and shabby," said Gladys. "Do you think it will rain so much today that we can't go over to St. Pierre with the little launch engine?" asked the Captain. "No telling," said Uncle Teddy, vainly trying to stifle a telltale yawn. Uncle Teddy was secretly wishing that Katherine had overslept with the rest of them and did not have such a tremendous idea of good sportsmanship. But, being a thorough sport, he shook himself out of his drowsiness and shouted the paddling commands lustily. "One, two! One, two! Click stroke! Ready, dip!" And the paddles clicked and dipped, as the paddlers began to feel the energy rising in their systems. "Water wheel!" shouted Uncle Teddy, and the paddles flashed backward in a wide circle between each dip. "Wasn't that fun?" said Sahwah. "I'm getting wider awake every minute. You were right about making us get up, Katherine. If I'd slept as long as I wanted to I'd have felt 'dumpy' all day, but now I feel fine and just full of pep." "So do I," said Gladys. "I don't," said Hinpoha dolefully. "I guess I'm not much of a sport, but I'm getting sleepier every minute." "You girls talk too long before you go to sleep nights," said the Captain. "That's why you're not ready to get up in the morning. We can hear you away down in our tents, long after we're asleep." "How can you hear us after you're asleep?" demanded Katherine, and the Captain, caught in a bull, subsided in confusion. "Well, anyway," said Hinpoha, "I'm going back to bed as soon as we land and sleep until breakfast time. I'm not going for a dip this morning." "You can't sleep," said Katherine, the martinet, "you're on breakfast duty. And you'll have to step lively at that, for it's late this morning and the animals will all be hungry." "What time is it?" asked Sahwah. "It must be pretty near eight," answered Katherine. "Wait a minute until I look at my watch." She fished around in the pocket of her sweater, pulling out first half a comb, then several peanuts, and finally the watch. "It's ten after seven," she said. "Why, it can't be that--that's what it was when I got up. The watch has stopped. I don't know what time it is, but it must be nearly eight." Just then a tiny golden beam fell on the water in front of the canoe. "It's clearing up," said Sahwah joyfully. "It isn't going to rain after all today." She twisted her head upward to see where the sun was breaking through the clouds. "Why----" she exclaimed in bewilderment, "where is the sun?" They all looked around. There was the sun, just beginning to peep over the eastern horizon. "It's--it's just rising!" said Katherine, dumbfounded. "Did it oversleep, too?" "No, it didn't," said Uncle Teddy. "Old Sol is the one person who always wakes on time. And at this season of the year his time is about four o'clock A. M." "It's only four o'clock!" they all shouted. "Katherine, you wretch, you pulled us out of our beds at half past three! You did it on purpose!" But one glance at Katherine's amazed face dispelled all doubts on that score, and set them into a wild gale of laughter. If ever a person was taken aback it was Katherine. "My watch must have stopped at ten after seven last night," she said sheepishly. "I remember now, I didn't wind it. No wonder it was so grey and misty we thought it was going to rain!" "The real test of sportsmanship!" scoffed the Captain. "I should say we were some fine sports, getting up at half past three the morning after a canoe trip and going out to crew practice!" "And me getting into a wet bathing suit!" mourned Hinpoha. "I think I ought to have a Carnegie medal for that." Even the sun seemed to be laughing, as he climbed up over the rim of the water and turned the wavelets into gold. They paddled back to the dock as fast as they could go, laughing so they could hardly dip their paddles, and singing, "Hail to the Chief who at sunrise advances!" Arrived at the dock they scurried up the path and got back into bed as soon as they could, and journeyed back into the land of dreams without delay. Katherine refused to blow the rising horn at all, but let them sleep as long as they wanted to, and it was nine o'clock before the first one stirred. Breakfast was served at ten instead of at eight, and was the most hilarious meal they had eaten since coming to Ellen's Isle. Song after song was made up about Katherine's "False alarm" and her "rising qualities." Finally they rose from the table and putting their hands on each other's shoulders they formed a circle around her and danced a snake dance, singing: "For she's a really good sportsman, For she's a really good sportsman, For she's a really good sportsman, Which no one can deny!" "Don't be cross, Katherine," said Gladys, running from the circle to put her arms around her. "We're horrid, nasty things to make such fun of you, but it was _such_ a good joke on you!" "Oh, I'll forgive you all," said Katherine magnanimously, "but I still have a sneaking suspicion that the joke was on _you_!" "All aboard for St. Pierre," cried Uncle Teddy. "How many of you boys want to come along? Company form ranks on the pier!" There was a wild scramble down the hill to be on time, for it was an invariable rule that those who were not there when the boat was ready to start were left behind. There was no waiting for laggards. They all made it this time and chugged out of sight, still hearing echoes of the laughter on Ellen's Isle. It took so long to get the engine fixed that they decided to wait over and have dinner at St. Pierre. While they were eating there a big, bronzed man walked up and slapped Uncle Teddy on the shoulder. Uncle Teddy greeted him joyfully. "Hello, Colonel Berry! Where in the firmament did you come from?" "Oh, I just rained down," said the big stranger, laughing. "But talking about firmaments, just what are _you_ doing in this corner of the country?" Uncle Teddy explained, and introduced Mr. Evans and the boys. "These are the Sandwiches," he said, including them all in a comprehensive wave of his hand, whereat Colonel Berry roared with laughter. "Boys, meet Colonel C. C. Berry, the best woodsman in fourteen states, and the best goodfellow in the world." The boys acknowledged the introduction with great politeness and respect, but Colonel Berry insisted on shaking hands all around, "just as if we were senators," the Captain explained afterward. Mr. Evans immediately invited Colonel Berry to visit them at Ellen's Isle, and the Sandwiches all echoed the plea eagerly, just as if he had been an old and beloved friend instead of a new acquaintance. The colonel replied that his business would take him out of St. Pierre the following evening, but he would be delighted to run over and spend that night with them on Ellen's Isle. It was not without considerable pride that Mr. Evans pointed out "his island" to Colonel Berry later in the afternoon as the launch approached it on their return home. The way affairs were run on that little island was something to be proud of, as he well knew, and which even a distinguished camper and woodsman must admire. The boys were busy describing the wonders of Ellen's Isle and kept saying, "Wait until you see our girls. Wait until you see Sahwah dive off the bow of the war canoe and Gladys hold a parasol over her head when she swims. Wait until you eat some of Hinpoha's slumgullion!" "I'm surprised they're not all down on the landing waiting for us," said Mr. Evans, as they ran the launch in. "They generally are. But they'll be down immediately." Making a trumpet of his hands he called, "Oh, Mother! Gladys! Aunt Clara!" There was no answer. "They must be in the tents," he said. "Come on up." He helped the colonel up the steep path and shouted again. Still no answer. He went over to Mrs. Evans' tent. The sides were rolled up and it was empty. So was the other one. "They must be away at the other end of the island," said Mr. Evans. He struck into the path which led up the men's encampment, and which ran through the "kitchen." The fire, which was generally burning there around supper time, was carefully laid, but not lighted. "Where can they be?" said Mr. Evans to Uncle Teddy in a puzzled tone. Just then his eye fell on a piece of paper tucked under the handle of the water bucket. Wonderingly he opened it and read: "Dear men folks: "Seeing that you have found amusement for the day we have gone on a picnic to the Point of Pines. We will stay all night if the sleeping is good. Everything is ready for supper; just help yourselves." "Of all things!" exclaimed Mr. Evans in vexation. "Just the day we have a guest I am particularly anxious to have them meet they take it into their heads to go off and spend the night. Where on earth is the Point of Pines?" Nobody seemed to know just where it was, but they all remembered hearing the girls talking about it and hearing them say that some time when it was dry they were going over there by themselves with Aunt Clara and Mrs. Evans and have a "hen party." The general idea was that the Point of Pines was a long point running out into the water on the mainland to the north of them, where the pines grew very tall and close together. "Captain, you get into the launch and go over there and see if you can find them," ordered Uncle Teddy. "It's a pity to break up a ladies' party in such a gorgeously select and private place as the Point of Pines, but they would never forgive us if we let them miss the chance to meet Colonel Berry. And in the meantime, we might as well get busy on the supper. It will be some time before they come back. Slim, you tie on an apron and pare potatoes; Anthony, you fill the water buckets; Pitt, you open several cans of tomatoes." "Here, let me take a hand," said the colonel, just as though he were not a guest. "I haven't cooked in the open most of my life for nothing." So he found an apron and fell to work mixing biscuits. The colonel was a tall man--six feet two--and the apron belonged to Migwan, who was short, and when tied around his waist line it did not reach half way to his knees. Slim's apron was long enough, but it would not go anywhere near around him. Being unable to tie the strings he tucked the apron in over his belt and let it go as far as it would. "Where's the bread knife?" asked Mr. Evans, coming out of the supply tent, after rushing around inside for several minutes in a vain search. "Slim has it paring potatoes," said Uncle Teddy, looking around. Slim handed it over and finished the potatoes with his pocket knife. Pitt had broken the paring knife trying to open a can with it when he could not find the can opener. "Hurry up with those potatoes, Slim," called Uncle Teddy. "They ought to be on now in order to get cooked with the rest of the things." "Just finished," said Slim, sucking his thumb, which he had that minute gashed with the knife. He rose and carried the dish of pared potatoes over to the kettle of boiling water waiting to receive them, but half way over he tripped on the apron, which had slipped down under his feet, and sat down with a great splash in the kettle of tomatoes, standing on the ground awaiting its turn at the fire, while the potatoes rolled in all directions in the dirt. Uncle Teddy and Mr. Evans and Colonel Berry came running at the noise, and after one glimpse of poor, fat Slim sitting there in the tomatoes sucking his thumb, they leaned against the trees and doubled up in helpless laughter, not one of them able to go to his rescue. Pitt and Anthony came running at the sound and joined their laughter with that of the men until the woods fairly rang. Suddenly their laughter was echoed by a smothered giggle, which seemed to come from the sky. Startled, they looked up, to see Hinpoha's convulsed face peering down at them between the branches of a high tree. They dropped their knives and dishes in amazement. "What are you doing up there?" gasped Mr. Evans. Hinpoha went into a perfect gale of merriment, which was echoed from all the trees around, and soon other faces were peering down between the branches--Aunt Clara's, Mrs. Evans', Sahwah's, Katherine's, Migwan's, Antha's, Nakwisi's, Gladys's. Every one of those naughty Winnebagos had been hiding in the treetops and watching the men cook supper down below! Still convulsed, they descended into the midst of the amazed cooks. "I thought you said you'd gone to the Point of Pines?" said Mr. Evans, in his surprise completely forgetting to introduce Colonel Berry. "We did," replied Mrs. Evans sweetly. "It wasn't our fault that you misunderstood our note." "I'd like to see anybody that wouldn't have misunderstood it," retorted Mr. Evans. "Don't be cross, dearest," said Mrs. Evans, still more sweetly. "Of course you misunderstood our note; we meant that you should. You have played so many tricks on us that we thought it was time we played one on you. We intended to stay up there until you had supper all ready and then come down to the feast, and planned on a nice enjoyable time seeing you work. But the reality surpassed the expectation by a hundred miles. We never expected to see such a show as we did. When you sent the searching party out after us we were nearly convulsed; the spectacle of Slim sitting there in that apron paring potatoes with the butcher knife was almost fatal to the branch I sat on; but when he tripped and sat down in the tomato kettle it was beyond human endurance and we just naturally exploded. Now won't you forgive us and introduce your guest? He seems to have made himself quite at home already." Mr. Evans came to himself with a start and performed the introduction. It was impossible to be formal with the colonel in that ridiculous short apron, and every introduction was accompanied by a fresh peal of laughter. "The idea of deceiving your good husband like that," said the colonel, "and deliberately writing misleading notes! I shall entertain a very equivocal opinion of you young ladies," he continued with twinkling eyes. "The Point of Pines, indeed!" "Well, weren't we at the Point of Pines, I'd like to know?" demanded Katherine. "There was the point of a pine poking me in the back all the while. If you'd been up in that pine you would have appreciated the point. And if we couldn't get down again we would have had to stay there all night." Supper was ready to serve before anybody remembered about the Captain, who had been sent over to the real Point of Pines to look for the girls. Slim and Pitt immediately went after him and met him when they had gone half way across the lake, returning to camp with the discouraging news that he had not been able to find anybody on the Point. "Was there ever such a topsy turvy day as this?" asked Gladys, as they sat around the glowing camp fire that night after supper. "First Katherine gets us up at half past three on a false alarm; we have crew practice and then go back to bed and don't get up until nine. And things have kept happening all day until the grand climax just now. Some days stand out like that from all others as _the_ day on which everything happened." Colonel Berry was a delightful talker and told many stories of his life as a guide in northwestern Canada, as well as many anecdotes of the Indians among whom he lived for some time. "Colonel Berry," said Hinpoha during one of the pauses in his speech, "may I ask you something?" "Ask anything you want?" replied the colonel gallantly. "Did the Indians ever bury anything under stones?" "Did the Indians ever bury anything under stones?" repeated the colonel. "You mean the bodies of their dead? Customs varied as to that. Some tribes buried their dead in the ground, some left them on mountain tops unburied, and some wrapped the bodies and placed them in trees." "I don't know whether I mean people or not," said Hinpoha, and told about finding the marked rock in the ravine. "It is barely possible that something is buried there," said the colonel, "although rocks have been marked for a good many reasons." "It seemed such a good place to hide something," said Sahwah shrewdly. "The ravine itself was dark and hard to get into, but it was easy to find your way back to it if you had been there once, because all you had to do was keep on going until you had passed seven big cedar trees. If we picked our way through the woods by that trail, other people probably have done the same thing. Maybe the Indians buried something there they intended to come back after, and marked the rock they put it under." "Possibly," said the colonel doubtfully. "A great many Indian relics have been dug up around the shores of these lakes; arrow heads, pieces of pottery and ornaments of various kinds. Such things might have been buried before a hasty flight and never recovered." "Wouldn't it be wonderful if there _was_ something buried under that rock, and we should go there and dig it up!" said Hinpoha, half starting up in her excitement. "Mind, I'm not saying there _is_ anything buried there," said the Colonel hastily. "I only said it was remotely possible. The Indians have been gone from this region for so long that it is not safe to speculate upon anything they might have left. I only know that from time to time things _have_ been found accidentally." "Do you think we'd better dig?" asked Hinpoha eagerly. "Well, there wouldn't be any harm in it," said the colonel quizzically. "You might find something of interest, and if you don't--digging is good exercise." And there the subject was left. "Tell us a real Indian story," begged Gladys of the colonel. "A story of the old Indians." The colonel obligingly consented and told them a tale as follows: THE STORY OF BLUE ELK "Blue Elk was the son of a Chieftain. During his boyhood the tribe to which he belonged lived in the barren, hilly country lying to the north of our great plains. They were forced to live there by their enemies, who drove them out of the fertile hunting grounds which were theirs by right. Thus the tribe was poor and had very few horses and other things which the Indians counted as wealth. Their war costumes were not nearly so splendid as those of other tribes and their women had very few ornaments. They often had hard work getting enough to eat, for they lived far away from the places where the buffalo were plentiful, and when the winter was long and hard there was much suffering. "Blue Elk, though only a boy, thought deeply on the condition of his people. He wanted them to be rich and powerful as other tribes were. When he reached the age where the Indian youth leaves boyhood behind him and becomes a brave, he entered upon a fast, as every Indian boy must do before he can be counted a man. He first built a sweat lodge and purified himself with the steam bath; then he blackened his face and went off by himself to a lonely rock ledge up the side of the mountain where he stayed for three days without eating anything, watching for some sign from the Great Spirit, which would be a guide for his future life. "To the Indian this fast is of great significance. It is the conquering of the body by the mind; the freeing of the soul from the desires of the flesh. To him the silence around him is the Great Mystery, and he believes that during this time he talks face to face with the Great Spirit. "Blue Elk lay for a long time, his soul steeped in profound peace, waiting for the Great Spirit to speak to him through some phenomenon of nature. There was only one wish in his heart; that through him his people might become prosperous and great. At last he fell asleep and dreamed that the Great Spirit stood before him in the form of a white buffalo and spoke thus: 'Where the two bright eyes of heaven (the Twin Stars) are seen shining at noonday, there will the fortune of my people be found.' "Blue Elk awoke much perplexed at this message from the Great Spirit. What could it mean? 'It is not possible for the Two Stars to shine at midday,' he said. But that was the message the Great Spirit had given him, and so great was his faith that he never doubted for a moment that a miracle would occur which would bring about the fortune of his people. "Time passed on; Blue Elk became a brave and went on the warpath and brought home the scalps of many enemies. But the tribe was still poor and the winter often brought famine. One day when Blue Elk was being hotly pursued by a band of enemies he hid in a deep cave in the side of a hill. Faint and exhausted he flung himself on the floor. As his eyes turned upward in a prayer to the Great Spirit he saw there was an opening high up in the top of the cave and through the dark shaft thus formed the Twin Stars were shining brightly. He sprang to his feet in amazement and wonder, the words of the prophecy coming back to him. 'Where the two bright eyes of heaven are seen shining at noonday, there will the fortune of my people be found.' It was just midday. And there were the stars shining down the shaft. The Great Spirit had brought the miracle to pass! But where was the fortune? Forgetting that he was hard pressed by the enemies, Blue Elk ran from the cave. His pursuers were nowhere in sight. He looked eagerly into the sky to behold the sight of the stars shining in daylight. They had vanished. Was it a dream, a trick of the imagination? "He ran back into the cave and there were the stars shining as brightly as before. Then the truth came to him. The Great Spirit had said that where the stars shone there would the fortune be found. They were not shining outside, there was no fortune there; they were shining in the cave, so the fortune was in the cave. He looked around carefully. On the floor were some pieces of what he thought were stones. But they glittered in a strange way. 'The stars have come down into the stones!' said Blue Elk. 'These Star Stones are the fortune of my people!' (The Star Stones were silver ore.) And a fortune they proved to be. With them his people were able to buy peace with the surrounding tribes and extend their hunting grounds so that they no longer wanted for food or skins or blankets. And Blue Elk believed firmly to his dying day that the Great Spirit had spoken to him in person during his fast on the mountain." * * * * * "Oh, what a lovely story!" said Gladys. "Thank you very much for telling it. Is it a true story?" "The Indian who told it to me certainly believed it," replied Colonel Berry. "But," objected the practical Sahwah, "how was it possible for the stars to shine in daylight?" "Have you ever looked up through a very tall chimney?" asked the colonel. "By looking through a long, dark, narrow shaft it is possible to see the stars in daylight. I myself have seen the Little Dipper at noonday in that manner. You will remember that Blue Elk was in a cave in a hillside. A long, narrow passage through the rocks led to a hole in the roof. Looking through this he saw the Twin Stars, and the supposed miracle was merely a phenomenon of nature. Naturally, when he went outside, he could not see them." Colonel Berry told many more tales of the red men, but the story of Blue Elk remained the favorite. That glimpse of a far-away boyhood struck a sympathetic chord that tales of middle-aged wisdom and cunning failed to awaken. The colonel left Ellen's Isle at noon the next day and the whole camp escorted him as far at St. Pierre in the canoes, like a squadron of battleships accompanying a liner. They parted from him with genuine regret and sang a mighty cheer in his honor as they pushed off on the return trip to Ellen's Isle. "Uncle Teddy," said the Captain, as they sat around the fire at Ellen's Isle that night, talking over the events of the previous day, "I am going to do the three-day fast like the Indian boys did." "Ho-ho-ho!" shouted Slim. "You couldn't go a day without something to eat." "Don't judge others by yourself," retorted the Captain. "_You_ couldn't, I know well enough. But I believe the Indians were right in saying that the mind should conquer the body. I like that idea of going off by yourself and watching for some sign from nature. Being away from people and not hearing them talk gives you a great chance to think out the things that are puzzling you. I am going over on the mainland, in the woods, and keep the fast three days." Of course, Aunt Clara didn't want him to do it. She immediately had visions of him starved to death. But there was a wonderful gleam in Uncle Teddy's eyes when he looked at his nephew. He said very little about the proposed fast, either to encourage or discourage him; simply gave his consent. Hinpoha regarded the Captain with wondering admiration. She also burned with the desire to do something hard, to prove that girls as well as boys can practise self-control. "Oh, Captain," she said, "if you keep the fast I'll keep the silence! I'll not speak a word for three days." There was a ripple of exclamations at this, mixed with laughter, for Hinpoha's fondness for conversation was well known. "Laugh all you want to," she said, "but I'll prove to you that I can do it." The Captain chose the spot for his retirement and on the first day after he was released from Chiefhood he paddled across to the mainland taking his blankets and water, but no food. Hinpoha stood on the bank as he departed, with a middy tie bound over her mouth. She had feared her ability to keep silence without it as a constant reminder. When the Captain reached the place where he planned to spread his blankets he found an Indian bed of balsam branches fully two feet high. Who could have made it? he wondered, and then he remembered that Hinpoha had gone off paddling by herself the afternoon before. She knew the place he had picked out. He threw himself down on the fragrant couch and began his long struggle for the victory of the spirit over the body. Every night at sunset Uncle Teddy went over to see if he was all right and bring him fresh water from the little sweet spring on Ellen's Isle. The third day the Captain lay with his eyes closed most of the time and dozed, the sounds of the wood and the lake coming to him as from afar off. Sometimes he slept and once he dreamed he saw an Indian girl come across the lake in a canoe, walk up to where he lay and stand looking at him steadily for a long time. He half opened his eyes and it still seemed to him as if there were someone there, but the face and the figure were Hinpoha's. He opened his eyes wider and looked again, but she had vanished, and he sank back to sleep. Over at Ellen's Isle Hinpoha was going through the most strenuous three days in her whole experience. If anyone thinks it is easy to refrain from talking when one has talked all her life, let her try it, and her respect for Hinpoha will be greatly increased. The others tried by every means at their command to make her talk, popping questions at her suddenly to take her off her guard, making statements in her presence which she knew were incorrect and which she burned to correct, and in every way making the fulfillment of her vow a difficult task. She could not go off by herself and thus remove the temptation, for she had vowed to go about her daily tasks as usual. By the end of the third day she was nearly ready to burst, but through it all she managed to keep an unruffled temper and a pleasant expression--the outward signs of a soul at peace. There will be many readers who will maintain that Hinpoha won the greater victory, although the Captain's exploit won him more glory among his friends. To go off and fast has the halo of romance about it; to cease from talking for three days sounds easy, and in the case of a woman is apt to provoke smiles and hints that she must have talked in her sleep to make up for it. When Uncle Teddy went over on the third sunset he brought the Captain home with him in the canoe. He looked just as he did when he went; not a bit thinner. When they asked him how he could stand it he replied that he hadn't felt hungry after the first day at all. A great feast had been prepared in his honor, and Hinpoha, released from her vow, shared the glory with him. "Well, was anything revealed to you during your fast?" asked Aunt Clara. "Do you know how to make your fortune now?" The Captain only smiled at all remarks like that and in reply to demands as to what had been revealed simply replied, "Oh, several things." And his glance rested on Hinpoha for a fraction of a second. "What did you dream about?" asked Hinpoha. "Water," said the Captain. "That isn't surprising, though. There was water all around me in the lake and water in the jug beside me. And it was the only thing I was putting into my stomach, and dreams usually are the result of what you eat." "I would have dreamed about turkey dinners and slumgullion and fudge," said Slim, spearing his fourth potato. "You probably would," said the Captain, without a tinge of sarcasm. And his eyes rested on Hinpoha again for a fraction of a second. CHAPTER VIII A SEARCH FOR RELICS The statement made by Colonel Berry that there might possibly be something buried under the rock in the ravine had made a deep impression on the Winnebagos and Sandwiches, and the possibility began to grow in their minds until it became a very strong probability. Visions of arrow heads, Indian pottery and ornaments were before them constantly, until nothing would do but they must investigate. The elders were much amused over the excitement, but voted it a harmless pastime and gave their full consent to an attempt at scientific research. "Older and wiser people than they have spent their time digging in the dust for relics," said Uncle Teddy. "Even if they don't find what they are looking for there is nothing lost, and as the colonel said, digging is good exercise. It will be no small feat to move that rock over and if they accomplish it they will be pretty good engineers." There were two spades and many hatchets among the camp equipment, and armed with these the Winnebagos and Sandwiches crossed the lake, went along the river until they came to the big cedar tree and from there struck into the woods, where they easily followed the trail they had traveled on that other occasion, for the cedar trees along the way were unmistakable guides. When they saw the rock again they were more certain than ever that it had been marked for some reason. "Hurry and let's shove it aside," said Hinpoha, who could hardly wait. "You talk about shoving it aside as if it were a baby carriage," said the Captain. "Can't you see it's imbedded in the earth?" And not all their efforts would budge it one particle. So they began to dig around the base. They dug and they dug; they heaved and they perspired; they threw out the dirt by shovelfuls until it made a heap several feet high, and still they did not come to the bottom of the rock. "I bet it goes clear through to China," said the Captain disgustedly, resting on his spade and mopping his brow. "What sillies we are!" said the Bottomless Pitt. "What are we trying to dig the blooming rock out for? There wouldn't be anything under it that far down. If anything's buried here it's in the ground at the base of the rock." "Well, there's the ground at the base of the rock," said the Captain, pointing to the heap of dirt. "We've dug it all up. There wasn't anything in it." Slowly but undeniably the fact began to dawn on all of them. The marked rock was not the burying ground of any Indian relics. Hinpoha held out the longest, but even she had to admit it at last. Katherine, who had been skeptical from the first, laughed loud and long. "What fools these mortals be!" she quoted disgustedly. "Breaking our backs digging up clay that's like iron and cutting up dozens of perfectly good angle-worms all on account of an old rock with a mark on it!" "But the colonel said there _might_ be Indian relics," said Hinpoha, "so it wasn't so silly." "Well, there aren't any," said Katherine. "Never mind," put in Gladys pacifically, "if we didn't find anything we didn't lose anything either, and I've worked up such an appetite from digging that I could eat an ox." "So could I," said Sahwah. "Let's take the worms home with us and go fishing this afternoon. Then all our digging won't be for nothing." "I bet I can catch more than any of you," boasted Anthony, strutting on ahead as usual. Thus ended the quest for Indian relics and the excitement over the marked rock. The elders were very polite on their return and did not ask too many questions. "Never mind, chickens," said Aunt Clara soothingly. "You're not the first who dug for treasure and didn't find it, and I've a notion you won't be the last. Go fishing with you this afternoon? I certainly will!" If Aunt Clara could be said to love one sport more than any other that one was fishing. "Where did you get all the worms?" "They're the relics we found," said Katherine. "We dug them out of the hole we made." "I dug most of them," said Anthony. "He never touched one!" said Slim in an indignant aside to Hinpoha. "To hear him talk you'd think he was the only one who ever did anything around here." Katherine considered fishing the most inane occupation under the sun, so she curled up on the beach to read while the enthusiastic anglers put out in the rowboats. Gladys did not care for fishing either, so she decided to stay on shore and keep Katherine company. "What are you reading?" she asked, sitting down beside her in the shadow of the bluff. Katherine held up the book so she could see the title. "_Romeo and Juliet_!" exclaimed Gladys. "Why, Katherine! I thought you hated love stories." Katherine grinned rather shamefacedly. "I do, usually," she replied. Gladys sat back and regarded her in wonder. Here was a new side coming to light. Katherine the unromantic; Katherine the prosaic; the independent, the hater of sentimental reading, devouring love stories all of a sudden! Gladys drew pictures in the sand and pondered on the meaning of it. Katherine read on absorbedly for ten minutes, then she laid the book down abruptly. "Gladys," she said, "I want you to tell me something." "What is it?" asked Gladys, pausing in the middle of an intricate pattern. "What is the matter with me?" asked Katherine. "What's the matter with you?" repeated Gladys. "There isn't _anything_ the matter with you. You're a dear." "There is, too," said Katherine. "Somehow all the girls I read about in books are different. You're like the girls in books and so is Hinpoha and so are the rest of you, but I'm not. I'm big and awkward and homely, and that's all I'll ever be." "No, you're not," declared Gladys. "You're the most fun that ever happened." "That's just the trouble," said Katherine, drawing up her knees and clasping her bony hands around them. "Everybody thinks I'm a joke, and that's all. Nobody ever admired me. People think I'm a cross between a lunatic asylum and a circus. I'm so tired of hearing people say, 'What a _funny_ girl that Katherine Adams is! She's a perfect scream!' They never say 'What a nice looking girl,' or 'What a charming girl,' the way they always do about you and Hinpoha. I _do_ wish somebody admired me once without being so desperately amused! Now I want you to tell me exactly what's the matter with my looks. Something's wrong, I know." And she looked wistfully through the strands of hair that were falling over her eyes. Gladys sat up and regarded her fondly. "Dear, fly-away, come-to-pieces Katherine! "Do you mind if I make a few criticisms?" she asked gently. "That's just what I asked you to do," said Katherine a trifle impatiently. "Isn't it because you're sort of--careless about your clothes?" began Gladys. "You're always coming apart somewhere. There's generally a string hanging out, or the end of a belt or the loop of a collar. You're just as likely to have your hat on hind side before as not, and often you've had on the skirt of one suit and the jacket of another." She paused uncertainly and looked anxiously into Katherine's face to see how she was taking it. "Go on," said Katherine briefly. "Your shoes are often run down at the heels," went on Gladys. "I know it's an awful bother to keep them straight; mine are always running over crooked. I have to have the left one fixed every three weeks. But it's something that just has to be done if you want to keep looking neat. "And then your hair, Katherine dear. It's so wispy; it's always hanging in your face. Doesn't it hurt your eyes to look through it?" Katherine put back the offending lock with an impatient gesture, but in less than a minute it was all down again. "There!" she said. "You see how it is! It just won't stay up!" "Maybe it would if you arranged it a little differently," said Gladys. "Couldn't you curl it?" Katherine snorted. "I curl my hair!" she scoffed. "My child, life is too short to waste it on anything like that." "I don't know," said Gladys slowly. "I don't think anything is a waste of time that helps to make a person attractive. You know we Camp Fire Girls are supposed to 'seek beauty.' That means personal attractiveness as much as anything else." "I might take the curling iron for my symbol," said Katherine whimsically. "Go on with the recital." Gladys could not tell either from Katherine's tone or her expression whether her frank speech had hurt her feelings or not, and she remained silent. "Go on," continued Katherine. "Isn't there a way to shorten up arms that are two yards long?" Gladys could not help smiling at the lean length of arm which Katherine held out before her, stiff as a ramrod. "No, you can't shorten them," she said, "but you can help making them look any longer than necessary. You generally stand with your shoulders drooped forward, and that pulls your arms down. If you'd stand up straight and throw your shoulders back your arms wouldn't look nearly so long." Katherine looked at the arm and shook her head with such an air of dejection that Gladys was overcome and flung her arms around her passionately. "I won't say another word!" she declared. "Oh, I'm a brute! Katherine dear, have I hurt your feelings?" "Not at all," answered Katherine calmly. "You remember I asked you to tell me what was the matter. I thank you for being so frank. I've worried and worried about it, but I couldn't figure out what the matter was and nobody ever took the trouble to tell me." "Oh, Gladys," she went on, with such an under-current of wistfulness in her tone that Gladys was almost moved to tears, "do you think I'll ever be really nice looking? That I'll stop being a joke?" "Of course you will!" said Gladys emphatically. "Do you know what I heard papa saying to Uncle Teddy one night? He said, 'Wouldn't Katherine be a stunning looking girl if she carried herself better and was well dressed?' Did you hear that? He said 'stunning,' mind you. Not only 'nice looking,' but 'stunning.'" "Did he really say that?" asked Katherine in amazement. "I didn't think anybody cared how I looked; men least of all." "Men notice those things a lot more than you think they do," said Gladys with an air of worldly wisdom. "They talk about them, too, and sometimes they can tell just what's wrong better than you can yourself. "I think myself you would be stunning if you only took more care in putting your clothes on. You're so bright and breezy. And you'd be so stately if you stood straight." "How shall I go about to acquire this majestic carriage?" asked Katherine in the tone of a humble seeker after wisdom. "Well," replied Gladys judicially, "you've humped over so long that you've grown round-shouldered, and it'll take some time to correct that. You want to go in for gym with all your might in college, and for dancing, too. That'll teach you how to carry yourself gracefully better than anything else." "Thank--you," said Katherine slowly, when Gladys had finished her homily on feminine charms, and returned thoughtfully to her _Romeo and Juliet_. "Mercy on us!" thought Gladys. "Whatever is going to happen? Katherine has begun to worry about her looks!" Katherine laid the book down after a while and stared solemnly out over the lake. "You're sure you're not offended at what I said?" asked Gladys, still full of misgiving that she had been too frank. "Not in the least," answered Katherine. "But say, would you mind writing out what you told me? I'll never remember it if you don't. You write it out and I'll tack it up and check off the items as I dress." "All right," said Gladys, laughing. "I'll do that and if it works I'll get out a book, 'How to Be Neat, in one Volume.' And now let's start the fire. I see the bold fishermen are coming in." Aunt Clara came up triumphantly swinging her string of fish; she had caught five. The Captain had two and several of the others had one apiece. "How many did you catch, Anthony?" asked Katherine. "None," replied Anthony, "but I'd have caught more than any of them if I'd had a good rod," and he swished Uncle Teddy's best rod around disdainfully. "I don't doubt it," said Katherine. Beside the fried fish there was tomato soup for supper. It was Mrs. Evans' prize recipe and one of the favorite camp dishes. Nobody could make tomato soup which quite equalled hers, in the opinion of the family on Ellen's Isle. It didn't make any difference where she made it, up in the kitchen tent on the gasoline stove or down on the beach, as now, over an open fire. "Nothing ever tasted so good," sighed Sahwah rapturously, dipping her spoon diligently into the big tin cup in which her soup was served. "_I_ like more pepper in mine," said Anthony, adding a touch from the pepper pot, which stood on the ground beside him. The rest made no comments. They were too busy. "Slim," said Sahwah suspiciously, when her cup was empty, "just how much soup have you eaten?" "Four cupfuls," replied Slim. "Mercy!" cried Aunt Clara. "That's more than a quart. It's a wonder you didn't burst! I never saw a boy with such a capacity!" "Ho, that's nothing," said Anthony. "I could eat twice as much, just as easy." "Let's see you do it!" said Slim suddenly. Anthony looked rather taken aback. "Yes," said Uncle Teddy, "let's see you do it. Make good your boast. We're not in the habit of saying things around here that we can't back up. Twice four cups is eight. You've had one; that leaves seven. We challenge you to drink seven cups of soup. You've either got to drink them or do anything else Slim tells you to do. Slim, what's the alternative?" "Eat soap," said Slim promptly. Katherine grinned appreciatively at him. "Do you hear that, Anthony?" Anthony began to look sick. "I'll do it tomorrow," he said. "No, you'll not!" said Slim. "You'll do it right here and now before all these folks." Anthony looked beseechingly at Uncle Teddy, but the latter was looking at him sternly. "You brought it upon yourself," he said. "Now either make good your boast or take the alternative." Slim filled the cup and handed it to Anthony. "I bet I can do it," he said defiantly, and set it to his lips. With the first mouthful his face puckered up. The soup was red hot with pepper. He himself had sprinkled a generous quantity into the kettle after touching up his own cupful. But he had been more generous than he knew. "I can't drink that stuff," he sputtered. "It's all pepper." "That doesn't make any difference," said Slim, unmoved. "Drink it anyway." And they made him do it. Cupful after cupful they forced upon him, threatening an immediate diet of soap whenever he paused. After the fifth cup Anthony began to suspect that it was not wise to make rash statements about the capacity of the human stomach; after the sixth he was entirely convinced. The results of that sixth cup made the judges decide to suspend the last of the sentence. Anthony had got all that was coming to him. A sorrier or more subdued boy never lived than Anthony that night. "It was heroic treatment," said Uncle Teddy thoughtfully to Aunt Clara, as they wandered off by themselves in the moonlight, "but it took something like that to make any impression on him. He is the most insufferable little braggart that ever lived. I only hope the impression made was deep enough." And beyond a doubt it was, for never again was Anthony heard to utter a boast in the presence of the rest. CHAPTER IX THE DARK OF THE MOON SOCIETY Gladys stood in her tent under the big murmuring pine tree washing handkerchiefs in her washbasin. "I haven't enough left to last any time at all now," she confided plaintively to Sahwah, "and I had three dozen when I came. They're all gone where the good handkerchiefs go, I guess. Somebody is forever getting cut and needing a bandage in a hurry and my handkerchief is invariably the one to be sacrificed to the emergency." "That's what you get for always having a clean one," remarked Sahwah. "Mine are never in fit condition to be used for bandages, consequently I still have them all." "But you never know where they are," said Gladys. "If you don't keep your things in order you might as well not own them, for you never have them when you want them anyway." "And if you do keep them in order somebody else always borrows them and then you don't have them when you want them either," said Sahwah. "Life is awfully complicated, isn't it?" sighed Gladys. "I should say it was awfully simple," said Sahwah, laughing at Gladys's solemn tone. "No matter what you do it turns out the same way anyway. I shouldn't call that complicated." Gladys hung her handkerchiefs on the tent ropes where they would dry in the wind and emptied the basin of water out of the end of the tent, which opened directly on the bluff. A dismal shriek from below proclaimed that somebody had received a shower bath. Gladys and Sahwah leaned over the tent railing at a perilous angle and peered down. Half way down the bluff, "between the devil and the deep sea," as Sahwah remarked, sat Katherine on a narrow ledge of rock, dangling her feet over the edge and leaning her head dejectedly on her hands. The descending flood had landed on her head and was running in streams over her face from the ends of her wispy hair, making her look more dejected than ever. Her appearance made both the girls above think immediately of Fifi on the occasion of his memorable bath. "Oh, Katherine, I'm sorry," said Gladys contritely. "I ought to have looked before I poured. But I never expected anybody to be sitting there like a fly on the wall. What are you doing there anyway?" "Just sitting," replied Katherine in her huskiest tones. "What's the matter?" asked Gladys, catching the doleful note in her voice and having inward qualms. "Just low in my mind," replied Katherine lugubriously. "Goodness gracious!" exclaimed Gladys. "What about? Can't we come down and cheer you up? Is there room for two more on that ledge?" "Always plenty of room on the mourners' bench," said Katherine, moving over. "All right, we'll come," said Gladys. "How do you get down? Oh, I see, there's a sort of path going down behind mother's tent. Look out, we're coming." Sahwah and Gladys crawled backward down the bluff, hanging on to the grass and roots, and dropped to the ledge beside Katherine. They settled themselves comfortably and swung their feet over the edge. "Now, tell us your trouble," said Gladys, mopping Katherine's head with her last clean handkerchief and getting it as wet as those up on the tent ropes. Katherine hunched her shoulders and drooped her head until it almost touched her chest. "I can't bear to think of going home!" she said heavily. "Going home!" echoed Sahwah and Gladys, nearly falling off the ledge in alarm. "You're not going home, are you? Don't tell us that you----" Words failed them and they stared in blank dismay. It was Katherine's turn to look alarmed when she caught their meaning. "Oh, I don't mean that I'm going home now," she said hastily. "I mean that I can't bear to think of going home at the end of the summer." "Gracious!" said Gladys weakly. "Who's thinking about the end of the summer already? Why, it's hardly begun. You don't mean to say that you're worrying now about going home in September?" Katherine nodded, without cheering up one bit. "That's the trouble," she said laconically. "I know it's a crazy thing to worry about, but when we were having such a good time on the lake this morning I got to thinking how I hated to leave it, even to go to college, and started to get blue right away. And the more I thought about it the bluer I got, and the bluer I got the more I thought about it, and--that's all there is to it!" she finished with a characteristic gesture of her long arms. "And now I can't stop thinking about it and I've just got the indigoes!" "Well, of all things!" exclaimed Sahwah. "Aren't some people the funniest things, though?" She and Gladys leaned back and regarded Katherine curiously. Here was the girl who stood unmoved by fire or flood, who never worried about an exam; the girl who had calmly rallied the demoralized volley ball team and snatched victory in the face of overwhelming odds, who seemed to have optimism in her veins instead of blood, at the very beginning of the most charming summer in her life, worrying because some time or other it must come to an end! Katherine's "indigoes" were as startling and unaccountable as her inspirations. And it was not put on for momentary effect, either. She sat limp and listless, the very picture of dejection, and no amount of rallying on the part of the two served to bring her back to her breezy, merry self. They left her at last in despair, and wearily climbed back to the tents. "I wish we hadn't talked to her at all," wailed Sahwah. "Now the thought of going home makes me so blue I can't bear to think about it." And her voice had such a suspicious catch in it that it made a sympathetic moisture rise in Gladys's eyes, and she declared she wished they had never come, because it would be so hard to leave! "Oh, mercy! What geese we are!" said Sahwah, coming to herself with a start. "Worrying about something that's miles off! Cheer up. We may all get drowned and never have to go home at all. You always want to look on the bright side of things!" And then the pendulum swung the other way, and the two leaned against each other and laughed until their sides ached at their foolishness. "But poor Katherine was really blue," said Gladys, when they were themselves again. "She has those awful spells once in a long while and they last for days unless she gets mixed up in something exciting and forgets herself. I was really worried on her account once and asked Nyoda about it and she said it was because Katherine has always had to work too hard all her life and it's done something to her nerves, or whatever you call them, and that's what makes her have the blues sometimes. She said we should always try to give her something else to think about right off when she got that way and she'd get over it sooner and by and by when she grew stronger she wouldn't have them at all any more." "Poor, dear old Katherine!" said Sahwah fervently. "I wish something would happen to cheer her up. If she doesn't get over it soon she will have the whole family feeling as she does, and think how dreadful it would be!" And then the Captain and the Bottomless Pitt appeared between the trees and challenged them to a canoe race and they speedily forgot Katherine and her woes. That evening the twins got into a dispute as to who should sit on the bow of the launch on the trip to St. Pierre with the mail and neither would give in, so Uncle Teddy suggested that they settle the point by a crab race on the beach. The crab race consisted of traveling on all fours in a sidewise direction and was as difficult as it was ridiculous. Anthony won because Antha stepped on her skirt and lost her balance. Then Sahwah spoke up and said she must insist on her sex having fair play and that in order to make the race fair and above board Anthony must wear a skirt, too. Anthony protested loudly, but the Chiefs ruled that it was right and just, and Anthony, still protesting, was hustled into a skirt of his sister's and made to run the race over again. The spectators wept with laughter as he fell all over himself, first to one side and then to the other, as he stepped on the skirt, and Antha touched the goal before he had completed half the distance. "Oh, Anthony," jeered Pitt, "can't you make a better showing than that?" "He probably did as well as any of you would," said Hinpoha. "Bet I could do better," said the Captain. "Let's see you do it," said Hinpoha. "I will if the other fellows will," said the Captain, looking around at the rest. "Will you, Slim?" "Sure," said Slim. "Slim will do anything--once," said Sahwah. A few minutes later, an old turtle who had been sitting on a log near the water all afternoon poked his head out of his shell in astonishment at the sight of the enormous human crabs who suddenly swarmed over the beach, laughing, tripping, shrieking and rolling over on the sand. The Captain did beautifully, because he was tall and the skirt that fell to him was short and did not impede his progress, but Slim, to whom Sahwah had wickedly given one of Katherine's longest, got so tangled up that he finally turned a somersault right into the water, where he lay kicking and splashing. Katherine rescued him and the skirt, which was rather the worse for the experience, while Uncle Teddy, who was judge, declared the Captain to be the winner. He was the only one who had finished without falling once. "You're elected to take a lady's part in the next play we give," said Gladys. "Such talent shouldn't be wasted on a desert isle." The Captain smiled a ladylike smile and minced along, holding an imaginary parasol over his head. "Bertha the Beautiful Cloak Model," he said, laughing. "Now won't somebody rescue Pitt. He's all tied up in a knot back there." "And he has my skirt on," wailed Gladys. "Do rescue him, somebody." "Never again," said Pitt solemnly, when he had been helped to his feet and separated from the hampering garment. "How you girls do anything at all with those horrible things on is more than I can see." "Hurry up, all you who want to go in the launch," called Uncle Teddy, and there was a general scramble. In the excitement of the big crab race the twins had forgotten their quarrel and both sat side by side on the bow. "Wasn't that crab race the funniest ever?" said Gladys to Katherine, as they gathered up the skirts and wended their way up the path. "The funniest of all was when Slim fell over backward into the lake," said Sahwah from behind them. "Funny for you, perhaps," replied Katherine, who still was steeped in her indigoes, "but that was my skirt he had on. And he burst it open in three places. It's ruined." "Cheer up," said Sahwah. "Consider in what a good cause it perished. You'd have ruined it sooner or later anyhow, but minus the grand spectacle Slim made." "Maybe so," grumbled Katherine, "but I was thinking that perhaps this one would escape the usual fate. I had a fondness for that skirt." "Then what did you let him take it for?" asked Hinpoha. "I didn't give it to him, Sahwah did," replied Katherine. "Well, you said I might," retorted Sahwah, "and, anyway, I'm as badly off as you. Mine is finished, too." "Let's not argue over it," said Gladys hastily. "We're getting as bad as the twins. We started the business, so let's be game and not let the boys hear us say anything about the skirts." "All right," said Sahwah, and the subject was dropped. "What's this?" asked Hinpoha, as they came to the top of the hill. "A piece of paper tacked to a tree," said Sahwah. "What does it say?" They all stopped to read. The only writing on the paper was the legend, THE DARK OF THE MOON SOCIETY. Above it there were three marks done in red paint, which gave them a curiously lurid effect. They consisted of a circle with two diamond-shaped marks underneath it. "What on earth----!" said Hinpoha. "Those funny-shaped marks are a blaze," said Sahwah. "It was one of the number we learned, don't you remember, Hinpoha? I believe it means 'warning,' or something like that. 'Important warning,' that's it. Now I remember. This message is supposed to read: "'IMPORTANT WARNING! THE DARK OF THE MOON SOCIETY.'" "What on earth is The Dark of the Moon Society?" asked Katherine. They all shook their heads. "It's something the boys are up to," said Gladys. "I suppose they are going to play some joke on us in return for our neat little trick the day we climbed the trees and watched them get supper. Just watch out, something will be doing before very long." "Let's find out what it is and get ahead of them," said Katherine, her eyes beginning to sparkle. From that time on there was a suppressed feeling of excitement on Ellen's Isle. The Winnebagos watched every movement the Sandwiches made, and it seemed that there was something suspicious about the glances that were constantly being exchanged between the Captain, Slim and the Bottomless Pitt. "Those three are at the bottom of it," declared Katherine to the other girls who were gathered on her bed. "I don't believe the rest of the Sandwiches know a thing about it. I heard Dan Porter asking the Captain what they were talking about down on the beach awhile ago and the Captain said, 'Oh, nothing,' in that tone of voice that means, 'It's none of your business.'" "But I saw Slim and Dan and the Monkey slipping off into the woods by themselves just now," said Sahwah, "and they were laughing to themselves and acting mighty mysterious." The next day Hinpoha found a piece of birchbark in Eeny-Meeny's wooden hand, bearing the now familiar warning blaze and signed with the initials D. M. S. "The handwriting on the wall again," she said to Gladys. "What can the Dark of the Moon Society be, anyhow?" After that mysterious warnings appeared all over camp. The girls would find them tacked to the trees in front of their tents, tied to the handles of the water pails and slipped in between the logs piled ready for firewood. True to their agreement they never said a word about finding them to the Sandwiches, but were constantly on the lookout for the joke, which they knew would be sprung sooner or later. Katherine, who had flung her indigoes to the winds at the first hint of mystery, was the most intent on finding out what the boys were planning to do and meant to get ahead of them if she could possibly do it. "The thing to do first," said she with the air of a general, "is to find out which ones are the Dark of the Moon Society. Then we can watch those particularly." "They're probably all in it," said Gladys. "I don't think they are," said Katherine. "I'll lay my wager on the Captain, Slim and the Bottomless Pitt. Those three are mighty chummy all of a sudden. And I saw them go right past one of those signs on a tree and never look at it. That looks suspicious. They saw me and pretended they didn't notice the sign." That night, Katherine, restless and unable to sleep, developed a thirst from rolling around on her pillow, and rising quietly, made for the water pail at the door of the tent. It was empty. Thirsts had been prevalent that night. She stood a moment irresolute and then, putting on her slippers and her gown, started boldly for the little spring on the hillside. It was bright moonlight and she could find her way easily. She took a drink from the cup hanging on a broken branch beside the spring, and filling the pail so as to be prepared for a return of the thirst, she started back up the hill. Half way up she paused and stood still, looking out over the silvered surface of the lake, drinking in the magic beauty of the scene with eager soul. "Oh, you wonderful, wonderful lake!" she murmured to herself. A branch cracked sharply behind her and a small stone came rolling down the hillside. She turned hastily and looked up. Someone was moving among the trees up there. "The Dark of the Moon Society!" thought Katherine, and, dropping the pail of water, she ran up the path. The person above made no effort at flight or concealment, but walked out of the shadow of the trees onto a moonlit rock at the edge of the bluff. Then Katherine saw that it was Sahwah. "Are you thirsty, too?" she called up. Sahwah made no answer. She took a step nearer the edge of the cliff and stood looking out over the lake. "She's walking in her sleep again!" exclaimed Katherine. Since the memorable night of the Select Sleeping Party when Sahwah had wandered out into the snow, the Winnebagos lived in constant expectation of some new performance. As Katherine started toward her to lead her gently back to the tent, Sahwah began to raise her arms slowly above her head, palms together. "Mercy!" exclaimed Katherine, "she's going to dive off the cliff!" And rushing up pell-mell she seized her around the waist and dragged her back unceremoniously, regardless of the accepted rule about waking sleep walkers suddenly. "Goodness, how you scared me!" said Katherine, when she had deposited Sahwah in her bed and answered her yawning inquiries as to what was the matter. "You can't be trusted without a bodyguard." And in spite of Sahwah's protests that she had never in her life "walked" twice in the same night, Katherine insisted upon tying a string to her ankle and fastening the other end around her own. Sahwah was asleep again in five minutes, but Katherine lay and watched her for hours, expecting to see her rise and try to wander forth a second time. Once she thought she heard footsteps on the path along the bluff and rose hastily to investigate, but the string she had tied around her ankle tripped her and jerked Sahwah, who bade her lie down and be quiet. Katherine subsided, rubbing her knee, which had received a smart bump, and grimacing with pain in the darkness. She heard the footsteps no more, but she had her suspicions that they belonged to the Dark of the Moon Society. The next day at noon she called a hasty council on her bed. "Girls," she said in a thrilling whisper, "I've found the place where the Dark of the Moon Society meets!" "Where? Where?" they all cried. "In a cave under the east bluff. I just discovered it today. The entrance is all covered by trees. I found the ashes of a little fire inside. That's where they're cooking up their plans and preparing something to spring as a surprise on us." "Oh, if we could only hide back in that cave when they are there and hear and see what they are doing," said Sahwah. "How are we going to know when they will be there?" asked Gladys. Nobody was able to answer this. "If we're smart enough we'll find out," said Katherine, waving her long arms. She was as keen on the scent of the mysterious Dark of the Moon Society as a hound after a stag. That night darkness had hardly fallen when the Captain, Slim and the Bottomless Pitt complained of being utterly tired out and announced their intention of going to bed. "What made you so tired, boys?" asked Mrs. Evans solicitously. "Are we expecting you young people to do too much? I don't want you to go home worn out." "Oh, it was probably from running up and down the path so often with the boards for the dock," said the Captain. "That's all." He yawned widely behind his hand. "We're not doing too much every day, really we aren't. You mustn't feel anxious." Mrs. Evans made a mental resolve to see that the boys and girls all had a definite rest hour each day. Katherine's thoughts went into a widely different channel. At the first mention of going to bed before the others she became suspicious, and, looking closely, she was positive that the Captain's yawn was feigned. Lying on her back on the sand so that her head was behind Sahwah and Gladys she whispered very quietly, "D. M. S. meeting." Gladys and Sahwah squeezed her arm to let her know they understood and as soon as the three boys had started up the hill they rose also, saying they were going up on the Council Rock. Hinpoha rose and followed them; Migwan and Nakwisi apparently did not catch on, and remained where they were. There was no time to follow the boys. The girls must be in the cave before the Sandwiches got there to be able to overhear anything. Taking a short cut, they came out on the bluff just above the cave. They could hear the boys stopping for a drink at the spring on the other side of the island. "How'll we get down?" asked Gladys in a whisper. "Crawl down the face of the cliff," said Sahwah. "And we'll probably skin our whole mortal frames doing it." "Sh!" said Katherine. "There's no time to crawl down. We've got to hurry. Go half way down and jump the rest of the way. It's all soft sand underneath." "We'll be killed," said Gladys. "Nonsense!" said Katherine scornfully. "Didn't I say it was all soft sand underneath? Sh! I'll go first Sh-h!" She swung over the edge, poised on the little ledge, flung out her arms and leapt into the darkness below. There was a crash, a smash, a plump, and a startled wail. "What is it?" cried Gladys, throwing caution to the winds and shouting. "I'm in the lake, I guess," called Katherine from below. "First I jumped in and then the sky fell on me." Her voice sounded oddly muffled and far away. Gladys flashed her little bug light over the cliff and then shrieked with laughter at the spectacle below. Flat on the beach sat Katherine, her feet straight out in front of her and a tin washtub upside down on her head, completely hiding the upper half of her. From the edge of it the water was dripping in tiny streamlets. The main deluge had already descended. All around her lay the clothes which had been soaking in the tub ready to be washed out bright and early the next morning. Of course her yell and the shouts of those above brought the rest of the family on the run, and after one look at her nobody had strength enough to lift the tub off her head. Uncle Teddy recovered first and removed the eclipse. "I forgot to tell you folks I had set the tub there," said Aunt Clara. "But how could I guess that one of you would jump into it? Whatever induced you to jump off the cliff in the dark anyway?" "I was just 'exploragin','" replied Katherine meekly, rising and shaking the water from her clothes like a dog. There was no spying on the Dark of the Moon Society that night. Mrs. Evans ordered Katherine off to bed at once, because it was too late to get into dry clothes and the air was too cool to keep the wet clothes on, and as Katherine was chief spy there was nothing doing unless she headed it. So if there was a meeting in the cave after all that commotion it went unobserved. But a day or two later there was consternation in Katherine's tent. The rumor had just gone around that the Dark of the Moon Society was going to kidnap Eeny-Meeny and burn her at the stake. Sahwah had overheard a bit of conversation in the woods that gave her the clue. It was going to happen that night. Katherine went "straight up in the air." "They sha'n't burn Eeny-Meeny!" she declared, shaking her fist above her head. "They'll only touch her over my prostrate body!" Many were the elaborate plans made for Eeny-Meeny's defense. Katherine's plan was voted the simplest and best. "Hide her!" she suggested, and this course was agreed upon. But simple as this plan sounded it presented unexpected difficulties. They couldn't get a chance to do it. No matter when they approached Eeny-Meeny there was always one of the Sandwiches close at hand. "They're picketing her!" announced Katherine, baffled in several attempts. "I pretended I wanted to touch her up with color and carried her away from the Council Rock, and the Captain came right along, so I had to do it, and the minute I was through he insisted on carrying her back and I couldn't object without rousing his suspicions, so back she went. Now Slim's sitting and leaning his head against her." "The thing to do," said Hinpoha, "is to have a counter attraction at the other end of the island that will draw them all away, and in the meantime one of us can hide her." "Good," said Katherine, "what shall we do?" "It ought to be a panic," said Hinpoha, "and then if we yell loud enough they'll forget everything and run to the rescue." "What would we scream for?" asked Gladys. "Oh, for most anything," answered Hinpoha. "The main idea is to scream loud enough to start a panic. I'll think up something in a minute." "Well, let us know when you're ready, and we'll bring our voices," said Gladys. Hinpoha departed to attend to her dinner duties and Katherine went out into the woods to look for berries. In a little hollow she stumbled over Antha, sitting in a heap against a tree shedding tears into her handkerchief. "What's the matter?" asked Katherine, sinking down beside her. She was so used to seeing Antha in tears that she was not greatly concerned, but out of general sympathy she inquired what was the matter. "I want to go home!" wailed Antha. "This is a horrible mean old place and I can't have any fun at all." "Why can't you have any fun?" asked Katherine. "Because you girls are always running away from me and having secrets that you won't tell me," said Antha with a gulp. "You're doing something now that you won't let me know about." True enough. They hadn't told Antha about the danger threatening Eeny-Meeny nor the plan for her defense. Katherine reflected. "It _was_ kind of mean to leave her out of that. I wouldn't like it myself if I were the younger one of a group and they kept having secrets from me. I'm not being a real nice big sister at all." "Never mind, Antha," she said, patting her hand. "I'll tell you about it. The boys are planning to steal Eeny-Meeny tonight and burn her at the stake and we're trying to keep them from doing it. We're going to hide her. You may help us if you like. Won't that be fun?" Antha sniffed, and with the perverseness of her nature lost interest in the secret as soon as she found out what it was, and didn't seem to care whether Eeny-Meeny was burned at the stake or not. And when Katherine went farther and invited her to be her special helper in everything, and offered to show her where the oven bird's nest was that everybody was looking for, Antha declined to come along, preferring to go into the kitchen where dinner was being prepared. So Katherine went out alone to pay the oven bird's nest a visit and on the way found a chipmunk with a broken leg, hopping around on the other three and cheeping shrilly in distress. She tried to coax it to her with peanuts and succeeded in getting it to take one, when suddenly from the direction of the kitchen came the sound of a terrific explosion, shaking the earth and making the air ring with echoes. The sound had scarcely died away when there was a second report more violent than the first, followed in a moment by a third. "The gasoline stove!" thought Katherine. "Antha's been trying to fill it and it's exploded!" And she set off like the wind toward the kitchen, from which direction terrible shrieks were puncturing the air. She did not know it, but she was yelling like a Comanche Indian all the way. She staggered into the clearing, expecting to find the kitchen tent in flames, but it was lying on the ground in a tangled mass from which apparently detached hands and feet were waving wildly. "What exploded?" she demanded. Hinpoha was leaning against a tree, pale as death, and she grasped Katherine by the arm and led her out of earshot of the others. "The cans of beans," she said faintly. "Don't look so scared, Katherine, it's only--the--panic!" "What on earth did you do?" asked Katherine. "I remembered that Migwan set a can of beans in the fire to heat once when we were camping and it exploded, and I thought that would be a fine way to start a panic here. So to make sure I took three cans--great big ones--and buried them in the hot ashes. When they exploded I was going to scream and make everybody come running." "Well, they exploded all right," said Katherine drily. "I thought the island blew up." "So did I," said Hinpoha. "They went up just like dynamite. The kettle was blown off the hanger and landed fifty feet away." "To say nothing of blowing the tent down," said Katherine. "Oh," said Hinpoha hastily, "that didn't blow down. The boys and Uncle Teddy had taken it down this morning to fix it differently and they were just setting it up again when the awful explosion came. They all yelled and jumped and the whole thing came down on their heads." Katherine looked over to where the arms and legs were still waving under the billows of canvas and doubled up against a tree in silent spasms. Then she suddenly straightened up. "Who is hiding Eeny-Meeny?" she asked. "Why," gasped Hinpoha, "you are!" "I?" said Katherine. "Yes, you!" said Hinpoha. "I had forgotten all about the panic," said Katherine, "and the noise scared everything out of my head." "Quick, before it's too late!" said Hinpoha. "Run down and do it now while everybody's still up here. It'll take at least five minutes to get the boys out from under that tent." Katherine fled from the scene as quietly as possible and ran to the Council Rock. That whole end of the island was deserted. But when she came to the place where Eeny-Meeny had always been she stood still in amazement. Eeny-Meeny was not there. She had vanished mysteriously and entirely, and in her place was a twig stuck upright into the ground, topped with a piece of paper on which was drawn a picture of an Indian maiden tied to the stake with the flames mounting around her, and underneath was drawn in scrawling capitals: THE DARK OF THE MOON SOCIETY. Katherine pulled the twig from the earth and stood looking at it, fascinated. Slowly the truth dawned on her. The Sandwiches had gotten ahead of them again. Without having planned the panic they had instantly seen the value of it and one of them had spirited Eeny-Meeny away during the confusion. "Boys _are_ smarter than girls," she admitted ruefully to herself. "At least, some are." Then another thought flashed through her mind. She had told Antha not half an hour ago that they were planning to hide Eeny-Meeny. Antha had told the boys and they had decided to do the same thing themselves. Her eyes filled with tears of rage and disappointment. After her championship of Antha her action cut her to the quick. Her philosophy had received a rough jolt. Utterly crushed, she returned to the girls and spread the news that Eeny-Meeny had disappeared into the hands of the Dark of the Moon Society. The Winnebagos were sunk in despair, but were rallied by Katherine's oratory. Anyone hearing her would have thought she was speaking on a matter of life and death, so eloquent did she wax and so emphatic were her gestures, as she bade them rise up and rescue Eeny-Meeny at the last minute. "Not a word to any of them until we are ready to pour the water down into the fire," cautioned Katherine, after she had outlined her plans for rescue. "They must not guess what we intend to do or they'll change their plans and get ahead of us again." Needless to say, Antha was not admitted into this last council. The suspicion of her perfidy had gone around the circle and it was agreed that she was a horrid little tattletale and deserved to be left out of everything that went on thereafter. As Sahwah had overheard the plot, a large fire was to be built on the beach that night and then at a signal Eeny-Meeny was to be flung into it from above. "We'll get her first, never fear," said Katherine with a warlike gesture. At times like this she became a creature inspired. Her hair bristled up, her eyes shone, her husky voice gained strength until it rang like a trumpet. Rather to their surprise, immediately after supper the tom-tom sounded its monotonous call, summoning them to the Council Rock. "What is this?" asked Hinpoha uneasily. "Something new?" "I don't know," said Katherine agog, with curiosity and on the alert for anything. Both exclaimed in wonder when they reached the Council Rock. Around it, in a circle, low seats had been placed, built of rustic logs with comfortable back rests. There was one for each person. "Where did they come from?" all the Winnebagos were asking. "We made them," announced the Captain with pride. "What do you think of them? Don't you like them?" "Splendid!" said Aunt Clara. "How did you ever get them made without our knowing?" "Down in a cave under the east bluff," said the Captain. "That's where we had our workshop. We used to slip away quietly one or two at a time and work on them whenever we had a chance. Sit in them and see how comfortable they are." The Sandwiches were circling around like polite shopkeepers, begging the girls to try first this seat and then that, to find out which suited them best. Wondering, the girls sank back into the seats, trying to get the meaning of this new development. "There's something else coming," said Slim importantly, going off with the Captain. Soon they reappeared, carrying a sort of pedestal with a flagpole attached to it. "It's for Eeny-Meeny to stand on," explained the Captain proudly, "and we put up the pole so the Stars and Stripes could float over her and the people going by in boats could see her." He set the pedestal down and turned toward the tree where Eeny-Meeny had stood. "Why, where's Eeny-Meeny?" he asked in amazement. "Where is she?" echoed Slim. The girls sat dumb. "_You_ ought to know where she is," said Katherine accusingly to the Captain at last. "You took her during the panic yesterday." "We--took--her--during--the--panic?" said the Captain wonderingly. "We never did! What do you mean? I never noticed until just now that she wasn't in her place." "You have too got her," said Hinpoha. "The sign of the Dark of the Moon Society was left tied to a twig where she had stood." "The sign of the what?" asked the Captain. "The Dark of the Moon Society," said Katherine sharply. It struck her that the Captain was trying to appear dense. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said. He looked perplexed for a moment and then strode over to Anthony and caught him by the neck. "Where's Eeny-Meeny?" he said in an ominously even voice. "I don't know what you're talking about," said Anthony, struggling to pull out of his grasp. "Ouch! Quit your pinching me." The Captain took a little firmer hold. "You'd better tell," he advised. "It might not be healthy for you to keep it to yourself. So that's what you meant when you said you knew something we didn't." Anthony still wiggled and tried to free himself, protesting his innocence. Uncle Teddy pounded on the tom-tom. "Will somebody please tell me," he said, "what's the matter with you boys and girls. There's been something going on under the surface for the last week. Just now one of you mentioned a 'Dark of the Moon Society.' Will whoever it is please tell?" There was a rustle from where the girls sat and Sahwah rose to her feet. "The time has come," she said with twinkling eyes, "for all dread secrets to be revealed. You just asked who the Dark of the Moon Society was. I've known for quite a while, and now I'm going to tell." You could have heard a pin drop and all eyes were fixed on her expectantly. "There isn't any DARK OF THE MOON SOCIETY!" she announced. "Or rather, I'm it." An incredulous murmur went around the circle. Sahwah continued. "I kidnapped Eeny-Meeny during the panic yesterday and hid her in that roll of sail cloth. The whole thing is a joke, gotten up for Katherine's benefit. She was having such a terrible fit of blues Gladys was afraid she would never get over it unless she had something to occupy her mind, so I started this business to give her something to think about. I wrote those mysterious warning notices and posted them around the camp. When I saw what a beautiful effect it was having on Katherine I couldn't resist the temptation to keep it up. I knew how fond she was of Eeny-Meeny and decided that if anything threatened her Katherine would think of nothing else night and day. I pretended I had heard voices of the boys plotting to take Eeny-Meeny and burn her up tonight. "That night when Katherine thought I was walking in my sleep I had been up putting a notice on Eeny-Meeny. When I saw Katherine I was afraid she would be suspicious of my being out at that hour and the only thing I could think of was to pretend that I was asleep." Here Sahwah interrupted herself with a convulsive giggle. "And she tied a string to my foot and kept ahold of it for the rest of the night!" "And I jumped into that tub of water thinking I was on the trail of the Dark of the Moon Society!" exclaimed Katherine, righteous wrath and amazement struggling for possession of her. "And I destroyed three perfectly good cans of beans getting up a panic!" said Hinpoha. "And brought down the house," added the Captain, who had been one of those caught in the fall of the tent. "And you mean to say," demanded Katherine, "that those boys never intended to burn up Eeny-Meeny?" "Perish the thought," said Sahwah, enjoying herself in the extreme. "They're as innocent as day old lambs." "Then so is Anthony," said Hinpoha. "That's right," said the Captain. Then, turning to Anthony, he made a frank apology for accusing him of hiding Eeny-Meeny. And all the Winnebagos were filled with remorse when they thought how they had blamed Antha for that same disappearance. Katherine lay back overcome and fanned herself with a bunch of leaves. "Well, I'll--be--jiggered!" she exclaimed feelingly. "All that trouble to bring me out of a fit of the blues!" "Boys," she went on in her best oratorical manner, "you certainly did give us a surprise party tonight, much more of a one than you planned. We came prepared to rescue Eeny-Meeny from a fiery death--witness the water buckets concealed behind every bush on the hillside--and we find some perfectly gorgeous council seats that you have been toiling to make in secret while we suspected you of plotting base deeds. Instead of seeking to destroy Eeny-Meeny you plan to honor her. Girls, let's make fruit punch and drink to the health of the Sandwiches, and a long life to the council seats, and to Eeny-Meeny on her pedestal." "And don't forget the Dark of the Moon Society," added Sahwah, and once more the woods resounded with laughter. CHAPTER X TWO MARINERS AND SOME MIST "There's one thing about those girls that always takes my breath away," said Mr. Evans, "and that is their ability to get up a show on a moment's notice. The most common circumstance seems to be charged with dramatic possibilities for them. And nothing seems too ambitious for them to attempt." Having delivered this speech, Mr. Evans leaned back against the cliff and watched with amused eyes the performance of the "latest." Mrs. Evans and Uncle Teddy and Aunt Clara, who were sitting with him, agreed that "our girls," aided and abetted by "our boys," were equal to anything. The dramatic representation then in progress was another inspiration of Katherine's, which had come to her when Sandhelo, getting lonesome in his high pasture ground, had followed the others to the beach, walking down a steep side of the cliff by a path so narrow and perilous that it was never used by the campers. But Sandhelo, being a trick mule, accomplished the feat without difficulty. The bathers watched his descent in fascinated silence. They feared to shout at him and so make him miss his step. "Doesn't it remind you of that piece in the Fourth Reader about the mule?" said Hinpoha. "The one that goes: 'And near him a mule bell came tinkling Midway on the Paso del Mar.' I forgot how it begins." "Oh, you mean 'The Fight of the Paso del Mar,'" said Migwan. "The one where the two fight and tumble over into the sea. I wore the page that poem was on completely out of the book reading it so often, and wished and wished I had been there to see it happen." "So did I," said Hinpoha. "Let's do it," said Katherine suddenly. "We have all the props. Here's the mule, and the rocky shore--that low wedge around the base of the cliff will do beautifully for the Paso del Mar. And 'gusty and raw is the morning,' just the way the poem says, and if there isn't enough fog to 'tear its skirts on the mountain trees,' we can pretend this light mist is a real fog. Everything is here, even the bell on the mule. I'll be Pablo of San Diego and, Hinpoha, you be Bernal." "Migwan would make a better Bernal," said Hinpoha modestly. "No," said Katherine decidedly, "you'll make a better splash when you fall into the lake, and anyway, Migwan always wanted to see it done, not do it. Hurry up and get your blanket, and get it wrapped gloomily around you. Sandhelo and I will start out from the hills behind." Hinpoha fetched a blanket and strode across the beach, her fair forehead puckered into what she fondly believed to be a ferocious scowl, while the bathers ranged themselves into an audience. Katherine, between clucks and commands, designed to keep Sandhelo's feet in the straight and narrow path, i.e., the low-jutting ledge of the cliff just above the water line, raised her cracked voice in a three-part harmony and "sang through the fog and wind." Sandhelo moved forward willingly enough. Since Katherine had taken him seriously in hand that summer he had learned to carry a rider without the accompaniment of music. If he hadn't, Katherine would never have been able to make him stir, for he certainly would not have classed her husky, bleating tones as music. Bernal advanced cautiously onto the Paso del Mar, taking care not to slip on the wet stones, and encountered the blithe Pablo midway on the pass, holding tight to his mule's bridle strap with one hand and covering up a rent in the waist of his bathing suit with the other. "Back!" shouted Bernal full fiercely. And "Back!" shouted Pablo in wrath, and then things happened. Sandhelo, with the sensitiveness of his artistic temperament, thought that all remarks made in his presence were intended to be personal. So when Hinpoha looked him in the eye and shouted "Back!" and Katherine jerked his bridle and screamed "Back!" he cannot be blamed if he did what any gentleman would have done when commanded by a lady. He backed. "Whoa!" shouted Katherine, taken unawares and nearly falling off his small saddle area. But Sandhelo considered that his first orders had been pretty definite and he continued to back along the narrow ledge. "Stop!" screamed Katherine, while the audience roared with laughter, "'We turn not on Paso del Mar!'" The word "turn" seemed to give Sandhelo a brilliant new idea, and, without warning, he rose on his hind legs, whirled around in a dizzy semi-circle, and started back in the direction whence he had come. Katherine, unable to check his inglorious flight, hung on grimly. He left the narrow ledge and started climbing the hill, leaving the black-hearted Bernal in full possession of the Paso del Mar. At the top of the hill Katherine slid off Sandhelo's back, the soft grass breaking her fall, and lay there laughing so she could not get up, while Sandhelo raced on to his favorite grazing ground. "To think it had to turn out that way, when I was dying to see the part where you fall into the lake," lamented Migwan, when the cast had collected itself on the beach. "It wasn't at all the real thing." "Some of it was," said Sahwah. "The beginning was all right." "And the mule did go home 'riderless' eventually," said Katherine, rubbing her bumped elbow. "Didn't he make speed going around that narrow, slippery ledge, though?" she went on. "I expected him to go overboard every minute. But he tore along as easily as if he were running on a velvetine road." "On a what?" asked Slim. "She means a corduroy road, I guess," said Gladys, and they all shouted with laughter. "Ho-ho-ho!" chuckled Slim, "that's pretty good. Velvetine road! Would there be any binnacles on it, do you suppose?" he added teasingly. "That's right, everybody insult a poor old woman what ain't never had a chance to get an eddication!" sobbed Katherine, shedding mock tears into her handkerchief. "What's the difference? Doesn't velvetine sound just as good as corduroy? And, anyhow, it's better style this year than corduroy." "Hear the poor, ignorant, old lady talk about style," jeered Sahwah. "I didn't think you ever came out of your abstraction long enough to know what was in style." "Even in her absentmindedness she seems to have a preference for fine things, though," said Gladys, beginning to giggle reminiscently. "Do you remember the time she walked out of Osterland's with a thirty-dollar hat on her head?" Katherine rose as if to forcibly silence her, but Sahwah held her back and Gladys proceeded for the edification of the boys. "You see," said Gladys, "she was in there trying on hats all by herself because the saleswomen were busy with other people. She had put on a mink hat and was roaming around looking for a handglass to see how it looked from the back, when she suddenly got an idea for a story she was to write for that month's club meeting. She forgot all about having the hat on her head and started for home as fast as she could. Out on the sidewalk she met Nyoda, who admired the hat. Then she came to." "Mercy!" said Aunt Clara to Katherine, "weren't you frightened when you discovered it?" "Not she," said Gladys. "She walked right back inside, big as life, hunted around until she found her own hat, and handed the mink one to the saleswoman, who had just sent a store detective out after her. The detective escorted her to the door that time, but it didn't worry her in the least. She went right back into the store the next day and tried the same hat on again and couldn't imagine why the saleswoman left another customer and was so attentive to her. The simplicity of some people is perfectly touching." "I won't stay and be made fun of," said Katherine, and marched up the hill with an injured air, calling back over her shoulder, "all people who ordered fudge today might as well cancel their orders, because I'm not going to make any, so there!" "Oh, I say, don't get mad," said Slim in alarm, whereat everybody laughed. He was the one for whom Katherine's words were intended, nobody else having "ordered" any fudge. "Honest, I forgot I promised not to tell about the binnacles," said Slim pleadingly. But Katherine was adamant and would not forgive him. Slim grunted ruefully and exclaimed: "Shucks! I always manage to get in bad with her. Always in bad," he repeated dolefully. "We'll have to re-christen you 'In-Bad the Sailor!'" said Sahwah. "Really!" said the Captain, making a grimace of comical surprise at her. "Who would have thought the child was so deucedly clevah, bah Jove!" But the name of In-Bad the Sailor struck the others as being such a good one that they adopted it right away, and Slim had to answer to it half the time for the rest of the summer. Slim shadowed Katherine so closely and volunteered so gallantly to do all her dinner chores that she relented in the middle of the afternoon and brought out the brown and white "makin's" that Slim's sweet tooth so delighted in. The Captain looked at them and jeered as he went past on his way down to the landing. "Slim would eat his words any day if he could roll them in a piece of fudge," he called. Slim only smiled sweetly as he watched the experimental spoonful being dropped into the cup of water. Nothing could ruffle him now. The Captain walked briskly down the hill and untied the small launch. "Where are you going?" called Hinpoha from the log where she was sitting all by herself reading. "Over to St. Pierre, to mail a Special Delivery letter for Uncle Teddy," replied the Captain. "Do you need any help getting it over?" asked Hinpoha. "Why, yes," said the Captain, laughing, "come along if you want to." Hinpoha tripped gaily over the beach and seated herself in the launch with him. "Hadn't you better wear your sweater?" asked the Captain, looking rather doubtfully at Hinpoha's low-necked and short-sleeved middy. "There's a raw wind today and cutting against it will make it worse." Hinpoha shrugged her shoulders. "I'm not a bit cold," she replied carelessly. "I always go like this; even in lots colder weather. I'm so hardened down to it that I never catch cold. Besides, we're not going to be out after dark, are we? You're just going straight over to St. Pierre and back?" "That's all," said the Captain. "Just to mail this letter and buy some alcohol for Uncle Teddy and some peanuts for the chippies. Hadn't ought to take more than an hour and a half altogether." He started the engine and off they chugged. They reached St. Pierre in good time, mailed the letter, bought the alcohol and the peanuts and a postcard with a picture of a donkey on it to give to Katherine and some lollypops for Slim and started back. "What's happened to the sun?" asked Hinpoha. It had been feeble and watery on the way over, but now it had vanished from the sky, and a fine mist seemed to be falling all over. Hinpoha shivered involuntarily as they started off. "You really should have brought your sweater along," said the Captain. "Here, spread this tarpaulin over you, it'll keep you warm a little." Hinpoha declared she wasn't very cold, but, nevertheless, she availed herself of the protection the tarpaulin afforded and was glad to have it. The mist thickened until it looked like steam, and almost before they knew it they were surrounded on all sides by a dense fog. They could not see a boat length ahead of them. "Nice pickle," said the Captain, buttoning his collar around his throat. "How are we ever going to find our way back to Ellen's Isle in this mess?" Hinpoha strained her eyes trying to peer through the white curtain. "I don't know," she said, "unless you can guide yourself by the fog horn in the harbor of St. Pierre. Keep it behind us, you know." "But the sound seems to come from all around," said the Captain. "It will at first, but afterwards you can tell," said Hinpoha. "Nyoda used to keep making us tell the direction from which sounds came and we can almost always do it. The fog horn is behind us now." The Captain kept on in the direction they had been going and ran very slowly. "It'll take us all evening to get home at this rate," he said. "If we don't run past the island," he added under his breath. A few minutes later the chugging of the engine ceased and their steady, if slow, progress was arrested. "What's the matter?" asked Hinpoha. "I don't know," said the Captain in a vexed tone. "It can't be that we're out of gasoline--I filled up before we left. The engine's gone dead." He struck match after match in an effort to see what the trouble was, but they only made a feeble glare in the fog and he could not locate the trouble. "What are we going to do now?" he exclaimed in a tone of concern. "Sit here until the fog lifts, I suppose," said Hinpoha calmly. Finally, satisfied that he could do absolutely nothing to fix the trouble until he could see, the Captain settled back to await the lifting of the fog. The chill in the air was getting sharper all the time, and, although Hinpoha did everything she could to prevent it, her teeth chattered and the Captain could feel her convulsive shivers, even under the tarpaulin. "Here," he said, taking off his coat and putting it around her shoulders, "put this on." Hinpoha shoved it away resolutely, shaking her head. She could not speak articulately. But the Captain was determined and made her put it on in spite of her protests. "Y-you'll t-t-take c-c-c-cold," she said. "No, I won't," said the Captain, "but you will." Hinpoha made him take the tarpaulin as she began to warm through in the coat. "It's kind of fun," she said in a natural voice again. "It's a new experience." "Is there anything you girls don't think is fun?" asked the Captain in an admiring tone. "Most girls would be wringing their hands and declaring they would never go out in a boat again. Aren't you really afraid?" "Not the least bit," said Hinpoha emphatically. "You're a good sport," said the Captain. "'Thank you kindly, sir, she said,'" replied Hinpoha. But she was pleased with the compliment, nevertheless, because she knew it was sincere. The Captain never said anything he did not mean. They sat there drifting back and forth with the current for several hours, and then suddenly there was a break in the white curtain and two bright eyes looked down at them from above. "It's the Twins!" cried Hinpoha delightedly. "The Sailors' Stars. They have come to guide us back. Don't you remember, they're always directly in front of us when we come home from St. Pierre in the evening." The fog was breaking and drifting away before a fresh breeze which had sprung up and first one star and then another came into view. Soon they could see a bright red light in the distance and knew it was a signal fire, which the folks on Ellen's Isle had built to guide them. Hinpoha held her little bug light down while the Captain searched for the trouble in the launch engine and he was not long in discovering that it was nothing serious. A few pokes in her vitals and the launch began chugging again. The whole family was lined up on the beach awaiting their arrival and they were welcomed back as though they had been gone a year. It was nearly nine o'clock. They had been out on the lake more than four hours. "Stop hugging Hinpoha, Gladys," bade her mother, "and let her eat something. Those blessed children must be nearly starved." This was not quite true, because they had eaten the two quarts of peanuts and the half dozen lollypops originally consigned to the camp, which had saved them from starving very nicely. The clearing wind, which had dispelled the fog, came from the north and blew colder and colder as the night wore on. In the morning the Captain woke stiff and chilled and with a very sore throat. "I'm all right," he protested when Aunt Clara came in to administer remedies, but his voice was a mere croak. Aunt Clara felt of his head and found a high fever. She promptly ordered him to stay in bed and set herself to the task of breaking up the cold. Hinpoha wandered around distracted all day. "It was my fault, all my fault," she wailed. "If I had only had sense enough to take my sweater he wouldn't have made me take his coat. Is he very sick, Aunt Clara?" By night the Captain was very much worse. He had developed a bad case of bronchitis and his breath rattled ominously. Hinpoha, crouching anxiously at the foot of a big tree near the tent, overheard a low-voiced conversation between Uncle Teddy and Aunt Clara, who were standing in the path. "It would be pretty serious if he were to develop pneumonia out here," said Uncle Teddy in an anxious tone. "We're doing our best," said Aunt Clara, "but he's a very sick boy. In the morning you must bring the doctor from St. Pierre." They passed on and Hinpoha heard no more. But her heart sank like a lump of lead. The Captain was going to have pneumonia and it was all her fault! If he died she would be a murderer. How could she ever face Uncle Teddy again? She was afraid to go back with the rest, but sat crouched there under the tree almost beside herself with remorse until Aunt Clara herself found her and made her go to bed. In the morning Uncle Teddy brought a doctor from St. Pierre who stayed on the job all day and by night announced that there was no danger of pneumonia, although the Captain had had a very narrow escape. "_Now_ what are you crying for?" demanded Katherine, coming upon Hinpoha all by herself in the woods. "Be-c-cause I'm s-so g-glad," said Hinpoha from the depths of a thankful heart. "You make me tired," said Katherine, and brushed a tear out of her own eye. CHAPTER XI HARE AND HOUNDS Once the tide was turned the Captain mended fast. A spell of beautiful, warm, dry weather followed the cold week, when the sun shone from morning until night and the pine-scented breezes bore health and strength on their pinions. Hinpoha outdid herself cooking delicate messes for him and Slim nearly died with envy when he saw the choice dishes being loaded on the invalid's tray. "Pretty soft, pretty soft, I call it," he would say to the Captain, and the Captain would laugh and reply he was willing to change places. The Captain's return to the ranks of the "huskies" was celebrated with a program of water sports and a great clam-bake on the beach. Of course, the Winnebagos got up a pageant, which on this occasion was a canoe procession, each canoe representing one of the seven points of the Camp Fire Law. "Seek Beauty" held a fairy creature dressed in white and garlanded with flowers; "Give Service" was the big war canoe, which went on ahead and towed all the others but one; "Pursue Knowledge" held a maiden who scanned the heavens with a telescope; "Be Trustworthy" held up a bag conspicuously labeled CAMP FUNDS; "Hold on to Health" was Katherine holding up a huge paper clock dial, its painted hands pointing to half past three A. M. with the slogan "Early to bed and early to rise make a crew healthy, wealthy and wise." "Glorify Work" paddled its own canoe, scorning to be towed by "Give Service," and "Be Happy" came along singing such rollicking songs and shouting so with laughter that they set the audience into a roar. After the pageant came fancy drills in the war canoe. The crew were in fine practice by this time and the paddles rose, dipped, cross rested, clicked and water wheeled all as one in obedience to the commands shouted by Uncle Teddy. Just before the war canoe started out on her exhibition trip the Stars and Stripes was nailed to her prow with much ceremony and "floated proudly before" her throughout the manoeuvers. Of course, no water sports could be complete without swimming races and a stunt contest, and Slim drew great applause by floating with his hands behind his head and one leg crossed over the other in his favorite position in the couch hammock. Then Sahwah's stunt was announced and she went to Hinpoha, Migwan and Gladys and invited them to take tea with her that afternoon. They accepted with pleasure and withdrew to prink. In the meantime, Sahwah took a plate in her hand and dove under the surface. She swam to a large, flat rock, which was plainly visible through the clear water, set the plate on the rock and weighed it down with a stone. She did this three more times, setting four plates in all. Then she put a pear on each plate under the stone. This finished, she came to the surface and sat on a rock to await the coming of her guests. When they arrived she greeted them affably and bade them make themselves comfortable beside her. They were chatting merrily when suddenly a black figure rose from the water almost at their feet so suddenly that Mrs. Evans screamed. The black figure was the Monkey, who had quietly slipped into the water behind a large rock while all attention was focussed on the girls, and swimming under water came up in front of them. The new arrival on the scene turned out to be the waiter who announced that tea was ready. "We will be down immediately, Thomas," said Sahwah in her best society manner and promptly dove off the rock, the others following suit. They found their plates on the submerged rock, ate the pears under water and came up, amid the prolonged applause and shouting of the audience, who couldn't see "how they did it without choking." Of course that stunt was voted the best and the clever divers were crowned with ground pine in lieu of laurel and treated to lollypops. Sahwah was just recovering the last plate when a sudden gust of wind tore the flag from the prow of the war canoe, riding at anchor a short distance away, and sent it flying through the air. It flew right over her head as she came up, and, reaching out her hand, she caught it. Then she swam back to the dock holding the flag above her head well out of the water so that not a drop stained it. The watchers cheered mightily as she came in waving it. "'The old flag never touched the ground,'" she said, holding her head up proudly, "and it'll never fall into the water while I'm around." "If only all young people had that same spirit of reverence toward their country's flag!" said Uncle Teddy fervently. "It is becoming a rarer sight all the time to see a young man take off his hat to the Stars and Stripes. We have come to regard it as a sort of decorative rag, and of no more significance than any other decoration. I think it is up to you Camp Fire Girls to foster this spirit of respect for the flag among young folks. I am very glad you did this thing today, Sahwah. It was a fine act." Sahwah hung her head as she always did when praised, but the others declared that she grew an inch taller from that minute on. "By the way, what's become of the Principal Diversion for this week?" asked Katherine at breakfast one morning the week following the clam-bake in honor of the Captain's recovery. "Maybe I was asleep in Council Meeting Monday night, but I don't seem to recollect hearing one announced. Did I miss the announcement?" she asked of Sahwah, who with the Monkey was Chief for that week. "There wasn't any announcement made," said Sahwah, trying to look dignified behind the coffee pot, and so busy filling up the plates of the others that she had scarcely eaten a mouthful herself. "We simply couldn't think of a thing that had not been done before, and we're still thinking." "We haven't had a hare and hound chase yet," remarked Gladys. It was merely an idle suggestion, but the others pounced upon it immediately. "The very thing!" said Sahwah promptly. "All our Principal Diversions so far have been trips by water; it's time we did a little scouting on foot. Thanks for the idea. We'll put it into action immediately. Today is a fine day for tramping. Munson can be leader of the Hares and I'll take the Hounds. All those sitting above the toast plate at the table will be Hares; all those on this side of it, Hounds. Hares will start right after breakfast and have an hour's start. Dinner will be carried along and eaten when the Hounds catch up with the Hares. If the Hounds catch the Hares before they reach their destination the Hares will do the cooking and give a show; if they have to wait for the Hounds to come up the Hounds will do the catering, watering and celebrating. The Hares will demonstrate their knowledge of scouting by blazing the trail in the proper manner, both by marking trees and by placing stones in the path." The Hares scurried around and were ready to start in a jiffy. These were Munson McKee as leader, with Katherine, the Captain, Gladys, Pitt, Nakwisi and Antha. Sahwah's band consisted of Hinpoha and Slim, Migwan and Peter Jenkins, Dan Porter and Anthony. The elders had decided not to go on this trip. Mrs. Evans and Aunt Clara were still somewhat tired from their siege of nursing the Captain and were glad to have a day of quiet, and Uncle Teddy and Mr. Evans wanted to work on the boat landing, which was sinking into the water. Uncle Teddy took the Hares across the lake in the launch and set them down at the edge of the woods. They struck out through the trees, chipping the trail on the trunks with a sharp hatchet, and working their way around the curve of the shore line to St. Pierre. There they rested and bought ice cream and while they were eating it Katherine had one of her periodical inspirations. "Let's keep right on going until we get back to camp, and not stop anywhere at all," she suggested. "Won't we lead the others a fine chase, though? They'll be dead by the time they get there." "What about us?" asked Gladys. "We'll be dead ourselves." "I suppose we will," admitted Katherine, who hadn't thought of this before, "but it will be worth it. Who'll be game?" "I know a way to fix it so we won't be dead," said Pitt, the crafty. Pitt could always use his head to save his heels, and was a very Ulysses for cunning. "How?" they all asked. "Leave a note for the others on that last tree we blazed, telling them to follow the sand beach around to the Point of Pines. There aren't any trees along the beach so they won't think anything about our not blazing a trail. Then we'll simply rent a boat and cut straight across the lake to the Point of Pines. From there we'll go on blazing the trail back to the place opposite Ellen's Isle where we are to signal Uncle Teddy. By cutting across the corner of the lake that way we'll save three miles that the others will have to walk, and they'll wonder and wonder how we got so far ahead of them." The prospect of turning the hare and hound chase into a joke on the Hounds was too funny to pass up, and with giggles and chuckles they pinned the note on the tree back at the edge of the woods where the road ran toward St. Pierre; then they rented two rowboats and piled into them. Some distance to the east of St. Pierre stood the old abandoned lighthouse, and they had to row past it. It stood out in the water, several hundred feet from the shore, on an island so tiny that it did no more than give a foothold for the tower. "Let's stop and go into it," said Katherine. "I've never seen a lighthouse close up before. And you ought to get a grand view of the lake and the islands from that little balcony that runs around the top. Maybe we can see the others trailing after us." The rest were also anxious to see the old lighthouse and as their short cut across the lake would gain them at least an hour they decided there was plenty of time to go inside. So the boys rowed alongside and made the boats fast and they all went up. "It's horribly dilapidated and messy," said Gladys, viewing with fastidious distaste a pile of crumbled bricks and mortar which lay at the foot of the stairway, the result of an explosion which had blown a hole in the wall. "'If seven maids with seven mops swept it for half a year, Do you suppose,' the Walrus said, 'that they could get it clear?'" quoted Gladys, waving her hand in the direction of the heap. "No doubt, but for a job like that I really wouldn't keer!" answered Katherine. "Come on, you can climb over it." And suiting the action to the word she took a long step over the pile of bricks and then reached down and pulled Gladys up after her. It was fun standing up in the top of the lighthouse and looking out over the lake in all directions. The boats in the harbor of St. Pierre looked like cute little toys, and Ellen's Isle seemed to have shrunk to half its size. "Come, Munson," said Katherine, "you get into the lantern and be the beacon. You can see that red hair of yours a mile. Too bad Hinpoha isn't here, she's a regular signal light." "Get in yourself," retorted the Monkey. "Your nose is as red as my hair." Far out over the lake they could see the black trail of smoke made by an approaching steamer. "Here comes the _Huronic_," said Gladys. "Let's stay out here until she goes past, and wave at the people," said Katherine. "We won't have time, if we want to get to the Point of Pines ahead of the others," said the Captain. Katherine reluctantly admitted that he was right and they picked their way down the littered stairs again. But there were so many fascinating corners to poke into that another half hour ticked by before they could finally tear themselves away. "Where are the boats?" asked Katherine, who was the first through the door. Yes, where were they? They were no longer fastened where the Captain had left them. Far out in the lake they saw them, still tied together, bobbing up and down on the baby waves. The girls uttered a shriek of dismay, all except Katherine, who exclaimed in comical amazement, "What do you know about that?" "I thought I had them tied fast," said the Captain ruefully. "What in the name of goodness are we going to do now?" "Don't ask me," said the Monkey, gazing in a fascinated way at the swiftly fleeing boats. There was a strong current among the islands up here which was sweeping the runaways very fast toward the channel. "Stranded!" exclaimed the Captain. "Marooned!" said the Bottomless Pitt. "Shipwrecked!" said the Monkey. "Desoited!" cried Katherine, wringing her hands and rolling her eyes. "Left to perish miserably in the middle of the sea! Now, Count Flamingo, you have your revenge!" "Just the same," said Gladys when she had finished laughing at Katherine's absurd heroics, "we're in a fine pickle. Just how are we going to get out of here?" "Let's see," said Katherine, puckering her brow. "What do people usually do on such occasions? We've been in 'fine pickles' before, and we've always gotten out of them. Isn't the proper thing to do when you're locked up in a lonely tower to sing siren-like music until the noble hero hears you and comes to the rescue? Do you suppose my secret lover would ever mistake my sweet voice for anyone else's, once he heard it wafted in on the breeze?" "Oh, stop your nonsense, Katherine," said Gladys. "You make me laugh so I can't think of a thing to do. Captain, how are we going to attract people's attention?" "Run up a distress signal, I suppose," replied the Captain, "if we have anything to run up." "Well, there's one thing about it," declared Katherine flatly, "I refuse to be the distress signal this time. Every time we've had to have one in the past my belongings have been sacrificed." "Don't get worried, injured one," said Gladys soothingly. "We can wave the two towels I brought along." "Just the thing!" said Katherine. "We can wave them when the steamer goes by and they'll send a lifeboat for us. How romantic! She's just coming into the channel now. Everybody get ready to call." The big _Huronic_, the magnificent white steamer that stopped at St. Pierre once a week on her way down to Chicago, swung into sight around a long point of land. "Now wave!" commanded Katherine, when the _Huronic_ was almost opposite them, and the towels fluttered frantically over the edge of the little balcony. Dozens of handkerchiefs were waved in answer from the deck of the big liner. "They think we're just waving at them for fun," said Katherine, when nothing took place that looked like an effort at rescue. Making trumpets of their hands they all shrieked in unison, "Help!" But the wind was toward them and carried the sound back. The stately _Huronic_ proceeded serenely on her way without a pause. "They aren't going to stop!" said Gladys. "Oh, let them go on then," said Katherine crossly. Then she added, "I suppose it was kind of foolish to expect a big boat like that to stop and pick up a bunch of folks that didn't know any better than to climb into an old lighthouse and let their boats float away." "Isn't she a beauty, though?" said Gladys, looking after the ship in admiration. The sun shining on the broad, white side of the _Huronic_ as she turned toward St. Pierre made her look like a gleaming, white bird. "If at first you don't succeed, try, try again," said Katherine optimistically. "Even if the fair _Huronic_ did spurn us we can no doubt get the attention of a fishing boat. Some of them are always going round. Cheer up, Antha, and don't look so scared. Remember, you're with me, and I bear a charmed life!" And joking over their situation, but, nevertheless, keeping a sharp lookout for anything on the horizon, they settled down to pass the time. Meanwhile, the Hounds had reached the woods before St. Pierre, found the directions on the tree and turned off toward the beach to follow the shore to the Point of Pines. But after plodding through the thick, soft sand for a while they decided that that mode of traveling was altogether too fatiguing, and went back into the woods where they found a path which ran in the general line of the shore and which was much easier traveling. But even at that they were pretty well tired when they reached the Point of Pines where they supposed the others would be waiting for them. But there was no glimpse of the Hares at the Point of Pines. "Where do you suppose they are?" asked Hinpoha, mystified. "Hiding, I suppose," said Sahwah wearily, sitting down in the soft grass. "Let's let them stay hidden until we get rested up. It's up to us to get dinner I suppose, but I'm just too tired to begin." "But you will pretty soon, won't you?" asked Slim anxiously. "You aren't hungry already, are you, Slim?" asked Hinpoha teasingly. "Already!" said Slim, looking at his watch. "Do you folks know what time it is? It's half past two!" "Mercy!" said Sahwah. "It's taken us ages to get here. Maybe the beach would have been shorter, anyway." "Let's call for the Hares," said Hinpoha. "It'll take too much time to try to find them. And I'm too tired to go hunting through the woods." So they called, "Come out, we give up." Their voices echoed against the opposite shore, but there was no other answer. They called again with the same result. "They're not here!" said Hinpoha with a prophetic feeling. "Where are we, anyway? Is this the Point of Pines? I believe we've come to the wrong place! We should have stuck to the shore after all and not gone off into that path through the woods that turned and twisted so many times. Are you sure this is the Point of Pines?" "I don't know whether I'm sure or not," said Sahwah in perplexity. "I certainly thought it was all the time. I may be mistaken." "I think you are," said Hinpoha. "There isn't a sign of the Hares here. How will we find them?" "I think the best thing to do," said Sahwah calmly, displaying her great talent for leadership in this emergency, "is to stay where we are and let them find us. If we start hunting around for each other in these woods we'll never get together. We'll just stay here and build two signal fires. You know that two columns of smoke is the sign for 'I'm lost.' Well, we'll just put up the 'lost' signal and if they're hunting for us they'll see that and come straight over here." The others agreed that this was the most sensible thing to do under the circumstances. There was plenty of driftwood, and two good fires were soon going, and the green branches piled on top of them sent up the most gratifying signal smokes. "Now let's get our dinner," said Hinpoha, when that was accomplished, "without waiting any longer." The seven marooned sailors looked and looked in all directions without seeing a single thing to wave at. "It's too bad," said Katherine. "Here's a fine opportunity for some likely young fisherman to make a hero of himself rescuing a band of shipwrecked lady fairs and winning their undying gratitude. Maybe we'd take up a collection and buy him an Ingersoll as a reward. But nobody seems to be around anywhere to jump at the chance. It's a wasted opportunity." "There seems to be a boat around the other side of that point of land," said Gladys, shading her eyes with her hand. "See those two columns of smoke going up?" "It must be standing still," said the Captain. "The smoke is going up in the same place all the while." "It's two boats," said Katherine, "or does a boat have two smokestacks?" "That's not boat smoke," said the Captain with a knowing air. "That's from fires on the shore. They must be on that farther point, just beyond the one we're looking against." "Isn't that the Point of Pines?" asked Gladys. "It is!" said Katherine. "And I'll bet you a cooky it's the Hounds who have built those fires. They've been walking all this while and have reached the Point." "What would they want with two fires, though?" asked Gladys. "And such thick smoke! They can't possibly be cooking anything over them." "I know!" cried the Captain. "They're signal fires. You know Uncle Teddy showed us how to make them. Two smokes mean 'We're lost.' They don't know what to make of it because they didn't find us there and are signalling for us." "How perfectly rich!" said Katherine, laughing until her hair tumbled down. "Here we are, cooped up in a lighthouse trying to signal someone to come and get us away, and there they are, wanting us to come and help them. It's the funniest thing you ever saw!" And the Hares watched the two smokes ascending into the blue sky and laughed helplessly. Meanwhile, there was a panic on the Point of Pines. In the middle of the peaceful dinner party two rowboats tied together came floating in toward the shore. The boys waded out and brought them up on the beach. "Look," cried Hinpoha, picking up something that lay in the bottom of one of them. It was a battered tan khaki hat with the frayed cord hanging down over one side and a picture of a Kewpie drawn on the big button in front. There was no mistaking it. It was Katherine's hat. Migwan screamed. "They're drowned! They've gone out in boats and upset! That's why they're not here. Oh, what will we do?" "Take it easy," said Sahwah soothingly. "They haven't upset. There isn't a speck of water in the boats. They've simply floated off and left the folks somewhere. What were the Hares doing out in boats, anyway?" she mused. "But if they're along the shore here somewhere we ought to go and look for them. Maybe we missed directions by not keeping to the beach. That must be it. They probably told us about the boats in a later note that we didn't get." With an air of relief they finished their dinner and then piled into the boats and started coasting along the shore, looking for the Hares. "This is getting to be a real hare and hound chase," observed Hinpoha, as they proceeded slowly, looking into every little cove and inlet. Soon they rounded the last point and were spied by the anxious watchers in the lighthouse, who waved their towels and shrieked at the tops of their voices. The Hounds got the surprise of their lives when they heard that hail and looking up saw the Hares perched up in the lighthouse, "just exactly like crows on a telephone pole," said Sahwah, telling Aunt Clara about it later. The stranded Hares were taken ashore under a running fire of pleasantry about their plight, and were told moral stories about people who tried to play jokes on others and got the worst of it themselves, and Sahwah advised them gravely never to go out in a rowboat that wouldn't stand without hitching, and so on and so forth until the poor Hares did not know which way to turn. So the members of the chase went homeward, hunters and hunted side by side, laughing at the events of the day and agreeing that the chief charm of nearly all their expeditions lay in the fact that they never turned out the way they had expected them to. "Good gracious, Slim, you aren't hungry again?" said Sahwah, as Slim, stooping among the leaves, brought up a bunch of bright blue berries and started to put them all into his mouth at once. "Don't eat those berries!" said Anthony suddenly. "They aren't real blueberries. They make your throat feel as if it were full of red hot needles and it hurts for hours. I ate some one day and I know." Slim dropped the berries hastily. "Thanks, old man, for telling me," he said warmly. "Whew! What a chance for a comeback he would have had on Slim!" said the Captain that night as the campers sat around in an informal family council while the twins were out in the launch with Mr. Evans. "The fact that he didn't take it shows that he's a pretty good sort after all. I didn't think he had it in him." "Do you know," said Katherine seriously, "I believe I know what's been the trouble with Anthony. He was spoiled when he was little and allowed to talk all the time and that made people dislike him. It made him unpopular with his boy friends and he's been unpopular so long that he expects everybody he meets to dislike him. So he starts to patronize and bully his new acquaintances right away because he thinks they won't like him anyway and it's his way of getting even. But I believe that underneath it he's the loneliest boy that ever lived. Nobody can have a very good time or really enjoy life when they're disliked by everybody. "Now I think we made a mistake in our treatment of him from the start. We didn't like him when we first saw him and we let him know it. We froze him out in the beginning. I know how I feel toward people that I think don't like me. They bring out the worst side of me every time. Now Anthony must have a lot of good stuff in him or he couldn't have acted the way he did today. It's up to us to bring it out, and I think the way to do it is to treat him as if we thought there was nothing but a 'best' side to him. We mustn't act as if we thought he was going to do something mean all the time. Take, for instance, the time we thought somebody had hidden Eeny-Meeny, and you jumped on him as a matter of course." "We thought he'd be likely to do it," said the Captain, trying to justify himself before Katherine's reproach. "That's exactly the trouble," said Katherine. "We always thought he'd be 'likely' to do something mean, but we never thought he'd be 'likely' to do something good. Everything that has happened around here has been blamed on Anthony as a matter of course. We've never given him a fair chance. You boys didn't let him in on the secret of those council seats because you were afraid he'd give it away. That was wrong. You should have let him help and never doubted him for a minute. People generally do just what you expect them to do. If we took Anthony seriously and acted as though we could rely on his judgment he'd soon have a judgment we could rely on. I say we've had ahold of the wrong handle of Anthony all the while. We knocked the boasting out of him with a sledgehammer and that was all right in that case; but for the rest of it we've got to show that we respect and trust him, and take my word for it, he won't disappoint us. Don't you think that's what's been the trouble, Uncle Teddy?" "My dear Katherine," said Uncle Teddy, "the way you put things it would take a blind beetle not to see them. You certainly have put Anthony up in an entirely new light. I've nearly got gray hair wondering why he did not profit by our illustrious example here; now you've put the whole thing in a nutshell. It isn't half as much to sit and look at a parade as it is to ride in the band wagon. But from now on we'll see that Anthony is made part of the show. "If only everybody had such faith in mankind as you have, what a world this would be!" CHAPTER XII ANTHA'S RESPONSIBILITY "Katherine, are you low in your mind again?" Gladys peered suspiciously over the edge of the cliff to where Katherine was sitting in her favorite fly-on-the-wall position midway between earth and sky, her head leaned thoughtfully back against the stone wall behind her. "No'm," answered Katherine meekly, and grinned reassuringly through the wisp of hair that hung down over her face. She put the lock carefully back into place with a critical hand and continued: "I was just exercising my young brain thinking." Gladys heaved a sigh of relief and prepared to join Katherine on the ledge. "I'm _so_ glad it isn't the indigoes this time," she said, swinging her feet over the edge and scraping her shoulder blades along the rock until they found a certain groove which fitted them like a glove, "because I don't think Sahwah could think up another conspiracy like the Dark of the Moon Society to bring you out of it. But why were you looking so solemn?" "I was merely wondering about Antha," replied Katherine. "Now we've got Anthony where we understand him; but Antha is still the spiritless cry baby she was when she came. She hasn't a particle of backbone. I'm getting discouraged about her." She pulled a patch of moss from the rock beside her and tore it moodily into shreds. "Are you quite, quite sure you're not low in your mind?" asked Gladys. Katherine sat up with a jerk, sending a loosened particle of stone bounding and clattering down the face of the cliff. "Of course not!" she said energetically. "I was just wondering, that's all. I haven't lost faith in Antha and I don't doubt but what she'll brace up before the summer is over. If we only knew a recipe for developing grit!" "Stop worrying about that child and let's go out in a canoe," said Gladys, catching hold of Katherine's hand and pulling her up. Katherine rose and smoothed out her skirts--a new action for her. "Do I look any neater?" she inquired. "Quite a bit," replied Gladys, looking her over with a critical eye. "I hope I do," said Katherine with a sigh. "I've spent most of the week sewing on buttons. But my hair is absolutely hopeless," and she shook the fringe back out of her eyes viciously. "Let me do it for you some day," said Gladys, "and I'll see what can be done with those loose ends." "All right," said Katherine wearily, and they went down the path together. "We won't have time to go out in a canoe," said Gladys when they reached the beach. "Here comes the launch back from St. Pierre with the mail." "I wonder if there's a letter for me," said Katherine rather wistfully. "I haven't had a word from father and mother for three weeks." And she hopefully joined the throng that stood with outstretched hands around the pack of letters Uncle Teddy was holding out of reach above his head. "Oh, I say," he begged, "can't you wait a minute until I show you my newest treasure? If I give you your letters first you'll all sneak off into corners and read them and then you never will look at it." "What is it?" cried an eager chorus, for it must be something splendid that would delay the distribution of the mail. Uncle Teddy opened a carefully packed box and drew forth an exceedingly fine camera, which he exhibited with all the pride of a boy. "I've had my heart set on this little machine for years," he said happily, "but I've never had the two hundred dollars to spend for it. But now a wealthy gentleman whom I guided on a canoe trip last May and whom I was able to render some slight service when he was taken ill in the woods, has made me a present of it. Did you ever hear of such generosity?" He did not mention the fact that the "slight service" had consisted of carrying the sick man on his back for fifteen miles through the woods. The boys and girls looked at the camera with awe and were half afraid to touch it. A thing that had cost two hundred dollars was not to be handled lightly. "It has a speed of one thousandth of a second," announced Uncle Teddy, displaying all the fine points of his treasure like an auctioneer. "Won't I get some great pictures of you folks diving, though!" And he stood looking at the thing in his hands as if he did not quite believe it was real. Then he came to himself with a start and tossed the pack of letters to Katherine to distribute, remarking that his good fortune had quite robbed him of his manners. Katherine handed out the letters in short order, for she saw one addressed to her, and when they had all been given out she climbed back to her seat on the ledge to enjoy the news from home in peace and quiet. Supper was an unusually hilarious meal. Uncle Teddy was so happy that he nearly burst trying to be witty and agreeable and his mood was so contagious that before long everybody else was as bad as he. "Make a speech, Katherine," somebody called, and Katherine obligingly climbed up on a chair and made such a screamingly funny oration on "What Is Home without a Camera?" that over half the company choked and there were not enough unchoked ones left to pat them all on the back. "Katherine," said Mr. Evans feelingly, "if you don't turn out to be a second Cicero I'm no prophet. Your eloquence would melt a concrete dam. See, it's melted the butter already. You are the joy of life to me. How I would like to go with you on your triumphal way through college! By the way, what college did you say you were going to?" "Sagebrush University, Spencer, Arkansas," replied Katherine drily. "Ha-ha-ha! That's a good one!" laughed Slim, choking again. "Please stop joking and tell us," begged Hinpoha. "I have told you," replied Katherine quietly. "Is there really a college out where you live?" asked Nakwisi. "We all thought you were going to college in the East." "She is," said Hinpoha. "She's only joking." Mrs. Evans sat looking at Katherine closely. She had just noticed something. Although Katherine had been the most hilarious one at the table she had not eaten a mouthful. The delicious roast chicken and corn fritters, her favorite dish, lay untouched upon her plate. And the whimsical dancing light had gone out of her eyes. "My dear," she said, leaning across the table, "what is the matter with you? Has anything happened to change your plans about going to college?" Katherine looked at her calmly. "It's all off," she said nonchalantly, raising her water glass to her dry lips. "Father made a little investment in oil this summer--and now we're back to where we were the year of the drought. So it's back to the soil for mine, to the sagebrush and the pump in the dooryard, and maybe teaching in the little one-story schoolhouse in between chores. I knew my dream of college was too sweet to be true." "Oh, Katherine," cried Hinpoha in dismay, "you _must_ go to college, it would be a terrible pity if you couldn't." "Kindly omit flowers," said Katherine brusquely. "My dear child," said Mr. Evans quickly, "I will gladly advance the sum needed for your education. You may regard it as a loan if you will"--for Katherine's chin had suddenly squared itself at the beginning of his speech--"but I would consider the pleasure all mine." "You are very kind," said Katherine huskily, "but I couldn't do it. You see, my mother's health has broken down from the years of hard work and this sudden trouble, and dad's thoroughly discouraged, and they need me on the job to put life into them and keep the farm going." Gratefully but firmly she refused all their offers of help. She was the calmest one in the group, but the white lines around her mouth and the drooping slant to her shoulders told what a disappointment she had suffered. "Will you have to go home right away?" asked Gladys in a tragic voice. "No," said Katherine. "The folks aren't home yet and won't be for three weeks. So I can stay here as long as the rest of you do and when you go East I shall go West." She made her plans calmly and frowned on all demonstrations of sympathy. Hinpoha found her after supper sitting on the Council Rock watching the sunset, and creeping up behind her slipped her arms around her neck. "Poor old K!" she whispered caressingly. Katherine shook herself free from Hinpoha's embrace. "Don't act tragic," she said crossly. "And don't cry down the back of my neck. It gives me the fidgets." And rebuffed, Hinpoha crept away. The same thing happened to the other girls who tried to console her. It was hard to find a way to show their sympathy. She didn't weep, she didn't bewail her lot, she didn't cast a gloom over the company by making a long face. Katherine in trouble seemed suddenly older, stronger, more experienced in life than the others. They felt somehow young and childish before her and stood abashed. Yet their hearts ached for her because they knew that beneath her outward scorn of weakness she was suffering anguish of spirit. Katherine was still sitting all alone on the rock some time later when a very wide shadow fell across it, and Slim came puffing along and dropped down beside her, his moon face red with exertion and suppressed emotion. "It's a measly shame!" he said explosively and with so much vehemence that Katherine almost smiled. "Say," he said in a confidential tone after a moment of silence, "I have seven hundred dollars that my grandmother left me to pay my tuition at college. I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll lend it to you and I'll work my way through. Won't you take it from me, even if you won't from the others?" His face was so earnest and his offer so sincere that Katherine was touched. "Bless you, Slim!" she said heartily. "You're a nice boy. And I'm very sorry I can't accept your offer." "Can't you?" said Slim pleadingly. "No," said Katherine firmly. "I must go home." "Well," Slim burst out, "you're a real sport, that's what you are!" Katherine smiled at his compliment, but tingled within with a warm feeling. "And you're a 'real sport' for offering to give me your money and work your way. Let's shake on it." Slim gripped her lean, brown hand in his big paw and gave it such a squeeze that she cried out. "Let go my hand, Slim, you're hurting me." Slim dropped her hand abruptly. "Why did you offer to lend me your money?" she asked curiously. "I never did anything for you." "Because I like you," said Slim emphatically, "better than any girl I ever knew." And blushing like a peony, he departed hastily from the scene. Katherine smiled whimsically as she looked after him. "My first 'romance,'" she thought. "With a baby elephant! Slim is a dear boy and I hate myself now because I used to make such fun of him." And where the passionate laments of the girls had failed to move her, the thought of Slim's offered sacrifice brought the tears to her eyes. "'Oh, was there ever such a knight in friendship or in war?'" she quoted softly to herself. Katherine put her trouble resolutely in the background and refused to discuss it, and activities went on just as before on Ellen's Isle. "Captain, will you go for the mail this afternoon?" asked Uncle Teddy one day not long after the event of the new camera. "Mr. Evans and I want to spend the day over on the mainland trying to get some bird pictures. One of you boys can run us over to the Point of Pines in the launch and get us again when you come home with the mail. We don't want to be bothered looking after a boat." "All right, sir," said the Captain. Aunt Clara and the girls departed to put up a lunch basket for the men while Uncle Teddy and Mr. Evans gathered up the various impedimenta they wanted to take along. The boys took them over to the Point of Pines and then started off on a long ride in the launch, taking all the girls with them except Antha, who had a headache. Not long after they had gone Aunt Clara came out of Uncle Teddy's tent, which she had seized the opportunity to straighten up, and declared that her husband would forget his head if it weren't fastened on. She was carrying in her hand the new camera. "If that isn't just like him!" she scolded. "He wouldn't let me carry it down to the boat for him and then he goes off and forgets it himself. He must have thought he had it when he carried down that case of film plates. Won't he be in a fine stew when he finds out he's left it behind and has no boat to come back in? And I've got all the stuff ready to start making that new Indian pudding, and if I take the time to row over to the Point of Pines I won't get it done for dinner and the boys and girls will be so disappointed! And poor Mrs. Evans has just fallen asleep after being up all night with a jumping tooth; I can't ask her to go." Then her eye fell on Antha, swinging in the hammock. "I don't suppose I could send Antha over with it," she said to herself, remembering how Antha always clung to the others, and had never been out in a boat by herself. "I might as well make up my mind to give up the Indian pudding and go over myself." But the materials were all out and some half prepared and it seemed such a shame not to be able to finish it. "Gracious!" she thought to herself, looking in Antha's direction again, "that girl ought to be able to take that camera over there. The lake is as smooth as glass. I just won't take the time." "Antha," she said, approaching her with the camera, and speaking in the same matter-of-fact tone she used toward the older girls, "will you row across the lake and give this to Uncle Teddy?" Antha shrank back and looked uncertain, but Aunt Clara went on quickly, "He'll be wild when he finds he's forgotten it. Be careful that you don't get it wet going over." And she handed her the expensive instrument with an air of perfect confidence in her ability to take care of it. "May I stay over there with Uncle Teddy and watch them take pictures?" asked Antha, for whom the time was beginning to lag now that the others were not on the island. "Yes, certainly," said Aunt Clara. "I gave them plenty of lunch for three." She started Antha out in the rowboat and then went back to her task of concocting a new and delightful Indian pudding. When the boys and girls came home to dinner she was glad she had stayed and made it, for their delight and appreciation amply repaid her for the trouble. At four o'clock the Captain went for the mail and came home with Uncle Teddy and Mr. Evans. Uncle Teddy wore an expression of deepest disgust. "Of all the boneheaded things I ever did," he exclaimed as he stepped out on the dock, "today's job was the worst. Here I went off and left the camera behind, and not having any boat couldn't come back, so we just had to sit there all day and wait to be called for." "But," gasped Aunt Clara, "I sent Antha after you with it just as soon as I found you had forgotten it. Didn't she bring it to you?" "No," said Uncle Teddy. "We never saw a sign of her." "Something must have happened to her!" cried Aunt Clara, starting up in dismay. "She went over before dinner. The lake was so smooth I thought it was perfectly safe. What could have happened?" "Get into the launch, quick," said Uncle Teddy "and we'll go and look." Aunt Clara and Katherine and several more jumped in and they went off in feverish haste. Aunt Clara was almost prostrated at the thought that harm might have come to Antha from that errand. Around one of the numerous points which ran out into the water before you came to the Point of Pines they saw her, standing on a rock just underneath the surface, the water washing around her ankles. She was several hundred feet from the shore and the rowboat was nowhere to be seen. Her whole figure was tense from trying to cling to the slippery rock, and in her arms she was tightly clutching the camera. She fairly tumbled into the launch as it ran alongside her. "What happened?" they all asked. "The bottom came out of the boat," said Antha, "and it filled up with water and I got out on that rock and the boat sank." "Which boat did you take?" asked Uncle Teddy. "The small one," replied Antha. "Good Lord," ejaculated Uncle Teddy. "That was the one with the loose board in the bottom! Why didn't I take it away from the others? What a narrow scrape you had! It was a mighty good thing for you that that rock was right there." "And she stood there all day!" "Why didn't you swim to shore?" asked Uncle Teddy. "You can keep up pretty well, and you would have struck shallow water pretty soon." "Because I had the camera," said Antha, beginning to sob from exhaustion, "and I had--to--keep--it--dry!" "You blessed lamb!" said Aunt Clara, and then choked and was unable to say any more. "There!" exclaimed Katherine exultantly, when they were back home and Antha had been put to bed and fussed over. "Didn't I tell you she'd develop a backbone if the right occasion presented itself? The only thing she needed to bring it out was responsibility. Responsibility! That's the last thing anybody would have thought of putting on her. She's been babied and petted all her life and told what a poor, feeble creature she was until she believed it. People expected her to be a cry-baby and so she was one. We made the same mistake here. We've never asked her to do an equal share of the work, or made her responsible for a single thing. We were always afraid she couldn't do it. Now you see Aunt Clara made her responsible for that camera and took it for granted that she'd keep it dry and, of course, she did. I guess everybody would be a hero if somebody only expected them to." CHAPTER XIII OUT OF THE STORM "Is there enough blue to make a Dutchman a pair of breeches?" asked Gladys, anxiously scanning the heavens. "If there is, it will clear up before noon." "Well, there's enough to patch a pair, anyway," said Katherine, pointing to a minute scrap of blue showing through a jagged rent in a gray cloud. "A patched pair is just as good as a new one," said Gladys with easy philosophy. "It's all right for us to go for a hike today, isn't it, Uncle Teddy?" "Most any day is good for a hike, if you really want to go," answered Uncle Teddy cheerfully. "Don't I hear you girls singing: "'We always think the weather's fine in sunshine or in snow?'" "Oh, goody! I'm glad you think so," said Gladys. "Mother always wants us to stay at home if it looks the least bit like rain and when we do it usually clears up after it's too late to start. We've all set our hearts on cutting those balsam branches today." Uncle Teddy sniffed the air again and remarked that there was little rain in it, so with light hearts the expedition started out. Uncle Teddy took them across to the mainland. On this occasion there was an extra passenger in the launch. This was Sandhelo, with his feet carefully tied to prevent his exercising them unduly. He was to accompany the expedition and carry the balsam branches back to the shore. The lake was quite rough and more than once the water splashed inside the boat. "Poor Sandhelo," said Hinpoha sympathetically. "Do you suppose he'll get seasick? He looks so pale." "How does a donkey look when he's pale?" jeered Sahwah. "If you mean that white stuff on his nose, he stuck it into a pan of flour this morning. Anyway, I never heard of a donkey getting seasick." "That doesn't prove that they can't," retorted Hinpoha. But Sandhelo seemed none the worse for his journey when they set him ashore and trotted briskly along with the expedition. The balsam firs were deep in the woods and it took some time to find them. The wind seemed much stronger over here than it had been on Ellen's Isle--or else it had stiffened after they left. It roared through the treetops in a perfectly fascinating way and every little while they would stop and listen to it, laughing as the leafy skirt of some staid old birch matron went flying over her head. "It seems like a million hungry lions roaring," said Hinpoha. "Or the bad spirits of the air practising their football yells," said Sahwah. "There goes my hat! Catch it, somebody!" cried Katherine. The hat did some amazing loop-the-looping and settled on a high branch, whence it was retrieved by the Monkey with some little difficulty. Gathering the balsam boughs was not such an idyllic process as they had expected. In the first place, they were blowing around at such a rate that it was hard to catch hold of them, and then when one was grasped firmly the others lashed out so furiously that they were driven back again and again. Furthermore, those which they did succeed in getting off were picked up by the gale and hurled broad-cast. "It's too windy to do anything today," said Hinpoha crossly, retiring to the shelter of a wide trunk and holding her hands to her smarting face. Several stinging blows from a branch set with needles had dampened her enthusiasm for balsam pillows. Some of the others stuck it out until they had as much as they wanted, and after an hour or more of strenuous labor Sandhelo was finally laden with his fragrant burden and the expedition started back. Then they began to have their first real experience with wind. Going into the woods it had been been at their backs and they thought it great fun to be shoved along and to lean back against it like a supporting hand, but going against it was an entirely different matter. It was all they could do to stand on their feet and at times they simply could not move an inch forward. The roaring in the treetops seemed full of menace, and branches began to fall around them. Not far away a whole tree went down with a sounding crash. "We're all going to be killed!" cried Gladys hysterically, as they huddled together at the sound of the falling tree. A wild blast that rang like the scream of an enraged beast came like an answer to her words, and a sapling maple snapped off like a toothpick. Sandhelo snorted with fear and began to kick out. "We must get out of these woods as fast as we can," said the Captain, to whom the others had all turned for advice. "You don't see any of us lingering to admire the scenery, do you?" asked Katherine drily. Terrified almost out of their senses and expecting every minute to have a tree fall on them, they made their way toward the shore and came out spent and exhausted and too breathless to talk. But glad as they were to get out of the woods in safety, they were filled with dismay when they looked at the lake. To their excited eyes the waves, black as the sky above them, seemed mountain high. "They'll never come for us in the launch in _that_," said Katherine after a few moments' silent gazing, voicing the fears of the others. "We should never have started out on a day like this," said Hinpoha. "Why did you insist so on our coming, Gladys?" "Well," Gladys defended herself, "Katherine said there was enough blue to patch the Dutchman's breeches and----" "But it was you who said that was enough to start out on," retorted Katherine. "And you wanted the balsam boughs the worst, so it's your fault." "Don't let's quarrel about who's fault it was," said the Captain. "None of us were obliged to come; we came because we wanted to. It's everybody's fault, and what is everybody's is nobody's. We're here now and we'll have to make the best of it." "Maybe it will calm down before very long," said Gladys hopefully. "Not much chance," said the Captain, "with the wind rising every minute." There seemed nothing else to do but wait, so they crouched behind rocks to find shelter from the gale and tried to be patient. Every little while a dash of spray would find someone out and then there would be a shriek and a scramble for another rock higher up on the shore. Thus the afternoon wore away. It had been practically twilight since noon. "What are you doing, Captain, admiring the view?" asked Slim, when the Captain had been looking out over the tossing lake for fully five minutes. "Quite some view," said the Captain, who was deeply impressed by the ferocity of wind and wave, "but I was doing something besides admiring it. I was thinking that it won't do us much good to sit here any longer. The lake is getting rougher all the time and there is no hope of Uncle Teddy's being able to come for us tonight. I think the best thing to do would be to try to walk to St. Pierre, where we can find shelter." "Would we be able to make it?" asked Hinpoha doubtfully, measuring the distance that lay between them and the little cluster of toy houses that shone ghostly white against the black sky. "It must be miles." "Not quite three," replied the Captain. "We can make it. The wind will be coming from the side, so we won't be walking squarely against it." They formed a line, each boy taking a girl by the arm, and struggled along the shore, keeping out of the woods as much as possible, and made slow but steady progress toward St. Pierre. It was during one of their frequent stops for breath that Sahwah, who had turned her head to look out over the wild water, suddenly screamed, "Look!" "It's the _Huronic_!" gasped Hinpoha, her eyes following Sahwah's pointing finger. Jammed up on a reef and completely at the mercy of the waves that battered against her side lay the great steamer that only a week before had swept so proudly through the channel. The beautiful white bird had its wings broken now, and drooping helplessly lay exposed to the full fury of the storm. Hinpoha shrieked and covered her face with her hands. Horrified and fascinated, the others watched the waves dashing high over the tilting decks. "Whe-e-e-w-w-w!" whistled the Captain. "Can't we do something," said Sahwah, "run and tell somebody? Oh, don't stand here and see that boat go to pieces!" "What can we do?" asked Hinpoha. Before anybody could answer her question a brilliant light suddenly flared up a short distance ahead of them on the shore. "What's that?" asked Hinpoha in amazement. "Beach patrol," explained the Captain. "That's the signal that he has sighted the ship. Now he'll run back to the life saving station that's about a mile beyond here opposite the mouth of the channel and tell them where the wreck is and they'll come and take the people off the ship. See him going there, along the shore?" In the gray darkness which followed the flash of light they could just barely make out the figure of a man running. "I don't see how he ever got that torch lit in this wind," said Hinpoha. "That wasn't an ordinary torch," explained the Captain, eager to display his knowledge of life-saving methods. "That's what they call a Coston signal. It's a patent torch that flares up when you strike the cap against something hard. The life-saving crew back in the station see it and get the apparatus ready and the people on the ship see it and know they have been sighted and help is coming." "Oh, I'm so glad," said Hinpoha in relieved tones. "Now the poor people on the boat won't be so frightened if they know they are going to be saved. It must be fine to be a life saver!" "Maybe I'll be one when I grow up," said the Captain. "Oh, how grand!" said Hinpoha admiringly. "We'll be so proud----" Then came a fiercer gust of wind and drowned the remainder of her sentence in its shriek, and they plodded on in silence, covering their faces to shield them from the whirling sand. Only a little way farther they came upon the beach patrol sitting on the ground and rubbing his knee. "What's the matter?" they asked, pressing around. "Hullo!" he exclaimed in astonishment, "what are you kids doing out on a night like this?" "We're taking a walk," replied Sahwah and then giggled nervously when she thought how funny that must sound. "What's the matter?" she repeated. "Tripped over a stone," replied the beach patrol, "and kinked my leg." He stifled a groan as he spoke. "Are you badly hurt?" asked Hinpoha anxiously. The man rose to his feet and limped resolutely on his way toward the station, but his progress was very slow. "Of all times to go lame!" he exclaimed in bitter vexation. "There's the _Huronic_ out there on the reef with two hundred passengers on board and there's not a minute to lose!" "We'll take the word to the station!" said the Captain promptly. "We can get there lots faster than you can." "All right," said the beach patrol briefly. He wasted no words in this emergency when seconds were things of consequence, but made prompt use of the assistance which had apparently been sent from heaven in the nick of time. "Tell them she's struck on the reef off Sister Point," he directed. "'On the reef off Sister Point,'" they all repeated, and started forward with as much speed as they could manage. Then it seemed to them that the wind had shifted and was coming from the front. In spite of valiant efforts to keep on their feet they were blown against the rocks which strewed the shore, and bruised and battered mercilessly. "I can't go any farther," gasped Antha at last, sinking wearily down behind a huge stump. "Neither can I," said Migwan, who knew when she had reached the limit of her strength and realized that it would be folly to attempt to keep on to the station. Hinpoha had been panting in distress for some time, but had kept on gamely. But now she agreed with Migwan. "All you girls get around behind that cliff," shouted the Captain at the top of his voice so as to make them hear, "and stay there until you're rested. We'll go on to the station." Katherine and Sahwah stubbornly refused to be left; the other girls sought the shelter of the rock wall. Spurred on by the importance of their errand the nine struggled valiantly to make headway, but it was most discouraging work. At times it seemed as if they would be picked off their feet bodily and whirled into space. "Every time I go forward one step I blow back two," panted Sahwah as they drew up in the shelter of a bluff to take a moment's breathing spell. "Aren't we nearly there?" "Only about a quarter of the distance," said the Captain gloomily. "I've an idea," said Katherine suddenly. "What is it?" asked Sahwah. "We're not getting to the station nearly as fast as we ought to," said Katherine, "and what's more, there's no hope of our going any faster on foot. I'll ride Sandhelo in. He's lots stronger than we are and can hold up against the wind where we can't. It's the only way we can get the word to the station in time. I didn't think of riding him before, because the beach was so rocky I was afraid he would break his leg in the dark, but from here it seems to be smooth." However much the boys thought it was their duty to carry the message to the station rather than the girls', they saw the worth of Katherine's advice. They thought of the _Huronic_ lying out on the reef, pounded by the waves, and gave in to her at once without discussion. All this time Katherine had been leading Sandhelo because she could hang on to him and keep her balance when the wind threatened to sweep her off her feet. "Get ready for business, now, old chap," she said to him. "It's time for your act." And, climbing on his back, she bent low over his neck and urged him forward with a cluck and a poke. But Sandhelo chose this crisis to indulge in a return of his artistic temperament. Not an inch would he budge. "What shall I do?" wailed Katherine, when all her clucking and prodding had been in vain. "Try riding him backward the way you did that day in the circus," screamed Sahwah. Katherine whirled around on her stubborn mount and unexpectedly gave his tail a smart pull. With a snort of indignant surprise Sandhelo threw out his legs and started forward. Katherine caught her balance from the shock of starting, clamped her knees into his sides and hung on grimly to the blanket that had been strapped around his middle to keep the balsam boughs from pricking him. Never was there a more grotesque ride for life. Instead of the beautiful heroine of fiction galloping on a noble steed here was a lanky girl riding backwards on a temperamental trick mule, hanging on as best she could, holding her breath as he pounded along in the darkness, expecting every moment that he would go down under her and praying fervently that he would not take it into his head to stop. But Sandhelo, under the impression that he was running away from something, kept on going from sheer fright, and as his early life had been spent waltzing on a revolving platform, he was able to keep a footing where any other steed would have broken his legs. He would not even stop when they came to the life-saving station, and Katherine had to roll off as best she could, landing in the sand on her face. "Whoa, there!" shouted half a dozen voices, and the surfmen who stood anxiously waiting for the return of the patrol caught his bridle and brought him to a standstill. Katherine panted out her message, and then refusing the invitation of the keeper to go inside the station, she followed the crew as they dragged the beach wagon to the point on the shore opposite the wreck. From their various shelters along the way the rest of the Winnebagos came out and joined her, all eager to see the work of rescuing the stranded passengers. Hinpoha exclaimed in dismay when the small cannon was brought out and aimed at the ship. "They're going to shoot the passengers!" she cried, clutching the Captain by the arm. "No, they aren't," the Captain assured her hastily. "They're going to shoot the line out to the ship. That's the way they rig up the breeches-buoy. Now you watch. I'm going to see if I can help. That fellow with the twisted knee is out of it." Without getting in the men's way, the Captain watched his chance, and when it came time to man the whip that hauled the breeches-buoy out to the vessel he took a hand with the crew and pulled lustily. After that he worked right along with the men and they were glad of his help, for the loss of the one surfman was holding them back. The other boys also did what they could to help, and the bringing to shore of the passengers proceeded as rapidly as possible. The memory of that night was ever after like a confused dream in the minds of the Winnebagos and Sandwiches; a nightmare of howling wind and dashing waves and inky darkness out of which came ever increasing numbers of people to throng the shore. The wrecking of a passenger vessel was a much more serious matter than the destruction of a freighter, where there would only be the crew to bring ashore. The _Huronic_ carried two hundred passengers and as it was impossible for any boat to get alongside of her to take them off, they all had to be taken ashore in the breeches-buoy or the life car. Other lines were shot out after the first one and other rescue apparatus set up. From the position of her lights it could be seen that the _Huronic_ was listing farther to the leeward all the time. The life savers worked untiringly and the throng of rescued grew apace. Entirely forgetting their own fatigue from their long tramp against the wind, the Winnebagos and Sandwiches moved among the crowd, lending sweaters, coats and scarfs to shivering women, taking crying children in tow and finding their distracted parents, and doing a hundred and one little services that helped materially to bring a semblance of order out of the wild confusion. Hinpoha had just restored a curly-haired three-year old to his hysterical mamma when a man came up to her and said, "Will you bring your flashlight over here, please? My wife has dropped her watch." Hinpoha obligingly turned aside with him and approached a woman kneeling in the sand, searching. "This young lady will help you find it, Elizabeth," said the man. "That's encouraging," replied the woman in a voice which made Hinpoha give a great start and hastily flash the little circle of light on her face. The next moment she flung herself bodily on top of her with a great shriek. "Nyoda! Where on earth did you come from? Nyoda! _Nyoda_!" "Hinpoha!" cried the young woman in the sand, clinging to her in amazement, while the man who had addressed Hinpoha gave vent to a long whistle. "Why, it's the immortal redhead!" he exclaimed. "I didn't know you in the dark at all." "It's the first time anybody ever said they didn't know me in the dark," said Hinpoha, laughing. "I didn't know you either without that famous mustache. Sahwah!" she called. "Gladys! Come here quick!" The Winnebagos had often pictured to themselves what their reunion with Nyoda would be like when she made them the faithfully promised visit the following year, but none of them had ever dreamed it would come so soon or be like this. In the feeble light of their pocket flashes they crowded around her, behind a point of the cliff which kept some of the wind away, and all talked at once as they bubbled over with joy at the meeting, and Sherry, against whom they had vowed eternal warfare for stealing their beloved guardian away, came in for his share of handshaking and rapturous greeting. "Where were you going?" "What were you doing on the _Huronic_?" "Why didn't you let us know you were so near?" "Did you intend to stop?" "How does it feel to be shipwrecked?" "Were you scared when they took you off the boat?" asked six voices at once. Nyoda laughed and threw up her hands in a gesture of protest. "Have mercy!" she pleaded. "Send up your questions in single file." Then she told how Sherry had been instructed to go to Chicago when they were up in Duluth and they had chosen to come down by water, and were having a most delightful trip on the _Huronic_ when it was so rudely ended by the storm. Her tale was somewhat disconnected, for she was constantly being interrupted by outbursts of delight at seeing her again and anxious inquiries as to whether she was cold, all more or less accompanied by caresses. During one of these pauses, when she was being nearly smothered in a mackinaw by the over-solicitous Hinpoha, a voice was heard nearby, saying, "First we see Jim's signal light go off and we knowed there was a wreck somewhere. We was wondering why he didn't come back to report when all of a sudden up comes a reg'lar giraffe of a girl on board an imitation mule. She was sittin' facin' the stern an' listin' hard to starboard. She tries to make port in front of the station, but the mule he heads into the wind an' she jumps overboard." The Winnebagos shouted with laughter at this description of Katherine's arrival at the station with the great news. "Sh-h, maybe he'll tell some more," said Sahwah, trying to quiet the others down. But the loquacious surfman had moved out of earshot and they heard no more of his tale. Another voice was speaking now, a crisp voice that held a note of impatience. "No conveyance available to take me to St. Pierre? How annoying! How far did you say it was? Two miles? In this wind----" The voice broke off, but the speaker moved forward toward the little group behind the bluff. Just then a searchlight that had been set up on the beach fell upon him. It was Judge Dalrymple. "Papa!" cried Antha, starting up. The judge whirled around, startled. "Where did you come from?" he asked. Antha dragged him over to the rest and then there were more exclamations of astonishment that the judge had also been a victim of the wreck. The night wore away while all the adventures were being told, and the gray dawn saw the last of the rescued passengers finding their friends and relatives in the crowd, while the surfmen gathered up their paraphernalia and piled it into the beach wagon. The wind was abating its force and a weary-eyed procession was setting out in the direction of St. Pierre. The Winnebagos and Sandwiches were a procession all to themselves, led by the stately judge with a twin hanging on each arm. Behind him came Nyoda and the adoring Winnebagos like Diana surrounded by her maidens, while Katherine stalked in the rear of the parade leading the angel-faced Sandhelo, on whose back she had set a tired youngster. "What a terrible, wicked wind that was," said Gladys, looking from the wreck of the magnificent _Huronic_ to the uprooted trees lying everywhere along the edge of the woods. "But it's an ill wind that blows nobody any good," said Hinpoha, as she embraced Nyoda for the hundred and nineteenth time. CHAPTER XIV THE TRAIL OF THE SEVEN CEDARS "There's no use talking, we Winnebagos simply weren't meant to be separated," said Nyoda, smiling around at the circle of happy faces. "It seems that the very elements are in league to throw us into each other's paths." They were all back on Ellen's Isle. By noon of the day following the storm they were able to cross the end of the lake in a launch from St. Pierre and relieve the hearts of the anxious watchers on the island. Nyoda and Sherry were easily persuaded to stop and spend a few days on Ellen's Isle now that their trip was interrupted, and the judge, having finished the business which brought him to St. Pierre, took occasion to run over and stay awhile with the twins. Nyoda was dragged from one end of the island to the other and shown its wonders, from the innocent little spring which was the cause of their being there to the much enduring Eeny-Meeny on her pedestal. Over the adventures of the latter she laughed until the tears ran down her cheeks. "Those are such typically _Winnebago_ stunts," she declared. "Who except one of us would have seen the tremendous possibilities in a wooden Indian, and who but a Winnebago could have thought up such a thing as the Dark of the Moon Society?" The every-member-a-chief idea interested her mightily, and she was anxious to hear how it had worked out. "Fine," said Sahwah, "but I guess Uncle Teddy was really the Big Chief after all, even if he did make us think we were doing everything by ourselves. The other Chiefs generally asked his advice about things--I know I did. But we did think out more things for ourselves this way than we would have if we thought he was looking out for everything." "And it was pretty exciting, sometimes, and full of surprises," said Gladys. "Remember the morning Katherine got us up at half past three for crew practice? That never would have happened if Uncle Teddy had blown the rising horn all summer." "Come and see the war canoe," said Sahwah, tugging at Nyoda to get her started in a new direction. "We named it after you. See the name painted on the bows?" "What did I ever do that I should have a war canoe named after me?" asked Nyoda, overcome by the honor. Somebody called Katherine away then, and Nyoda said to the others, "You were telling me about Katherine's having such a tremendous fit of the blues some time ago. Tell me, is she having one now? She seems changed somehow since last June. Isn't she feeling well?" And then they told her how Katherine's plans to go to college had been shipwrecked and that she was going back to her home on the farm when the summer was over. Nyoda listened sympathetically, and as soon as she could she sought out Katherine and led her away for a walk with her alone. In the long, intimate talk which followed she made her see that this disappointment was an opportunity and not a calamity; an opportunity to develop strength of character which would enable her to surmount whatever difficulties would lie in her path through life. She testified to her that the lives of most great people showed they had become great, not because of the opportunities which were strewn in their paths, but because of the obstacles they had overcome. Katherine nodded dumbly. "But, how am I going to 'pass on the light that has been given to me,' if I am to be away from people?" she said sadly after a moment. "By doing the duty that lies nearest you," replied Nyoda, pressing her shoulder with a gentle hand. "You can be just as much of a Torch Bearer at home as anywhere. I know the prospect seems empty, even with the knowledge that you are doing your duty. By all the tokens, your place in life seems to be out in the busy world, rubbing elbows with people on all sides. Your great dream of social settlement work seemed one which was destined to be fulfilled with singular success. But, my dear, remember this, no success in life is worth as much as a happy home and a loving father and mother, and in taking over the task of home-making you have undertaken the greatest and noblest piece of work that any woman can do. If you succeed in making home happy your life will not be wasted and your torch will shine undimmed." "I hadn't thought about it in that way before," said Katherine slowly. "You see, I had spent my whole life waiting for the day when I could get away from home and get out among educated people. My one dream as long as I can remember has been college in the East, and I spent every minute studying. I never cared how the house looked or how anything went on the farm. I just lived in my books, and in day dreams of the future. That's what makes it so hard to go back now. Oh, I was going back all right, I never thought for a moment of not going, but I don't believe I was planning to be very happy about it. Now I see the meaning of the Camp Fire Girls' law, 'Be happy.' It doesn't mean be happy when everything is coming your way, but in spite of everything when things are going wrong. Just so when we learned to say, 'For I will bring ... my joy and sorrow to the fire.' There is more than one way to make a fire. If you haven't a joyful match handy to scratch and make an instant blaze, you can start one with the slow rubbing sticks of sorrow. But either one will kindle the torch that you can pass on to others. I see it now!" "You certainly have put it in a nutshell!" said Nyoda. "So now I'm going home," continued Katherine, "and tackle the housekeeping the way I used to go at my lessons. I'm going to make that old shack that was always a blot on the landscape such a marvel of beauty that it won't know itself. I'm going to begin right there to seek beauty and give service and pursue knowledge and be trustworthy and glorify work, and above all, I'm going to Be Happy. Thank you so much, Nyoda, for telling me the things you did. You've straightened everything out for me, the way you always do." "Spoken like a true Winnebago!" said Nyoda, gripping her hand. "I knew you wouldn't show the white feather. Now I must go. Don't you hear Sherry calling me? Never get married, my dear, if you wish to be mistress of your own time!" After that confidential talk with Nyoda Katherine's soul was once more serene and the old spring was back in her step and the characteristic air of enthusiasm about everything she did. Once more the future seemed full of possibilities. That night Nyoda gathered the Winnebagos together for a confidential council meeting. "Well, Torch Bearer," she asked, "how goes the torch bearing?" "We haven't had a chance to try it on anybody yet," said Hinpoha, "except Antha. We really and truly didn't want her here this summer at all until Katherine said she would be an opportunity instead of a nuisance." Here Nyoda smiled radiantly in Katherine's direction in the darkness. What a faculty that girl had for seeing possibilities, whether in wooden Indians or spoiled children! "And so you found out that it was worth while to have her here after all," said Nyoda, beaming upon them when they had finished. "Well, I should say you had been making very fair headway, indeed. So far only one opportunity has presented itself and you have made the most of that. You're one hundred per cent efficient on that basis. I'm proud of you." How glad they were then that they had "put up" with Antha! Somewhere in the back of each one's head there lurked the suspicion that Nyoda must have "put up" with _them_ considerably, back in the days when she first became their Guardian. "I think we ought to set our seal on all our 'little sisters,'" said Katherine, speaking with her old animation. "Why not make Antha an 'associate member' of the Winnebagos? Then we'd never lose interest in her." "Good idea," said Nyoda heartily. "Let's have a ceremonial meeting right away and make her officially one of us." No sooner said than done, and a council fire was kindled on the beach and in the presence of the whole company Antha was made a Winnebago with full ceremony--a thing they never would have dreamed of at the beginning of the summer. "This is going to be our last week on Ellen's Isle," said Sahwah rather dolefully at the breakfast table the next morning. "We want to pack it as full of good times as we can." All the Winnebagos and Sandwiches set down their cups with a dismayed bang. While they were perfectly aware of the flight of time they had not begun to think seriously about going home. It seemed incredible, how near at hand the time actually was. But when Sahwah had finished speaking Mr. Evans raised his voice. "I wasn't going to tell you until council meeting tonight," he said in a tone which betrayed a coming surprise. "But the way things have worked out I do not have to be back in the city until after the first week in September, so we can stay one week longer than we had planned." He tried to make some further remarks, but they were lost in the cheer that followed his announcement. To the enthusiastic campers that extra week seemed like an endless amount of time. "You will stay with us, Nyoda?" pleaded Hinpoha, and Nyoda smilingly assured her that she and Sherry had already been invited to stay on and were going to accept because the business conference Sherry was to attend in Chicago had been postponed for a week. Judge Dalrymple also promised to stay until the twins went home. "But who'll be Chiefs that extra week?" "Antha and Anthony," said Katherine promptly. "They've both proven themselves responsible." And without waiting to go into formal meeting the family council approved the appointment, to the infinite amazement of the judge, who had never looked upon the twins as anything but very small and irresponsible children. He listened unbelievingly to the tale of Antha and the camera. "She's got grit!" he exclaimed exultingly to Mr. Evans and Uncle Teddy. "She's got grit! I thought she hadn't a speck. She's a Dalrymple after all! Praise be, she's got grit!" He seemed more pleased about the fact that she had grit than if she had possessed all the virtues of the saints. "She's learned to swim, too! How did you ever do it? I knew it would be the making of her to send her here for the summer. And Anthony, too, you've done something to him. Why, he calls me 'sir' every time he speaks to me! He actually says 'sir!' That's something he never did in his life before. And where he used to choose the worst boys he could find for companions he seems to have learned to pick the best out of the lot. He thinks there's no one in the world like that St. John boy; wants me to give him our old yacht. Seems to have stopped bragging, too; that used to be his besetting sin." Uncle Teddy smiled reminiscently at this, and then, acting upon a sudden impulse, he told the judge how the boys had cured Anthony of boasting by forcing him to make good his words. "So it took a lesson like that to do it?" said the judge. "Well, I guess you're right. He ought to have had it long ago, only I've never had a chance to do anything like that to him. His mother would have interfered. You know how it is." He broke off with a shrug of his shoulders. "I can't thank you enough for taking care of them this summer," he said earnestly. Then Mr. Evans told him just how Katherine had influenced the Council to consent to the coming of the twins. "So it was Katherine that did it," said the judge. "I am deeply in her debt. Do you happen to know of anything she would like to have particularly? I would like to show my appreciation in some way." "I don't know of anything special she wants," said Mr. Evans, "except----" And briefly he told the judge about Katherine's home troubles. "Do you suppose she would take the money to go to college?" asked the judge. Mr. Evans shook his head. "I'm afraid she won't. I offered it to her myself. It seems that her mother is sick and her father is much discouraged and they want her at home to look after things. It was her own decision to go; she is determined to make the sacrifice for their sakes. It is a noble one, you must admit, and I would feel delicate about influencing her to do otherwise." "Hm," said the judge. "No use offering her money then. But, by the way--what did you say was the name of the company that her father sank his money in?" "Pacific Refining Company," said Mr. Evans. "H-m-m-m," said the judge. "I happen to know a little about that company. Peculiar case, very. Seemed sound as a rock, yet it failed through bad management. But I happen to know that if it were backed by somebody of good repute and put into the hands of an able manager it would pull through and pay dividends. Trouble is nobody wants to sink any more money in it. Possibly I could arrange to back it--Hm. I'll see what can be done. Not a word to the girl about this, you understand, there's nothing certain about it." Then Antha's voice was heard calling for her father and away he went, leaving Mr. Evans and Uncle Teddy staring breathless after the man who proposed to revive dead ventures as casually as if he were talking about putting up screens. "What are we going to do with Eeny-Meeny when we go home?" asked Gladys. That was a question nobody was prepared to answer offhand. "Take her home and put her in the House of the Open Door," said Sahwah. "But hardly any of us will be there to see her," objected Hinpoha, "and, anyway, it's cruelty to dumb Indians to take them away from their native woods and shut them up in houses. I know Eeny-Meeny wouldn't be happy there. I think we ought to leave her here on Ellen's Isle." Then it was that Katherine had another inspiration. "I've got a plan worth two of that," she said, beginning to giggle in anticipation. "Let's bury her at the base of the rock in the ravine, and then mark the rock so mysteriously that somebody who comes after us will fall for it and dig up the earth. You're good at that sort of thing, Hinpoha, you carve some fearful and wonderful things on that rock. Won't they get a shock, though, when they come to Eeny-Meeny?" In their mind's eye they could all see the sensation caused by the discovering of Eeny-Meeny possibly years hence at the base of the rock, and the prank appealed to them irresistibly. Of course, the mention of the rock in the ravine brought out the story of the Trail of the Seven Cedars and the fruitless search for Indian relics. The judge listened to the tale with a peculiar expression of interest. "By the way," he said casually, when they had finished, "did you know that I happen to own that stretch of land?" The Winnebagos and Sandwiches were much taken aback. "Do you mind awfully, because we dug up the ground?" asked Gladys. "Why didn't you tell us your father owned the land?" she said, turning reproachfully to the twins. "We didn't know it," said Antha, "but I don't think papa minds our digging it up, do you, Papa?" "Not in the least," said the judge, chuckling. "And I think it would be the best joke in the world to 'plant' Eeny-Meeny at the base of the rock. Some time or other that land will be sold, and I will see to it that hints are dropped to whoever buys it that there are Indian relics on the premises and they are invariably found at the bases of marked rocks. That's the best joke I've heard in years. Katherine, you're a genius. That idea of yours was surely inspired." So the Principal Diversion for the last week was the burial of Eeny-Meeny. After elaborate farewell ceremonies had been held over her on Ellen's Isle she was put into a canoe and towed across the lake, then taken out and carried along the Trail of the Seven Cedars to the ravine. All the family went along to see the fun and take part in the last rites. But at the entrance to the ravine there was a ripple of astonishment. The cedar tree which had stood half way up the side, the largest and oldest of the seven, had been uprooted by the storm and lay at length in the bottom of the ravine. Where it had been there was a great gaping hole in the hillside. Numbers of rocks had come down with it and rolled into the excavation made by the boys and girls, carrying with them great quantities of earth, so that it was no longer an open pit. The whole appearance of the ravine had been changed by the falling of the tree. The funeral party paused, uncertain whether to go to the work of taking the rocks out of Eeny-Meeny's grave or dig a new one somewhere else. While they stood around and talked it over Slim grew weary and went up the hillside to sit down in the hollow left by the roots of the tree, which looked to him like a comfortable seat. He settled himself heavily, but no sooner had he done so than the ground broke away under him and he disappeared with a yell. "Where are you?" cried the rest in amazement, running to the spot. "Inside the hill," came Slim's voice from beyond the hole. "There's a cave here and I'm in it." "Are you hurt?" they called. "No," he answered. "I'm coming in to look at the cave," said Sahwah, and she crawled carefully through the hole which had been much widened by Slim's breaking through, and dropped down beside him. After her came the others, one by one, all anxious to see this chamber in the hillside. It was about as large as an ordinary sized room, the walls all rock, dripping with the dampness of ages. Katherine, blundering about in the darkness, which was only partly relieved by the flashlights, walked into something wet and cold. At her startled exclamation the others hurried over into the far corner with her and their flashlights shone on a good sized pool of water in the floor of the cave. It was being fed by a stream which came steadily through a fissure between two rocks. At one end of the pool the water flowed out into a hole in the ground and was lost to view. "It's a spring!" said Gladys. "I thought I heard water in here when we came down." Mr. Evans dipped a pocket cup into the clear water and took a drink. "It's a mineral spring!" he exclaimed in great excitement. "The same as the one on Ellen's Isle. But the size of it! There's a fortune in it for you, Judge. Think of the gallons of water that are flowing by some underground passage into the lake without ever coming to the surface! That's the prettiest case of poetic justice I've ever come across, finding this spring on your land. Now you can go ahead and organize a new mineral water company that will have a real spring for a basis." "I'll do it!" said the judge, "and all those who had stock in the old one will have first chance at this. What a lucky accident! I told you that idea of Katherine's to bring Eeny-Meeny to the ravine was inspired." "Now I know the meaning of the arrow on the rock!" said Sahwah when they were all outside the cave again. "You see, it points directly toward the hillside where those rocks came rolling down. Somebody found that cave and the spring and marked the spot so they could come back again, and then they never came back and it went on being a secret." "Now, Miss Katherine," said Hinpoha, "was it so terribly silly after all to think that mark meant something?" And Katherine cheerfully admitted that it wasn't. Hinpoha went on. "Captain," she said, "didn't you say you dreamed about water when you were fasting?" "That's what I did," said the Captain. "There!" said Hinpoha triumphantly. "You had a 'token' after all!" And nobody could deny the fact. "But if you're not going to sell the land, as, of course, you won't, there won't be any use in burying Eeny-Meeny," said Katherine in comical dismay. "Eeny-Meeny wasn't born to be buried in the ground," said Gladys. "Once more she has been rescued on the brink of death. If she wants to stay with us as badly as all that, I think we might take her home and put her in the House of the Open Door." "_I_ think," said Nyoda with twinkling eyes, "that Eeny-Meeny obstinately refuses to be disposed of because she wants to stay with Katherine. Don't you want to take her home with you, Katherine, for a good luck omen? She seems to bring good fortune to whoever has her. And she'll keep you from getting lonely." So it was decided that Eeny-Meeny was to go home with Katherine to Spencer, Arkansas, "to live with her and be her love," as Katherine poetically expressed it. With fêtes and feasts and celebrations of all kinds the last week passed, and almost before they knew it that time had actually come to pack up. Full of surprises as the summer had been, there was yet one more on the program. It came on the second last day. Going down to the beach in the morning for the bathing hour they saw, anchored out in the lake near the island, a good-sized steam yacht, splendid with the morning sun shining on her white sides and fluttering flags. "Where did it come from?" The twins were falling all over themselves with joy and pride. "It's our yacht, the _Sea Gull_," they shouted. "Did you have it come to take us home, Papa?" "Not only you, but all these folks," said the judge. "Oh, not really," protested Mr. Evans, "think of the distance!" "Nothing at all, nothing at all," the judge replied. "I would be most happy to make some slight return for your gracious hospitality." The Winnebagos and Sandwiches were delighted beyond measure at the thought of going home in such grand style, and much as they had dreaded the moment of leaving before, they could hardly wait for it now. "I've been sent home in people's automobiles lots of times," said Hinpoha, "but just fancy being taken home hundreds of miles in a yacht! Doesn't it make you dizzy, though?" In spite of the delight of steaming away on the spick and span yacht, there was heartfelt regret in every wave of the hand that bade farewell to Ellen's Isle, when the hour of leaving came, and never had it seemed fairer than when they looked upon its wooded height for the last time. Out in the channel they passed the lighthouse where the Hares had put their heads into the noose, and there was much laughter as they recounted the story for Nyoda's benefit. Still farther on was the reef where the _Huronic_ had met her fate; the salvage crews were still at work on her. In the clear sunshine and with the calm waters dimpling around them it seemed impossible to believe that this was the same lake that had worked itself into such an ungovernable fury but a short time before. The _Sea Gull_ was as swift as her white namesake, and flew over the sparkling lake like a real gull. So taken up were the Winnebagos and Sandwiches with the appointments of the yacht and such fun they had going anywhere they pleased on board by day or night, that before they knew it they were in the harbor of Detroit where Katherine and Nyoda and Sherry were to be set ashore to finish their respective journeys by train. With Katherine went Eeny-Meeny, nicely crated, to be a companion for her loneliness, as well as Sandhelo, who, by vote of council, was awarded to her because the others would no longer be able to take care of him, and because he had always had more of an affinity for Katherine than for any of the others. It was the fun they had over Eeny-Meeny and Sandhelo that made the parting less difficult. Katherine was the most hilarious of any. Grasping her umbrella by the bottom, she recited a husky poem to the effect that "Their parting was sad, but not tearful, It happened at four by the clock, The sail-aways tried to be cheerful, And the stay-ashores tried to be keerful, So's not to get shoved off the dock!" "We'll all be together again some time, I feel it in my bones," said Hinpoha cheerily. "You just can't separate us Winnebagos." Farewells were being said on all sides. "Good-bye, Nyoda! Remember the visit you're going to make us next summer!" "Good-bye, Sandhelo!" "Good-bye, Eeny-Meeny!" "Good-bye, Uncle Teddy!" Antha clung to Katherine, sobbing. "Good-bye, little sister of all the Winnebagos!" said Katherine, gently loosening the child's hands from her neck. Then somebody touched her on the shoulder, and, turning, she saw Slim beside her. He put something into her hands. It was a big bag of peanuts. "Eat them on the way," he said. "You're a sport!" said Katherine, laughing, and holding out her free hand to be shaken for the last time. The good-byes were all said and the yacht began to back away from the dock. Katherine looked after it with hungry eyes as it steamed away into the sunset, carrying with it the friends that had meant to her all that was bright and happy about her school days. She looked until the waving handkerchiefs were a blur in the distance, and the white form of the _Sea Gull_ itself faded from view. Then she squared her shoulders, held up her head, and grasping the umbrella as if it were the sword Excalibur, turned and followed Nyoda across the dock toward the railway station. THE END THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS SERIES By HILDEGARD G. FREY A Series of Outdoor Stories for Girls 12 to 16 Years. All Cloth Bound Copyright Titles PRICE, 65 CENTS EACH THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS IN THE MAINE WOODS; or, The Winnebagos go Camping. THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS AT SCHOOL; or, The Wohelo Weavers. 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33806	----	THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS ACROSS THE SEAS BY MARGARET VANDERCOOK Author of "The Ranch Girls Series," etc. ILLUSTRATED PHILADELPHIA THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO. PUBLISHERS Copyright, 1914, by THE JOHN C. WINSTON COMPANY [Illustration: "LOOK HERE, ESTHER," HE BEGAN] CONTENTS I. TWO YEARS LATER II. THE WHEEL REVOLVES III. FAREWELLS IV. UNTER DEN LINDEN V. CHANGES VI. A COSMOPOLITAN COMPANY VII. DAS RHEINGOLD VIII. OTHER SCENES IX. THE MEETING X. AN ADVENTURE XI. AND ITS CONSEQUENCES XII. THE UNCERTAIN FUTURE XIII. RICHARD ASHTON XIV. BETTY'S STRANGE DISAPPEARANCE XV. THE FINDING OF BRUNHILDE XVI. A HEART-TO-HEART TALK XVII. THE DAY BEFORE ESTHER'S DÉBUT XVIII. THAT NIGHT XIX. TEA AT THE CASTLE XX. ESTHER AND DICK XXI. SUNRISE CABIN LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS "LOOK HERE, ESTHER," HE BEGAN THERE WAS A SLIGHT SOUND FROM HIS LISTENER "TELL ME MORE ABOUT THE PLACES NEAR HERE" "FIFTY THOUSAND DOLLARS TO ME!" The Camp Fire Girls Across the Seas CHAPTER I Two Years Later A young man strode along through one of the principal streets of the town of Woodford, New Hampshire, with his blue eyes clouded and an expression of mingled displeasure and purpose about the firm lines of his mouth. It was an April afternoon and the warm sunshine uncurling the tiny buds on the old elm trees lit to a brighter hue the yellow Forsythia bushes already in bloom in the gardens along the way. Standing in front of an inconspicuous brown cottage was a large touring car, empty of occupants. Within a few yards of this car the young man paused, frowning, and then gazed anxiously up toward the closed door of the house. A short time afterwards this door opened when a girl, wearing a scarlet coat and a felt hat of the same shade pinned carelessly on her dark hair, hurried forth and with her eyes cast down and an air of suppressed excitement moved off in the opposite direction, without becoming aware of the onlooker. And although the bystander's lips moved once as if forming her name with the intention of calling after her, his impulse must have immediately died, for he continued motionless in the same spot until the girl had finally turned a corner and was lost to his view. Then the young man walked on again, but not so rapidly or resolutely as at first. Indeed, he was so intensely absorbed in his own line of thought as to be unconscious of the other passers-by, until some one stopped directly in front of him and a familiar voice pronounced his name. "Why, Billy Webster, where are you going?" Meg Everett demanded. "You look as if you were giving Atlas a holiday this afternoon and had transferred the weight of the world to your own shoulders." Two years had changed the greater number of the old Sunrise Hill Camp Fire members from girls to young women, but they had not made a conspicuous difference in Margaret Everett. Her sunny yellow hair was tucked up, but today the April winds had loosened it, and though she was dressed with greater care than before the Camp Fire influence, she would never altogether approach her brother John's ideal of quiet elegance, as the Princess always had. Yet her eyes were so gay and friendly and her face so full of quick color and sympathy, that there were few other young men besides her older brother who found much to criticize in her. And certainly not the small boy at her side, who had once been "Hai-yi," the Indian name for "Little Brother," to the twelve girls at Sunrise Hill. Returning Meg's interested gaze, Billy Webster, who was never given to subterfuges, had a sudden impulse to seek information and possible aid from her. "Is it true, Meg," he asked, "that Miss Adams, the actress, is here in Woodford visiting her cousin and that Polly O'Neill has been going to see her every day and riding over the country in her motor car? I thought Mrs. Wharton had insisted that Polly was to have nothing to do with anything or anybody connected with the stage until three years had passed. It has been only two since Polly's escapade, and it seems to me that nothing could so awaken a girl's interest as being made the companion and friend of a famous woman. I thought Mrs. Wharton had better judgment. Polly had almost forgotten the whole business!" As she shook her head Meg Everett's face wore a slightly puzzled look. For she was wondering at the instant if it could be possible that Billy had any special right to his concern in Polly O'Neill's proceedings. Mollie O'Neill was her dearest friend and for several years she knew Mollie and Billy had been apparently devoted to each other. Yet she would have been almost sure to have guessed had their old affection developed into something deeper. Moreover, Mollie was only nineteen and Mrs. Wharton would have insisted upon their waiting before agreeing to an engagement between them. "Oh, I don't think it worth while for you and Mollie to worry over Polly," Meg returned, even in the midst of her meditations, which is a fortunate faculty one has sometimes of being able to think of one thing and speak of another at the same instant. "Miss Adams is going away in a few days, I believe, and though she has invited Polly to be her guest and travel with her in Europe this summer, Mrs. Wharton has positively refused to agree to it. I can't help being sorry for Polly, somehow, for think what it would mean to see Esther and Betty again! Two years has seemed a dreadfully long time to me without the Princess; I only wish that there was a chance for me to go abroad this summer." And in the midst of her own wave of the spring "Wanderlust," which is aroused each year in the hearts of the young and the old alike, the girl had a moment of unconsciousness of her companion's nearness and of the manner in which he had received her news. The next instant he had lifted his hat and with a few muttered words of apology for his haste, had walked off with his shoulders squarer than ever and his head more splendidly erect. Meg's eyes followed him with admiration. "I hope you may look like Billy Webster some day, Horace," she said to the small boy at her side, who was now all long legs and arms and tousled hair. "But I don't know that I want you to be too much like him. Billy is the old-fashioned type of man, I think--honest and brave and kind. But he does not understand in the least that the world has changed for women and that some of us may not wish just to stay at home and get married and then keep on staying at home forever afterwards." And Meg laughed, feeling that her little brother was hardly old enough to understand her criticism or her protest. She herself hardly realized why she had made it, except that the spring restlessness must still be lingering within her. Meg was not usually a psychologist and there was no reason to doubt that Mollie would always continue a home-loving soul. On the broad stone steps of the Wharton home, which was the largest and finest in Woodford, except the old Ashton place, Billy Webster was compelled to wait for several moments before the front door bell was answered. And then the maid insisted that the entire family had gone out. Mr. and Mrs. Wharton were both driving, Mollie was taking a walk with friends, and Polly paying a visit. Sylvia was not living in Woodford at present, but true to her Camp Fire purpose was in Philadelphia studying to become a trained nurse. "Do you mean that Miss Polly gave you instructions to say she was not in?" the young man inquired, trying his best to betray no shadow of offended pride in his question. "Because if she did not, I am sure that you must be mistaken. I saw her leave the place where she was calling some little time ago and----" But the maid was crimsoning uncomfortably, for at this moment there arose the sound of some one playing the piano in the music room near by. "No, sir," the girl stammered, "no one asked to be excused. Miss Polly must have come in without my knowing." And in her confusion the girl ushered the visitor into an almost dark room, without announcing his name or even suggesting his approach. However, the recent visitor was so much in the habit of going frequently to the Wharton home that he did not feel in any sense a stranger there. Besides, had he not spied the familiar scarlet coat and hat on a chair outside the music room, where no one but Polly would have placed them? And was it not like her to be sitting in the semi-darkness with the shutters of four big windows tightly closed, playing pensively and none too well on the piano, when the rest of the world was out of doors? Billy felt a sudden and almost overmastering desire to take the musician's slender shoulders in his hands and give them a slight shake, as she continued sitting on the stool with her back deliberately turned toward him. "I hope I am not disturbing you," he began with a little laugh, which even to his own ears did not sound altogether natural. And then, when the girl had swung slowly around, he walked up toward her and leaning one elbow on the piano, with his eyes down, continued speaking, without giving his companion the opportunity even for greeting him. "Polly," he said, "I have just heard that Miss Adams has invited you to go abroad with her this summer and that your mother has refused to let you accept. But I cannot entirely believe this last part of my news. I don't dare unless you tell me." [Illustration: THERE WAS A SLIGHT SOUND FROM HIS LISTENER] There was a slight sound from his listener, an effort at interruption, but the young man went on without regarding it. "I did not mean to speak to you so soon. I know you are too young and I expected to wait another year. And certainly you have not given me much encouragement. Sometimes I have not felt that you liked me any better than when first we knew each other. But you can't have completely forgotten what I said to you that day in the woods two years ago. And you know I never change my mind. Now I can't bear to have you go so far away from Woodford without saying again that I care for you, Polly, in spite of our sometimes disagreeing about things and that I will do my level best to make you happy if you, if you----" But the girl at the piano had risen and Billy now lifted his eager blue eyes to her face. Immediately his expression changed, the hot blood poured into his cheeks, and he moved forward a few steps. Then he stood still with his hands hanging limply at his sides. For the girl, whose pallor showed even in the semi-darkness of the room and whose lips trembled so that it was difficult for her to command her voice, was not Polly O'Neill! Although her hair was almost equally dark, her chin was less pointed, her lips less scarlet and her whole appearance gentler and more appealing. "I am sorry," Mollie O'Neill faltered, "I did not understand when you began, Billy, or I should not have listened. But I didn't dream that you and Polly--oh, I didn't suppose that people could quarrel as you do and yet be fond of each other. And you were my friend, Billy, and Polly is my twin sister. I cannot understand why one of you did not tell me how you felt without waiting to have me find out like this." And in spite of her struggle for self-control, there was a break in Mollie O'Neill's soft voice that Billy would have given a great deal never to have heard, and a look on her face which, though he did not entirely understand, he was not soon to forget. She had put out one arm and stood steadying herself against the piano stool like a child who had been unexpectedly hurt and frightened and who wished to run away, yet felt that if she lingered a little longer she might better understand the puzzle. Nevertheless Billy said nothing for a moment. He was too angry with himself, too worried over the surprise and sorrow in Mollie's eyes, to speak. For they were deeply attached to each other and nothing had come between their friendship since the morning, now almost five years ago, when she had cleverly bandaged up the wound in his head. They had been foolish children then, but so long an intimacy should surely have taught him by this time the difference between the twin sisters. If only the room had not been so dark when he came in, if only he had not been deceived by the crimson coat and cap and by his own excitement! "There was nothing to tell you before, Mollie, at least nothing that counts," Billy began humbly. "Sometimes I have wanted to explain to you my feeling for Polly. We do quarrel and she makes me angrier than anyone I know in the world, and yet somehow I can't forget her. And I like being with her always, even when she is in a bad temper. Then I don't wish her to go on the stage. I think it a horrid profession, and Polly is not strong enough. I would do anything that I could to prevent it. But you see, Mollie, I have no reason to believe that Polly cares for me; though now and then she has seemed to like me better than she once did. Still I am determined to try whatever means I can to keep her away from this Miss Adams' influence. For if once Polly leaves Woodford with her, the old Polly whom we both know and love will never come back to us again." And Billy appeared so disconsolate and so unlike his usual confident, masterful self, that Mollie smiled at him, a little wistfully it is true, but in a perfectly friendly and forgiving fashion. "I'll go and find whether Polly has come home," she answered. "I ran in for a moment to call on Miss Adams and found that Polly had left there half an hour before. I wore her old coat and cap, so I think she must be dressed in her best clothes and paying visits somewhere." And Mollie laid a hand lightly on her friend's arm. "Don't be discouraged at whatever Polly says to you," she begged. "You know that she may be angry at the idea of your opposing her having this European trip with Miss Adams. But she is not going. Mother is positive and Polly will not do more than ask for permission since there is a whole year more before her promise ends." And Mollie slipped quietly away, grateful for the darkness and her old friend's absorption. In the hall, a few feet from the music room door, she encountered Polly herself, with her eyes shining and her face aglow with the beauty and fragrance of the April afternoon. And before she could slip past her Polly's arms were about her, holding her fast, while she demanded, "Whatever has happened to make you so white and miserable, Mollie Mavourneen? Are you ill? If anyone has been unkind to you----" But Mollie could only shake her head. "Don't be absurd; there is nothing the matter. Billy Webster is here waiting to see you." Nevertheless, a moment afterwards, when Polly had marched into the music room and opened wide a shutter, her first words as she turned toward her visitor were, "Billy Webster, what in the world have you said or done to make Mollie so unhappy?" CHAPTER II The Wheel Revolves It was midnight, yet Polly O'Neill had not gotten into bed. Instead she sat before a tiny, dying fire in her own bedroom with her hands clasped about her knees and her black hair hanging gypsy-fashion over her crimson dressing gown. Mollie had gone to her own room several hours before. In a moment there was a light knock at the door and Polly had scarcely turned her head when her mother stood beside her. Mrs. Wharton looked younger than she had several years before, absurdly young to be the mother of two almost grown-up daughters! Her face had lost the fatigue and strain of another spring evening, when Betty Ashton had first hurried across the street to confide the dream of her Camp Fire club to her dearest friends. Of course her hair was grayer and she was a good deal less thin. Notwithstanding her eyes held the same soft light of understanding that was so curiously combined with quiet firmness. "Why aren't you in bed, Polly mine?" she asked. "I saw that the gas was shining or I should never have disturbed you." In answer Polly without rising pushed a low rocking chair toward her mother. "I wasn't sleepy. Is that the same reason that keeps you awake, Mrs. Wharton?" she queried. In all their lives together Polly O'Neill and her mother had always held a different relation toward each other than ordinarily exists between most mothers and daughters. In the first place Mrs. Wharton was so very little older than her children that in the days in the cottage when they had lived and worked for one another, they had seemed more like three devoted and intimate friends. Of course the two girls had always understood that when a serious question was to be decided their mother remained the court of the last decision. However, in those years few serious questions had ever arisen beyond the finding of sufficient money for their food and clothes and occasional good times. So that there had been nothing to disturb the perfection of their attitude toward one another until Mrs. O'Neill's marriage to her former employer, Mr. Wharton. And then there is no doubt that Polly for a time had been difficult. Naturally she was glad for her mother's sake that she had the new love and wealth and position; nevertheless she was homesick for their old life and its intimacy and in her heart half sorry that her own dream of some day bringing fortune and ease to her mother and Mollie was now of so little account. And then all too soon, before matters had really become adjusted between the two families, had followed her own act of insurbordination and deception and her mother's mandate. Of course Polly had bowed before it and had even understood that it was both right and just. She had been happy enough in these last two years, in spite of missing Betty Ashton almost every hour, and had come to like and admire her stepfather immensely. Nevertheless there had remained a slight shadow between herself and her mother, a misapprehension so intangible that Polly herself did not realize it, although Mrs. Wharton did. "I suppose you are not sleepy, dear, because you are sitting here thinking that never in the whole world was there ever a mother so narrow and so dictatorial as I am," Mrs. Wharton began. "Oh, I have been in bed, but I have been lying awake for the past hour looking at myself with Polly's eyes." Polly frowned, shaking her head, yet her mother went on without appearing to notice her. "I wonder if you think that I have no realization of the wonderful opportunity I have just made you refuse. Do you think, Polly, that I don't appreciate what it must mean to a girl like you to have made a friend of a great woman like Margaret Adams? And to have her so desire your companionship that she has asked you to be her guest during her summer abroad? Why such a chance does not come to one girl in a hundred thousand and yet I have made you give it up!" With a little protesting gesture Polly stretched out her hand. "Then let us not discuss it any further, mother of mine," she demanded. "I promised you not to speak of it again after our talk the other day and I am going to exact the same promise of you." The girl shut her lips together in a tight line of scarlet and all unconsciously began rocking herself slowly backward and forward with her expression turned inside instead of out, as her sister Mollie used sometimes to say. But Mrs. Wharton leaned over, and putting her finger under Polly's chin tilted it back until her eyes were upturned toward hers. "But was I fair to you, dear? Have I decided what was best for you, as well as for Mollie and me? We have not spoken of it; we have both felt that silence was the wisest course; but tonight I should like to know whether, when the three years of your promise to me have passed, do you still intend going upon the stage?" Mrs. Wharton asked. "Would you mind so very, very much?" Polly inquired quietly. And then with a sudden rush of confidence, which she had never before shown in any of their talks together on this subject, Polly faced their old difference of opinion squarely. "It has always been hard for me to understand, mother, why you are so opposed to my trying to become an actress. You are broad-minded enough on other subjects. You have worked for your own living and ours; and you were willing enough to have Sylvia, who is younger than I am and who will be very rich some day, go away and study to become a trained nurse, just because she believed it her calling. Yet because I want to learn to act, why the whole stage and everything connected with it is anathema. You do not even like Miss Margaret Adams as much as you would if she were in some other kind of work. Oh, of course I appreciate that people used to feel that no woman could be good and be on the stage, but no sensible person thinks that nowadays." Polly stopped abruptly. "I don't mean to be rude, mother," she concluded. But Mrs. Wharton nodded. "Please go on. I came in tonight to find out just what you were thinking. I don't believe you realize how little you have explained your real feeling to me on this subject since that unfortunate time in New York." "I didn't want to trouble you," again Polly hesitated. "It is hardly worth while doing it now. Because honestly I have not made up my mind just how to answer the question that you asked me a few minutes ago. Whether at the end of another year, when you have agreed to let me do as I like, I shall still insist upon going upon the stage, knowing that you and Mollie are at heart unwilling to have me, I can't tell. Perhaps I shall give up and stay on here at Woodford and maybe marry some one I don't care about and then be sorry ever afterwards." Instead of replying Mrs. Wharton got up and walked several times backwards and forwards across the length of the room, not glancing toward the girl who still sat before the fire with her hands clasped tightly over her knees. But Polly had small doubt where her mother's thoughts were. And a few moments afterwards she too rose and the next instant pulled her mother down on a cushion before the fire, and resting close beside her put her head on her shoulder. "Dear, you were mistaken when you came in and found me awake," Polly explained, "in supposing that I was thinking of my own disappointment in not being allowed to make the journey with Miss Adams or feeling hurt or angry with you because you decided against it. Really, I never dreamed in the first place that you would be willing. Still, I was thinking of asking you to let me break my word to you after all! You said that I was to stay here in Woodford for three years, and yet I want you to let me go away somewhere very soon. I don't care where, any place will do." Now for the first time since the beginning of their conversation Mrs. Wharton appeared mystified and deeply hurt. "Is your own home so disagreeable to you, Polly, that you would rather go anywhere than stay with us?" she queried. And then to her further surprise, turning she discovered that tears were standing unshed in Polly's eyes and that her lips were trembling. "I don't know how to tell you, mother. It is all so mixed up and so uncertain in my own mind and so foolish. But I wonder if you have ever thought that Mollie liked Billy Webster better than our other friends?" "Mollie?" Mrs. Wharton could hardly summon her thoughts back from the subject which had lately absorbed them, to follow what she believed a quickly changing idea of Polly's. "Why, yes, I think I have," she answered slowly. "But I have never let the supposition trouble me. Mollie is so young and her deepest affections are for you and me. Besides, Billy is a fine fellow and perhaps when the time comes I shall not be quite so selfish with her." But Polly's cheeks were so crimson that she had to put up her cold hands to try and cool them. "And you have always believed that Billy almost hated me, haven't you?" Mrs. Wharton laughed. "Well, I have never thought a great deal about it, except that you argued a great deal about nothing and that each one of you was determined to influence the other without producing the smallest result." "Yes, mother, and that is what makes what I want to tell you so horrid and silly," Polly went on, intentionally making a screen for her face with her dark hair. "Because Billy Webster has a perfectly absurd idea that he cares for me, simply because he wishes to manage me. And--and he was tiresome enough to tell me so this afternoon." Surprise and consternation for the moment kept Mrs. Wharton silent. "But you, Polly?" she managed to inquire finally. "How do you feel? What did you answer him?" Then for an instant the girl's former expression changed and the old Irish contrariness of spirit hovered in a half smile about her lips. "Oh, I told him that I did not like him any better than I had in the beginning of our acquaintance and that I had only been nicer to him now and then lately because he was your friend and Mollie's. And no matter what happened to me, if I never, never stirred a foot out of Woodford, I should never dream of marrying him even when I am a hundred years old." A sigh of some kind escaped Mrs. Wharton, partly of relief and partly of annoyance. "Then why should you wish to go away, dear?" she queried. "If you said all that, surely Billy will never trouble you again!" A characteristic shrug was Polly's first answer. "Oh, Billy only cares about me because he can't have me," she replied the next minute. "But he insists that he will go on trying to win me until doomsday. Still it isn't either about Billy or about me that I am thinking at present. Can't you understand, mother, without my having to explain? It is so hard to say. It's Mollie! Not for anything in the world would I have her feelings hurt or have her think that I had come between her and her friendship for Billy." But Mrs. Wharton's manner was immediately quiet and reassuring. "Mollie would never think anything unfair of you, Polly. And perhaps it will be better for you to speak of this to her. If Mollie has had any false impression, if her feeling for Billy has been anything but simple friendliness, now it will not be difficult for her to adjust herself. When later--" However, Mrs. Wharton was not able to finish her sentence, for Polly had murmured, "She does know. Of course she has not said anything to me and I never want to have to refer to it to her. But you need not trouble. Billy was so stupid." Here Polly gave an irrepressible giggle. "He proposed to both of us this afternoon. And I think he was much more worried over Mollie's telling him that she should have been taken into his confidence sooner, than he was over my refusal." The clock on Polly's mantel shelf was striking one long stroke. Hearing it Mrs. Wharton rose to leave the room, first pulling Polly up beside her. The girl was several inches taller than her mother. "Polly dear," she said, "so far as Mollie is concerned I don't agree with the wisdom of your going away from home. But I want you to understand something else, something that I have never properly explained to you. It is not just narrowness or prejudice, this opposition of mine to your going upon the stage. You remember, dear, why your father left Ireland and came here to live in these New Hampshire hills. And you know you are not so strong as Mollie, and I used to be afraid that you had less judgment. Recently, however, you have seemed stronger and more poised. And I had almost decided before I came in to you tonight, that if in another year you are still sure that you wish to make the stage your profession, I shall not stand in the way of your giving it a fair trial. You don't know, but in your father's family not so many years ago there was a great actress. She ran away from home and her people never forgave her. I don't even know what became of her. Nothing like that must ever happen between you and me." Mrs. Wharton kissed Polly good night. "Have faith in me, dear, for I have understood the ambition and the heart-burning you have suffered better than you dreamed. I shall go to see Miss Adams again tomorrow. If you must try your wings some day, perhaps there could be no better beginning than that you should learn to know intimately one woman who has fought through most of the difficulties of one of the hardest professions in the world and has earned for herself the right kind of fame and fortune." CHAPTER III Farewells Polly O'Neill was entertaining at a farewell reception. April had passed away and May and it was now the first week in June. In a few days more she would be sailing for Southampton with Miss Margaret Adams to be gone all summer. The party was not a large one, for Polly had preferred having only her most intimate friends together this afternoon. So of course the old members of the Sunrise Hill Camp Fire Club were there and a few outside people, besides the group of young men who had always shared their good times. Moreover, the past two years had given the old Camp Fire Club an entirely new distinction, since one of its girl members had recently married. At this moment she was approaching Polly O'Neill, and Polly held out both hands in welcome, as she had not seen the newcomer since the return from her wedding journey. Edith Norton it was, who was dressed, as she had always hoped to be, in a costume that neither Betty nor Rose Dyer could have improved upon, a soft blue crêpe with a hat of the same color and a long feather curling about its brim. For Edith had confessed her fault to her employer soon after her difficulty in the last story and had been forgiven. And, as a good-by present to Betty Ashton, she had promised never to have anything more to do with the young man of whom her Camp Fire friends had disapproved. The result was that she had married one of the leading dry goods merchants in Woodford, and hard times and Edith were through with each other forever. Now her cheeks were flushed with happiness instead of the color that she had used in the days before her membership in the Camp Fire Club, and her pretty light hair made a kind of halo about her face. "Apoi-a-kimi," Polly smiled at her guest, "you have not forgotten our Indian name for you, have you, Mrs. Keating, now that you are the first of us to acquire an altogether new name?" Edith shook her head with perhaps more feeling than she might have been expected to show and at the same time touching an enameled pin which she wore fastened on her dress she said: "I am a Camp Fire girl once and forever, no matter how old I may become! And I never needed or understood the value of our experiences together so much as I do now. Tell Betty for me, please, that I sometimes think it is to our Camp Fire Club that I owe even my husband. He could not possibly have liked me had he known me before those good old times. So since Betty brought me into the club and has stood by me always----" With a smile Polly now made a pretense of putting her fingers to her ears; nevertheless she glanced around with a kind of challenging amusement at the half a dozen or more friends who were standing near, as she interrupted her visitor. "Betty! Betty!" she exclaimed. "I have been wondering the greater part of this afternoon whether this is a farewell party to me or an opportunity to send messages to Betty Ashton." Purposely Polly waited until she was able to catch John Everett's eye, for he stood talking to Eleanor Meade only a few feet away. John pretended not to have heard her. He had only returned to Woodford for the week in order to see his father and sister, for he had graduated at Dartmouth some time before and was now in a broker's office in New York City. And already he was under the impression that he had attained the distinction of a New York millionaire and that his presence in Woodford was a unique experience for his former village acquaintances. So he was now being extremely kind to his sister Meg's old friends, although it was, of course, absurd for any one to presume that he had more than a passing, pleasant recollection of any girl whom he had ever known in Woodford. All this that he was thinking Polly appreciated when she had watched the young man's face for less than half a moment. And as she had a reprehensible fondness for getting even with persons, she then registered a private vow to let Betty hear just how much John Everett had changed. However, she had but scant time to devote to this resolution, for almost at the same instant another young man, excusing himself from his sister, walked toward her with an expression which was rarely anything except grave and reserved. Polly spoke to him with especial pleasure. For the past two years had changed not only her attitude toward Anthony Graham, but that of a good many other persons in Woodford. Two years can be made to count for a great deal at certain times in one's life and Anthony had made the past two do for him the work of four. He was no longer an office boy and student in Judge Maynard's office, for he had graduated at law and was now helping the old man with the simpler part of his practice. And because Judge Maynard was seventy and childless he had taken a liking to Anthony and had asked him to live in his home, for the sake of both his protection and his society. And this perhaps was a forward step for the young fellow which the people in the village appreciated even more than the boy's own efforts at self-improvement; for Judge Maynard was eccentric and wealthy and no one could foretell what might happen in the future. Edith had moved away to make room for the newcomer, so that Polly and her guest stood apart from the others. Anthony was as lean as ever, although it was the leanness of muscular strength, not weakness; his skin was dark and clear and his hazel eyes gazed at one frankly, almost too directly. One had the sensation that it might be difficult to conceal from him anything that he really wished to know. "Miss Polly," he began rather humbly, "I wonder if you would be willing to do a favor for me?" He smiled, so that the lines about his mouth became less grave. "Oh, I have not forgotten that you did not altogether approve of Miss Betty's friendship for me when I came back to Woodford, and I do not blame you." "It was not Betty's friendliness for you that I minded," Polly returned with a directness that was very often disconcerting. The young man reddened and then laughed outright. "I thought it better to put it that way, but if you must have the truth, of course I know it was my liking for her to which you objected. But look here, Miss Polly, no one knew of my admiration except you. So I suppose you know also that every once in a while in these past two years Miss Betty has written me a letter--perhaps half a dozen in all. So now I want you to take her something from me. It does not amount to much, it is only a tiny package that won't require a great deal of room in your trunk. Still I have not the courage to send it her directly and yet I want her to know that I have never forgotten that what she did for me gave me my first start. I have improved a little in these past two years, don't you think? Am I quite so impossible as I used to be?" Polly frowned in reply; but she reached forward for the small parcel that Anthony was extending toward her. "Look here, Anthony," she protested, "for goodness sake don't make a mountain out of a molehill, as the old saying goes. Betty Ashton did not do anything more for you than she has done for dozens of other persons when she could afford it, not half as much. So please cease feeling any kind of obligation to her; she would hate it. And don't have any other feeling either. Goodness only knows how these past two years in foreign lands may have altered the Princess! Very probably she will even refuse to have anything to do with me, if ever Miss Adams and I do manage to arrive in Germany." Polly ended her speech in this fashion with the intention of making it seem a trifle less impertinent. However, Anthony appeared not to have understood her. Nevertheless, having been trained in a difficult school in life perhaps he had the ability for not revealing his emotions on all occasions. For Herr Crippen and Mrs. Crippen, Betty's father and stepmother, were at this moment trying to shake hands with him. Herr Crippen looked much more prosperous and happy since his marriage to the girls' first Camp Fire Guardian. He had now almost as many music pupils in Woodford as he had time to teach, while Miss McMurtry had lost every single angular curve that had once been supposed by the girls to proclaim her an old maid for life and as Mrs. Crippen was growing almost as stout and housewifely as a real German Frau. In the interval after Anthony's desertion, as Mrs. and the Herr Professor had already spent some time in talking with her, Polly found herself alone. She was a little tired and so glanced about her for a chair. Her mother and Mollie were both in the dining room as well as Sylvia, who had come home for a week to say farewell to her beloved step-sister. But before Polly could locate a chair for herself, she observed that two were being pushed toward her from opposite sides of the room. Therefore she waited, smiling, to find out which should arrive first. Then she sank down into the one that John Everett presented her, thanking Billy Webster for his, which had arrived a second too late. Excitement always added to Polly O'Neill's beauty, and so this afternoon she was looking unusually pretty. As it was the month of June she wore a white organdie dress with a bunch of red roses pinned at her belt and one caught in the coiled braids of her dark hair. She had been perfectly friendly with Billy, even more so than usual, since their April talk. For having her own way made Polly delightfully amiable to the whole world. Billy, however, had not responded to her friendliness. He was still deeply opposed to her going away with Miss Adams. And though he was doggedly determined to have his own will in the end, he seemed to have lost all his former interest and pleasure in being often at the Wharton home. For not only was Polly in what he considered a seventh heaven of selfish happiness at her mother's change of mind, but Mollie no longer treated him with her former intimacy. She was friendly and sweet-tempered, of course, but she never asked his advice about things as she once had, nor seemed to care to give him a great amount of her time. Instead she appeared to be as fond of Frank Wharton and as dependent upon him as though he had been in reality her own brother. And Frank having recently returned to Woodford to live, had gone into business with his father. Truly Billy felt that he had not deserved the situation in which he now found himself. Of course one might have expected anything from so uncertain a quantity as Polly, but to Mollie he had been truly attached and she had been to him like a little sister. So it was difficult to comprehend what had now come between them. Billy had no special fancy for playing third person and remaining to talk to Polly and John Everett, so considering that both his chair and his presence were unnecessary, he moved off in the direction of the dining room. Polly smiled up at her latest companion with two points of rather dangerous light at the back of her Irish blue eyes. Then she let her glance travel slowly from the tips of John Everett's patent leather shoes, along the immaculate expanse of his frock coat and fluted shirt, until finally it reached the crown of his well-brushed golden brown hair. "It must be a wonderful feeling, John, to be so kind of--glorious!" Polly exclaimed, in a perfectly serious manner. "Glorious," John frowned; "what do you mean?" He was an intelligent, capable fellow, but not especially quick. "Oh, don't you feel that you are giving poor little Woodford a treat every now and then by allowing it the chance of beholding so perfect an imitation of a gentleman. I don't mean imitation, John, that does not sound polite of me. Of course I mean so perfect a picture. I have been feasting my eyes on you whenever I have had the opportunity all afternoon. For I want to tell Betty Ashton when I see her who is the most distinguished-looking person among us. And of course----" John flushed, though he laughed good-naturedly. "What a horrid disposition you still have, Polly O'Neill. One would think that you were now old enough to make yourself agreeable to your superiors." He stooped, for whether by accident or design, the girl had dropped a small paste-board box on the floor. "This is something or other that Anthony Graham is sending over to Betty Ashton," Polly explained with pretended carelessness. "I suppose you can remember Betty?" But John Everett was at the present moment engaged in extracting a small pin from the lapel of his coat. "Don't be ridiculous, Polly, and don't impart your impressions of me to Betty, if you please. Just ask her if she will be good enough to accept this fraternity pin of mine in remembrance of old times." CHAPTER IV Unter den Linden A tall girl with red hair and a fair skin, carrying a roll of music, was walking alone down the principal street in Berlin. She did not look like a foreigner and yet she must have been familiar with the sights of the city. For although the famous thoroughfare was crowded with people, some of them on foot, the greater number in carriages and automobiles, she paid them only a casual attention and finally found herself a seat on a bench under a tall linden tree near the monument of Frederick the Great. Here she sighed, allowing the discouragement which she had been trying to overcome for some little time to show in every line of her face and figure. She was not handsome enough to attract attention for that reason, and she had too much personal dignity to suffer it under any circumstances. So now she seemed as much alone as if she had been in her own sitting room. Only once was she startled out of the absorption of her own thoughts. And then there was a sudden noise near the palace of the Emperor; carriages and motor cars paused, crowding closer to the sidewalks; soldiers stood at attention, civilians lifted their hats. And a moment afterwards an automobile dashed past with a man on the back seat in a close fitting, military suit, with a light cape thrown back over one shoulder, his head slightly bowed and his arms folded across his chest. He had an iron-gray mustache, waxed until the ends stood out fiercely, dark, haughty eyes, and an intensely nervous manner. And on the doors of his swiftly moving car were the Imperial Arms of Germany. The girl felt a curious little thrill of admiration and antagonism. For although she had seen him more than a dozen times before, the Kaiser Wilhelm could hardly pass so near to one without making an impression. And although the American girl was not in sympathy with many of his views, she could not escape the interest which his personality has excited throughout the civilized world. But a moment after the street grew quiet once more and she returned to her own reflections. In spite of her pallor she did not seem in the least unhealthy, only tired and down-hearted. For her eyes, though light in color, were clear and bright, and the lips of her large, firmly modeled mouth bright red. She wore a handsome and becoming gray cloth dress and a soft white blouse, her gray hat having a white feather stuck through a band of folded silk. The coolness and simplicity of her toilet was refreshing in the warmth of the late June day and a pleasant contrast to the brighter colors affected by the German Frauen and Fräulein. Finally the girl opened her roll of music and taking out a sheet began slowly reading it over to herself. Then her dejection appeared to deepen, for eventually the tears rolled down her cheeks. She continued holding up her music in order to shield herself from observation. Even when she was disturbed by hearing some one sit down beside her on the bench, she did not dare turn her head. But the figure deliberately moved closer and before she could protest had actually taken the sheet of paper out of her hands. "Esther, my dear, what is the matter with you? Have you no home and no friends, that you have to shed your tears in the public streets?" a slightly amused though sympathetic voice demanded. Naturally Esther started. But the next instant she was shaking her head reproachfully. "Dr. Ashton, however in the world did you manage to discover me?" she demanded. "I am resting here for the special pleasure of being miserable all by myself. For I knew if I went back to the pension Betty and your mother would find me out. And the worst of it is that neither one of them understands in the least why I am unhappy. Betty is really angry and I am afraid that Mrs. Ashton thinks I am stupid and ungrateful." Instead of replying, Richard Ashton picked up Esther's hand and slipped it through his own arm. He looked a good deal older than his companion. For he was now a graduated physician with three years of added foreign experience, and besides his natural seriousness he wore the reserved, thoughtful air peculiar to his profession. So his present attitude toward Esther Crippen seemed that of an older friend. "I don't know what you are talking about or what dark secret you seem to be trying to conceal," he returned. "All that I do know is that I have been sent out to find you and that you are please to come home with me. Betty and mother have been expecting you to return from your music lesson for an hour. And Betty is so in the habit of getting herself lost or of mixing up in some adventure where she does not belong, that she is convinced a like fate has overtaken you. Then I believe that something or other has happened which she has not confided to me, but which she is dying to tell you. There are times, Esther, when I wish that our sister, Betty, was not quite so pretty. I am always afraid that some day or other these German students, whom she seems to have for her friends, will be involved in a duel over her. And if that happens I shall very promptly send her home." Dick and Esther had now left the broad, park-like square and had turned into a narrower side street adjoining it. Ordinarily any such suggestion concerning Betty would have aroused Esther's immediate interest and protest. However, whatever was now on her mind was troubling her too much for her to pay any real attention to what Dick had just said. So they walked on for another block in silence, until finally Esther spoke in her old timid, hesitating manner, quite unconsciously locking her hands together, as she had on that day, long ago, of her first meeting with Richard Ashton. "I am sorry to be so stupid and unentertaining. It was good of you to come and look for me," she began apologetically. "I wish I could stop thinking of what troubles me, but somehow I can't. For Betty will insist on my doing a thing that I simply know I shall not be able to do. And I do hate having to argue." They were still some distance from the German pension where Dick, his mother and sister and Esther were boarding, so the young man did not make haste to continue their conversation, as he and Esther knew each other too intimately to consider silences. "Look here, Esther," Richard Ashton finally began, "you know that Betty considers me the worst old gray-beard and lecturer on earth. So I am going to be true to my reputation and lecture you. Why do you allow yourself to be so much influenced by Betty? Don't you realize every now and then that you are the older and that the Princess ought to come around to your way of thinking? Why don't you tell her this time that _you_ are right and she is wrong and that you won't hear anything more on the subject that is worrying you." Esther laughed, swerving suddenly to get a swift view of the earnest face of her companion. How often he had befriended her, ever since those first days of shy misery and rapture when she had made her original appearance in the Ashton home, little realizing then that the Betty whom she already adored was her own sister. "I am not really afraid of the Princess, you know, Mr. Dick," she replied, laughing and using an odd, old-fashioned title that she had once given him. "The truth is that if you were able to guess what I have on my mind you might also disagree with me. Because in this particular instance there is a possibility that Betty may be right in her judgment and I in the wrong." They had walked by this time a little distance beyond the crowded portion of the big city. Now the houses were private residences and boarding places. Finally they stopped before a tall yellow building, five stories in height, with red and yellow flowers growing in a narrow strip along its front. Before an open window on the third floor a girl could be seen sitting with a book in her lap. But she must have become at once aware of the presence of the young man and his companion, because the instant that Dr. Ashton's hand touched the door knob, she disappeared. CHAPTER V Changes Dick Ashton's laughing wish that his sister Betty were a little less pretty was not so unreasonable as you might suppose, had you seen her on this particular late June afternoon as she ran down the narrow, ugly hall of the German pension to greet her brother and sister. She had on a pale blue muslin dress open at the throat with a tiny frill of lace. Her red bronze hair had coppery tones in it as well as pure gold and was parted a little on one side and coiled up in the simplest fashion at the back of her head. The darkness of her lashes and the delicate lines of her brows gave the gray of her eyes a peculiar luster like the shine on old silk. And this afternoon her cheeks were the deep rose color that often accompanies this especial coloring. She put one arm around Esther, drawing her into their sitting room, while Dick followed them. It was an odd room, a curious mixture of German and American taste and yet not unattractive. The ceiling was high, the furniture heavy and dark, and the walls covered with a flowered yellow paper. But the two girls had removed the paintings of unnatural flowers and fruits that once decorated them, and instead had hung up framed photographs of the famous pictures that had most pleased them in their visits to different art galleries. There was Franz Hals' "Smiling Cavalier" gazing down at them with irresistible camaraderie in his eyes which followed you with their smile no matter in what portion of the room you chanced to be. On an opposite wall hung a Rembrandt painting of an old woman, and further along the magical "Mona Lisa." In all the history of art there is no more fascinating story than that relating to this great picture by Leonardo da Vinci. For the woman who was the original of the picture was a great Italian princess whom many people adored because of her strange beauty. She had scores of lovers of noble blood and lowly, but no one is supposed to have understood the secret of her inscrutable smile, not even the artist who painted it. This picture was first the property of Italy and then carried away to hang for many years in the most celebrated room in the great gallery of the Louvre in Paris. From there it was stolen by an Italian workman, taken back into Italy and later restored to the French Government. But before Mona Lisa's return to her niche in the Louvre she made a kind of triumphal progress through the great cities of her former home, Rome, Florence and Venice. And in each place men, women and little children came flocking in thousands to pay their tribute to beauty. And so for those of us who think of beauty as a passing, an ephemeral thing, there is this lesson of its universal, its eternal quality. For the smile of one woman, dead these hundreds of years, yet fixed by genius on a square of canvas, can still stir the pulses of the world. Betty happened to be standing under this picture as she helped Esther remove her coat and hat. And though there was nothing mysterious in her youthful, American prettiness, there is always a poignant and appealing quality in all beauty. Esther suddenly leaned over and placing her hands on both her sister's cheeks, kissed her. "What have you been doing alone all day?" she asked. "Was your mother well enough to go out with you?" Betty shook her head without replying and, though Esther saw nothing, Dick Ashton had an idea that his sister was merely waiting for a more propitious time for the account of her own day. For she asked immediately after: "What difference in the world does it make, Esther Crippen, what I have been doing? The thing I wish to know this instant is whether Professor Hecksher has asked you to sing at his big concert with his really star singers? And if he has asked you what did you answer?" "So that was what was worrying you, Esther?" Dick said and walked over to the high window, pretending to look out. For Esther was beginning to grow as pale and wretched as she had been an hour before and was once more twisting her hands together like an awkward child. Betty caught her sister's hands, holding them close. "Tell me the truth," she insisted. First the older girl nodded, as though not trusting herself to speak and then said: "Yes, Professor Hecksher _has_ asked me. He wants me to make my musical _début_ even though I go on studying afterwards. But I can't do it, Betty dear. I wish you and the Professor would both understand. I appreciate his thinking I can sing well enough, but it is not true. I should break down; my voice would fail utterly. Oh, I am sorry I ever came abroad to study. I have been realizing for months and months that my voice is not worth the trouble and expense father and the rest of you have taken. I am simply going to be a disappointment to all of you." "Esther, you are a great big goose!" Betty exclaimed indignantly. "I thought we ended this discussion last night and you decided to let Professor Hecksher judge whether or not you could sing. One would think he might know, as he is the biggest singing teacher in Berlin. And certainly if you don't sing I shall die of disappointment. And I _shall_ believe that you are ungrateful to father and to--to all of us." She was obliged to break off, for Esther had left the room. Then Dick swung around, facing his sister. "Look here, Betty," he began more angrily than she had often heard him speak. "Has it ever occurred to you that you may all be forcing Esther into a life for which she is not fitted, which will never make her happy? Of course there is no denying her talent; her voice is wonderful and grows more so each day. But she is intensely shy. She hates notoriety and strange people--everything that a musical life must mean. I don't think that you ought to insist upon her singing at this special concert if she does not wish it. You do not understand her." Utter amazement during her brother's long speech kept Betty silent. For it was too absurd that any one should seriously suggest Esther's turning her back on the big opportunity for which she had been working for the past two years. Why, for what other purpose had they come to Germany? And for Esther to be invited to sing at Professor Hecksher's annual autumn concert was to have the seal of his approval set upon her ability. For of course the great man selected from his pupils only those whose appearance in public would reflect credit upon him. And often an appearance at one of these much-talked-of recitals meant the beginning of a musical reputation in the outside world. So Betty stared at her brother curiously, at loss to appreciate his point of view. She felt offended, too, at the tone he had just taken with her. "So you think you understand Esther better than I do, Dick?" she answered slowly. "I suppose you and Esther must have talked this matter over on your way home. Certainly it is Esther's own choice and I shall say nothing more about it. And I'll ask mother not to mention the subject either." Betty picked up a small piece of embroidery lying on a table near by and began sewing industriously, keeping her face bent over it so as to hide her flushed cheeks and the light in her eyes. For Betty had not forgotten her Camp Fire training in self-control. Besides, she did not like quarreling with her brother. Dick was ordinarily so reasonable, she felt even more mystified than hurt by his behavior. It was so unlike him to argue that one should turn back from a long-sought goal just because there were difficulties to be overcome. Had he not fought through every kind of obstacle for the sake of his profession? The silence in the room was interrupted only by the ticking of a Swiss clock, until finally a deep gong sounded from below stairs. It might easily have given the impression that the house was on fire, but as neither Dick nor Betty appeared surprised, it was plainly a summons to the early dinner, which is so important a feature of German pension life. Folding up her work Betty moved quietly toward the door. But she had only gone a few steps when she heard Dick coming after her. Then in spite of trying her best to hurry from the room, he caught up with her, putting his arms about her. "Tell me you are sorry, Princess, or you shan't have any dinner," he demanded. For it had been a fashion of theirs years before when they were children to have the offender pretend to demand an apology from the offended. But Betty did not feel in the mood for jesting at present and so shook her head. Then Dick met her gaze with an expression so unusual that Betty instantly felt her resentment fading. "Perhaps I was wrong in what I said just then, little sister, I don't feel sure," he apologized. "But at least I realize that you wish Esther to gain fame and fortune for her own sake and not for yours. I was only wondering which makes a woman happier in the end, a home or a career? Now please relate me your day's experience, which you have been keeping such a profound secret, so that I may know I am forgiven." "It is too late now," Betty returned, slipping away from his grasp. "I must find out whether mother is coming down to dinner. Perhaps I may tell you afterwards." CHAPTER VI A Cosmopolitan Company Sitting opposite Betty at the dinner table were the two German youths to whom Dick most objected. And yet they were totally unlike both in appearance and position. For one of them was apparently a humble person, with long light hair hanging in poetic fashion below his shirt collar, a big nose and small, hungry, light-blue eyes that seemed always to be swimming in a mist of embarrassment. He was a clerk in a bank and occupied the smallest room on the highest floor of the pension. So it would have been natural enough to suppose from his manner and behavior that he was of plebeian origin. But exactly the opposite was the case. For the landlady, Mrs. Hohler, who was herself an impoverished gentlewoman, had confided to Mrs. Ashton that the strange youth was in reality of noble birth. He had an uncle who was a count, and though this uncle had one son, the nephew Frederick stood second in the line of succession. To Richard Ashton, however, this added nothing to the young man's charms, nor did it make him the less provoked over Frederick von Reuter's attitude toward Betty. Nevertheless he rather preferred Frederick, who seemed utterly without brains, to her second admirer, Franz. For Franz was dark and aggressive and had an extremely rich father, a merchant in Hamburg. Also Franz hoped to be able to purchase a commission in the German army, so that already he was assuming the dictatorial, disagreeable manner for which many German officers are unpleasantly distinguished. However, neither young man had ever done anything in the least offensive either to Betty or to any member of her family, so that Dick Ashton's feeling was largely prejudice. And although Esther shared his point of view, Mrs. Ashton was somewhat flattered at the amount of admiration that Betty's beauty had excited ever since their arrival in Europe. As for Betty herself, she gave the whole question very little attention. All her life she had been accustomed to attention. Now and then her two suitors amused her and at other times she was bored by them. Notwithstanding she did not find it disagreeable to be able to tease her serious-minded brother. Moreover, the widow with her two daughters, about whom Betty and her mother had been making guesses for several years, continued making her home at the pension, and without a shadow of a doubt one of the girls regarded Dick with especial favor. So tonight Betty, who had not yet entirely recovered from her irritation, was unusually gracious to the two young Germans. She even lingered downstairs in the small, overcrowded parlor after dinner with her mother, allowing Dick and Esther, who were not so friendly with the other boarders, to go up alone to their private sitting room. "Fritz and Franz," as Betty's adorers were called, although Herr von Reuter and Herr Schmidt were their proper titles, were regarded with a good deal of quiet amusement by their fellow boarders. While this filled the autocratic soul of Franz with a variety of suppressed emotions, the gentle Fritz seemed totally unaware of it. He was content to sit silently on one side of the _schönes Fräulein_, even when she devoted the greater part of her attention to his rival. This evening, without openly flinching, he overheard her accepting with her mother's approval an invitation from the wealthy Franz for both of them to attend a performance at the Royal Opera House the next evening. Then, although Frederick's eyes grew mistier and his figure more dejected in consequence, he did not leave the parlor until Betty and her mother had gone up stairs. Late into the night, however, had anyone been in the German youth's neighborhood, strains of exquisitely melancholy music might have been heard drifting forth from a fifth floor back room. It was the music of the oboe. Even after Betty Ashton had seen her mother in bed, helping her undress for the night, she did not immediately join Esther and Dick, although Mrs. Ashton had asked her to explain to them that she was not well enough to remain up any longer. Instead Betty went first into her own bedroom and there re-read the two letters which she carried in her pocket. For if Dick and Esther were of so much the same opinion in regard to her sister's refusal to sing in public, it was best that they be allowed to discuss the matter without interruption from her. For although she had promised not to speak of it again to her sister, Betty felt that it would be impossible for her to disguise how she actually felt. It was wicked of Esther, utterly foolish and unreasonable, to intend surrendering to her own shyness and lack of self-confidence, as with Dick's abetting she evidently intended doing. Why, Esther might have a truly great future! Professor Hecksher had assured Mrs. Ashton that she only required time, training and more self-confidence. For, although when Esther was finally under the sway of her music, she was able to throw her whole force and fervor into it, in the beginning of any performance she was often awkward and shy, alarming her audience with the impression that she might break down. Professor Hecksher had even suggested that Esther's voice might be beautiful enough for grand opera when she grew older and had more experience. With this last thought still in mind, Betty finally returned to the sitting room to spend the rest of the evening with her brother and sister. Often she had thought of how curious it was that she could speak of Dick and Esther in this fashion when they bore not the slightest relation to each other! She found them sitting on opposite sides of a small table, a complete silence pervading the room, although neither one of them was reading. Esther's face was flushed and Dick's a little pale. As Dick rose to give his chair to the newcomer, Esther spoke: "Please don't go, Dr. Ashton," she said. And Betty wondered idly why Esther should suppose that Dick intended leaving the room. More often than not he spent his evenings at home with them. "I only want to tell you, Betty dear," she continued, "that you were quite right this afternoon in saying that I was wrong in refusing this chance to sing at Professor Hecksher's concert. Of course I am not going to give up my work now, when I have been struggling and struggling to learn even the little bit I know. Then if I never sing in public how am I ever to earn that fortune which I have promised to bestow on you, Princess?" Esther laughed, but Betty frowned with an expression unusual to her. "I don't want you to keep on with your singing, Esther, for my sake," she protested. "Mother and I are accustomed now to being poor and don't mind it. So if there is anything else you would prefer to do with your life, please don't waste a thought on me." Esther shook her head reproachfully. "Don't be silly and don't be cross, Princess," she pleaded. "You know perfectly well that I can no more help thinking about you than I can help breathing. But so far as my keeping on with my music is concerned, I can't see that I shall ever have the right not to do that. So I am going to make the biggest effort I possibly can at the concert, and then if I fail, why at least I shall have been true to 'the Law of the Fire.'" At this Betty's face softened, but Dick Ashton marched abruptly out of the room. Neither of the two girls, though far away from their old Camp Fire circle now for two years, had ever forgotten its purposes and teaching. So often when they were lonely the three Wohelo candles were lighted and the old ceremony followed, usually ending by Esther's singing a Camp Fire song. Tonight Betty walked over to a kind of shrine or shelf which they had erected in one corner of their room. German houses have queer stoves and no fireplaces. There she lighted three tall white candles. The long northern twilight was fading and the room had become almost dark. A moment after, Betty came and sat down on a stool at Esther's feet. "I had a letter from Polly today," she began. "She and Miss Adams have landed and are in England. They want to join us later if----if----" "If what, Betty?" Esther demanded. "Surely you and Polly are not to be disappointed in being with each other!" "Well, it is just this that I have been dying to tell you ever since you came home," Betty protested, her words now running over each other in her effort to tell all her story at once. "Polly wrote that Miss Adams would love to come and spend a part of the summer near us if we were only in some place in the country. But she is too worn out from her work last winter to feel that she can endure the city for any length of time. And you know mother and I have been getting pretty tired of Berlin ourselves lately, since the warm weather has come and you and Dick are away so much of the day. So this morning while you were out I got one of the maids to go with me and we went for miles into the country until we came to an enchanting place, all forests and brooks, near the village of Waldheim. I can't tell you all that happened to me or the queer experience I had, only that I found a delightful place where we may live. It is near enough for you and Dick to come back and forth into town. And it is so still and cool with such wonderful green hills behind it that somehow it made me think of Sunrise Mountain and our cabin and the girls and--" But in a sudden wave of homesickness Betty's voice failed and she dropped her face in her hands. Esther's own voice was unsteady. "Then we will move out to this spot at once, Betty. And don't you ever dare tell me that I am not to think of you in connection with my music, when I realize how much you have given up for me. Oh, yes, I know you have enjoyed Europe and Berlin and all of our interesting experiences. Yet somehow I don't believe that you will ever be so fond of any place in the world as you are of your old home in Woodford. You see that is the way I comfort myself and Dr. Ashton about your new foreign admirers. You wouldn't, Betty, ever seriously care for anyone who lives in Europe, would you?" Esther asked so anxiously that her sister laughed, refusing to make a reply. CHAPTER VII Das Rheingold A girl sat on a flat rock beside a small stream of water, evidently drying her hair in the rays of the sun, for it hung loose over her shoulders and shone red and gold and brown, seeming to ripple down from the crown of her head to the ground. She was entirely alone and a close group of trees formed a kind of green temple behind her. It had been an extremely warm day so that even the birds were resting from song and from labor. Suddenly the girl tore into small pieces the letter that she had been writing, tossing them into the air like a troop of white butterflies. "There is no use of my trying to do anything sensible this afternoon," Betty Ashton sighed, "I am so happy over being in the country once more with nothing to do but to do nothing. I was dead tired of all those people at the pension, of Fritz and Franz and all the rest of them. It is lovely to be alone here in the German forests----" Then unexpectedly Betty Ashton straightened up, looking about her in every possible direction in a puzzled fashion while hurriedly arranging her hair. For although she could see no one approaching, she could hear an unmistakable sound, a kind of mellow whistling, then flute-like notes and afterwards a low throbbing, as though the wings of imprisoned things were beating in the air. Betty stared through the open spaces between the trees, since from that direction the sound was now approaching. But when and where had she heard that peculiar music before? However, the Germans were such a strangely musical race that probably any one of her neighbors could play. Then with a smothered expression of vexation, the girl got up on her feet and took a few steps forward. There was no mistaking the figure slowly advancing, the long light hair, the mild eyes and timid though persistent manner. But how in the world had Frederick von Reuter found her, when she had been careful not to mention where they were going in saying farewell at the pension? "Why, Herr von Reuter," Betty exclaimed, divided between vexation and the thought that she must not be rude, "what are you doing in this part of the world and how did you happen to discover me?" At this question the young man abruptly ceased his sentimental playing, though instead of answering Betty in a sensible fashion, he pointed first toward her hair and then toward the water behind her and the circle of hills. "I haf come in search of '_Das Rheingold_,'" he murmured in his funny, broken English, "and I haf found a Rhein _mädchen, nicht wahr_?" Betty bit her lips. She was not in the mood for nonsense and it was difficult to conceive of her present companion as the hero of Wagner's great opera. "Let's not be absurd," she returned coldly. "And please answer my questions." Betty did not mean to be disagreeable, for she did not actually dislike this young man--he was too queer and apparently too simple. Nevertheless it was impossible for her to appreciate how unlike she was to any other girl with whom the young German had ever associated. Her frankness, her self-possession, her brightness and of course her beauty, all of which were ordinary characteristics of most American girls, were a kind of miracle to Fritz. "I haf come into this place that I may see _you_," he replied. "And your _Mutter_ has told me where I must come to look. But this neighborhood I know _sehr wohl_. It is the castle of my uncle which you may haf seen on a hill not far away. It is of stone with a high wall around it----" But Betty's expression had now changed, her eyes were sparkling and her color rapidly changing. How could poor Fritz have guessed that no higher emotion than curiosity stirred her? She now pointed invitingly toward a fallen tree, seating herself on one end of it. [Illustration: "TELL ME MORE ABOUT THE PLACES NEAR HERE"] "Do tell me more about the places near here, if you know about them," she suggested. "I was perfectly sure that they had strange and romantic histories. I think I can guess which is your uncle's estate. Has it a long avenue of linden trees and a lodge covered with ivy and a lake with a waterfall?" Betty hesitated, for even Fritz was looking somewhat startled at her knowledge of details. "And it may all be yours some day!" the girl added, hoping to change the current of her companion's thoughts. But the young man shook his head. "No," he returned honestly, "I haf in my heart no such idea. My cousin is younger than I am, stronger----" Betty glanced over toward the blue rim of hills. "Is your cousin a girl?" she queried softly. Young Herr von Reuter was again surprised. "I thought I haf told you. No, he is a man, like me. Oh, no, not like me," he added sadly. "My cousin is tall like me, but he carries of himself so otherwise." Fritz touched his own shoulders, owing their stoop perhaps to the long hours spent in going over his accounts in the bank. "And his hair it is light and his eyes blue. And there is a shine on his hair that makes it so golden as Siegfried's. And when he laughs!" Poor Fritz's face now wore the same expression of mild adoration which he had oftentimes bestowed upon Betty. "But if you are so awfully fond of your cousin and he is a count living in that old stone castle, why does he not do something for you? I should think your uncle----" "You do not _verstehen_, you _Amerikaner_" Fritz answered. "My uncle is _sehr_ poor himself. It is hard to live as he must. Some day my cousin must marry a rich girl with his title and his good looks." Betty laughed. "Oh, that's the plan, is it? Well, let us walk on back to the cottage and find mother. I am sure she will enjoy talking to you." Again Betty Ashton's manner had changed to its original indifference. Fritz seemed bewildered and a little depressed. "It is _schöner_ here," he replied. However, he got up and obediently followed Betty out of her retreat. She was more than half a mile from the cottage which they had secured for the summer time. And they were compelled to pass out of the woods and walk along a country lane for a part of the way. There were few persons using this lane at four o'clock on a hot July afternoon, and so Betty had felt that she would be perfectly safe from observation. She had left home with her hair still damp from washing and simply tucked up under a big summer hat. Now she was feeling disheveled and uncomfortable and most devoutly anxious not to meet anyone on their return journey. It had been tiresome of her mother to have revealed her whereabouts. Then all at once Betty found herself blushing and wishing that she could hide somewhere along the road. For there advancing toward them was a handsome riding horse. Could it be possible that Herr von Reuter's cousin was seeking him? She must not meet him under the present conditions, not if what she believed were true. But the horse kept moving toward them with greater rapidity, while Fritz plodded on slowly at her side, telling her some story of the history of the neighborhood and not understanding that for the time being she had lost interest in it. Betty glanced about her. There was no place where she might hide herself without being seen in the act; besides her companion could never be made to understand her behavior and would be sure to reveal his bewilderment. No, she must simply continue walking on with her head averted and her attention too concentrated upon Herr von Reuter's information to be conscious of anything else. Now the low voice at her ear abruptly ceased, and turning in surprise to glance at him, Betty beheld Fritz's ordinarily placid countenance crimsoning with what certainly looked like anger instead of pleasure at the appearance of his admired cousin. "_Ach Himmel!_" exclaimed poor Fritz, "is one never to lose him?" Betty would have liked to stamp her foot with vexation. For the figure on horseback was wholly unlike the German knight whom her companion had recently described. Here was no Siegfried with shining hair and armor, but a small dark person whom she had hoped never to see again. He reined up his horse, slid off, and after a surprised scowl at Fritz, greeted Betty as though she could hardly fail to be gratified by his appearance. "You had neglected to tell me where I might find you, but Frau Hohler was kinder," Franz Schmidt declared at once. Surely Betty's manner might have discouraged almost anyone else, but not so pompous and self-satisfied a character as Franz. Money appeared to him as the only really important thing in the world and he had an idea that Betty Ashton had but little of it. Therefore she must be impressed by his attentions. Notwithstanding he decided at this moment she would soon have to choose between him and the ridiculous Fritz. Franz was now walking along by the other side of Betty, leading his horse. And all the time the girl kept wondering what she could do or say to get rid of one or both of her escorts. Fortunately she would find no one at home except her mother. Esther's and Dick's train did not arrive for another hour. They doubtless would have been amused and Dick very probably angry. How nonsensical she must appear marching along in such a company! CHAPTER VIII Other Scenes A taxicab was driving slowly down Regent Street in the neighborhood of Piccadilly Circus in London with a woman and a girl inside it. The woman leaned back in a relaxed position with her eyes not on the scene about her, but on the face of the girl. For she was sitting upright with her hands clasped tight together in her lap, her eyes sparkling and her cheeks glowing. It was nearly six o'clock in the afternoon, the hour when English people, having just finished their "afternoon tea," were returning to their homes, so that the streets were crowded with fashionably dressed men and women. And to the girl in the cab they were entirely absorbing and interesting. For whatever the closeness of their relation, American and English people when seen in any numbers are strikingly different in their appearance. The English are taller and fairer, the men better dressed than the women, and with less energy and less grace than Americans. And to a young girl's eyes there were also hundreds of other details of unlikeness and of fascination that older persons possibly might not have noticed. Besides there was the spectacle of big, beautiful, gray old London itself! "Is there any other place on earth quite so wonderful?" Polly O'Neill queried, turning to glance shyly into the face of the woman beside her. "I feel that I should like to do nothing else for the rest of my life but just sit here in this cab and drive about Piccadilly." Miss Adams smiled. For Polly's exaggerations, that oftentimes annoyed other people, merely amused her. Thus far, and they had been away for a number of weeks, the great lady had not repented her invitation to the girl to be her guest in Europe during the summer. For some reason she had taken an odd fancy to Polly. Moreover, she was weary of her usual summer amusements, wishing to enjoy life through younger eyes than her own. And the special value of Polly O'Neill as a companion was that with her ardent Irish temperament she could see and feel more in half an hour than many persons do in half a life time. Now, however, with her swift vision of her companion's expression, the girl's altered. "You are tired," she murmured, with one of her quick changes of mood and of opinion, "and I am sure that I have seen all I wish to this afternoon. Don't you think we had better drive back to the hotel?" Miss Adams made a little sign to the cabman. "It is getting late, Polly, and I forgot to tell you that I am having a friend to dinner." The girl was silent for the next few moments after this speech, yet her cheeks were flushing and her eyes so intent that it was evident she was trying to say something without having sufficient courage to begin. Finally she did speak in an embarrassed fashion: "Miss Adams, I don't quite know how to say this, but I have been wondering lately if you were not growing tired of London and staying on longer here on my account. You remember that you told me before we sailed that you were going to find some quiet place in the country to rest. And it has not been much rest for you showing me both Paris and London, with people after you all the time, even though you do refuse most of their invitations." A sudden overwhelming shyness confused the girl so that she could not continue for the moment. For in spite of the weeks of daily intimacy with her new friend, Polly was not yet able to think of her nor to treat her like any other human being. Not that Miss Adams was ever anything but simple and kind like most great people. She made no effort to be impressive and was not beautiful--only a slight, frail-looking woman with a figure like a girl's, chestnut brown hair and big, indescribably wonderful eyes. But to Polly she represented everything in life worth attaining. Although still comparatively young, Margaret Adams had won for herself the position of one of America's leading actresses. Moreover, she had the world's respect as well as its admiration, and besides her reputation a large fortune. So it was small wonder that Polly should not so soon have recovered from her first combination of awe and devotion for this celebrated woman, nor yet understand the miracle of her choice of her as a traveling companion. It was true that Miss Adams had no family and no close relatives except her cousin, Mary Adams, who had been Polly's elocution teacher in Woodford. The effort to persuade this cousin to accompany her on the European trip had been the cause of Margaret Adams' visit to Woodford earlier in the spring. There, finding that her cousin could not join her and yielding to a sudden impulse, she had transferred her invitation to Polly. And the thought that Miss Adams may have repented her rashness since their departure from home had oftentimes made Polly O'Neill grow suddenly hot and then cold. Some day, perhaps, her mother would discover that this trip of Polly's with Miss Adams was to teach her the lessons that at the present time she most needed--a new humility and the desire to place another person's comfort and wishes before her own. Perhaps Miss Adams partly understood the girl's sensations, for without waiting for her to continue her speech she immediately asked: "What was the name of that place in the German forests about which your friends have written you? Did they not say that they had found a little house for themselves and another not far away for us? It might be pleasant to go there for a time." In endeavoring to hide her excitement Polly now had to turn her head and pretend to be looking at something out of the opposite side of the cab. For this suggestion of Miss Adams represented the summit of her own desires. Of course she had adored the sights and experiences of the weeks in Paris and London, and life had never been so fascinating; yet never for a moment had she ceased to look forward and yearn for a reunion with Betty and Esther. Moreover, Betty's picture of the country where they now were sounded like a scene from one of the German operas. But Polly only murmured: "The village is called 'Waldheim,'" and made no reply when Miss Adams returned: "Perhaps it may be a good idea for us to go on there in a week or ten days, if we can make the necessary arrangements." By this time, however, their cab had stopped in front of a small, inconspicuous brown hotel, which was one of the quietest and yet most fashionable hotels in London, and within a few moments the two women disappeared into their own rooms. Half an hour afterwards Polly walked into their private sitting room. There she sat down at a desk, intending to write to Betty Ashton before the dinner hour. In making her European trip under such unusual circumstances Polly had not brought with her a great number of clothes. Nevertheless her stepfather had insisted that she have whatever might be necessary and Mrs. Wharton had taken great care and forethought to see that her things were beautiful and appropriate. For Polly was not an easy person to dress suitably. Persons who have more temperament than sheer physical beauty always are difficult. It is impossible that they should look well in any character of changing fashion or in the colors that are out of harmony with their natures. For instance, one could never conceive of Polly O'Neill in a pale blue gown, though for Mollie or Betty Ashton it might be one's immediate choice. White and red, pale yellow or pink were Polly's shades for evening wear and either brown or green for the street. Tonight at work on her letter she appeared younger than in truth she was, like a girl of sixteen instead of nineteen. For although her hair was worn in a heavy braided coil encircling her head, her dress was extremely simple. It was of messaline silk of ivory whiteness and made with a short Empire waist and narrow, clinging skirt. There was no sign of trimming, except where the dress was cut low into a square at the throat and edged with a fold of tulle. On first coming into the sitting room, Polly, who had always an instinctive attraction toward bright colors, had taken a red carnation from a vase on a table and was now wearing the flower carelessly fastened inside her belt. During the first absorption of her writing she had paid no heed to the door's quiet opening. Nor did she stir when a strange man entering the room took his seat before the tiny fire which Miss Adams always had lighted in the evenings, since the English summer is so often unpleasantly cool to American people. Neither did the man appear to have observed Polly. When the girl finally did become aware of his presence she remembered that Miss Adams had neglected to mention the name of the guest whom they were expecting to dinner. And although Polly was becoming more accustomed to the almost daily meetings with strangers, she always suffered a few first moments of painful shyness. The man happened to have his back turned toward her and had seated himself in a comfortable big leather chair. Nevertheless as soon as she stirred from her desk he got up instantly, facing her with a kind of smiling and vague politeness such as one often employs in greeting a stranger. Their guest was a good-looking man, with clear-cut features, a smooth face and brown hair. He wore evening dress, of course, and held himself with exceptional dignity and grace. He must have been about twenty-seven or -eight years old. There was nothing in the least formidable or disconcerting in his appearance, so it seemed distinctly ungracious and stupid of Polly to commence their acquaintance by stammering, "Oh, Oh, why--" and then continue to gaze into their visitor's face without attempting to finish her utterly unintelligible speech. Also for the space of a moment the man seemed surprised and a trifle embarrassed by this odd form of greeting. Nevertheless the next instant he was staring at the girl in equal amazement. Then suddenly he held out both his hands. "It is the 'Fairy of the Woods,' or I am dreaming!" he exclaimed, closing and then opening his eyes again. Polly at once dispelled all possible uncertainty. "If I am the 'Fairy of the Woods,' then you are 'Grazioso' in 'The Castle of Youth,'" she laughed, allowing her own hands to rest for the space of a second in those of her former acquaintance. "But as I happen to remember your real name, Mr. Hunt, and you cannot possibly recall mine, I am Polly O'Neill." "Then will you please sit down and tell me everything that has been happening to you and how I chance to find you here in London with Miss Adams?" Richard Hunt insisted, drawing up a chair to within a few feet of his own. Polly sat down. And quite unconsciously dropped her pointed chin into the palm of her hand, murmuring with her elbow resting on the arm of her chair: "You remember that time when I met you in New York, we were both playing in a fairy story," she said. "Well, sometimes fairy stories come true," she said. Ten minutes afterwards when Miss Adams entered the drawing room to greet her guest, to her surprise she found that he and Polly were already deep in intimate conversation, so much so that they did not immediately hear her approach. And Polly was ordinarily so diffident and tongue-tied with strangers! "I am glad that you and Mr. Hunt have not waited for me to introduce you, Polly," Miss Adams began. Polly jumped to her feet, and her face grew suddenly white. For she had never spoken of her escapade of two years before to Miss Adams, and did not know just how the great lady might receive it. Richard Hunt waited politely for the girl to acknowledge her previous acquaintance with him. For if she did not wish to speak he must, of course, by no word or sign betray her. However, in less than a moment Polly had fought out a silent battle with herself. There was no positive reason why she should confess her misdeed to this woman whom she admired beyond all others. And yet to pretend a falsehood to her friend, Polly could not endure the thought. The girl made a charming picture as she stood there in her white dress with her eyes cast down, not trusting herself to look into the face of either of her friends. Quite frankly, then, she told the entire story of her sudden yielding to temptation and of her two weeks' experience in stage life, which had resulted in her meeting with Mr. Hunt. Nor did she allow her speech to take but a few moments of time, not wishing to draw too much attention to herself. At the instant of her finishing, it happened that dinner was announced, so that Miss Adams had no opportunity for expressing an opinion of Polly's conduct either one way or the other. As they walked out of the room, however, she did manage to give Polly's arm a tiny sympathetic squeeze, whispering, "I'll tell you of my own first stage appearance some day, dear, if you remind me of my promise." CHAPTER IX The Meeting "They are not coming, Esther, and I am so dreadfully disappointed I think I shall weep," Betty Ashton announced one afternoon about two weeks later. The two girls were waiting in front of a tumble-down little German station in the country, apparently several miles from any thickly settled spot. Esther was seated in a carriage with a driver, but Betty was leaning disconsolately over the station platform raised by a few steps from the ground. A few moments before she had been walking rapidly up and down in far too great a state of excitement and pleasure to keep still. Now, however, the train had pulled in and stopped, letting off several stout passengers, but revealing no sign of Polly O'Neill and the maid, whom Miss Adams was sending on ahead to make things ready for her. "They must have missed the train; they will be sure to come down early in the morning," Esther comforted. But Betty mournfully shook her head. "It won't be quite the same if they do. Of course I shall always be happy to see Polly O'Neill at any time or place in this world or the next; still, a postponed pleasure is not as agreeable as one that takes place on time. And think of all we had planned for this evening!" Under the circumstances there was nothing for Betty to do now but to climb back into the carriage and take her seat next her sister. For the little station was by this time completely deserted and had few attractions for making one linger long in its neighborhood. It was too lonely and dilapidated. There was another station at Waldheim, where passengers usually got out, but the two girls had given Polly special directions to use this one, so that they might have a long drive home through the German forests at sundown, bringing her to their little house in the woods amid the best scenic effects. "We won't even be able to receive a telegram tonight telling us what has occurred, the office closes so early," Betty continued. "I wish at least that Dick had not chosen to spend tonight in Berlin. Don't you think he is behaving rather curiously lately, Esther? He is so unlike himself and sometimes so cross. Of course I realized that he had a right to be angry when those absurd German youths came wandering out here. But I was glad enough to have him write to Franz Schmidt that he was never to see me again. And we have not exactly the right to forbid Frederick von Reuter's coming to this neighborhood. You don't believe, do you, Esther child, that Dick can be staying in town so often lately to see that abominable girl at our old pension?" Esther chanced to be gazing at the beautiful landscape through which they were passing, so that the younger girl had no opportunity for observing her face. Moreover, Esther's rather weary and wistful expression would not have altogether surprised her, as both she and her mother had been worrying recently over Esther's appearance. Undoubtedly she was working too hard over her music. She went into town twice a week for lessons and the thought of her appearance in the early autumn might also be making her nervous. Esther made no answer now to Betty's complaints, but instead pointed toward a hill at the left of them. Near the summit they could see a gray stone house, looking more like a prison than the American ideal of a home, and yet possessing a kind of lonely beauty and dignity. "Whose castle is that, Betty, do you know?" Esther queried. Betty wondered if the question was intended to change the current of her thoughts. "It looks far more like one of the castles that we saw during our trip along the Rhine than the estates near Berlin." Then for some absurd reason Betty blushed. "It is Fritz von Reuter's uncle's place, I believe. I have always intended telling you, Esther, if you will promise not to mention it to Dick. The day I first came to this neighborhood to look for a place for us to live I had rather an odd experience." Betty would have continued her confession, but at this moment they were driving through a wonderful stretch of woodland road. The way was narrow and on one side was a sharp decline and on the other a thick growth of evergreens. Moving toward them was a horse with a young man upon it in a suit of light gray riding clothes, which in the afternoon sunlight looked almost the color of silver. He was carrying his hat in his hand and his hair was a bright yellow such as one seldom sees except in young children. Indeed, he was so remarkably handsome that even Esther, who rarely paid much attention to strangers, gazed at him for the moment with interest, temporarily forgetting what Betty had been trying to confess. To her amazement, however, the rider made not the faintest effort to give their carriage the right of way, but moved on directly in the center of the road. Their driver, evidently recognizing the young man as a person of distinction, then drove so close to the underbrush on their right that both girls felt a momentary fear of being tumbled out. Betty kept her lips demurely closed and her head held upright, with the expression of pride and self-possession which she reserved for very special occasions. However, it was difficult to maintain an atmosphere of cold dignity when one was in immediate danger of being tipped out of a rickety old carriage into a ditch. The horse and rider approached nearly opposite the carriage, the young fellow gazing haughtily but none the less curiously toward the two American girls. Then almost instantly his unprepossessing manner changed and his face broke into a smile which was singularly charming. Neither of the two girls had often seen in Germany just this type of youth. He was of only medium height, but perfectly proportioned, with square military shoulders, and he rode his horse as though he and it were carved from the same block of stone. Nevertheless there was no doubt but that he was looking at Betty as if he expected some sign of recognition. He was mistaken, however, for she let him pass them without even turning her head in his direction. It was after eight o'clock that evening when Mrs. Ashton, Betty and Esther had finally come to the end of their melancholy dinner. For there are few things drearier than eating alone the banquet prepared for a long expected guest, when the guest has failed to arrive. The dinner table had a miniature pine tree in the center, which Betty had dug out of the earth with her own hands and decorated with the tiny Camp Fire emblems which she and Esther always carried about in their trunks, while waving from its summit was a tiny American flag. On either side of the tree were the three candles sacred to all their Camp Fire memories, and the table was also loaded with plates of German sweets and nuts and favors sent out from town for this evening's feast. Esther and Mrs. Ashton had been trying to keep up a semblance of cheerfulness during dinner, but Betty had refused to make any such effort. Now the front doorbell unexpectedly rang and their funny little German _Mädchen_ went out of the room to open it. Betty did not even glance up. She supposed that it must be Dick, who had changed his mind about remaining in Berlin and had taken a later train home. However, even Dick's return was of only limited interest this evening. The next moment and two arms were tight about her neck, almost stifling her. Then a voice that could only be Polly O'Neill's, though Betty could not turn her head, was whispering: "Oh, Princess, Princess, has it been two years or two centuries since we met? And are you as pretty as ever, and do you love me as much?" A little later, when both girls had laughed and cried in each other's arms, Polly was at last able to explain to Mrs. Ashton that she and her maid had made a mistake in their train and had taken one which did not stop at the out-of-the-way station mentioned in the girls' letters. So they had been compelled to go on further and then to have an automobile to bring them back to Waldheim. CHAPTER X An Adventure "Margaret, if you don't mind, we are going for a walk. Betty has been talking to some girls in the next village about starting a Camp Fire club with six dear little German maidens who make us think of Meg and Mollie when they were tiny. Would you care to come with us?" Margaret Adams shook her head. She was lying in a hammock under a tree which made a complete green canopy above her head. At no great distance away was the brook where Betty had thought herself in hiding several weeks before, and by dint of keeping very quiet and concentrating all one's senses into the single one of listening, the music of the running water might be heard. The woman in the hammock had no desire for other entertainment. She had been thinking but a few moments before that she had not felt so well or so young in half a dozen years. The three girls, Esther, Betty and Polly, had been laughing and talking not far away from her for the past hour, but she must have been asleep since she had heard no word of what they were saying until Polly's direct question to her. "I am awfully lazy, Polly dear," she apologized. "You know I have been insisting each day that the next I was going to do exactly what you girls do and try to pretend I am as young as the rest of you. But I have not the valor, and besides you will have a far more thrilling time without a chaperon. Kiss me good-by and take care of pretty Betty." And Margaret Adams waved her hand in farewell to the other two girls. Since their stay in the German forests she had insisted that the girls treat her as much as possible like one of themselves, that they forget her profession and her age, and as a sign they were all to call one another by their first names. To Betty Ashton this act of friendliness had not been difficult; it had actually been harder for Polly, who had known Miss Adams so much more intimately, and most trying of all to Esther because of her natural timidity. In the first place Betty did not often think of their new acquaintance as a great actress. Once several years before she had been introduced to Miss Adams in Woodford, but later had considered her merely in her relation to Polly. She of course felt very strongly the older woman's magnetism, just as the world did, and was proud and grateful for this opportunity to know her. Indeed, Polly in the past few days had to have several serious talks with herself in order to stifle a growing sensation of jealousy. Of course she perfectly appreciated how pretty and charming the Princess was and how she had attracted people all her life. Yet she was not going to pretend that she was noble enough to be willing to have Miss Adams prefer the Princess to her humble self. As Polly joined her two friends she found herself surveying Betty with an air that tried hard to be critical; but there was no use in attempting it this morning. Betty was too ridiculously pretty and unconscious of it. For, seeing that Polly seemed slightly annoyed with her, she slipped her hand into hers, as the three of them started off for the village. In her other hand she carried her old Camp Fire Manual. Betty was dressed in an inexpensive white muslin with a broad white leather belt and a big straw hat encircled with a wreath of blue corn flowers. Probably her entire outfit had cost less than a single pair of slippers in the days of their wealth. "I hope, Esther, that you have not allowed Betty to go about the country alone before I joined you," Polly began in her old half-mocking and half-serious tones. Betty laughed at the idea of Polly O'Neill grown suddenly conventional; however, Esther took the suggestion gravely. "I don't know and I am truly glad you have arrived, Polly dear, for a great many reasons," she replied. "You know I have to be in Berlin two days every week and Dr. Ashton is away the greater part of the time. And somehow neither one of us has ever been able to persuade Mrs. Ashton or Betty to appreciate the difference between Germany and America. Betty seems to think she can wander about here as freely as if she were in Woodford." "Well, I shall see that she does not wander alone any more if I can help it," Polly added with decision. And then, "Tell me, please, for goodness sake, Betty Ashton, how you are going to manage to start a Camp Fire club in Waldheim? In the first place do you know enough of the German language to teach other people, and otherwise how will you ever be able to explain all that the Camp Fire means, its ceremonies and ideals?" For the moment Betty's face clouded, as any lack of faith on Polly's part had always checked her enthusiasm. "I can't teach them _all_ of anything, Polly, for in the first place I have never begun to understand myself one half that our Camp Fire organization stands for. But I have the feeling that because it has always given me so much help and happiness I should at least try to suggest the idea to other people. You see the Camp Fire is not just an American institution. It is almost equally popular in England, though there it is called 'The Girl Guides.' And of course in time its influence is obliged to spread to Germany, so I hope to be a pioneer. I have been to the school for girls in Waldheim and managed to interest one of the teachers. She has promised me that when we have read and studied enough together she will form a Camp Fire club among her pupils and be their first guardian. So you see I shall not count for much." "Angel child!" exclaimed Polly enigmatically, but she offered no further criticism. And indeed the three girls spent a wonderfully interesting two hours among Betty's new acquaintances. For Esther and Betty both spoke German extremely well after their two years' residence in Berlin, and although Polly had to be unusually quiet, she did remember enough of her school German to understand the others. And when their call had finally ended Betty promised to return twice each week to continue their work, and though Polly made no such promise, her enthusiasm was almost equally great. Later on the girls found a tiny restaurant in the village where they drank hot coffee and ate innumerable delicious German cookies. For they had left word that they were not to be expected at home for luncheon, since the best of their excursion was to take place after the trip to the village. For a long time Betty had a place in mind she had particularly wished Esther and Polly to see and now this was their first opportunity since Polly's arrival for a long walk. "It is only a specially lovely bit of woods with a little house inside, which looks as though it might be the place where the old witch lived in the story of 'Hansel and Gretel,'" she explained. "The house is built of logs, but there are the same tiny window panes and a front door with a great bolt across it. It is so gloomy and terrifying that it is perfectly delicious," she concluded gaily, for they had been walking for some distance to get into her enchanted forest and so far no sign of it had appeared. Plainly the other two girls were growing weary. Half an hour later, however, both Esther and Polly were sufficiently good sportsmen to confess that their long walk had not been in vain. For Betty's forest, as they chose to call the place, was entrancingly lovely, the greenest, darkest, coolest spot in all that country round. And so curiously secluded! Hundreds of great forest trees and shrubbery so thick that it must have been left uncut and untrampled upon for many years. Indeed, except for Betty's previous acquaintance with a path that led to the house in the woods, there could have been no possibility of the girls' discovering it. For once having climbed a low stone fence, they had seen and heard nothing except a solitary deer that had fled at their approach and an unusual number of wild birds. Not far away from the little house Polly and Esther found seats within a few feet of each other on the trunks of two old trees, while Betty stretched herself along the ground, closing her eyes as though she had been a veritable Sleeping Princess. The three girls had no thought of being disturbed, for the little house was locked and barred and entirely deserted. Then in the midst of the peace and silence of the scene a bullet whistled through the air. And following the report of a rifle Esther tumbled quietly off her resting place. CHAPTER XI And Its Consequences Betty bent over her sister first, saying with a kind of quick intake of her breath: "Esther, what is the matter? Are you hurt? Oh, I have always been afraid that something dreadful would happen to you, you are so good!" And at this Esther smiled, although somewhat faintly, allowing Polly to assist her to her feet. "Well, I am not being punished for my virtues this time, Betty child," she answered. "I was just a ridiculous coward, and when that bullet passed so close to my head that I am quite sure it cut off a lock of my hair, it made me so faint and ill for an instant that I collapsed. I am all right now. But I wonder where the shot could have come from?" Then the three girls stood silently listening, almost equally pale and shaken from their recent experience. In another moment they heard the noise of some one stirring about in the underbrush at no great distance away and walking in their direction. They waited speechless and without moving. Then suddenly, before they could see the speaker, a voice called out angrily: "Don't try to escape; stay where you are or I shall fire again. For I will not endure this lawlessness any longer." And almost immediately a young man appeared before them in a hunter's costume of rough gray tweed, carrying his gun in his hand. His expression was angry and masterful, his face crimson and his eyes had ugly lights in their blue depths. Yet instantly Esther recognized the speaker as the same young fellow whom they had met on horseback a week or ten days before. At his first glance toward Esther and Polly his face changed; for obviously he was both startled and mystified. Then as he caught sight of Betty, who was standing just back of the other two girls, another wave of crimson crossed his face, but this time it was due to embarrassment and not anger. With a swift movement he lifted his hat and bowed so low that in an American it would have seemed an absurdity. Yet somehow with him the movement had both dignity and grace. Straightway Polly O'Neill, in spite of her vexation, decided that never before had she seen a more perfect "Prince Charming." The young man's hair was bright gold, his skin naturally fair and yet sufficiently browned from exposure, his features almost classic in shape. And while he was not exceptionally tall, his figure was that of a young soldier in action with the same muscular strength and virility. "I shall never be able to express to you my chagrin and my regret," he began, including the three girls in his speech but in reality addressing himself to Betty. He spoke English with only the slightest foreign accent. "These happen to be my woods and I have been greatly annoyed recently by trespassers who destroy my game at a season of the year when there can be neither profit nor pleasure in it. And this when the park is posted with signs warning intruders." "I am sorry that we did not chance to see the signs," Esther murmured. "You can understand that we are strangers in this neighborhood, Americans," Polly defended more hotly. "But of course we should not have wandered in here without inquiring of some one whether or not we had the privilege. In the United States we know very little about game preserves and people are willing to have you enjoy the beauty of their forests. But we shall leave immediately and promise never to trouble you again." "But that means that you have not forgiven me and I ask your pardon with all my heart. It is my pride, my great pleasure to have you consider my place worthy of your attention. Miss Ashton," the young foreigner now turned directly to Betty, "surely you can appreciate and pardon my mistake." Neither of the other two girls had been paying any special attention to Betty, but at the stranger's surprising knowledge of her name they turned toward her at once. And both decided that they had never seen her look so pretty or so angry in her life. Apparently she had not spoken before because she had not been willing to trust herself. And Polly had a sudden sense of satisfaction in the knowledge that the Princess did not lose her poise and self-control in her anger, as she so invariably did. "You ask us to understand and pardon your mistake," Betty now began quietly. "But suppose that the bullet which you fired so carelessly had killed my sister. Would you still have expected us to make the same answer? Of course we are just as much intruders upon your property as if we were men instead of American girls. But I presume that when you fired, thinking that we might be poachers, you would have been indifferent had you wounded one of us. For I believe in Germany it is the fashion for the soldiers who are intended for the defense of their country to have little respect for the lives of their country_men_." This was a long and bitter speech for a young girl to have made. But remember that Betty Ashton had been living in Germany for the past two years at a time when the army had been frequently criticized and had suffered just as most travelers do from the rudeness of German officers upon the streets and in places of public amusement. Moreover, she had not yet recovered from her moment of fright over Esther and was annoyed at having their pleasure so destroyed. Her accusation so surprised the young man to whom it was addressed that for a moment he did not reply. For evidently he did not often find himself obliged to be placed on the defensive side in a discussion and the position did not please him. "I regret to have frightened you. And I had no intention of injuring any one," he remarked stiffly. "It was my plan to fire into the air, but I stumbled at the critical moment. However, I did not suppose that the shot came anywhere in your direction. And I am sorry that you should consider this but another instance of the lack of courtesy in His Majesty's officers." There was an awkward pause. Betty was holding her big flowered hat pressed close against her white dress, her lips were scarlet and her face so pale that her gray eyes looked almost smoke-colored. The wind and the long walk had loosened her hair until it was curling and blowing about her forehead like tiny red-gold clouds. Honestly no young man could have remained angry with her for any great length of time. She slipped one arm through Esther's, as Esther had continued white and nervous, and beckoning Polly with the other to join them, with the merest inclination of her head the Princess started to lead the little company away. But before she had gone more than a few feet she stopped and turned around. The young man was standing exactly where they had left him with his hat still in his hand and his face and figure rigid. Betty advanced nearer toward him. "Lieutenant von Reuter," she said, "it is I who must now beg your pardon. You were kind to me once when my maid and I lost our way in trying to find the village of Waldheim. But under no circumstances should I have said anything that reflected upon you or your friends. I know that you are an officer in the German army, so naturally you must think as little of American courtesy as--" But not knowing just how to end her sentence Betty did the wisest possible thing and smiled. And at once the young man was figuratively on his knees before her again. "Don't go away just yet," he pleaded; "you must know that I have been asking my cousin Frederick about you. It is he who has told me your name and he must also have spoken of me to you. You yourselves have said that it was lovely here in my forest and surely you must be weary enough to remain a little time longer. It is not as though we were entire strangers, with Frederick your friend and my relative." This time Betty laughed outright. "Your cousin is scarcely our friend; we have only boarded in the same pension with him in Berlin while my sister was there studying music." She looked a little more searchingly at Esther. Esther had not been very well for several weeks and now certainly was unfit for the long walk home in the hottest part of the afternoon without more rest. With an inclination of her pretty head the Princess surrendered. "If you really are sure that you won't mind we should like to sit here in the shade a little longer," she confessed. "That is if we will not trouble you. You must not feel that you must remain with us, for I promise that we shall do nothing any harm." Without replying, Carl von Reuter then led Esther to her discarded tree trunk, the other girls having already found seats. "If you will be good enough to wait for a few moments I should like very much to bring you some tea. The little house there is my hunting lodge and I have all sorts of bachelor arrangements inside," he announced. And the suggestion was far too welcome for any one of the girls to decline. Then in the five minutes of the young man's absence as rapidly as possible Betty sketched the outline of her acquaintance with him and the knowledge of his history which she had since been able to acquire. He was the son of the German count whose stone castle they had seen, and of course the heir to the title and estate. He was also, as she had already revealed, a lieutenant in the German army and probably about twenty-two or-three years old. The family was a very old and proud one and although they still owned a great deal of land, they were extremely poor. But Betty had to cease her confidences abruptly, seeing that their unexpected host was coming toward them with four cups of tea and a tray of small crackers and cakes. No American man could have performed these small social services with so little embarrassment, but as Carl explained he had had an English mother and had been taught to assist her with their guests from the time he was a boy. And by the time the tea had been drunk and the cakes eaten the little company had apparently reached terms of complete friendliness, having already forgotten their uncomfortable earlier meeting. "I am dreadfully sorry to find that your little house in the woods is nothing but a hunting lodge," Betty confided. "For you see I have been telling my sister and Miss O'Neill that this place was a kind of enchanted forest where 'Hansel and Gretel' must once upon a time have lost their way." However, Carl von Reuter shook his head protestingly. "Why not think of it instead as Siegfried's forest before he went forth in search of Brunhilde." "Won't you tell us the story of Siegfried?" Polly asked. "I have never heard the opera and it has been such a long time since I read it." Carl laughed. "I am a soldier, not a poet," he explained, "and the legend is too long and too complicated for me to repeat all of it to you. Besides, you are sure to recall it as soon as I begin. Siegfried, you remember, was the son of Siegmund and Sieglinde and the youth who knew no fear. He is brought up in a forest by a wicked dwarf named Mime, who desires that Siegfried wrest the magic treasure of the Nibelung from the giant Fafnir who guards it in the gaping cave of the Niedhole. With the sword of his father Siegfried goes forth and destroys the giant and then appears wearing the glittering tarn helmet, the invincible armor and the magic ring. From the blood of the dead Fafnir, with which Siegfried touches his lips, he is enabled to understand the voices of birds. And when one of these sings to him of a maiden surrounded by flames who can be won only by the man who knows no fear, Siegfried sets out in search of Brunhilde. On a grassy mound he discovers a sleeping figure clad in armor and surrounded by flames. Removing the shield and helmet, he sees a flood of red-gold hair rippling around the form of a sleeping woman." The story teller stopped and Esther inquired: "You know the story of Siegfried so well, I wonder if you sing?" "Not very well," the young man replied. And then, as though to disprove his own words and without further urging, he began singing in a fine, clear tenor, glancing now and then toward Betty Ashton, the beautiful song of Siegfried's that awakens the sleeping Brunhilde: "No man it is! Hallowed rapture Thrills through my heart; Fiery anguish Enfolds my eyes. My senses wander And waver. Whom shall I summon Hither to help me? Mother, mother! Be mindful of me." Later in the afternoon when they had almost reached their own cottage in the woods, Betty suddenly slipped an arm across her older sister's shoulder. Polly had already said good-by. "After all we did discover a kind of enchanted forest, didn't we, Esther?" she whispered. But Esther was tired and annoyed. "Lieutenant von Reuter was an agreeable enough fellow for a foreigner, if that is what you mean, Betty," she returned. "But I got rather tired of his telling us the story of Siegfried which I certainly knew perfectly well. Besides, it seemed to me that he was trying to make an impression upon us. And I shall never, never be able to understand how you can like these German youths so much. I should feel a great deal happier about you and so would your brother if you were safely back in Woodford." "Don't be a goose, dear," was Betty's only answer. CHAPTER XII The Uncertain Future "Have you ever wished some days that you were nine years old instead of nineteen, Miss Adams--Margaret?" Polly O'Neill corrected herself hastily. The girl and the older woman were sitting out in the yard in front of their funny little German cottage one afternoon just before twilight. Polly had been reading aloud until the dusk had settled down too thickly, and since then had been silent, gazing pensively at the far line of hills toward the west. Margaret Adams looked closely at the girl before replying. For the past few days she had seen that there was something unusual weighing upon Polly's mind, since she was never able to conceal her emotions, and had wondered whether she was feeling homesick or if something had occurred to worry her. But she only answered lightly: "No, Polly, I am afraid when one is thirty-five one is more apt to wish to be nineteen than nine. But would you like to tell me, dear, what special objection there is to your present age? Don't, if you feel that you would rather not, or if you would be betraying a confidence." But Polly gave a characteristic shrug. "No," she returned, "I would not be betraying a confidence, only an imagination, and since the imagination happens to be my own, I suppose I have the right to betray it." Not comprehending exactly what the younger girl was trying to say and yet understanding that she would make herself plain later on, the woman quietly waited. She was interested in the processes of Polly's mind and liked to see them work themselves out. "Do you like foreign men?" was the girl's next apparently irrelevant question. But by this time Miss Adams had begun to have a faint suspicion of what might be at the end of her companion's confession. For in the past two weeks since Polly's, Betty's and Esther's visit to the German forest, she too had become interested in some of its consequences. Yet she answered with entire truthfulness: "Why, of course, Polly child, I like foreign men. Why should not one? It is absurd and prejudiced to like or dislike a person because of his nationality; it is the man's own character that counts." "Oh, yes, I know that is what one should feel and say. I don't mean to be rude," Polly added quickly, blushing over her fatal habit of saying whatever was uppermost in her mind. "I was just wondering whether it was actually true. Don't most of us really in the end like best the kind of people and life to which we have been accustomed. Now, for example, just suppose that we take a girl who has been brought up in the United States almost all her life, where she has had boy acquaintances and friends whom she has known in a simple, intimate way, without thinking of any one of them seriously. Then bring her to a foreign country, take Germany, just when she is about grown. All of a sudden imagine a young fellow turning up entirely unlike her old boy friends, handsome, charming and behaving as though he were falling in love with her. Do you believe that the girl could honestly care for him? Don't you think that it would just be a mistaken fancy on her part and that some day when she grew older she would want her old friends and associations again. Why, she might even meet one of her former acquaintances and find that she liked him best, because after all he was also an American and thought about life and women and lots of other things more in the way that she did." Margaret Adams covered both ears with her hands. "My dear Polly," she began, "if you think I have imagination enough to follow all those supposings and all those mixed-up sentences and ideas, you must consider me cleverer than I am. But as long as I happen to be able to guess whom you are talking about, don't you think we might be straightforward. We will never speak of it to any one else, nor to each other if it seems wiser not. But of course you mean----" "Betty!" finished Polly. And then sighing profoundly: "You see, ever since our meeting in the woods the other day with Carl von Reuter he has been coming to see Betty. He brought his father, the old count, to call on Mrs. Ashton and has been sending Betty flowers and they have been riding together and he does not even pretend not to admire her tremendously. He makes Esther and me perfectly miserable, for you see Germans seem so different from Americans, so sentimental and silly, I think. Why, I overheard Lieutenant von Reuter calling Betty Brunhilde, and instead of being bored she actually appeared pleased. Esther and I can't understand it. Of course we realize that it is absurd to believe that people can learn to care for each other in two weeks, yet just the same Betty is behaving strangely. And Esther wonders if it is her duty to speak to Richard Ashton before things go any further. Mrs. Ashton would be no good; she is too pleased over Betty's being admired by a member of the German nobility. She would never be able to see all the mischief that might result from it. But then Esther and Dick Ashton are not friends as they once were. Dick has hardly anything to do with Esther nowadays--even leaves on an earlier train the mornings that she has to go into Berlin for her music lessons. And yet when Esther first came to live with Mrs. Ashton, when she was a hundred times less attractive than she is now, why he was kinder to her than any of the rest of us. Oh me, oh my, it is a strange world!" And down went Polly's chin into the palm of her hand in a characteristic manner. For a moment Margaret Adams did not reply. For perhaps a good deal better than Polly she appreciated the disaster that might result from the present circumstances. Betty was only nineteen and of course Polly was right in presuming that she could hardly know her own mind. And yet the romance and beauty of her surroundings, the good looks of the young lieutenant with the glamour of his title and position, were sufficiently strong influences to affect a much older person. Yet notwithstanding Betty's beauty and charm, Miss Adams did not have the same uneasiness that Esther and Polly suffered. For she did not believe that Lieutenant von Reuter could marry a girl without a dower, no matter what his personal inclination might be. And Betty had no money and so far as any one knew no chance of receiving any amount except what her brother and sister might some day be able to earn. The danger that the older woman dreaded was that Betty herself might possibly misunderstand the young foreigner's attentions and that she might learn to care for him more than would be wise for her happiness. Frowning, Miss Adams waited for a moment without speaking. And yet she looked so entirely interested and sympathetic that Polly dropped to the ground at her feet, taking one of her slim hands in hers and pressing it softly to her lips. For it was wonderfully kind of this famous lady to have forgotten herself so completely that she felt as deep a concern over Betty Ashton as though she had known her all her life. "It was Betty herself who told me that young Count von Reuter had been brought up with the idea that he must marry a wealthy girl. Don't you suppose that she understands that anything else is impossible for him?" she asked. "The family is deeply in debt and even if the young man had the faintest knowledge of any kind of work it would be regarded as a disgrace for him to engage in it. Besides, he has chosen his career of a soldier, which also requires a fortune back of him. Don't you think we might be able to make Betty see this, even supposing that she does not already appreciate it?" Margaret Adams finally inquired. "I don't know," Polly answered. "For you see, Margaret, it is like this. All her life Betty Ashton has never known anything but love and admiration. Why, when we were little children and began having beaux that nobody knew about except just ourselves, we always expected the admirers to be Betty's and were surprised when they were not. Oh, I don't mean that she expected it. The Princess used to be spoiled in lots of ways before our Camp Fire club and the change in their family fortunes, but she never has been silly or vain. Then when we grew up together it was pretty much the same thing. I remember how cross I once was in Woodford because a young fellow there, who was not Betty's equal then in any kind of way, in money or family or education, had the presumption to feel a kind of fancy for her. But now I wish that he or John Everett or any one of our old friends would turn up here and show her how much nicer an American fellow is. Any old kind of an American!" Polly ended almost viciously. Miss Adams laughed, touching the girl's dark braids of hair and looking closely into her emotional, sensitive face. "Don't let us worry before it is necessary," she suggested. "But tell me, Polly, and I am not asking you for curiosity, with all these admirers whom you insist your beloved Betty has had, hasn't there ever been any one who has cared for you and whom you may some day care for?" For the moment the unexpectedness of this question took Polly's breath. And then to her deep chagrin she felt herself blushing, even while vigorously shaking her head in denial. And yet at the same time in her intense desire to be perfectly straightforward with her new friend she was wondering if her denial had been entirely truthful. Or was it her duty to confess Billy Webster's stupidity? "There was some one once," she murmured after her little period of hesitation had passed. "But really, Margaret, he did not care for me a bit; he only wanted to manage me. And I--I didn't care for him in the least. I never shall care for anybody," Polly insisted with the absolute conviction of youth. Then completely forgetting everybody and everything else, Polly O'Neill put both arms about her slender knees and there on the grass at the feet of the great Miss Adams began slowly swaying herself backwards and forwards as she always had ever since she was a little girl when in the thrall of some dominant idea. She did not look at Miss Adams; she did not even look at the hills or trees, nor feel the summer darkness that was beginning to close about them like a soft cloak. For Polly was having one of her moments when the things inside her mind were so much more visible and important to her than any outside scene. Never since leaving New York had she mentioned to Miss Adams her own desire to go upon the stage. It had not seemed fair to take advantage of her friend's kindness by annoying her with her own ambition. For it might look as though she expected or hoped for aid and advice from Miss Adams' friendship. But tonight Polly had forgotten her past resolutions and reserves. "I shall not care for anyone, Margaret, because you know in another year I intend either going upon the stage in some little part, or if mother will give me the money, I shall go to a dramatic school. For I am going to make the stage my career whether I succeed or fail." There was a catch in the girl's breath and although it was too dark to see her face, the older woman could imagine the glow in her cheeks and the light in her curious blue eyes. She looked like an elf or a sprite, something born of the woods or the sky and hardly an ordinary flesh-and-blood girl, as she sat in her curious position, dreamily rocking herself back and forth in the evening dusk and silence. "I suppose there are some women great enough to have a career and to marry besides," she added so solemnly that Miss Adams did not dare smile, "but I don't believe I am one of them. And I want a career. Yet it is odd, isn't it? I don't think I have any special talent and Esther Crippen is so talented we think she is almost a genius. I wish you could hear her sing, but she is too afraid of you yet. Nevertheless Esther does not want to be famous one bit and Betty and I don't even dare mention the word 'career' before her. I am sure she would much rather marry some day and have babies and sing to her husband and to them, or perhaps in a church where no one would think much about her. For she does love her music for itself." "But why then does she go on working so intensely, if she does not intend making a profession of her singing? The poor child is actually wearing herself out," Miss Adams avowed. "Why, don't you know?" Polly faced her companion and though it was now almost entirely dark, they could yet catch the outlines of each other's faces. "Esther Crippen does not care for money for herself, but she cares for it beyond anything for Betty. You see, she and Betty were separated during all their childhood and now that they have found each other again Esther fairly worships her sister. She is going to earn all the money she can with her voice so as to be able to lavish on Betty the things that she used to have when the Ashtons were rich. Of course Betty does not know that this is the chief reason that is urging Esther to sacrifice everything in the world for her work. For naturally Betty thinks that Esther has so wonderful a talent that she ought to wish to cultivate it for its own sake. And so does their father, Herr Crippen. I believe he has the feeling that he has failed with his own music, but that if Esther succeeds in some way it will redeem his failure. In a way it does seem rather hard upon Esther if she should ever happen to fall in love." But before Miss Adams could answer her maid had announced an unexpected visitor. CHAPTER XIII Richard Ashton Esther Crippen ran out of the front door of their little house with her coat still on her arm, so great was her hurry. "Dr. Ashton," she called several times. And at last the young man striding on ahead turned and glanced back in surprise. Esther was carrying her usual music roll, a book and a box of lunch which she always bore into town on her lesson days. Richard Ashton took these from her. "I beg your pardon, Esther. I did not know that you were going in on the early train or of course I should have waited. What is taking you in so soon? Have you a special appointment?" And Esther could only blush and stammer nervously. For intimately as she had known Dick Ashton, living in the same house with him for several years in a curious position as though she were a member of his family yet without any real bond of relationship between them, she could not now quietly tell him that she was taking this train into town because she wished to accompany him. At one time in their acquaintance this would have been a simple and natural enough confession, but recently Dick Ashton had been so unlike his former self. Or at least if he had not changed personally, his manner toward her was different. And in these weeks in the country when Esther had been pondering over the change it had seemed to her that she could almost remember the day and hour when the transformation began. Now as Esther made no reply to his question Richard Ashton looked at her more steadily. He was a physician and the girl's pallor and weariness were more conspicuous to him than to other people, although he was not alone in noticing it. "There isn't any point in your going into the city at daybreak for these singing lessons of yours," the young man protested in a friendly tone. "I should think that your wretched old Professor would have brains enough to know that you won't do him or yourself half as much credit if he wears you out completely before the date of his concert. When does it take place?" "In October," Esther returned, apparently with little interest. However, Dick was walking her toward the station with such rapidity that she had little breath for any other exertion. And yet they had plenty of time, there was no reason for such hurry. The young man himself did not seem to be aware of their haste. "Look here, Esther," he began a little later, "I am glad of this chance for our having a talk together. There is something that I have had on my mind to say for some time without having had the courage or the opportunity." Just for the moment Esther's pallor left her, a slight flush coming into her cheeks and her lips parting. "You see, I think it will be better for you to break the news to mother and Betty than for me to speak of it first," he continued. "But I--I have got to go back to the United States this autumn for good. I have spent all the time studying over here that I have the right to spend and if ever I am to make a success of my profession I have to get down to hard work building up a practice. I suppose they will both take it kind of hard, my deserting them in this way, but they must have anticipated it." In reply Esther's voice was less interested and sympathetic than Dick Ashton was accustomed to hearing it. "Why, I don't believe they will mind half so much as you think; at any rate your mother will not," she returned. "I have heard Mrs. Ashton say half a dozen times lately that she wished we were all to go home when Polly and Miss Adams sail in November. And as far as Betty is concerned I shall be glad to have you take her back with you." "Take Betty home with me!" Dick Ashton's exclamation was in itself a denial of any such intention. "Why, Esther, I hadn't the faintest thought of either mother or the Princess coming along with me. You don't mean that Professor Hecksher has suggested that _you_ take a rest and that you are going to see your father?" With a frown and a sudden nervous movement of her hands Esther shook her head. But they were now within sight of their little station, where several other passengers were waiting and no other word of intimate conversation was possible between them until they were on the train. And Esther made no protest when Dick, in spite of their poverty, discarding his regular ticket, bought seats for them both in an empty first-class coach. There they could be alone and without interruption. And there was no denying that their conversation, which had just been broken off so abruptly, must be continued as soon as possible. They were both too full of things too long left unsaid. "Of course you know, Dr. Ashton, that there is not the remotest chance of my going back home for a long time," Esther went on when once again they were settled, just as though no interruption to their talk had ever taken place. "For you see after I make my _début_ at this concert I have to go on studying. I have even to make a reputation here in Europe if I can before I return to the United States. Professor Hecksher says that it is absolutely necessary, and he is willing to help me get engagements to earn some money, so I shall not continue to be so dreadful an expense." "Sounds rather glorious, doesn't it, Esther, fame and fortune all ready and waiting to drop at your feet? What a wonderful thing it is to be born into this world with a great talent and how it must make you look down on us poor mortals who have to grind and grind for just a bare existence. I'll be proud some day to say that I have had the honor of knowing you. You won't forget we were acquaintances, will you, Esther?" the young man concluded, it was hard to tell whether in bitterness or joking. And his companion turned her face away, pretending to glance out of the car window at the uninteresting stretch of country and the rapidly disappearing telegraph poles. "I shall never forget that I was a girl being raised in an orphan asylum and that your mother took me to her home and did what she could to give me my first start in learning to sing, if that is what you mean, Dr. Ashton," Esther continued. "Neither can I forget what you have always done for Betty, though I feel of course that Betty will more than repay all the people who love her. But if you mean that you only wish us to be acquaintances in the future, why--" But in spite of her strong effort at self-control Esther's lips were trembling and the tears gathering in her eyes. Nevertheless she made no effort at withdrawal when Dick Ashton for an instant placed his hands over her own tightly clasped ones. "You are not playing fair, Esther," he urged, "for you know in your heart that I meant no such thing." Then both the girl and the man were silent with the vision of their possible futures before them. If only Dick Ashton could have asked Esther to give up the career ahead of her, to renounce her music, to come back home with him to the United States to be his wife. But what had he to offer in exchange for these great sacrifices? He was a penniless young doctor without more than a hundred dollars in the world once he had paid his passage home and set up some kind of office. Moreover, suppose he should win patients and success sooner than other men? Did he not owe his first earnings to his mother and to his sister, Betty, whose courage and resourcefulness had helped him prepare for his career? Besides, what did Esther not also feel that she owed to this same sister? Plainly she had let him know her views on that afternoon some time ago when he had tried dissuading her from making her _début_ if the thought of a professional life made her unhappy. Esther had then said that she felt that she must work until she was able to take care of herself and Betty and even to assist her father and new stepmother. For Herr Crippen was growing older and had nothing except what he earned by his music pupils. No, Esther's way was straight before her and one owed it to a great talent like hers to make the best of it. She had never manifested for Richard Ashton more than a warm friendliness which was natural enough to their position. Neither had he ever given Esther any reason to believe that the old kindness and sympathy which he had once felt for her had deepened into emotions much stronger. Yet, to him Esther's plain face, with its pallor and serious sweetness, with its big mouth and splendidly modeled lips was more beautiful than all his sister Betty's vivid prettiness. "Betty!" The thought of her brought him back to the every-day world again. He laughed good-humoredly. "Esther, Betty has everlastingly been saying that you had a perfectly determined passion for sacrificing yourself. Please get it out of your head at once that I have the faintest idea of taking Mistress Betty home with me. For if ever you needed her in all your life it seems to me you will need her in the next few years. And as long as half your effort is being made for her sake don't you think that she might at least be allowed to stand shoulder to shoulder with you? The Princess is rather a nice person, you know, Esther, in spite of us, and I don't believe that all the pleading in the world that I could do would persuade her to desert you." "But it must," Esther replied so solemnly that Richard Ashton stared at her in fresh astonishment. For now that they were talking of Betty and not of herself she was looking directly at him. "You see, it is for just this reason that I wanted to talk to you alone," Esther went on hurriedly. "Of course I may be mistaken or perhaps I have not exactly the right to interfere, but I am awfully afraid, Dick, that Betty is learning to care for that young German fellow, Carl von Reuter. Oh, I can understand that you may consider it absurd of me to be so suspicious, because Betty has been having dozens of admirers ever since we came to Germany. But I am sure this affair is quite different. In the first place the man himself is so much more attractive. He is heir to an old title and----" "But Betty could not be such an utter goose as to care about a title," Dick interrupted; "and this fellow is as poor as a church mouse and she has only known him a few weeks. Don't you think it is rather looking for trouble? Why, I shouldn't dream of allowing Betty to consider the fellow seriously. I'll tell him not to come to the house again, as I did that other youth, if you say the word. Anyhow, I'll give Betty a piece of my mind tonight." "You won't do any such a thing, Richard Ashton," Esther remarked firmly, actually shaking the young man's arm to express her scorn of his stupidity, "for if you do you will involve us all in a great deal of discomfort if nothing worse. In the first place I don't think Betty yet dreams that she is beginning to care seriously for this young German and perhaps she won't if no one says anything to her. But from what Polly and I have seen she does like him a great deal already and she tries to see him by himself without Polly or me. And you know that isn't in the least like the Princess. But she is awfully interested in her Camp Fire club in the village and perhaps if you take her home pretty soon nothing serious will happen. Lieutenant von Reuter is awfully poor, I know, and everybody says he simply has to marry a rich girl. But I don't know which I should hate the most: to have Betty care for him and he not return her affection or to have them both care and----" "For goodness' sake, don't say another word, Esther, or I shall take the next train back home and sit and watch every breath Betty draws for the rest of the day," Dick answered miserably. "Please remember that I have a particularly hard lecture on anatomy in another hour. But I shall meet you on the train going out this afternoon and perhaps we can think up some plan of campaign together." CHAPTER XIV Betty's Strange Disappearance When Dick and Esther returned home just before dusk on that same afternoon, Betty was not there. They found Mrs. Ashton in tears from nervousness and fright, Polly O'Neill divided between anger and solicitude, and only Miss Adams sufficiently composed to have been making the necessary investigations. So far as the newcomers could learn Betty had left the cottage at about eleven o'clock in the morning to go to the village of Waldheim for the work with the Camp Fire club which she had recently organized. But instead of waiting for Polly to accompany her after their regular custom she had seemed restless and in a most unusual hurry, and when Polly happened to be ten or fifteen minutes late for their appointment, Betty had gone off without her, taking their little German maid-of-all-work as her companion for the walk. Afterwards the maid had reported that _das Fräulein_ had arrived safely at the school and had joined her German friend, who was learning the business of a Camp Fire guardian. Later the girl had returned home expecting Betty to appear at lunch time; but it was now half-past five and no word had come from her, notwithstanding that several hours before Mrs. Ashton herself had gone into Waldheim and learned that Betty had presumably started for the cottage a short time after noon. She had no other acquaintances in the village to detain her, so that the mystery of her disappearance was complete. There were, however, several persons who claimed to have seen her leaving for home at about the accustomed hour. Naturally for the first few moments after their arrival both Dick and Esther were more astounded and stunned over the Princess' unaccountable behavior than frightened. For it seemed impossible to imagine that anything serious could have happened to her. Yet ten minutes later both the girl and man were suffering from even greater apprehension than Mrs. Ashton had endured. For whatever had induced Betty to attempt the walk from the village to their cottage alone? Of course the neighborhood in which they were spending the summer was presumably a quiet and peaceful one; still the two older women and Richard Ashton had objected to any one of the girls going any distance from their homes without companionship. And Betty was ordinarily obedient to her mother's slightest wish, fearing to cause her anxiety. Rather helplessly Richard Ashton turned toward Margaret Adams, as a stranger is oftentimes of more use in an emergency of this kind than a member of one's own family. "I had better go down to the village at once, don't you think?" he suggested. "There must be police, some one to whom I can appeal for assistance. If we were only in our own country one would know so readily what to do." "I will go with you, Dick," Polly answered, beginning to put on her hat and light wrap. "No, Esther dear, you look tired to death already and some one must stay here with Mrs. Ashton and Margaret. In all probability Betty will return before we are able to get back." Esther had gone to their front door to look out, but at Polly's words she returned and faced Mrs. Ashton. "Don't you think we had best find Lieutenant von Reuter and ask his assistance?" she volunteered. "We know no one in this part of the country who would have so much influence. If Betty has lost her way, if the woods have to be searched, why no one could give us such valuable aid." Mrs. Ashton's expression changed; she looked much relieved. "Esther dear, you are such a comfort. Why in the world did I not think of that idea at once? Lieutenant von Reuter is such a friend of Betty's and of mine that I am sure he will tell us what to do, even if he is unable to discover Betty himself." She put her hand on her son's shoulder, for Dick Ashton was growing more and more stern and uneasy. "Don't you think you had best drive up to the castle and see him yourself? Or if you could telephone that would be quicker." "I dislike very much asking a stranger to have any part in a family affair of this kind, mother," Dick answered severely. "I have met Lieutenant von Reuter only two or three times and it surprises me to find that you appear to regard an acquaintance of a few weeks as a friend. I shall prefer to make my own investigations first without asking his advice." So accustomed was Mrs. Ashton to yielding to her son's wishes that for the moment, although she was plainly unconvinced of his wisdom, she seemed about to give up. However, Esther Crippen laid her hand quietly on Richard Ashton's arm. "Please, please," she whispered so faintly that no one else could catch her exact words, "don't let anything that I have been saying to you today influence you or keep you from following the wisest course. Mrs. Ashton and I are right. And besides," Esther's voice trembled in spite of her effort at self-control, "we must find Betty no matter what method we use. I am afraid she has been taken ill and is among strangers unable to let us hear. I--I can't imagine what else could have occurred." Dick's face softened. Why did Esther's advice always seem to him so much more admirable and intelligent than other persons'? Possibly because she so seldom thought first of herself! "Dr. Ashton, do hurry," Polly O'Neill now urged impatiently. "I want to study every foot of the way from here into Waldheim before it grows too dark for me to see. If our Camp Fire training only will come to our aid! For if Betty has lost her way, surely she ought to be able to give us one of our old signals which we may recognize." She was hurrying out of the door when Margaret Adams, who was sitting next Mrs. Ashton, trying to soothe the older woman's nervousness, said in a voice whose thrilling and sympathetic quality never failed to hold any audience that heard it. "Please wait for a moment, Dr. Ashton and Polly. There is something I want you to hear--a confession I must make. Earlier this afternoon when we first began to feel afraid that Betty was not coming home it occurred to me that perhaps Lieutenant von Reuter might know something about her. You must not think I intended being officious, but was there not a possibility that she might have gone for a walk or drive with him? You see, American girls so often fail to understand that they cannot do away from home the things they do in the United States without any thought of harm. And so I wondered if the walk or drive together might not have become a longer one than they realized or if an accident might not have taken place so as to delay them unaccountably. Therefore at about four o'clock this afternoon I telephoned to the castle and asked to speak to Lieutenant von Reuter. The man servant told me that he was not at home, that he had left the castle at an early hour in the morning without saying where he was going or when he would return. However, I left word begging him to let us hear as soon as he came in. I made the message so emphatic that I hardly think it could have failed to be delivered. Notwithstanding we have heard nothing thus far. But if Dr. Ashton feels that it would be best to inquire again, I want him to know what I have done and----" Never in their acquaintance had Polly O'Neill before shown impatience with her new friend. Now, however, her loyalty to Betty Ashton seemed the most important issue in the world. Particularly when on the faces of Mrs. Ashton, of Dick and even Esther, she could observe that Miss Adams' suggestion had left its influence. Well, she and Betty had been like sisters always, members of the same Camp Fire club. She knew that Betty could do no such thing as Margaret Adams suggested, even in a spirit of thoughtlessness. It would seem too much like an effort to mislead her mother and deliberately to desert her. Just as emphatically as of old Polly shook her head, although she did manage to speak with more than her usual restraint. "You are mistaken, Margaret, in supposing that Betty's disappearance has anything to do with Carl von Reuter. Oh, yes, I--I know it is partly my fault because I told you the other afternoon that Esther and I were both uneasy because she seemed to like him so much. But that did not mean that she would ever do anything wilful or foolish because of him. You see, dear, you are confusing the Princess and me. Betty thinks before she does things; I don't as often as I should, though I hope I have improved." Deserting her position next Richard Ashton, Polly slipped across the room, dropping on one knee before her friend. "You must not think we do not appreciate your kindness in trying to help us, but if you had known the Princess as long as I have you would not misunderstand her." "Bravo, Polly," whispered Margaret Adams kindly. Then she turned gracefully toward Mrs. Ashton. "I hope you do not feel as offended with me as Polly does. Truly I did not mean that my suggestion should reflect seriously upon Betty. It has not taken me so long a time to understand her as one might think. But it did not seem to me that taking a walk or a drive with a friend would be thought so serious an offense. Also there is the possibility that she may have met Lieutenant von Reuter on her way home and that without reflecting on your possible uneasiness----" But Miss Adams could not continue her apology, for at this moment there was an unexpected noise of some one approaching the front door. And as the sitting room was so close to the small hall everybody started up with broken words of relief. Betty was doubtless arriving and within a few seconds would be able to explain the mystery of her delay. Almost at the same moment Dick Ashton and Esther managed to reach the little front door together, although it was Dick's hand that opened it. The changed expression in his usually serious eyes showed the burden of anxiety that had been so suddenly lifted from him. However, he made no outward sign--it was Esther who gave the muffled cry of disappointment--when outside they discovered the figures of two young men, Lieutenant von Reuter and his cousin Frederick. "I have been in Berlin for the day," Carl von Reuter explained formally, "and when I returned, bringing my cousin with me, I found the message that some one here wished to speak to me. It seemed best that I come in person. I do not understand, but if I can be of service----" Brushing past Richard Ashton, Esther held out her hand. "You are very kind, Lieutenant von Reuter. Won't you both please come in? For you see my sister Betty has been lost for five or six hours and as we are dreadfully worried, we hoped you would be kind enough to try to help us find her." CHAPTER XV The Finding of Brunhilde From twilight until almost midnight Dick Ashton, the other two young men, Polly and Esther and a number of people from the village of Waldheim searched the surrounding country for Betty Ashton. It seemed utterly incredible that she could not be found! She was not a child; she was almost a woman and could not have been lured away by strangers. But why if she were lost did she not make some sign? There were several signals learned in her Camp Fire days, which Polly and Esther would assuredly have understood. Earlier in the evening by the aid of a lantern Polly O'Neill had insisted that she had discovered tracks that were surely Betty's, turning from the main road which would have brought her to the cottage, into a small stretch of woods. But at night it was quite impossible to follow these tracks over the brush and bracken, and after the woods had been thoroughly searched and no other suggestion of a wanderer discovered, Polly's idea did not carry much weight. Moreover, the two girls were too utterly exhausted and frightened to continue the investigation, though neither of them would consent to return home. By chance the two girls, Richard Ashton and Carl von Reuter had separated from the others and were resting for a moment by the side of a low stone fence enclosing a forest. Dick was leaning over Esther urging her to let him take her into the village, where a carriage was in waiting to drive any one of them who might have news, back to Mrs. Ashton and Miss Adams, who were still together at the cottage. Carl von Reuter happened to be standing close to Polly, but he was not speaking to her nor observing her. All through the evening he had seemed as anxious and interested about Betty as her brother and even more nonplussed at their inability to find any trace of her; because, of course, he knew so thoroughly well every inch of ground in the surrounding country and had also called in his servants from the castle to assist in the search. Suddenly Polly clutched at the young lieutenant's arm. She had risen unexpectedly to her feet and was pointing ahead apparently at nothing so far as her companions could see. The night had been dark and cloudy, the atmosphere sultry with suggestions of a September storm. Therefore the task of finding Betty, should she be out of doors, had been the more difficult and the more imperative. "Look, Esther," Polly called sharply, "there over in the woods toward the west. Do you see anything?" Esther had gotten up on her feet more slowly and was leaning on Dick Ashton's arm. She had become weary of false clues and false hopes. And Polly with her sanguine temperament had been more often deceived than any one else. "That is only a mist you see rising between the trees, Miss O'Neill," Carl von Reuter answered before the others spoke. "It very often occurs in these damp old forests on sultry nights." Polly made no reply for the moment, only walking over to where Esther was standing she whispered something to her that no one else could hear. And Esther took tight hold of Polly's hand and without regarding their escorts they both stared unceasingly in the direction that Polly had first indicated. Were the light clouds they saw at so great a distance away, rising and floating lightly in the night air like pale ghosts, really nothing but mist? Then it was curious that the mist should rise always in double clouds, the one within a few feet of the other. A second time the two girls together watched this phenomenon and then after an interval of ten minutes, during which neither one of them would change her position, for the third time they saw the two light clouds unfurl and this time, though they may not have been perfectly certain of this detail, there appeared tiny sparks and cinders amid the clouds. Polly turned deliberately toward Carl von Renter. "Lieutenant von Reuter," she said, "Betty is somewhere within your woods. I am perfectly sure of it and so is Esther by this time. You may not understand, but we have lived together in the woods for over a year and have studied woodcraft until we know almost as much about it as Indian women. The two columns of smoke which we have discovered rising at regular intervals are a woodsman's signal for help. We must go to Betty at once. It is dark and we are not familiar with your forests, so that it would take us a longer time to reach her alone. Will you be good enough to lead the way?" There was no disputing the girl's quiet conviction, and as Esther was now equally convinced, neither young man advanced any denial. Only Carl von Reuter plunged ahead so rapidly that following him was almost out of the question. By some magic he seemed to know the open spaces between the trees and where the underbrush could be safely trodden down. Neither did he make any effort to assist either of the two girls, leaving that task entirely to Richard Ashton. And though under ordinary circumstances neither girl would have needed help, tonight Esther was strangely tired. All day, since the early hour of leaving their little German cottage, she had been under unusual strain. So that now, though she was ashamed of it, remembering her long training in outdoor life, now and then she did manage to stumble and to have to clutch either at Polly or at Dr. Ashton for support. In one of these moments of delay, Carl von Renter did hesitate for an instant, calling back over his shoulder: "We will reach the path in a short time. It is the same path which you took through the woods to my hunting lodge several weeks ago." But when they finally reached this path their leader had disappeared into the distance ahead of them, leaving the three strangers to stumble on through the darkness alone. And if ever in her life Polly O'Neill was to recognize the need which any woman may some day require of a knowledge of the woods and fields, she needed it tonight. For here the three of them were in an unknown forest in a strange land with no light except that made by the dark lantern which some one in the village had loaned Dick. Esther was too tired to be of much assistance, and Richard Ashton did not understand half so much of outdoor life as the two Camp Fire girls. Always he had been too devoted a student of books for the right kind of acquaintance with nature. Moreover, Dick was extremely angry at Lieutenant von Reuter's desertion of them. Of course Betty must be found as promptly as possible, if it were true that she was signaling for their aid from some place in the woods. But if Dick had realized it, in his prejudice against their new acquaintance, he would honestly have preferred that Betty should have to wait for her deliverance a few moments longer than that this young foreigner should manage to be her deliverer. And this in spite of the fact than an occasional drop of rain was beginning to fall and that now and then a line of lightning streaked the sky. Under other circumstances nothing would have persuaded Carl von Reuter to have so failed in courtesy as his present action showed. For whatever the difference in points of view between an American and a foreigner, there is little difference in the code of good breeding between one civilized nation and another. And Lieutenant von Reuter was a member of the old German nobility. Indeed, one of the objections to him which both Esther and Polly had expressed was that he was almost too formal, too conventional in his manner and behavior for their simpler American taste. So of course there was some unusual impulse, some strong emotion and design now urging him ahead almost to the complete forgetting of his other companions. But not since the hour of their original meeting had the young German failed to acknowledge to himself that Betty Ashton had a charm for him which no other girl had ever before possessed. He had known no other American girls until now, and his acquaintance with German girls of his own position in life had been at solemn parties, where they were usually too frightened and self-conscious to have much to say for themselves. Of course he had always been told that American girls were unlike any others and yet had failed to imagine that they could have the beauty and fascination that Betty Ashton had for him. Why, he had not even tried to find out anything about her family, about her position in the world! For it is a curious fact that foreigners who care so much for class distinctions in their own countries have no such attitude toward Americans. Because we have no titles, because a family that is poor and obscure in one generation may be rich and distinguished in the next, they consider that all Americans are of equal position except in the matter of wealth. And this fact Carl von Reuter had learned in connection with Betty Ashton. She was poor, there was no possibility of doubting it. One could see it plainly enough in the simple fashion in which they were living and through their ordinary conversation. Moreover, Betty had made no effort to hide the fact. Indeed, it had seemed at times as if she were anxious to speak of it for some secret reason of her own. Yet she need not have felt this necessary, since there could be no uncertainty in the young count's mind. Frederick von Reuter, who seemed to have almost forgotten his own emotion in his deep interest in his cousin's, having made careful inquiries through his bank, had sadly reported that Miss Ashton could not possibly be regarded as an American heiress. This information, tragic as it may have sounded at the time, had no place in Carl's thoughts tonight. He was only possessed of the one thought that the girl whom he admired and liked so much was alone in the woods, probably hurt and needing his aid. And that at any moment she might be caught in a fierce thunderstorm. As the young fellow strode swiftly along--he had hunted too frequently in his own forests not to be entirely familiar with them--he began to realize that the signal which his two girl companions had recognized first was coming from the same neighborhood where he had had a previous meeting with them. For as he drew nearer, once again the signals flashed, though dimmer now because of the increasing strength of the storm. Curiously enough, as he strode along he was recalling the story of Siegfried and Brunhilde which he had repeated to the three girls at Polly's request. And the words of Siegfried's song came back to his mind. This was not just an idle coincidence. The Germans are a far more sentimental and music-loving race of people than we can fully understand. And from the hour when Carl von Reuter had first seen Betty, the beauty of her gold-red hair had suddenly made him think of his small boy dream of this best-loved heroine in all the old German legends. There was hardly a time in his childhood when he had not been devoted to this story, which is usually unfamiliar to American boys and girls until such time as they are grown and begin seeing Wagner's wonderful operas, written about these tales of the Nibelung. And in truth the young man found Betty Ashton as much encircled by fire as ever the famous Brunhilde could have been and with the thunder and lightning playing over her head like the final scene in "Siegfried." The girl lay on the ground between two smouldering fires from which only feeble columns of smoke were now arising, although there were flames enough still left among the embers to reveal the outline of her form. Nevertheless, though Carl von Reuter called her name aloud long before he could reach her side, Betty made no response. A short time after the reason was sufficiently plain, for she had fainted. For half a moment the young lieutenant stood silent, staring down upon her, too full of feeling to trust himself to speak. She looked so utterly worn out and exhausted. Her thin summer dress of some light color and material was torn and soiled and her hair had come unfastened and was hanging loose about her shoulders, making a kind of vivid pillow against the darker background of the earth. For when another sudden flash of lightning followed the girl's hair was the color of the flame. "Miss Ashton," Carl von Reuter called. It was evident enough even in these first few minutes what had taken place. For one of Betty's shoes was off and her ankle had been put into splints and bandaged with the sleeve torn from her gown. She must have dragged herself about collecting wood and underbrush for her camp fires and there was at present no way of guessing how many she may have had to build before her signals were discovered. "Miss Ashton--Betty!" Lieutenant von Reuter called again. But the girl made no answer and the heavens suddenly seemed to part wide open, letting forth a heavy downpour of rain. In the same instant the young man gathered up the girl in his arms and ran toward the shelter of his hunting lodge. He had always the key with him, so that the door was quickly opened. Placing her on a couch, he then lighted candles; but the next moment, now that Betty was safe, he had a sudden appreciation of the struggle and anxiety of his three companions, whom he had so unceremoniously deserted. With a silver hunting whistle to his lips he blew loudly and then waited for an answer. None succeeded and he tried again and again. The third time an answering "hello" came from the lips of Richard Ashton. When the young count finally turned and re-entered the room he discovered that Betty's eyes were now open and that she was looking gratefully and with entire consciousness at him. But without attempting to do anything more than smile at her reassuringly the young lieutenant knelt and started a fire in his big open fireplace. And before it had done more than flicker into a light blaze, Polly, Esther and Dick were also crowding into the room, the girls kneeling beside Betty, while Carl von Reuter apologized to Dr. Ashton for his desertion. It was now past midnight and out of the question for any one of the three girls to attempt the journey home. So after seeing that his four guests were made as comfortable as possible in his lodge for the night, it was the young German officer who tramped the long distance back through the rain to assure Mrs. Ashton and Miss Adams of Betty's discovery. CHAPTER XVI A Heart-to-Heart Talk Several days later Betty Ashton was driven over to spend the day with Polly and Miss Adams. Her accident had not been a serious one, since by putting her ankle into splints at once she had saved it from dangerous swelling. Nevertheless she was unable to walk about except on crutches and so the tedium of staying at home was trying. Particularly as this was one of Esther's days in Berlin devoted to her music lesson, Betty wished to be with her friends. The three women had spent the morning out of doors, but after lunch, as it grew unexpectedly cool, Polly suggested that a small fire be laid in their queer German stove, which was built of porcelain and stood like an odd-shaped monument in a corner of the sitting room. Betty was resting on the sofa, Miss Adams writing letters at her desk and Polly sitting on a low stool as close as possible to the few embers visible near the base of the stove. She had never forgotten her old devotion to a camp fire and this was as good a substitute as one could obtain in their little German household. Strangely enough no one of the little company had spoken a single word for the past ten minutes, so that it might have appeared as though all possible confidences had been exchanged during the morning. Margaret Adams finally got up and coming across the room, seated herself on the edge of Betty's sofa. She was wearing a soft, dark-blue silk made with no other trimming than a girdle and a little round collar of lace, and she seemed very few years older than her two companions. The Princess looked at the great lady admiringly. It had been difficult to think of Miss Adams today except as one of themselves. She had been so gay and friendly, laughing over their jokes and apparently never once thinking or talking of herself. How wonderful to be able to accept fame and wealth in so simple a spirit, and what an object lesson for erratic Polly! Yet some benefit must Miss Adams have received from her friend, for surely she was looking years younger since her arrival in the German forests and so rested that she might soon be able to go back to her work with renewed talent. Think of being rested by being in Polly O'Neill's society! How surprised Polly's mother and Mollie would be by this information! And unconsciously Betty began smiling into the lovely face now bending over hers. Could it be possible that Miss Adams was actually blushing, that she was returning her gaze with a kind of gentle timidity that somehow recalled either Mollie or Meg? Then suddenly Margaret Adams said, "Betty, I have been wishing to apologize to you ever since the day of your accident. I know that no one else will tell you, but on the evening when we were so worried over deciding what might have become of you, I suggested that you might have gone for a walk or drive alone with Lieutenant von Reuter without thinking to let your mother know, and that some accident had occurred to delay you. At the time Polly scolded me dreadfully for my lack of faith in you, yet I don't feel that it would be quite fair to you unless I make this confession." What on earth would Betty Ashton not have given at this moment to have prevented her cheeks from suddenly crimsoning in such a ridiculous fashion? Would she never hear the end of her escapade? Excepting her mother, her own family had been curiously severe and unsympathetic over what had seemed to her only an act of foolishness on her part, scarcely a crime. And here was Polly O'Neill also frowning upon her at this present instant as if she had been a saint herself during all her past life. "It is all right, Miss Adams, of course," Betty murmured. "I am not in the least offended by your conjecture. It was natural enough under the circumstances, I think." And here Betty raised herself on one elbow, forgetting everything else in her earnestness. "Won't you tell me, please, Miss Adams, if it would have been so dreadful a thing if I had done what you supposed? Of course I should have let mother know, but otherwise I should not have thought anything of it. Why, it seems to me that it would have been much better had I had a companion on my walk. Because when I was such a goose as to catch my foot in a tangle of vines and tumble headlong, had Lieutenant von Reuter been with me he could have helped me home or at least let mother hear so that I need not have given so much trouble and uneasiness." Miss Adams kissed the girl impetuously, failing to see that Polly was frowning at them both. "Yes, dear, since you honestly wish to know, it would not have been wise," the older woman answered, "though I understood at the time that you might have done the thing without thinking. You know there is an old expression--and of course these old expressions bore us so that we are apt to forget how vital they are--that when we live in Rome we must do as the Romans so. I wish American girls would remember this adage a little better when they are traveling in Europe. You see, these old countries over here have had their customs much longer than we have had ours, and a walk with a friend would have meant nothing of any importance to you, but to them----" "Margaret," Polly O'Neil broke into the conversation abruptly, "I don't mean to be rude in interrupting you. But there is one thing that Betty Ashton has never yet explained to my satisfaction or anybody else's, and I don't see why she should not do it now. Will you please tell me, Betty, whatever induced you to start off on such a journey by yourself? You must have known that the walk would take you several hours at least, even if nothing unforeseen had happened. Surely you had sense enough to know that your wandering around in a strange woods alone without anyone's knowing where you were would not be safe at any time or place. What made you do it?" Betty bit her lips. It was true that she and Polly had never failed in the past in being absolutely honest with each other, nor had she ever hesitated to ask of Polly anything that she herself desired to know. Yet it was hardly fair that she should be asked this particular question before a comparative stranger. It had been difficult enough to make Dick and Esther accept her explanation as a reasonable one after several days of discussion. So what should she now answer Polly? For her friend's eyes were upon her with that queer searching gaze they sometimes wore, and her high cheek bones were flushed with determination--and something else. "Answer me," Polly repeated firmly. "Why, I thought I told you the other morning," Betty returned meekly. "I had no very special reason for taking the walk. I was just nervous and restless and kind of worried and all of a sudden as I started for home, why it seemed to me that I could not bear to go indoors so soon. And then I thought of the beautiful woods where we were together a while ago and I believed that if I could rest there for a little I should be----" "Be what, Betty Ashton?" Polly demanded almost savagely. And then she shook her head sagely and with her arms about her knees relapsed into her old habit of rocking herself thoughtfully back and forth. "You need not try to explain anything further to me or to any one else for that matter. Your explanations are too absurd. Because if you don't know yourself what is the trouble with you, Esther and I both do. You are falling in love. You have not been like yourself for weeks! Why do you suppose that just now when I asked you a simple question that you should hesitate and flush? You went to that same old place in the forest alone just because you wanted to think about----" But the Princess was now getting up from her place on the sofa and the other girl understood perfectly well her pretty air of offended dignity. "Miss Adams," Betty began quietly, "it is growing late and if you don't mind will you ask your maid to send for my carriage. I have had a lovely day with you. Thank you for having asked me." And as she started limping into the other room for her wraps it was the older woman who slipped her arm affectionately about her, in the meantime frowning at Polly with more displeasure than she had ever before shown. But Mistress Polly did not stir from her stool nor cease from rocking herself after the other two women had disappeared. Nor did she even repent sufficiently to help Betty out to her carriage, in spite of her friend's temporary lameness and need of her. The maid and Margaret could this time fill her place. But it was not only bad temper nor was it exactly repentance for her impertinence that kept Polly so steadfast in her childish position. It was ridiculous of her, certainly, and yet she could not keep back her tears. She had been fearful that her beloved Betty was beginning to care for this young foreigner; now she felt absolutely assured of it. For Betty would not even deny her accusation nor quarrel with her effrontery. How grown-up she had become, her dear Princess! And what a gracious, high-bred manner she had! It was too dreadful to have to think of leaving her behind in a foreign country forever and ever, married to a man whose ideas of life must be so different from theirs. Well, for her part she should fight against such a marriage taking place to the bitter end! Nevertheless this resolution did not keep Polly from feeling like a very rude and much-snubbed little girl for the rest of that afternoon and evening. Miss Adams did not refrain from assuring her that she had behaved like a bad-mannered child. For whether or not the Princess was beginning to care for the young lieutenant, it was both unjust and unkind in Polly to try to tear away the delicate veil of romance which in the beginning should cover all young eyes. As for Betty herself, she of course made no comment on the day's experiences to her family, except to say that she had had a pleasant enough time, but was tired. No one of them paid her as much attention as usual, for they were too deeply interested in some news which Dick Ashton had just received in an American letter. Anthony Graham had written saying that old Judge Maynard had recently died and that Betty had been mentioned in the old man's will. The will had not yet been probated, but would be within the month, when full particulars would be furnished them. At the time of his death Anthony had been with the old Judge, who had asked that the Ashton family be advised of his intention. It was odd that under the circumstances Betty should appear to be the least interested of the four persons about their small dinner table in the news of her own good fortune. "I wonder how much the legacy will amount to, mother--only a few hundred dollars, I presume," Dick Ashton suggested. "It is an amazing thing to me, however, why Judge Maynard should have left Betty a cent. Of course he is an old bachelor with no heirs, but he seemed to have taken a great fancy to this Graham fellow. And moreover, Betty was entirely an outsider." Mrs. Ashton would not entirely agree to her son's line of argument. For Judge Maynard and her husband had been great friends, and interested in a number of business ventures together in earlier days, when Mr. Ashton had helped make the Judge's fortune as well as his own. And the older man had not had the misfortune to lose his. Moreover, he had been devoted to Betty when she was a small girl and later had shown much interest in her effort to hold on to the old Ashton place. "I should not be in the least surprised, dear, if the old Judge has left you as much as a thousand dollars," Mrs. Ashton insisted as she helped Betty undress and kissed her good-night. CHAPTER XVII The Day Before Esther's Début Three weeks had passed and Betty Ashton had fully recovered from her accident. Today she had been doing a hundred small tasks in the house, marching up and down their little garden, sometimes alone and sometimes with Polly, yet never getting beyond calling distance of home. Now and then she would tiptoe softly to a small bedroom and stand outside for a moment listening silently. If a voice called her she went inside for a little while, but if not she would go quietly away. For a solemn edict had been issued in the family the evening before, that on the following day no matter what should take place Esther must have absolute rest. At four o'clock, however, she was to be aroused, dressed and given a light tea, since at five they were to start for Berlin, where Esther was to make her _début_ as a singer at Professor Hecksher's celebrated autumn concert. And curiously enough, Esther had been able to sleep the greater part of the morning. For weeks before it had seemed to her that she had slept neither day nor night, so intense had been her nervousness and dread. Suppose she should make a ghastly failure of her songs; suppose as she stepped out on the stage, facing an audience largely composed of German critics and musicians,--that one of her old attacks of shyness should seize her? Her own disgrace she might be able to bear, but not Betty's, nor her father's, who was writing such eager, excited letters from Woodford with the sailing of each ship to their port; and not Richard Ashton's, who had always been her good friend. Through his kindness had she not first been allowed to play the grand piano at the old Ashton homestead, in those early days when her hunger for music had been almost as strong as her hunger for love? But after her breakfast, which Betty brought to her sitting beside her on the bed while she ate, Esther for the time at least forgot her fears. There was nothing more that she could do--no further thought or study or preparation of any kind that she could give to her evening's work. So a feeling of gentle lassitude stole over her with the conviction that she was now in the hands of fate, and that it was useless to struggle further. But if Esther was spared this final nervous tension before her _début_, Betty Ashton experienced a double portion of it. Indeed, in after years she often used to say that never at another time in her life had she suffered anything like it--not even on her own wedding day when every girl supposedly reaches the climax of excitement. It was not because Betty had any lack of faith in her sister's talent, for no one who had heard Esther sing in the past few months could have doubted her ability. Even Miss Adams, who had heard most of the world's great singers, had assured them that they need have no fear for her future. Yet Betty knew her sister's disposition so well, knew how little self-esteem Esther had, how little of the vanity that sometimes seems necessary to success, and there was a harrowing possibility that she might suddenly be made ill from stage fright. Yet of course the younger girl recognized her own foolishness in allowing her imagination to dwell on such remote chances. Hardly was she able to explain even to herself the exact reasons for her feeling of stress and strain on that day which seemed so interminably long. Of course she and Polly had made up their difficulty long before--they had been having quarrels and making up ever since they were tiny girls--but today even Polly's society had failed to offer her any consolation, until at last Polly had gone back home to rest for an hour or two before dressing for their journey into Berlin. And Mrs. Ashton had insisted upon Betty's doing the same thing. The girl could not make up her mind to stay shut up in the house, for although it was early October, the day was delightfully warm, so she lay down in a steamer chair under a tree in the yard, and covering herself with a light-blue shawl, fell at once into her former train of thought. For in some way it was not just this thought of Esther's concert alone that had so filled her mind, but the idea that this concert in a measure was to be a turning point in their lives. Soon after it was over Polly and Miss Adams intended returning to America and Dick Ashton was to go with them. For not long after his talk with Esther on the train he had also discussed the same matter with his mother, and though she and Betty were both deeply grieved over giving him up, it was plain enough to them that Dick's future now lay in the United States. There he must make his reputation and establish himself in his profession. Nevertheless Betty could not now leave Esther to fight her battles alone, and just as surely Mrs. Ashton must remain with Betty. So Dick was to begin his struggle without his family. He had received a fine opening with a prominent physician in Boston, an old friend of his father's who had always known of his devotion and success in his chosen work, so that except for his loneliness there was no special reason for troubling about his immediate future. Notwithstanding, Betty was troubled. For Dick was not in the least like himself, had not been all summer, and now was becoming more and more solemn and stern as the time of his leave-taking approached. Of course she had always remembered him as more serious than most other young men; yet he had never before been morose or unhappy. All their lives had they not been having wonderfully good times together? And now--well, for one thing, Betty knew perfectly that her brother was feeling uneasy over her friendship with Lieutenant von Reuter and had not hesitated in telling her so, expressing his own disapproval of any further intimacy between them. And assuredly she had failed in giving him any satisfaction in return. For Betty had made no clearer revelation of her feeling toward the young foreigner to her brother than she had to Polly O'Neill. She had positively declined having their friendship interfered with, and as Richard Ashton knew nothing against him he was forced to yield to his sister's wish. Mrs. Ashton entirely sympathized with Betty, and made no effort to hide her pleasure in Carl von Reuter's attentions. As the girl lay almost as if she were asleep in her big chair, now and then opening her eyes to glance up at the deeply blue October sky, it did not seem to her that her own obstinacy in this one particular was a sufficient reason for Dick's dejection. And yet what other reason could there be? He had promised to come home from Berlin earlier this afternoon in order to escort them back again. And probably if Esther's _début_ was a tremendous success he might be made more cheerful. And then in all probability Betty must have fallen asleep for about ten minutes, because when next she opened her eyes, Dick was standing within a few feet of her and some one else was beside him. "Betty," she heard her brother's voice saying, "wake up, please, won't you and speak to an old friend? For otherwise you would never guess in half a lifetime who has arrived and come to me in Berlin today." Making a tremendous effort to attain her usual dignity, Betty opened wide her gray eyes, stared, tried to get up out of her chair, and then finding her feet tangled in the blue shawl, stumbled and would have fallen except for the newcomer's outstretched arm. Yet even when he had restored her to her usual equilibrium she did not immediately recognize their visitor, although she found herself looking up into a pair of clear hazel eyes and at the strong, clean outline of a typical American face. The young man must have been about twenty-three or four years old. He had dark hair, resolutely forbidden to curl, and curiously brilliant skin; but the contour of his face was almost too lean and the expression of his lips and chin too set and firm for so young a fellow. "Miss Ashton," he began unsmilingly, "am I always to have to tell you who I am each time we meet?" And then, just as she had once several years before, Betty held out both hands in a surprised and happy greeting. "Why, it is Anthony Graham! But you must please forgive me, because how in the world could I ever have dreamed of seeing you here? What in the wide world has brought you to Germany?" And as Anthony did not answer at once, Dick Ashton walked away, coming back a moment later with two porch chairs, which he placed near his sister's larger one. "Sit down again, please, Betty," he asked. "I realize that we have very little time, but I think it better that you should hear at once what Mr. Graham has come all the way across the ocean to tell you." And Dick's face was so queer that it was quite impossible to tell what his emotions might be, so that Betty clutched the sides of her chair, white and frightened. "Yes, please, if it is bad news, tell me at once," she whispered. Anthony Graham's smile, appearing now for the first time, was immediately reassuring. "But it is not bad news and we should not have frightened you," he began at once. "It is news that almost anybody in the world would be more than happy to hear. Judge Maynard has left you the greatest part of his fortune, which will amount to about fifty thousand dollars, I believe, and as he made me his executor, I have come over to try and make matters clear to you and your mother and brother." [Illustration: "FIFTY THOUSAND DOLLARS TO ME!"] "Fifty thousand dollars to me!" Betty Ashton heard the tones of her own voice distinctly and yet was hardly conscious of what she was saying. "Why, what could have influenced Judge Maynard to leave me so much money? I simply can't understand it." "You don't have to understand it, Miss Betty; you just have to accept and enjoy it," Anthony argued. "But some day when we have more time I should like to tell you some of the things Judge Maynard said to me at about the time he was writing his last will. He was a peculiar, childless old man and he had always been more fond of you than you or any member of your family dreamed. And after your father's death, when you went on so cheerfully with your life in spite of the change in your fortune, he made up his mind to look after your future." "But you, Anthony. Polly told me that it was to you the Judge had taken such a great fancy that most of the people in Woodford expected him to make _you_ his heir. I cannot take your inheritance." Anthony Graham laughed, at the same moment getting up from his chair. "I have to take the next train back to Berlin, but I mean to see you tonight at Miss Esther's concert. And please, Dr. Ashton, won't you explain to your sister that she cannot take from me an inheritance which I never had nor dreamed of having. Judge Maynard believed that a man should make his own way in the world. So he has left me the chance to go on with his law practice if I am big enough to hold on to it, and besides that a legacy of five thousand dollars." "But how could you have come away from home at such a time, running the risk of losing so much?" Betty queried thoughtfully. "I suppose you might have written us all the details of my inheritance if you had chosen." Richard Ashton appeared a little annoyed at what seemed to him a lack of appreciation and of proper friendliness in his sister's speech. Their guest, however, showed no hurt or concern. He merely looked steadfastly at Betty, saying with a directness and honesty that was to distinguish him for the rest of his life, "I don't wonder at your being surprised. But I have never been out of the state of New Hampshire before in my life. And it seemed to me about time that I should learn something more of the outside world. And besides I was not willing to have many more months go by without seeing you once again." CHAPTER XVIII That Night Although six persons left the little station at Waldheim to attend the concert in Berlin by special arrangement, Esther and Betty were allowed to occupy a coach in the train together without any one else being with them. Esther had particularly asked that this might be arranged. The two sisters did not speak very often during the trip, but sat quietly looking out the window holding each other's hands. Judging from the two faces, one might reasonably have supposed that it was Betty Ashton who was about to make her _début_ that evening instead of Esther. For the older girl's eyes shone with a new happiness and content. Just while she was dressing for her concert her sister had managed to tell her the news of Judge Maynard's surprising will. And from that moment Esther had almost forgotten the trying ordeal ahead of her in her joy over Betty's good fortune. For now she need no longer worry over her little sister's future, no longer grieve over the change in her fortune. Why, she might even fail tonight and Betty would not suffer. She gave a sigh, and the Princess drew closer to her. "You are not to think about a single thing that has any connection with the concert tonight, Esther," the younger girl reminded her. "Professor Hecksher says that you know your song perfectly and your encore is to be a surprise even to me. Let us talk about our old Camp Fire days in the woods. Don't you remember when we thought poor little Nan Graham must have stolen that wretched money of mine, when I had only lost it in the woods and Polly had discovered it. Dick says that Anthony Graham told him Nan has a fine position as a teacher of domestic science in a high school in Dartmouth. And it seems that his father has reformed and gone to work and the whole family now is quite different. Anthony gives all the credit of the changes to Nan and Nan ascribes them to what she learned in our Camp Fire club at Sunrise Hill. It is lovely to think that may be true, isn't it?" "Yes, and even better to reflect that Betty Ashton originated the club," Esther returned. "Yes, and that Esther suggested the idea to her by singing an exquisite song and then with her own hands starting a fire," Betty added. So the two girls talked on fitfully while the train carried them swiftly onward toward the great German city. The concert was to be held in a small opera house close to one of the more fashionable avenues. It was an old building, but was considered a particularly fine one for musical purposes. And immediately upon their arrival Mrs. Ashton and Betty went with Esther to remain in her dressing room until a short time before her appearance. Dick Ashton, Miss Adams and Polly had a box reserved for them near the stage, where Betty and Mrs. Ashton were to join them. But before they appeared Anthony Graham in immaculate evening clothes came around to the box door to extend his greetings to Polly, and Dick insisted that he be one of their party. And five minutes afterwards Lieutenant von Reuter also joined them, Betty having invited him several days before. The concert was to be a serious musical affair commencing with the playing of a stringed orchestra led by the great Professor Hecksher himself. And as Polly had never seen him before, she amused herself while waiting for Betty's return and fighting off her own apprehensions about Esther by never taking her eyes from the great man's face. He must have weighed two hundred and fifty pounds and yet had the face of a glorified cherub. His hair was long and light, hanging down to his shoulders and he wore spectacles over his burning, heavy-lidded brown eyes. The first singer on the program was supposed to be the famous teacher's star pupil. But because she seemed old and ugly to Polly O'Neill and because the girl could hardly wait for her own friend to be heard, she took little interest in the really remarkable solo and was almost vexed with Miss Adams and with Carl von Reuter for their evident admiration of a stranger. It was a comfort to her to observe that Richard Ashton seemed to be feeling just as she did and that he spent the greater part of his time studying the audience, trying to discover just how many important musical critics were present. Anthony Graham also had the air of waiting for something or some one. A quartette followed, and then a violin solo, and afterwards Betty and Mrs. Ashton stole quietly in, taking the two chairs left vacant for them. Polly and Miss Adams were in the front row with Dick Ashton at one side of them, near the back of the box and yet facing the stage. In the second row Betty had the outside seat and she kept her elbow resting on the plush railing with her chin in her hand, entirely unconscious of the large crowd about her. Next her Carl von Reuter had arranged his chair, leaving Mrs. Ashton and Anthony in the rear. A young man sang before the time for Esther's appearance, but Betty never recalled having seen or heard him. She had left her sister composed and not especially nervous; but there was no way of guessing what a surge of feeling might since have overtaken her. And then Esther's moment came. Notwithstanding that Betty had dressed her, fixed her hair and kissed her only a few moments before, she hardly recognized her own sister as she walked slowly to the front of the stage. For had they not always thought of Esther as the homeliest of their group of Camp Fire girls? What had happened to her, what wonderful transformation had taken place? Polly O'Neill almost gasped aloud. Of course every one of her friends had appreciated how much Esther had improved in appearance in the past two years, but it was hardly credible that she could look and behave like this, a girl brought up in an orphan asylum with no friends and no opportunities for so long a time! Well, one should understand that into each life certain wonderful hours may come when one seems to transcend one's self. And tonight such an hour had come to Esther. She was to sing Elizabeth's farewell song from the opera of Tannhäuser. And though the concert was not to be sung in costume, so far as possible in selecting and arranging Esther's dress Betty had been mindful of the character and the circumstances of her song. In the opera there is seen a wayside shrine where the Princess Elizabeth appears each day to pray for the soul of her lover, the knight Tannhäuser, who has gone on a pilgrimage to Rome to ask that his sins may be forgiven him. On this last day the pilgrims have passed on their journey homeward and among them Elizabeth sees no sign of her lost lover, so that she knows he must be unforgiven. She then sings this final song, asking that peace may come to her at last. Esther wore a long white gown of _crêpe de chine_ made in simple classic lines, with the draped tunic which is a modern fashion copied after a far older model. Ordinarily she was too tall and angular in every-day clothes, but this toilette seemed to give her just the grace and dignity her figure and character needed. Her red hair, which had grown a little darker as she grew older, was tonight a crown of glory, so that the pallor of her long grave face did not matter, for her always beautiful mouth had a look both of power and of wistfulness that surprised the strangers in the audience. "The girl is far too young for the song her teacher has chosen for her," the critics whispered among themselves. It is not fair to make such an experiment, for this song of Elizabeth's is one of the favorites among the great prima donnas. What would this young girl do with it? Would she be too theatrical, too showy, or fail altogether? While the orchestra played the opening chords Esther waited with her hands clasped lightly together in front of her, but not moving them with her old nervous gesture. Neither did she seem to be looking at anything or anybody. Not once did she even glance toward the box where her sister and friends were watching her, though in a kind of subconscious fashion she was aware of the white intensity in Betty's pretty face and the look of grave strength and helpfulness in Richard Ashton's. Then Esther began to sing--and Betty, Dick, Polly, Mrs. Ashton and indeed all her friends, both new and old, had a sudden sensation of bitter disappointment. The tears came into Betty's eyes, rolling unheeded down her cheeks, though Polly slipped her hand back through the opening in her chair to press it sympathetically. However, Richard Ashton only set his lips, hardly breathing for the space of half a moment. Did he not recall a similar beginning on Esther's part some years before, when she had sung the Indian Love Song before a group of their Woodford acquaintances, which he had at first believed would end in a failure? Esther would not find this audience so ready to forgive or admire should she take too long a time before winning their attention. "O blessed Virgin, hear my prayer! Thou star of glory, look on me!" These lines were whispered in so low a tone that they were almost inaudible except to the persons nearest the stage and Esther's voice trembled with nervousness. Was she frightened as she had expected to be? It was difficult to decide, because she stood so still. "Here in the dust I bend before thee, Now from this earth oh set me free! Let me a maiden pure and white, Enter into thy kingdom bright!" Betty's tension relaxed. "Bravo," Miss Adams whispered under her breath. Richard Ashton felt a glow which was oddly commingled of pleasure, pride and sorrow. Yet one could not think, could not feel any other emotion now except wonder and delight as the beautiful voice in perfect sympathy with the music and its theme filled every shadowy space in the opera house with harmony. Betty witnessed the expressions on several previously bored faces near them changing first to surprise, then interest and finally frank pleasure. Small wonder that the old German music master had allowed this young American girl to appear unheralded before them! She could only be twenty-one or twenty-two years old at the most. What a future lay before her! Still Esther sang on: "If vain desires and earthy longing Have turn'd my heart from thee away, The sinful hopes within me thronging Before thy blessed feet I lay. I'll wrestle with the love I cherished, Until in death its flame hath perish'd. If of my sin thou wilt not shrive me, Yet in this hour, oh grant thy aid! Till thy eternal peace thou give me, And on thy bounty I will call, That heav'nly grace on him may fall." And with the closing words of her song Esther suddenly seemed to have reached the realization of all her worst fears. Surely she had failed abjectly, for was there not a silence everywhere about her, chilling and cruel? Would not a single pair of hands applaud? She dared not try to find the face of her master, for she hoped never to have to see Professor Hecksher again so long as she lived. Yet here miraculously enough he had appeared on the stage standing next her, with one of his powerful hands holding tight to her cold one, bowing and smiling, while the noise of many bravos and of almost a tumult of applause shook the house. Esther then wondered why she only felt dreadfully tired and had a childish disposition to cry as the great maestro led her off the stage. But when the girl returned for her encore she was smiling, and her cheeks were more flushed than ever in her life. And in her hands she held a great bunch of pink roses which had mysteriously appeared in her dressing room. And this time she allowed herself to glance smilingly at Betty and Polly and Mrs. Ashton and even to exchange a single quiet glance with Richard Ashton. Then to the surprise, to the mystification and yet to the pleasure of her listeners, Esther sang the verses which had first touched Betty Ashton's heart and inspired her ardor on that day long ago, the song that is to remain an inspiration to many thousands of women for many years to come, the Camp Fire song of "The Soul's Desire." "Lay me to sleep in sheltering flame, O Master of the Hidden Fire. Wash pure my heart, and cleanse for me My soul's desire. "In flame of sunrise bathe my mind, O Master of the Hidden Fire, That, when I wake, clear-eyed may be My soul's desire." And ten minutes after the finishing of this second song Esther, Betty and Richard Ashton were driving to their old pension where the entire party was to spend the night, Mrs. Ashton, Polly and Miss Adams meaning to join them when the concert was over. And in the carriage, again it was Esther who seemed quiet and composed, while between tears and laughter Betty poured forth her joy and pride in her sister's wonderful success. CHAPTER XIX Tea at the Castle Several days after Esther's concert Lieutenant von Reuter persuaded Mrs. Ashton and Miss Adams to bring Betty and Polly with them to afternoon tea at the castle with his father. And as Anthony Graham, not knowing their plans, had come from Berlin for a farewell visit on the same day, he of course was included in the little company. Esther had been urged and had almost promised to be one of them, but when the morning of the party arrived she had pleaded to be excused. Immediately then Polly and Betty had both insisted that she change her mind and had tried coaxing and scolding and almost every possible form of influence until at last Mrs. Ashton had come to her rescue. For Esther had been extremely tired since her _début_ and very unlike herself both girls considered. Indeed, they even went further in thinking that she failed in proper appreciation and gratitude for her own success. However, Esther naturally believed that her friends were overestimating her achievement, yet she had recently scarcely understood herself. For it was odd and stupid of her not to feel more elation and more interest in her own future. Had not Professor Hecksher himself written her that she had sung better than he expected? And this from the master was praise indeed! However, he had also written that she was to allow herself a complete rest before they had a talk about her future plans. So with this defense and Mrs. Ashton's additional authority Esther was finally allowed the privilege of staying at home alone except for their maid. "Dick may be back a little earlier this afternoon, dear," Betty said as she kissed her sister good-by. "He has not so much to do in Berlin now that he has finished his lectures and is just closing up his affairs. Keep him with you if you feel like talking to him, but if not, ask him to come over to the castle and drive back home with us. It is absurd for Dick to be so prejudiced against Lieutenant von Reuter and dreadfully embarrassing to me. For I am sure he hasn't a reason in the world, and yet it is plain enough to everybody." And as Betty walked away after this final speech Esther had a momentary pang of regret that she had not conquered her own disinclination and gone along with them. For they and Mrs. Ashton were leaving the country for Berlin as soon as the others sailed, and this might prove an excellent chance for the young foreigner to declare his feeling for Betty, _if_ his admiration really was serious. Also Esther regretted that she had failed in asking Polly to keep a careful watch upon them, although this she understood that Polly was more than inclined to do without further suggestion. After Betty and her mother had climbed into the carriage, Anthony Graham accompanying them, and Betty had waved her hand in farewell, Esther, who was standing on the porch watching them depart, suddenly recalled Richard Ashton's half-jesting wish that their sister Betty were not quite so pretty. And this afternoon for the first time Esther believed that she agreed with him. It was absurd to send a girl looking like the Princess did at this present moment into a young man's home with the hope that he would cease to feel an interest in her. Because it was cold Betty wore a long white cloak over a china blue silk dress of her favorite shade and a white felt hat with a band of the same material about it. No costume could have been simpler, and yet excitement or pleasure or some unusual emotion had made the girl's color brighter in her eyes, her cheeks and even her hair, so that there seemed a kind of mysterious shining about her like a star--a glow which Polly O'Neill recognized instantly as she took her place beside her in the carriage with Anthony Graham in front with the driver and Miss Adams and Mrs. Ashton together on the back seat. Indeed, it inspired Polly to give her friend rather a malicious pinch which actually hurt a little and yet for which she would neither apologize nor explain. Betty presumed that it must have something to do with Anthony Graham's presence, since Polly immediately began making herself more than usually agreeable to him, insisting that he give them his impressions of Germany and the Germans, when Anthony would much have preferred remaining silent. Polly hoped that thus she might be enabled to make her friend realize how much cleverer and more worth while an American fellow was than any blond Siegfried whom she might have met by accident in a foreign land. Carl von Reuter's old feudal estate, however, was picturesque enough to excite even Polly's undivided admiration, as they drove along an avenue of oak trees, some of them more than a century old, and crossed a drawbridge over a moat, which now formed the bed of a stream flowing down from the hills. Outside in the garden in front of the house the visitors found Lieutenant von Reuter, his cousin Frederick and his father walking about in the afternoon sunshine waiting to receive their guests. And the young count wore his full dress uniform as an officer in one of the Kaiser's regiments. He was undeniably handsome, and there was no doubt but that he and Betty made a striking picture as they stood side by side for a moment before entering the house, while the young man showed the girl the view of their hunting forests over to the right where she had had her accident. Tea was served in the most splendid apartment that either the two American girls or Anthony Graham had ever seen before in their lives. Perhaps there was some motive in their host's inviting them into the big banqueting hall in an upper part of the castle rather than in the shabby drawing rooms on the first floor, where the poverty of the family was so much more apparent. But even if this were true, the selection was a happy one, for which his guests were unfeignedly thankful. The great room was fifty feet long and about two-thirds as broad. It had heavy black oak paneling midway to the ceiling, which was formed of heavy beams and rafters of the same wood. And along the ledge of the wainscoting were old tankards of silver and pewter, plates hammered deep with the armorial bearings of different branches of the family. Shields hung against the walls and battered helmets, while standing in groups or in solemn solitary dignity were the "iron men" or the "knights in armor," who had fought for their war lords long before Germany was an empire. The old count, although he spoke English much less well than his son, led his guests toward a circular space underneath a great stained-glass window, where the light of the afternoon sun shone rose and gold upon the carved table and high-back chairs. He appeared genuinely pleased with their interest and enthusiasm over his estate and the country near by, until Polly, whose sense of the dramatic was always stronger than any other, felt herself becoming as ardently admiring of the older man as she was critical of his son. And after tea was over and the others sat discussing unimportant matters, in a moment of thoughtlessness, Polly allowed the old count to lead her and Anthony Graham to another part of the house in order to show them his library. Mrs. Ashton and Miss Adams had expressed themselves as too tired for the climbing of more stairs, while Betty, Carl and Frederick von Reuter, though making no excuses, yet failed to join them. When nearly midway down the room it did occur to Polly as unwise to be leaving Betty unchaperoned by her own vigilance, yet as Betty now shook her head, declining positively to be lured into this excursion, there was nothing to do but to trust her friend to Mrs. Ashton and Margaret Adams for a few moments. Nevertheless Polly should have understood that Mrs. Ashton would not oppose any suggestion for a more intimate conversation with Betty that the young lieutenant might chance to make. And of course it was impossible for Miss Adams to object unless Betty's mother did. As for Frederick von Reuter, the attraction he once entertained for the American girl seemed to continue now only in a kind of transferred interest in his cousin's success. So that five minutes after Polly disappeared out of one door at the far end of the hall, Carl von Reuter led Betty through another, ostensibly to show her a celebrated portrait in the family gallery, but without inviting the others to accompany them. And Betty seemed quite willingly to have accepted his invitation. Once inside the gallery, she appeared more deeply interested in the pictures than the young man expected or desired. For the greater number of them were ugly old men and stout elderly _Frauen_ with no very strong attraction even for their descendant. And there at the end of the dark room near a window hung with a faded velvet curtain, stood a small oak seat, while beyond was a particularly fine view of the park. But Betty could only be lured to this seat by long effort and the moment after seating herself suggested that they had best return to the others now that the pictures had been seen, since it must be almost time for leaving for home. Nevertheless, as her host did not stir or even seem to have heard her request, Betty subsided for a few moments. She was honestly weary, being unaccustomed to such a vast house with its miles of steps and endless passage-ways. "Miss Ashton," said Lieutenant von Reuter suddenly and quite formally, "will you do me the honor to become my wife? In my country you know it is the custom to speak first to the parent, but I understand that it is not so in your United States." Then as Betty gazed at him without answering, although her face had flushed deeply, he went on with more feeling: "You know I have cared for you always since our first meeting. I have been unable--I have not cared to conceal it." Frightened and uncertain, Betty bit her lips to keep them from trembling. This was her first proposal, and she could not help thinking of that for a moment; besides it was so romantic! No one of her friends would ever be apt to experience anything like it. Here she and Lieutenant von Reuter were in his splendid, shabby old castle sitting together in the shadow of his ancestors. Why, what he had just said to her meant that she might some day be a countess if she wished! But Betty brought herself together with a slight frown and a feeling of distaste and shame of herself. What absurd ideas were in her mind in the presence of so tremendously serious a subject! Here she was thinking and behaving like a foolish dreaming child. Did she care for Carl von Reuter for himself? Would she have cared had he been of more humble origin, had he been less handsome? Betty glanced at the young fellow almost fearfully. She had been trying to decide how much she liked him before this without success. Yet because until today he had not declared his feeling toward her, she had not felt it necessary wholly to make up her mind. "But I thought, Lieutenant von Reuter," Betty answered slowly, "that it was impossible for you to marry any one who was not wealthy, that your estates were mortgaged and that your father looked to you to make your old name prominent once more." Until now she had kept her head slightly turned away; but with her question Betty faced her companion, her expression grave and interested. Yet she was surprised to see that the young man's blue eyes now closed slightly while his fair face flushed with what appeared to be an odd combination of satisfaction and regret. "But you are no longer poor, Miss Ashton," he answered unexpectedly. "I have lately heard of your good fortune, and while it is very little compared to the amount my father expected me to marry, it may be enough. At least, I have been able to persuade him that I care for you so much that we must make it do." Carl von Reuter spoke quite frankly without any special embarrassment, for it did not seem to him that his speech was in any way remarkable. Indeed, it should make Betty realize the extent of his admiration for her that he had been able to overlook the smallness of her inheritance in comparison with his own needs. Why, a week before he should not have been able to make any declaration of his own feelings! Yet now he was offering his title, his castle, almost his whole future, to an American girl whose estate was so small that it could scarcely do more than cover their debts. And that Betty should not be honored by his offer was beyond his point of view. A German girl would have appreciated the sacrifice he was making; so why not an American? Betty sat perfectly still during his explanation, with her hands clasped tightly together, showing white against the blue folds of her dress. In her whole life she had never felt so astounded, so completely overwhelmed, and in truth so angry. How could any man coolly say to her that he was willing to marry her in spite of the smallness of her fortune, plainly insinuating at the same moment that unless she had had the good luck to come into her unexpected inheritance she should never have received the honor at all. The girl's cheeks first flushed hotly and then she felt herself growing pale and self-possessed. Never in her life had she had a more important demand made upon her dignity and good sense. For she must not show any kind of ill-feeling. Thank goodness that she was able to give the only kind of reply that could carry any kind of weight or conviction to her companion and that she could say it with all truthfulness. For never had Betty Ashton felt less affection for any friend she had ever had than she did at this instant for the young nobleman. "You are very kind, Lieutenant von Reuter," she now answered quietly, "and I greatly appreciate the honor which you feel you have given me. But I don't care for you in the way that you wish me to and I am very, very sure that I never can. Do you not now think it time for us to go and join the others?" And Betty talked pleasantly and unaffectedly of other things, while her host led her back on the return journey between his lines of distinguished ancestors, although the young man himself scarcely made a reply to one of her remarks. CHAPTER XX Esther and Dick Not long after the others had driven away Esther found that it was quite impossible for her to take a nap as she had planned. She seemed to be growing more restless and fatigued with every moment spent upon the bed. Besides, had she not been indoors far too much recently, when they would so soon be going back to the city where only a comparatively small amount of outdoor life would be possible? Esther did not stop to dress with any care; she merely fixed her hair and slipped a long brown coat over her dress, tying a light scarf about her hair. And because both Mrs. Ashton and Dick had insisted that no one of the three girls go any distance from home alone after Betty's misfortune, she wandered about idly in their small enclosed garden for a few moments and then sat down in Betty's empty steamer chair under their single tall linden tree. The light gusts of the October wind sent down little showers of curled-up yellow leaves and shriveled flowers upon her head and shoulders, until Esther, glancing up at them, smiled. When she dropped her eyes again she saw that Dick Ashton was on his way toward her along the short path from the gate. And he held a bundle of letters in his hand which he had stopped by the village post-office to secure. Two of them he dropped into Esther's lap and then sat down on the ground near her, sighing quite unconsciously. "Are you all by yourself?" he inquired. Esther nodded. "Yes, I did not feel like being polite to any one this afternoon. Betty told me to ask you to walk over and join them if you are not too tired." "I am not too tired, yet I have not the remotest idea of going," Dick returned quietly. "Though I declare to you, Esther, that it seems to me if Betty really does care for this German fellow, it will be about the last straw." Always if you had asked Esther Crippen's friends what they considered the dominant trait of her character the answer would have been "sympathy." So now, observing Richard Ashton's anxiety and depression, she almost entirely forgot her own. "The last straw, Dr. Ashton?" she repeated. And then smiling and yet wholly gentle she asked, "Why do you say 'the last straw' in such a desperate fashion? Surely things are not going so wrong with you! If you feel so dreadfully unhappy over leaving Betty and your mother behind, why you know I don't wish to be selfish. Take them with you; I shall manage somehow." Leaning over, Dick Ashton touched Esther's hand lightly with his lips in such a friendly, kindly fashion that the girl did not flush or draw it away. "Who says that I am so desperate over leaving mother and the Princess to take care of our future great American prima donna?" he asked half-joking and half-serious. The girl's brows drew together in her effort to understand and appreciate her friend's real meaning. "Why, I don't see what else there can be to make you unhappy," she replied thoughtfully. "You are going back to your own country, which you know you have learned to care more for with each year that you have spent away from it. And you are going to commence the practice of the profession you have always loved since you were a child. But of course if there is anything else that is worrying you which I have not the right to know, I don't want you to think that I am trying to make you confide in me. I can sympathize with you without understanding." "Then you have a very rare and wonderful gift, Esther," Dick Ashton replied. "But please read your letters and don't consider me." Slowly the girl read a letter from her father, which besides its interest in her work was so full of bits of Woodford interest and gossip that she felt herself growing sharply homesick. Then, tucking this letter inside her dress, to re-read to her sister later, Esther slowly opened the one from her music master in Berlin. It was just what she had expected. Professor Hecksher felt that she might have a future in grand opera, only she was far too young and too untrained to attempt it for several years. So she must stay on in Germany, working unceasingly with him until they could both understand more thoroughly her capabilities. Esther let this single sheet of paper slip out of her hand to the ground, where Dick picked it up, returning it to her. But not before he had recognized the master's handwriting and letter head. "It is all right, isn't it?" he queried, surprised at the girl's expression. "Oh, yes, I suppose so," she replied, not looking at him but at a far stretch of country with her eyes and of years with her mind. "Only I expect I am what both Betty and Polly think me, an ungrateful and unreasonable person with no ambition and no imagination." Dick was silent for a moment and then answered, "No, Esther, I do not believe you appreciate what a great gift you have; you are too modest and care too little for the applause most of the people in the world are willing to sacrifice everything for." Richard Ashton turned his serious dark eyes upward toward the tall, pale girl sitting in the chair near him. "Esther," he said, "I want to tell you, to make you believe what a great gift you have. I love you, and more than anything on earth I want you to be my wife. The other day when Anthony Graham came with the news from Woodford that Betty had inherited a small fortune I was happier than I can ever tell you. And it was not for Betty's sake or even mother's; it was a selfish happiness. For then I believed that both you and I were released from our first duty to them and that I had the right to tell you that I cared for you and meant to try and make you love me. Then came the night of your concert, when I heard you sing. And since then, Esther, I have realized that I have no right to ask you to give up the career that is before you and to ask you to share my uncertain future. For with my work I could not follow yours and my profession is the one thing I have learned. I had not meant to tell you this, but, after all, Esther, I don't know why I should not. A girl can never be hurt by knowing that a man loves her." And for the second time Dick kissed Esther's hand and then turned his face away. The next moment the girl had risen from her chair. "Dr. Ashton, will you take a walk with me?" she asked. "I am tired sitting here." Then, without referring to what had just been said between them, the girl and man walked along, talking quietly of other things until they came to the stream of water sheltered by trees, with a rim of hills along the other side. Away from the possibility of being interrupted Esther stopped, putting her hand on her companion's arm. She did not look like her usual self; her face was flooded with color and her shyness and reserve for the moment seemed swept away. "You were not fair to me just now," she declared. "You had not the right to tell me you cared for me without asking me what my feeling was for you. Why does everybody in the world think that because I have a talent I have to sacrifice my whole life to it? I love my music, but I don't wish to be an opera singer. I hate the kind of existence it forces one to lead. I want a home of my own and some one to care for me. Why do people nowadays think that girls are so changed, that all of us are wishing to be independent and famous? Why, it was because our old Camp Fire club taught us that all the best things of life are centered about the hearth fire that means home, that I first cared for it so much. I wonder if any one realizes because I was brought up in an orphan asylum and then lived with other people that I have never had a home of my own in my life. But of course this would not count, Dick, if I did not care for you more than I do for my music, or even for Betty. Tell me, then, is it my duty to go on with my work in Berlin, to give up everything I wish for a career I don't desire?" And here, overcome by the rush of her own feelings and her own words, Esther ceased speaking, feeling her old stupid, nervous trembling seize her. But Richard Ashton's arms were about her, holding her still. "The most perfect home that my love can make for you, Esther, shall be yours so long as we live. And there are other ways where the gift of a beautiful voice may bring pleasure and reward outside of the life you dread." CHAPTER XXI Sunrise Cabin It was Christmas once more at the Camp Fire cabin and a wonderful white night. Everywhere there was snow and enchantment under the "Long-night Moon." Dinner was over, for from the inside of the great living room came the sound of music and dancing and many gay voices. Built like a magic circle about the log house were seven camp fires, uncurling their long fingers of flame into the frost-laden air. And now and then fire-makers came out of the cabin, usually in pairs, to pile more logs and pine branches where the need was greatest. First Eleanor Meade and Frank Wharton, and Eleanor looked tall and picturesque in her Indian costume with a white shawl over her shoulders. But when they had finished with their fire building they walked on a few yards and then lingered for a moment close to the tall Totem pole, which still stood like a faithful sentinel outside the Sunrise Cabin door, its colors bright with the history of the Camp Fire club it had been chosen to tell. "I thought I was going to be a great artist when I painted that pole and the walls of our cabin, Frank," Eleanor whispered. "But the paths of a woman's glory sometimes lead----" "To the altar," Frank returned. "Never mind, dear, there is no place where one so needs to keep the white lights burning." And a little later he and his companion disappeared along the path that led to the grove of pines closer to the foot of the mountain. For nearly ten minutes no one else opened the cabin door; then two muffled figures stole out and industriously piled wood on half a dozen of the dying fires. Out of breath they afterwards paused and began talking to each other. They were the two girls in the Camp Fire club at Sunrise Hill who were now the closest friends. "I am awfully glad to hear of your new position, Nan. Are you going to make more money?" Sylvia Wharton asked with her old-time bluntness. And as Nan Graham nodded, she went on, "I want everybody in our club to understand that no matter what any one of us accomplishes, you are the best of the lot. Because the rest of us have had money and aid from other persons, but you have done every blessed thing for yourself and have helped other people besides." "Yes, but I don't have to help now," Nan explained. "Anthony is able to do everything for the family that is necessary beyond what father earns. And he has made me promise to go to college next year and study all the courses in domestic science that I can manage, besides chemistry and physiology and hygiene. I shall be a wonderfully learned person if I ever know half the things he wishes me to." "Anthony is splendid," Sylvia announced, "and you will have a chair in a college some day." At the absurdity of this suggestion, which nevertheless might one day come true, Nan laughed, putting her arm across Sylvia's shoulder. "We must go back indoors or you may take cold, Dr. Wharton," she teased. "Truly I am glad that your father and mother have made you undertake the study of medicine instead of going on with nursing. For my part I shall always prefer you as a physician to Dr. Ashton, even though he has a good many years' start of you." Never could Sylvia take things humorously. "Then you will show very poor judgment, Nan Graham. Richard Ashton is going to be a perfect wonder. Betty and Esther both say I may be his partner, but I shall not. I am coming back to Woodford after I graduate and help Dr. Barton. Thank heavens, he and Rose Dyer finally decided to marry last month. It will take both of them to look after little Faith. That child is so queer and fanciful I am afraid she may turn out a poet." And Sylvia did not smile or have the least understanding that she had said anything amusing when her friend led her back inside the cabin living room. Then Meg Everett and her brother John strolled out into the night air, arm in arm, and went and piled logs on the camp fire farthest away from the house. Meg wore nothing on her head in spite of the cold, so that her yellow-brown hair blew about her face in shocking confusion. Yet her elder brother did not seem to be in a sufficiently critical mood tonight to notice it. "Don't stay outdoors too long or go far away from the cabin, Betty; I am so afraid you may take cold," Esther Ashton whispered ten minutes after John and Meg had come in, wrapping her own long white fur coat about her sister. Esther had been married now for two weeks and she and Richard Ashton had returned from their honeymoon journey to spend the holidays with their own people before leaving for Boston. So Esther was in bridal white, with no other color than her crown of red hair. Betty wore the last frock she had bought in London before sailing for home, having paid a great deal more for it than she felt that she should, just to taste the joy of being extravagant once again. It was of blue velvet with a silver girdle, with silver embroidery about the throat. Instead of jewelry she wore her chains of Camp Fire honor beads. "No, I won't be gone long, dear," Betty answered. "I have promised too many people to dance with them. But it is such a glorious night! And I have told Anthony Graham that I would look at the beautiful picture our cabin makes with the camp fires burning around it. The moon is now just above the top of the old hill." At this moment Dick Ashton joined them. "Moon, Betty Ashton," he began with a pretense of sternness, "is the very last word I wish to hear from your lips." Then, as Betty ran away from the possibility of his further objecting to her departure, Dick turned seriously to Esther. "Esther, if you have any influence with Betty, do please stop allowing her to have admirers. Tell her that she is not to be permitted to consider any one seriously, say for five or ten years." As Esther laughed, he added, "Who is it that she has gone off in the moonlight with this time? Anthony Graham? Well, he is a fine fellow, but has his way to make, and thank fortune cannot think of marrying for several years!" Down by the lake, which was frozen over with a thin coating of ice, forming a kind of mirror for the silver face of the moon, Anthony and Betty were at this moment standing in the shadow looking out over its surface. "I want to tell you something I never have mentioned, Anthony," Betty said gravely. "I want to thank you for coming to Germany to bring me the good news of my inheritance. Oh, it is not that I could not have waited longer to have heard, but that if the news had not come just when it did, I might have been the unconscious cause of making the two people I love almost best in the world unhappy all their lives. For you see I did not dream that Dick cared for Esther or she for him. So I kept on urging Esther to devote herself to her music, when all the time she and Dick wanted to be married, and Esther was only going on with her music because she wanted to earn money for me and for father. As though either one of us wished her to sacrifice herself!" "Still, your brother was a brave fellow to ask a girl to give up such a future," Anthony Graham returned. "I don't think I could have done it." Betty frowned at him. "Why not?" she demanded. Turning toward her, Anthony now looked at her so steadfastly that the girl's white lids drooped. "Well, once I cared for a girl who was miles and miles above me in family, position, beauty, brains, oh, everything that is worth having, except one thing!" he explained. "Neither she nor her people had money; they had lost it through misfortune. So I used to work and dream that some day I might be able to climb that _one_ hill. But before I was even halfway up my hill--oh, I can't talk in figures of speech, I must speak plain English--why the girl inherited a lot of money. So now she has everything and I have nothing worth while to offer her. Yet I don't wish her to think that I have ever ceased caring for her or ever will." "Anthony," Betty replied unexpectedly, "I always wear that little enameled pin representing a pine tree that you sent me by Polly a long time ago. But I have been thinking lately that perhaps you did not remember that one of the meanings of the pine tree is faithfulness." Then she moved away toward the cabin and, as the young man walked along beside her without speaking, she said half to herself and half to him, "Not long ago I had one person declare that he cared for me because I had inherited a fortune. And here is another person who has ceased caring because I have money. Yet, if I have to choose between the two, I believe I like the American way best." "You don't mean that you like _me_, do you, Betty?" Anthony pleaded. The Princess shook her head. "I don't mean anything--yet, Anthony," she answered. Inside the living room on their return they found at least a dozen friends urging Esther to sing. To Margaret Adams' request she finally yielded. For Miss Adams had lately come to Woodford to spend the week with Polly O'Neill's family. And now Polly was standing with her arm slipped caressingly through her friend's. "I shall never, never be able to understand how Esther Crippen could give up her art and her career for Dick Ashton's sake, fine as he is," Polly murmured in Miss Adams' ear. "If I only had one-half of Esther's talent for the work I hope to do I should be down on my knees with gratitude." Then Polly gave the arm she was holding fast a slight pressure. "But mother says perhaps I may come and have a small part in your company next spring, as you said I might. And surely if anybody in the world can teach me to be a great actress it is you!" Then Polly's lips twitched and her expression changed in its odd Irish fashion, for across the room she now caught sight of her old enemy and friend, Billy Webster, still glowering disapprovingly at her. But the next instant he had turned and was smiling a reply to some question that Mollie O'Neill had just put to him. Then no one spoke or moved for several moments, under the spell of Esther's "Good-night" Camp Fire song. "Beneath the quiet sentinel stars, we now rest. May we arise to greet the new day, give it our best. Good-night, good-night, God over all." The next volume in the Camp Fire Series shall be known as "The Camp Fire Girls' Careers." The group of girls who first came together to spend a summer as a Camp Fire Club in the woods are now grown up and life has, of course, altered and widened for all of them. The question now is, What will each girl do to make her future happy and successful? Will she marry well or ill, or will she choose to follow some career in which marriage has no part? Although the fifth volume is to deal with the original number of heroines, it will be more largely devoted to the most brilliant and erratic of the twelve Camp Fire Girls, Polly O'Neill. STORIES ABOUT CAMP FIRE GIRLS THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS AT SUNRISE HILL THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS AMID THE SNOWS THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS IN THE OUTSIDE WORLD THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS ACROSS THE SEA THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS' CAREERS THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS IN AFTER YEARS 
20713	----	Transcriber's Note: This edition had a cover and title page entitled _A Campfire Girl's First Council Fire_. The title on the first page of the story and the remainder of the book, however, is _The Camp Fire Girls In the Woods_. A Campfire Girl's First Council Fire By JANE L. STEWART CAMPFIRE GIRLS SERIES VOLUME I THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY AKRON, OHIO NEW YORK Made in U. S. A. COPYRIGHT, MCMXIV BY THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING CO. THE CAMPFIRE GIRLS SERIES [Illustration] A CAMPFIRE GIRL'S FIRST COUNCIL FIRE A CAMPFIRE GIRL'S CHUM A CAMPFIRE GIRL IN SUMMER CAMP A CAMPFIRE GIRL'S ADVENTURE A CAMPFIRE GIRL'S TEST OF FRIENDSHIP A CAMPFIRE GIRL'S HAPPINESS [Illustration: "We'll take you over to camp and you can have dinner with us."] The Camp Fire Girls In the Woods CHAPTER I THE ESCAPE "Now then, you, Bessie, quit your loafin' and get them dishes washed! An' then you can go out and chop me some wood for the kitchen fire!" The voice was that of a slatternly woman of middle age, thin and complaining. She had come suddenly into the kitchen of the Hoover farmhouse and surprised Bessie King as the girl sat resting for a moment and reading. Bessie jumped up alertly at the sound of the voice she knew so well, and started nervously toward the sink. "Yes, ma'am," she said. "I was awful tired--an' I wanted to rest for a few minutes." "Tired!" scolded the woman. "Land knows _you_ ain't got nothin' to carry on so about! Ain't you got a good home? Don't we board you and give you a good bed to sleep in? Didn't Paw Hoover give you a nickel for yourself only last week?" "Yes--an' you took it away from me soon's you found it out," Bessie flashed back. There were tears in her eyes, but she went at her dishes, and Mrs. Hoover, after a minute in which she glared at Bessie, turned and left the kitchen, muttering something about ingratitude as she went. As she worked, Bessie wondered why it was that she must always do the work about the house when other girls were at school or free to play. But it had been that way for a long time, and she could think of no way of escaping to happier conditions. Mrs. Hoover was no relation to her at all. Bessie had a father and mother, but they had left her with Mrs. Hoover a long time before, and she could scarcely remember them, but she heard about them, her father especially, whenever she did something that Mrs. Hoover didn't like. "Take after your paw--that's what you do, good-for-nothin' little hussy!" the farmer's wife would say. "Leavin' you here on our hands when he went away--an' promisin' to send board money for you. Did, too, for 'bout a year--an' since then never a cent! I've a mind to send you to the county farm, that I have!" "Now, maw," Paw Hoover, a kindly, toil-hardened farmer, would say when he happened to overhear one of these outbursts, "Bessie's a good girl, an' I reckon she earns her keep, don't she, helpin' you like, round the place?" "Earn her keep?" Mrs. Hoover would shrill. "She's so lazy she'd never do anythin' at all if I didn't stand over her. All she's good fer is to eat an' sleep--an' to hide off som'ere's so's she can read them trashy books when she ought to be reddin' up or doin' her chores!" And Paw Hoover would sigh and retire, beaten in the argument. He knew his wife too well to argue with her. But he liked Bessie, and he did his best to comfort her when he had the chance, and thought there was no danger of starting a dispute with his wife. Bessie finished her dishes, and then she went out obediently to the wood pile, and set to work to chop kindling. She had been up since daylight--and the sun rose early on those summer mornings. Every bone and muscle in her tired little body ached, but she knew well that Mrs. Hoover had been listening to the work of washing the dishes, and she dared not rest lest her taskmistress descend upon her again when the noise ceased. Mrs. Hoover came out after she had been chopping wood for a few minutes and eyed her crossly. "'Pears to me like you're mighty slow," she said, complainingly. "When you get that done there's butter to be made. So don't be all day about it." But the wood was hard, and though Bessie worked diligently enough, her progress was slow. She was still at it when Mrs. Hoover, dressed in her black silk dress and with her best bonnet on her head, appeared again. "I'm goin' to drive into town," she said. "An' if that butter ain't done when I get back, I'll--" She didn't finish her threat in words, but Bessie had plenty of memories of former punishments. She made no answer, and Mrs. Hoover, still scowling, finally went off. As if that had been a signal, another girl appeared suddenly from the back of the woodshed. She was as dark as Bessie was fair, a mischievous, black-eyed girl, who danced like a sprite as she approached Bessie. Her brown legs were bare, her dress was even more worn and far dingier than Bessie's, which was clean and neat. She was smiling as Bessie saw her. "Oh, Zara, aren't you afraid to come here?" said Bessie, alarmed, although Zara was her best and almost her only friend. "You know what she said she'd do if she ever caught you around here again?" "Yes, I know," said Zara, seating herself on a stump and swinging her legs to and fro, after she had kissed Bessie, still laughing. "I'm not afraid of her, though, Bessie. She'd never catch me--she can't run fast enough! And if she ever touched me--" The smile vanished suddenly from Zara's olive skinned face. Her eyes gleamed. "She'd better look out for herself!" she said. "She wouldn't do it again!" "Oh, Zara, it's wrong to talk that way," said Bessie. "She's been good to me. She's looked after me all this time--and when I was sick she was ever so nice to me--" "Pooh!" said Zara. "Oh, I know I'm not good and sweet like you, Bessie! The teacher says that's why the nice girls won't play with me. But it isn't. I know--and it's the same way with you. If we had lots of money and pretty clothes and things like the rest of them, they wouldn't care. Look at you! You're nicer than any of them, but they don't have any more to do with you than with me. It's because we're poor." "I don't believe it's that, Zara. They know that I haven't got time to play with them, and that I can't ask them here, or go to their houses if they ask me. Some time--" "You're too good, Bessie. You never get angry at all. You act as if you ought to be grateful to Maw Hoover for looking after you. Don't she make you work like a hired girl, and pay you nothin' for it? You work all the time--she'd have to pay a hired girl good wages for what you do, and treat her decently, beside. You're so nice that everyone picks on you, just 'cause they know they can do it and you won't hit back." Glad of a chance to rest a little, Bessie had stopped her work to talk to Zara, and neither of the two girls heard a stealthy rustling among the leaves back of the woodshed, nor saw a grinning face that appeared around the corner. The first warning that they had that they were not alone came when a long arm reached out suddenly and a skinny, powerful hand grasped Zara's arm and dragged her from her perch. "Caught ye this time, ain't I?" said the owner of the hand and arm, appearing from around the corner of the shed. "My, but Maw'll pickle yer when she gits hold of yer!" "Jake Hoover!" exclaimed Bessie, indignantly. "You big sneak, you! Let her go this instant! Aren't you ashamed of yourself, hurtin' her like that?" Zara, caught off her guard, had soon collected herself, and begun to struggle in his grasp like the wild thing she was. But Jake Hoover only laughed, leering at the two girls. He was a tall, lanky, overgrown boy of seventeen, and he was enjoying himself thoroughly. He seemed to have inherited all his mother's meanness of disposition and readiness to find fault and to take delight in the unhappiness of others. Now, as Zara struggled, he twisted her wrist to make her stop, and only laughed at her cries of pain. "Let her go! She isn't hurting you!" begged Bessie. "Please, Jake, if you do, I'll help you do your chores to-night--I will, indeed!" "You'll have to do 'em anyhow," said Jake, still holding poor Zara. "I've got a dreadful headache. I'm too sick to do any work to-night." He made a face that he thought was comical. Zara, realizing that she was helpless against his greater strength, had stopped struggling, and he turned on her suddenly with a vicious glare. "I know why you're hangin' 'round here," he said. "They took that worthless critter you call your paw off to jail jest now--and you're tryin' to steal chickens till he comes out." "That ain't true!" she exclaimed. "My father never stole anything. They're just picking on him because he's a foreigner and can't talk as well as some of them--" "They've locked him up, anyhow," said Jake. "An' now I'm goin' to lock you up, too, an' keep you here till maw comes home--right here in the woodshed, where you'll be safe!" And despite her renewed struggling and Bessie's tearful protests, he kept his word, thrusting her into the woodshed and locking the great padlock on the door, while she screamed in futile rage, and kicked wildly at the door. Then, with a parting sneer for Bessie, he went off, carrying the key with him. "Listen, Zara," said Bessie, sobbing. "Can you hear me?" "Yes. I'm all right, Bessie. Don't you cry! He didn't hurt me any." "I'll try and get a key so I can let you out before she comes home. If she finds you in there, she'll give you a beating, just like she said. I've got to go churn some milk into butter now, but I'll be back as soon as ever I can. Don't you worry! I'll get you out of there all right." "Please try, Bessie! I'm so worried about what he said about my father. It can't be true--but how would he ever think of such a story? I want to get home and find out." "You keep quiet. I'll find some way to get you out," promised Bessie, loyally. And, stirred to a greater anger than she had ever felt by Jake Hoover's bullying of poor Zara, she went off to attend to her churning. Jake, as a matter of fact, was responsible for a good deal of Bessie's unhappiness. As a child he had been sickly, and he had continued, long after he had outgrown his weakness, and sprouted up into a lanky, raw-boned boy, to trade upon the fears his parents had once felt for him. Among boys of his own age he was unpopular. He had early become a bully, abusing smaller and weaker boys. Bessie he had long made a mark for his sallies of wit. He taunted her interminably about the way her father and mother had left her; he pulled her hair, and practiced countless other little tricks that she could not resent. His father tried to reprove him at times, but his mother always rushed to his defence, and in her eyes he could do no wrong. She upheld him against anyone who had a bad word to say concerning him--and, of course, Bessie got undeserved rebukes for many of his misdeeds. He soon learned that he could escape punishment by making it seem that she had done things of which he was accused, and, as his word was always taken against hers, no matter what the evidence was, he had only increased his mother's dislike for the orphaned girl. The whole village shared Maw Hoover's dislike of Zara and her father. He had settled down two or three years before in an abandoned house, but no one seemed to understand how he lived. He disappeared for days at a time, but he seemed always to have money enough to pay his way, although never any more. And in the village there were dark rumors concerning him. Gossip accused him of being a counterfeiter, who made bad money in the abandoned house he had taken for his own, and that seemed to be the favorite theory. And whenever chickens were missed, dark looks were cast at Zara and her father. He looked like a gypsy, and he would never answer questions about himself. That was enough to condemn him. Bessie finished her churning quickly, and then went back, hoping either to make Jake relent or find some way of releasing the prisoner in the woodshed. But she could see no sign of Jake. The summer afternoon had become dark. In the west heavy black clouds were forming, and as Bessie looked about it grew darker and darker. Evidently a thunder shower was approaching. That meant that Maw Hoover would hurry home. If she was to help Zara she must make haste. Jake, it seemed, had the only key that would open the padlock and Bessie, though she knew that she would be punished for it, determined to try to break the lock with a stone. She told Zara what she meant to do, and set to work. It was hard work, but her fingers were willing, and Zara's frightened pleading, as the thunder began to roar, and flashes of lightning came to her through the cracks in the woodshed, urged her on. And then, just as she was on the verge of success, she heard Jake's coarse laugh in her ear. "Look out!" he shouted. He stood in the kitchen door, and, as she turned, something fell, hissing, at her feet. She started back, terrified. Jake laughed, and threw another burning stick at her. He had taken a shovelful of embers from the fire, and now he tossed them at her so that she had to dance about to escape the sparks. It was a dangerous game, but one that Jake loved to play. He knew that Bessie was afraid of fire, and he had often teased her in that fashion. But suddenly Bessie shrieked in real terror. As yet, though the approaching storm blackened the sky, there was no rain. But the wind was blowing almost a gale, and Bessie saw a little streamer of flame run up the side of the woodshed. "The shed's on fire! You've set it on fire!" she shrieked. "Quick--give me that key!" Jake, really frightened then, ran toward her with the key in his hand. "Get some water!" Bessie called to him. "Quick!" And she unlocked the padlock and let Zara, terrified by the fire, out. But Jake stood there stupidly, and, fanned by the wind, the flames spread rapidly. "Gosh, now you have done it!" he said. "Maw'll just about skin you alive for that when I tell her you set the shed afire!" Bessie turned a white face toward him. "You wouldn't say that!" she exclaimed. But she saw in his scared face that he would tell any lie that would save him from the consequences of his recklessness. And with a sob of fright she turned to Zara. "Come, Zara!" she cried. "Get away!" "Come with me!" said Zara. "She'll believe you did it! Come with me!" And Bessie, too frightened and tired to think much, suddenly yielded to her fright, and ran with Zara out into the woods. CHAPTER II AN UNJUST ACCUSATION They had not gone far when the rain burst upon them. They stuck to the woods to avoid meeting Maw Hoover on her way home, and as the first big drops pattered down among the trees Zara called a halt. "It's going to rain mighty hard," she said. "We'd better wait here and give it a chance to stop a little before we cross the clearing. We'll get awful wet if we go on now." Bessie, shivering with fright, and half minded, even now, to turn back and take any punishment Maw Hoover chose to give her, looked up through the trees. The lightning was flashing. She turned back--and the glare of the burning woodshed helped her to make up her mind to stay with Zara. As they looked the fire, against the black background of the storm, was terrifying in the extreme. "You'd never think that shed would make such a blaze, would you?" said Zara, trembling. "I'd like to kill that Jake Hoover! How did he set it on fire?" "He must have been watching me all the time when I was trying to help you to get out," said Bessie. "Then, when I was nearly done, he called to me, and then he began throwing the burning wood at me. He knows I hate that--he's done it before. I can always get out of the way. He doesn't throw them very near me, really. But two or three times the sparks have burned holes in my dress and Maw Hoover's been as mad as she could be. So she thinks anyhow that I play around the fire, and she'd never believe I didn't do it." "The rain ought to put the fire out," said Zara presently, after they had remained in silence for a few moments. "But I think it's beginning to stop a little now." "It is, and the fire's still burning, Zara. It seems to me it's brighter than ever. And listen--when it isn't thundering. Don't you hear a noise as if someone was shouting back there?" Zara listened intently. "Yes," she said. "And it sounds as if they were chopping with axes, too. I hope the fire hasn't spread and reached the house, Bessie." Bessie shivered. "I hope so, too, Zara. But it's not my fault, anyhow. You and I know that, even if no one believes us. It was Jake Hoover who did it, and he'll be punished for it some time, I guess, whether his maw ever finds it out or not." They waited a few minutes longer for the rain to stop, and then, as it grew lighter, they began to move on. They could see a heavy cloud of smoke from the direction of the farmhouse, but no more flames, and now, as the thunder grew more and more distant, they could hear shouting more plainly. Evidently help had come--Paw Hoover, probably, seeing the fire, and rushing up from the fields with his hired men and the neighbors to put it out. "Zara," said Bessie, suddenly, "suppose Jake was telling the truth? Suppose they have taken your father away? You know they have said things about him, and lots of people believe he is a bad man. I never did. But suppose they really have taken him, what will you do?" "I don't know. Stay there, I suppose. But, Bessie, it can't be true!" "Maybe they wouldn't let you stay. When Mary Morton's mother died last year and left her alone, they took her to the poorhouse. Maybe they'd make you go there, too." "They shan't!" cried Zara, her eyes flashing through her tears. "I--I'll run away--I'll do anything--" "I'm going to run away, myself," said Bessie, quietly. She had been doing a lot of thinking. "No one could make me work harder than Maw Hoover, and they'd pay me for doing it. I'm going to get as far away as I can and get a real job." Zara looked at Bessie, usually so quiet and meek, in surprise. There was a determined note in Bessie's voice that she had never heard there before. "We'll stick together, you and I, Zara," said Bessie. "I'm afraid something _has_ happened to your father. And if that's so, we'd better not go right up to your house. We'd better wait until it's dark, and go there quietly, so that we can listen, and see if there's anyone around looking for you." "But we won't get any supper!" said poor Zara. "And I'm hungry already!" "We'll find berries and nuts, and we can easily find a spring where we can drink all we want," said Bessie. "I guess we've got to look out for ourselves now, Zara. There's no one else to do it for us." And Bessie, the meek, the quiet, the subdued, from that moment took command. Always before Zara had seemed the plucky one of the two. She had often urged Bessie to rebel against Maw Hoover's harshness, and it had been always Bessie who had hung back and refused to do anything that might make trouble. But now, when the time for real action had come, and Bessie recognized it, it was she who made the plans and decided what was to be done. Bessie knew the woods well, far better than Zara. Unerringly she led the way to a spot she knew, where a farm had been allowed to drift back to wild country, and pointed out some cherry trees. "Some berries aren't good to eat, but I know those cherries," said Bessie. "They used to be the best trees in the whole county years ago--Paw Hoover's told me that. Some believe that they're no good now, because no one has looked after the trees, but I know they're fine. I ate some only the other day, and they're ripe and delicious. So we'll have supper off these trees." Zara, as active as a little cat, climbed the tree at once, and in a moment she was throwing down the luscious fruit to Bessie, who gathered it in her apron and called to Zara when she had picked enough of the big, round cherries. "Aren't they good, Zara? Eat as many as you want. They're not like a real supper of meat and potatoes and things like that, you know, but they'll keep us from feeling hungry." "They certainly will, Bessie. I'd never have known about them. But then I haven't lived long enough in the country to know it the way you do. I've been in cities all my life." "Yes, and if we get to the city, Zara, you'll know lots of things and be able to tell me all about them. It must be wonderful." "I suppose it is, Bessie, but I never thought of it that way. It must have been because I was used to everything of that sort. When you see things every day you get so that you don't think anything about them. I used to laugh at people from the country when I'd see them staring up at the high buildings, and jumping when an automobile horn tooted anywhere near them." "I suppose it must have seemed funny to you." "Yes, but I was sorry when I came out here and saw that everyone was laughing at me. There were all sorts of things I'd never seen or thought about. I'm really only just beginning to get used to them now. Bessie, it's getting pretty dark. Won't the moon be up soon?" "Not for an hour or two yet, Zara. But it is dark now--we'd better begin walking toward your house. We want to get there while it stays dark, and before the old moon does get up. It'll be just as bright as daylight then, and they'd be able to see us. I tell you what--we want to keep off the road. We'll go through the woods till we get a chance to cut through Farmer Weeks' cornfield. That'll bring us out behind your place, and we can steal up quietly." "You'd think we'd been doing something wrong, Bessie. It seems mighty mean for us to have to sneak around that way." "It's all right as long as we know we haven't done anything that isn't right, Zara. That's the chief thing. If you do right, people will find it out sooner or later, even if they think at first that you're bad. Sometimes it takes a long time, but Paw Hoover says he's never known it to fail that a bad man gets found out sooner or later." "Then Jake Hoover'd better look out," said Zara, viciously. "He's lied so much, and done so many mean things that you've got the blame for, that he'll have an awful lot to make up for when he starts in. What would Paw Hoover do to him if he knew he'd set the woodshed on fire, Bessie?" "I don't know. He'd be awful mad. He hasn't got so awful much money, you know, and he needs it all for the farm. But Maw Hoover thinks Jake's all right. She'd find some excuse for him. She always does when he does get found out. That happens sometimes, you know. He can't always make them think I've done it." "I guess maybe that's why he's so mean, Bessie. Don't you think so?" "Shouldn't wonder, Zara. I don't believe he stops to think half the time. Here we are! We'll cut through the fence. Careful as we go through--keep to the lanes between the stalks. We mustn't hurt the corn, you know." "I'd like to pull up every stalk! These people 'round here have been mean and ugly to my father ever since we came here." "That isn't right, though, Zara. It won't do you any good to hurt them in return. If you do wrong, too, just because they have, you'll be just as bad as they are." "Oh, I know, but they've said all sorts of awful things, and if they've put him in prison now--" She stopped, with a sob, and Bessie took her hand. "Cheer up, Zara. We don't know that anything of that sort has happened yet, and, even if it has, it will come out all right. If your father hasn't done anything wrong, they can't punish him. He'll get a fair trial if he's been arrested, and they can't prove he's done anything unless he has, you know." "But if they lied about him around here, mightn't they lie the same afterward--at the trial, Bessie? I'm frightened; really I am!" "Hush, Zara! There's your house, and there's a light! That means there's someone there. I hope it's your father, but it might be someone else, and we mustn't let them hear us." The two girls were out of the cornfield now, and, crossing a little patch of swampy land, came to the little garden around Zara's house, where her father had planted a few vegetables that helped to feed him and Zara. The house was little better than a cabin, a rough affair, tumbled down in spots, with a sagging roof, and stained and weather-worn boards. It had no second floor at all, and it was a poor, cheap apology for a dwelling, all around. But, after all, it was Zara's home, the only home she knew, and she was so tired and discouraged that all she wanted was to get safely inside and throw herself down on her hard bed to sleep. "Listen!" whispered Bessie, suddenly. From the room into which the kitchen led there came a murmur of voices. At first, though they strained their ears, they could make nothing out of the confused sounds of talk. But gradually they recognized voices, and Bessie turned pale as she heard Paw Hoover's, easy for her to know, since his deep tones rumbled out in the quiet night. Zara recognized them, too, and clutched Bessie's arm. "My father isn't there!" she whispered. "If he was, I'd hear him." "There's Farmer Weeks--and I believe that's Jake Hoover's voice, too," said Bessie, also in a whisper. Then the door was opened, and the two girls huddled closer together, shivering, afraid that they would be discovered. But it seemed that Paw Hoover had only opened the door to get a little air, since the night was very hot after the storm. About them the insects were making their accustomed din, and a little breeze rustled among the treetops. But, with the door open, they could hear what was being said plainly enough. "I ain't goin' to wait here all night, Brother Weeks," said Paw Hoover. "Got troubles enough of my own, what with the woodshed settin' fire to the house!" "Oh!" whispered Bessie. "Did you hear that, Zara? It was worse than we thought." "Huh!" said Weeks, a rough, hard man, who found it hard to get men to work when he needed them for the harvest every summer, on account of his reputation for treating his men badly. "I allus told you you'd have trouble with that baggage afore you got rid of her, Paw! Lucky that she didn't burn you out when you was all asleep--I say," said Jake. Bessie listened, every nerve and muscle in her body tense. They blamed her for the fire, then! Her instinct when she had run away had been right. "I swan, I dunno what all possessed her," said Paw Hoover. "We give her a good home--but Jake here seen her do it, though he was too late to stop her--hey, Jake?" "That's right, Pop," said Jake. "She didn't know I was aroun' anywhere. Say, you ought to have her pinched for doin' it, too." "I dunno--she's only a youngster," said Paw. "I guess they wouldn't hold her responsible, somehow. But say, Brother Weeks, I hate to think of that little Zara runnin' roun' the woods to-night. She ain't done nothin' wrong, even if her paw's a crook. An' now they took him off, who's a-goin' to look out for her?" "I'll drive her over to the poor-farm when she turns up," said Weeks. "Then they'll take her, an' apprentice her to someone as wants a girl to work aroun' his place, like. Bind her over till she's twenty-one, and let her work for her keep. I might take her myself--guess 'twouldn't cost such a lot to feed her. She's thin--reckon she ain't ever had much to eat here." Bessie, feeling the tremor in Zara's rigid body at this confirmation of her worst fears, put her hand quickly over her friend's mouth, just in time to check a cry that was rising to her lips. "Come, Zara," she whispered, gently. "We'll have to look out for ourselves. Come, we'll get away. We mustn't stay around here." And, holding Zara's arm, she led her away. For a long time, until Bessie judged that it was safe to return to the road, they kept on through the woods. And, when they came out on the road, the moon was up. "The world's a beautiful place after all, Zara," said Bessie. "It can't be so bad when everything's so lovely. Come on, we'll walk a little further, and then we'll come to a place I know where we can sleep to-night--a place where wood cutters used to stay. No one's there now, and we'll be dry and safe." "I'm not afraid if I'm with you, Bessie," said Zara. CHAPTER III WO-HE-LO Two or three miles further along the road, Bessie spied the landmark she had been looking for. "We'll turn off here," she said, "Cheer up, Zara. It won't be long now before we can go to sleep." The full moon made it easy to pick their way along the wood path that Bessie followed, and before long they came to a small lake. On its far side, among the trees near the shore, a fire was burning, flickering up from time to time, and sending dancing shadows on the beach. "There's someone over there, Bessie," said Zara, frightened at the sign of human habitation. "They won't hurt us, Zara," said Bessie, stoutly. "Probably they won't even know that we're around, if we don't make any noise, or any fire of our own. Here we are--here's the hut! See? Isn't it nice and comfortable? Hurry now and help me to pick up some of these branches of pine trees. They'll make a comfortable bed for us, and well sleep just as well as if we were at home--or a lot better, because there'll be no one to be cross and make trouble for us in the morning." Bessie arranged the branches, and in a few moments they were asleep, lying close together. Pine branches make an ideal bed, but, even had their couch been uncomfortable, the two girls would have slept well that night; they were too tired to do anything else. It was long after midnight, and both had been through enough to exhaust them. The sense of peace and safety that they found in this refuge in the woods more than made up for the strangeness of their surroundings, and when they awoke the sun was high. It was the sound of singing in the sweet, fresh voices of girls that aroused them in the end. And Bessie, the first to wake up, aroused Zara, and then peeped from the door of the cabin. There on the beach, their hair spread out in the sun, were half a dozen girls in bathing dresses. Beside them were a couple of canoes, drawn up on the beach, and they were laughing and singing merrily as they dried their hair. Looking over across the lake, in the direction of the fire she had seen the night before, Bessie saw that it was still burning. A pillar of smoke rose straight in the still air, and beyond it, gleaming among the trees, Bessie saw the white sides of three or four tents. Astonished, she called Zara. "They're not from around here, Zara," she whispered, not ready yet for the strangers to discover her. "Girls around here don't swim--it's only the boys who do that." "I'll bet they're from the city and here on a vacation," said Zara. "They look awful happy, Zara. Isn't that lady with the brown hair pretty? And she's older than the rest, too. You can see that, can't you?" "Listen, Bessie! She just called one of the girls. And did you hear what she called her? Minnehaha--that's a funny name, isn't it?" "It's an Indian name, Zara. It means Laughing Water. That's the name of the girl that Hiawatha loved, in the poem. I've read that, haven't you?" "I've never been able to read very much, Bessie. But that girl isn't an Indian. She's ever so much lighter than I am--she's as fair as you. And Indians are red, aren't they?" "She's not an Indian, Zara. That's right enough. It must be some sort of a game. Oh, listen!" For the older girl, the one Zara had pointed out, had spied Bessie's peeping face suddenly. "Look, girls!" she cried, pointing. And then, without a word of signal all the girls suddenly broke out into a song--a song Bessie had never heard before. "Wohelo for aye, Wohelo for aye, Wohelo, Wohelo, Wohelo for aye; Wohelo for work, Wohelo for health, Wohelo, Wohelo, Wohelo for love!" As they ended the song, all the girls, with laughing faces, followed the eyes of their leader and looked at Bessie, who, frightened at first when she saw that she had been discovered, now returned the look shyly. There was something so kind, so friendly, about the manner of these strange girls that her fear had vanished. "Won't you come out and talk to us?" asked the leader of the crowd. She came forward alone toward the door of the cabin, looking at Bessie with interest. "My name is Wanaka--that is, my Camp Fire name," said the stranger. "We are Manasquan Camp Fire Girls, you know, and we've been camping out by this lake. Do you live here?" "No--not exactly, ma'am," said Bessie, still a little shy. "Then you must be camping out, too? It's fun, isn't it? But you're not alone, are you? Didn't I see another head peeping out?" "That's Zara. She's my friend, and she's with me," said Bessie. "And my name's Bessie King." She looked curiously at Wanaka. Bessie had never heard of the Camp Fire Girls, and the great movement they had begun, meant to do for American girls what the Boy Scout movement had begun so well for their brothers. "Well, won't you and Zara spend the day with us, if you are by yourselves?" asked Wanaka. "We'll take you over to camp in the canoes, and you can have dinner with us. We're going back now to cook it. The other girls have begun to prepare it already." "Oh, we'd like to!" cried Bessie. "I'm awfully hungry--and I'm sure Zara is, too." Bessie hadn't meant to say that. But the thought of a real meal had been too much for her. "Hungry!" cried Wanaka. "Why, haven't you had breakfast? Did you oversleep?" She looked about curiously. And Bessie saw that she could not deceive this tall, slim girl, with the wise eyes that seemed to see everything. "We--we haven't anything to eat," she said. And suddenly she was overcome with the thought of how hard things were going to be, especially for Zara, and tears filled her eyes. "You shall tell me all about it afterwards," said Wanaka, with decision. "Just now you've got to come over with us and have something to eat, right away. Girls, launch the canoes! We have two guests here who haven't had any breakfast, and they're simply starving to death." Any girls Bessie had ever known would have rushed toward her at once, overwhelming her with questions, fussing around, and getting nothing done. But these girls were different. They didn't talk; they did things. In a moment, as it seemed, the canoes were in the water, and Bessie and Zara had been taken into different boats. Then, at a word from Wanaka, the paddles rose and dipped into the water, and with two girls paddling each canoe, one at the stern and one at the bow, they were soon speeding across the lake, which, at this point, was not more than a quarter of a mile wide. Once ashore, Wanaka said a few words to other girls who were busy about the fire, and in less than a minute the savory odor of frying bacon and steaming coffee rose from the fire. Zara gave a little sigh of perfect content. "Oh, doesn't that smell good?" she said. Bessie smiled. "It certainly does, and it's going to taste even better than it smells," she answered, happily. They sat down, cross-legged, near the fire, and the girls of the camp, quiet and competent, and asking them no questions, waited on them. Bessie and Zara weren't used to that. They had always had to wait on others, and do things for other people; no one had ever done much for them. It was a new experience, and a delightful one. But Bessie, seeing Wanaka's quiet eyes fixed upon her, realized that the time for explanations would come when their meal was over. And, sure enough, after Bessie and Zara had eaten until they could eat no more, Wanaka came to her, gently, and took her by the hand. She seemed to recognize that Bessie must speak for Zara as well as for herself. "Now suppose we go off by ourselves and have a little talk, Bessie," she suggested. "I'm sure you have something to tell me, haven't you?" "Yea, indeed, Miss Wanaka," said Bessie. She knew that in Wanaka she had found, by a lucky chance, a friend she could trust and one who could give her good advice. Wanaka smiled at her as she led the way to the largest of the tents. "Just call me Wanaka, not Miss Wanaka," she said. "My name is Eleanor Mercer, but here in the camp and wherever the Camp Fire Girls meet we often call one another by our ceremonial names. Some of us--most of us--like the old Indian names, and take them, but not always." "Now," she said, when they were alone together in the tent, "tell me all about it, Bessie. Haven't you any parents? Or did they let you go out to spend the night all alone in the woods that way?" Then Bessie told her the whole story. Wanaka watched her closely as Bessie told of her life with the Hoovers, of her hard work and drudgery, and of Jake's persecution. Her eyes narrowed slightly as Bessie described the scene at the woodshed, and told of how Jake had locked Zara in to wait for her mother's return, and of his cruel and dangerous trick with the burning embers. "Did he really tell his father that you had set the shed on fire--and on purpose?" asked Wanaka, rather sternly. "He was afraid of what would happen to him if they knew he'd done it," said Bessie. "I guess he didn't stop to think about what they'd do to me. He was just frightened, and wanted to save himself." Wanaka looked at her very kindly. "These people aren't related to you at all, are they?" she asked. "You weren't bound to them--they didn't agree to keep you any length of time and have you work for them in return for your board?" "No," said Bessie. "Then, if that's so, you had a right to leave them whenever you liked," said Wanaka, thoughtfully. "And tell me about Zara. Who is her father? What does he do for a living?" "I don't believe she even knows that herself. They used to live in the city, but they came out here two or three years ago, and he's never gone around with the other men, because he can't speak English very well. He's some sort of a foreigner, you see. And when they took him off to prison Zara was left all alone. He used to stay around the cabin all the time, and Zara says he would work late at night and most of the day, too, making things she never saw. Then he'd go off for two or three days at a time, and Zara thought he went to the city, because when he came back he always had money--not very much, but enough to buy food and clothes for them. And she said he always seemed to be disappointed and unhappy when he came back." "And the people in the village thought he was a counterfeiter--that he made bad money?" "That's what Maw Hoover and Jake said. _They_ thought so, I know." "People think they know a lot when they're only guessing, sometimes, Bessie. A man has a right to keep his business to himself if he wants to, as long as he doesn't do anything that's wrong. But why didn't Zara stay? If her father was cleared and came back, they couldn't keep her at the poor-farm or make her go to work for this Farmer Weeks you speak of." "I don't know. She was afraid, and so was I. They call her a gypsy because she's so dark. And people say she steals chickens. I know she doesn't, because once or twice when they said she'd done that, she'd been in the woods with me, walking about. And another time I saw a hawk swoop down and take one of Maw Hoover's hens, and she was always sure that Zara'd done that." Wanaka had watched Bessie very closely while she told her story. Bessie's clear, frank eyes that never fell, no matter how Wanaka stared into them, seemed to the older girl a sure sign that Bessie was telling the truth. "It sounds as if you'd had a pretty hard time, and as if you hadn't had much chance," she said, gravely. "It's strange about your parents." Bessie's eyes filled with tears. "Oh, something must have happened to them--something dreadful," she said. "Or else I'm sure they would never have left me that way. And I don't believe what Maw Hoover was always saying--that they were glad to get rid of me, and didn't care anything about me." "Neither do I," said Wanaka. "Bessie, I want to help you and Zara. And I think I can--that we all can, we Camp Fire Girls. You know that's what we live for--to help people, and to love them and serve them. You heard us singing the Wohelo cheer when we first saw you. Wohelo means work, and health, and love. You see, it's a word we made up by taking the first two letters of each of those words. I tell you what I'm going to do. You and Zara must stay with us here to-day. The girls will look after you. And I'm going into the village and while I'm there I'll see how things are." "You won't tell Maw Hoover where we are; or Farmer Weeks?" cried Bessie. "I'll do the right thing, Bessie," said Wanaka, smiling. "You may be sure of that. I believe what you've told me--I believe every word of it. But you'd rather have me find out from others, too, I'm sure. You see, it would be very wrong for us to help girls to run away from home. But neither you nor Zara have done that, if your story is right. And I think it is our duty to help you both, just as it is our pleasure." CHAPTER IV AN UNEXPECTED FRIEND Bessie wasn't afraid of what Wanaka would find out in Hedgeville. Wanaka wouldn't take Jake Hoover's word against hers, that much was sure. And she guessed that Wanaka would have her own ways of discovering the truth. So, as Wanaka changed from her bathing suit to a costume better suited to the trip to the village, Bessie went out with a light heart to find Zara. Already she thought that she saw the way clear before them. With friends, there was no reason why they should not reach the city and make their own way there, as plenty of other girls had done. And it seemed to Bessie that Wanaka meant to be a good friend. "Oh, Bessie, have you been hearing all about the Camp Fire, too?" asked Zara, when she espied her friend, "It's wonderful! They do all sorts of things. And Minnehaha is going to teach me to swim this afternoon. She'll teach you, too, if you like." But Bessie only smiled in answer. She could swim already, but she said nothing about it, since no one asked her, seeming to take it for granted that, like Zara, she was unused to the water. Moreover, while she could swim well enough, she was afraid that she would look clumsy and awkward in comparison to the Camp Fire Girls. Most of them had changed their clothes now, before dinner. Some wore short skirts and white blouses; one or two were in a costume that Bessie recognized at once as that of Indian maidens, from the pictures she had seen in the books she had managed to get at the Hoover farmhouse. She noticed, too, that many of them now wore strings of beads, and that all wore rings. Two or three of the girls, too, wore bracelets, strangely marked, and all had curious badges on their right sleeves. "We've got to wash the dishes, now," said Minnehaha, who bore out her name by laughing and smiling most of the time. She had already told Zara that her real name was Margery Burton. "You sit down and rest, and when we've done, we'll talk to you and tell you more about the Camp Fire Girls and all the things we do." "No, indeed," said Bessie, laughing back. "That won't do at all. You cooked our meal; now we'll certainly help to clean up. That's something I can do, and I'm going to help." Zara, too, insisted on doing her share, and the time passed quickly as the girls worked. Then, when the things were cleaned and put away, and some preparations had been made for the evening meal, Zara begged to have her first swimming lesson at once. "No, we'll have to wait a little while for that," said Minnehaha. "We must wait until Wanaka comes back. She's our Guardian, you see, and it's a rule that we mustn't go into the water unless she's here, no matter how well we swim, unless, of course, we have to, to help someone who is drowning. And it's too soon after dinner, too. It's bad for you to go into the water less than two hours after a meal. We're always careful about that, because we have to be healthy. That's one of the chief reasons we have the Camp Fire." "Tell us about it," begged Zara, sitting down. "You see this ring?" said Minnehaha, proudly. She pointed to her ring, a silver band with an emblem,--seven fagots. "We get a ring like that when we join," she explained. "That's the Wood-Gatherer's ring, and the National Council gives it to us. Those seven fagots each stand for one of the seven points of the law of the fire." "What are they, Minnehaha?" "They're easy to remember: 'Seek Beauty; Give Service; Pursue Knowledge; Be Trustworthy; Hold on to Health; Glorify Work; Be Happy.' If you want to do all those things--and I guess everyone does--you can be a Wood-Gatherer. Then, later on, you get to be a Fire-Maker, and, after that, a Torch-Bearer. And when you get older, if you do well, you can be a Guardian, and be in charge of a Camp Fire yourself. You see, there are Camp Fires all over. There are a lot of them in our city, and in every city. And there are more and more all the time. The movement hasn't been going on very long, but it's getting stronger all the time." "Are you a Fire-Maker?" "Not yet. If I were, I'd wear a bracelet, like Ayu. And instead of just having a bunch of fagots on my sleeve, there'd be a flame coming from them. And then, when I get to be a Torch-Bearer, I'll have a pin, as well as the ring and the bracelet, and there'll be smoke on my badge, as well as fire and wood. But you have to work hard before you can stop being a Wood-Gatherer and get to the higher ranks. We all have to work all the time, you see." "I've had to work, too," said Bessie. "But this seems different because you enjoy your work." "That's because we like to work. We work because we want to do it, not because someone makes us." "Yes, I was thinking of that. I always worked because I had to--Maw Hoover made me." "Who's Maw Hoover, Bessie?" So Bessie told her story, or most of it, all over again, and the other girls, seeing that she was telling a story, crowded around and listened. "I think it's a shame you were treated so badly," said Minnehaha. "But don't you worry--Miss Eleanor will know what to do. She won't let them treat you unfairly. Is she going to find out about things in the village?" "Yes." "Well, you needn't worry any more, then. Why, one of the first things she did in the city, when she started this Camp Fire, was to get us all to work to get better milk for the babies in the poor parts, where the tenement houses are. We all helped, but she did most of it. And now all the milk is good and pure, and the babies don't die any more in the hot weather in summer." "That's fine. I'd like to be a Camp Fire Girl." "Why shouldn't you be one, then?" "But--" Bessie hesitated. After all, why not? Maw Hoover would never have let her do anything like that--but Maw Hoover couldn't stop her from doing anything she liked now. Wanaka had told her what Zara had always said, that Maw Hoover couldn't make her stay, couldn't make her keep on working hard every day for nothing but her board. She had read about girls who had gone to the city and earned money, lots of money, without working any harder than she had always done. Perhaps could do that, too. "You talk to Wanaka about that when she comes back," said Minnehaha, who guessed what Bessie was thinking. "You see her. She'll explain it to you. And you're going to be happy, Bessie. I'm sure of that. When people do right, and still aren't happy for a while, it's always made up to them some way. And usually when they do wrong they have to pay for it, some way or another. That's one of the things we learn in the Camp Fire." "Here comes Wanaka now," said one of the other girls. "There's someone with her." Bessie looked frightened. "I don't want anyone from Hedgeville to see me," she said. "Do you suppose they're coming here?" "Wanaka will come first. See, she's staying on the other side of the lake. It's a man. He's carrying her things. I'll paddle over for her in a canoe. I don't think the man will come with her, but you and Zara go into the tent there. Then you'll be all right. No one would ever think of your being here, or asking any questions." But Bessie watched anxiously. She couldn't make out the face of the man with Wanaka, as she peered from the door of the tent, but if he was from Hedgeville he would know her. Everyone knew the girl at Hoovers', whose father and mother had deserted her. Bessie had long been one of the most interesting people in town to the farmers and the villagers, who had little to distract or amuse them. "Stay quiet, Bessie," warned Minnehaha, as she stepped into the canoe. "You'll be all right if you're not seen. I'll bring Wanaka back right away." With swift, sure strokes, Minnehaha sent the canoe skimming over the water. The other girls were busy in various ways. Some were in the tents, changing their clothes for bathing suits; some had gone into the woods to get fresh water from a spring. For the moment no one was in sight. And suddenly, out of a clear sky, as it seemed, disaster threatened. Clouds had been gathering for some time but the sun was still out, and there seemed no reason to fear any storm. But now there was a sudden roughening of the smooth surface of the water; white caps were lashed up by a squall that broke with no warning at all. And Bessie, filled with horror, saw the canoe overturned by the wind. She saw, too, what eyes less quick would have missed--that the paddle, released from Minnehaha's grasp as the boat upset, struck her on the head. For a moment Bessie stood rooted to the spot in terror. And then, when Minnehaha did not appear, swimming, Bessie acted. Forgotten was the danger that she would be discovered--her fear of the man on the other side of the lake. Wanaka might not have seen, and there was no time to lose. The accident had occurred in the middle of the lake, and Bessie, rushing to the beach, pushed off a canoe and began to drive it toward the other canoe, floating quietly now, bottom up. The squall had passed already. Bessie had never been in a canoe before that day. She made clumsy work of the paddling. But fear for Minnehaha and the need of reaching her at once made up for any lack of skill. Somehow she reached the spot. By that time the other girls had seen what was going on, and help was coming quickly. Some swam and some were in one of the other canoes. But Bessie, catching a one of the most interesting people in town to the farmers and the villagers, who had little to distract or amuse them. "Stay quiet, Bessie," warned Minnehaha, as she stepped into the canoe. "You'll be all right if you're not seen. I'll bring Wanaka back right away." With swift, sure strokes, Minnehaha sent the canoe skimming over the water. The other girls were busy in various ways. Some were in the tents, changing their clothes for bathing suits; some had gone into the woods to get fresh water from a spring. For the moment no one was in sight. And suddenly, out of a clear sky, as it seemed, disaster threatened. Clouds had been gathering for some time but the sun was still out, and there seemed no reason to fear any storm. But now there was a sudden roughening of the smooth surface of the water; white caps were lashed up by a squall that broke with no warning at all. And Bessie, filled with horror, saw the canoe overturned by the wind. She saw, too, what busy with Minnehaha, who soon showed signs of returning consciousness. So Bessie did not see or hear what was going on outside. For the man who had been standing with Wanaka on the other shore had seen Bessie, and he had known her. No wonder, since it was Paw Hoover himself, from whom Wanaka had bought fresh vegetables for the camp. He had insisted on helping her to carry them out, although Wanaka, thinking of Bessie and Zara, had told him she needed no help. But she could not shake him off, and on the way he had told her about the exciting happenings of the previous day, of which, she told him, she had already heard in the village. "By Godfrey!" said Paw Hoover, as he saw the rescue of Minnehaha, "that young one's got pluck, so she has! And, what's more, Miss, I've a suspicion I've seen her before!" Wanaka said nothing, but smiled. What Paw Hoover had told her had done more to confirm the truth of Bessie's story than all the talk she had heard in Hedgeville. She liked the old farmer--and she wondered what he meant to do. He didn't leave her long in doubt. "I'll just go over with you," he said, "if you'll make out to ferry me back here again." And Wanaka dared not refuse. "Had an idea you was askin' a lot of questions," said Paw Hoover, with a chuckle. "Got lots of ideas I keep to myself--'specially at home. An' say, if that's Bessie, I want to see her." Wanaka saw that there was some plan in his mind, and she knew that to try to ward him off would be dangerous. There was nothing to prevent him from returning, later, with Weeks or anyone else. "Bessie!" she called. "Can you come out here a minute?" And Bessie, coming out, came face to face with Paw Hoover! She stared at him, frightened and astonished, but she held her ground. And Paw Hoover's astonishment was as great as her own. This was a new Bessie he had never seen before. She was neatly dressed now in one of Ayu's blue skirts and white blouses, and one of the girls had done up her hair in a new way. "Well, I swan!" he said. "You've struck it rich, ain't you, Bessie? Aimin' to run away and leave us?" Bessie couldn't answer, but Wanaka spoke up. "You haven't any real hold on her, Mr. Hoover," she said. "That's right, that's right!" said Paw Hoover. "I cal'late you've had a hard time once in a while, Bessie. An' I don't believe you ever set that shed afire on purpose. If you hadn't jumped into the water after that other girl I'd never have suspicioned you was here, Bessie. You stay right with these young ladies, if they'll have you. I'll not say a word. An' if you ever get into trouble, you write to me--see?" He looked at her, and sighed. Then he beckoned to her, and took her aside. "Maw's right set on havin' her own way, Bessie," he said. "But she's my wife, an' she's a good one, an' if she makes mistakes, I've got to let her have her way. Reckon I've made enough on 'em myself. Here, you take this. I guess you've earned it, right enough. That fire didn't do no real damage--nothin' we can't fix up in a day or two." Bessie's eyes filled with tears. Paw Hoover was simply proving again what she had always known--that he was a really good and kindly man. She longed to tell him that she hadn't set the barn on fire, that it had been Jake. But she knew he would find it hard to believe that of his son, and that, even if he took her word for it, the knowledge would be a blow. And it would do her no good, so she said nothing of that. "Thank you, Paw," she said. "You always were good to me. I'll never forget you, and sometime I'll come back to see you and all the others. Good-bye!" "Good-bye, Bessie," he said. "You be a good girl and you'll get along all right. And you stick to Miss Mercer there. She'll see that you get along." Not until he had gone did Bessie open her hand and look at the crumpled bill that Paw Hoover had left in it. And then, to her amazed delight, she saw that it was a five-dollar note--more money than she had ever had. She showed it to Wanaka. "I oughtn't to take it," she said. "He thinks I burned his woodshed and--" "But you know you didn't, and I think maybe he knows it, too," said Wanaka, "You needn't think anything of taking that money. You've worked hard enough to earn a lot more than that. Now I've found out that what you told me was just right. I knew it all the time, but I made sure. Bessie, how would you and Zara like to stay with us, and come back to the city when we go? I'll be able to find some way to look after you. You can find work to do that won't be so hard, and you can study, too." "Oh, I'd love that, Wanaka," For the first time Bessie used the name freely. "And can we be Camp Fire Girls?" "You certainly can," said Wanaka. CHAPTER V AN ALARM IN THE NIGHT Bessie, overjoyed by Paw Hoover's kindness and his promise to do nothing toward having her taken back to Hedgeville, spent the rest of the afternoon happily. Indeed, she was happier than she could ever remember having been before. But her joy was dashed when, a little while before supper, she came upon Zara, crying bitterly. Zara had gone off by herself, and Bessie, going to the spring for water, came upon her. "Why, Zara, whatever is the matter? We're all right now," cried Bessie. "I--I know that, Bessie! But I'm so worried about my father!" "Oh, Zara, what a selfish little beast I am! I was so glad to think that I wasn't going to be taken back that I forgot all about him. But cheer up! I'm sure he's done nothing wrong, and I'll talk to Wanaka, and see if there isn't something I can do or that she can do. I believe she can do anything if she makes up her mind she will." "Did she hear anything about him in Hedgeville?" "Only what we knew before, Zara, that they'd come for him and taken him to the city. But Wanaka said she was sure that it is only gossip, and that he needn't be afraid. And we're going to the city, too, you know, so you'll be able to see him." "Will I, Bessie? Then that won't be so bad. If I could only talk to him I'm sure it would seem better. And you must be right--they can't punish a man when he hasn't done anything wrong, can they?" "Of course not," said Bessie, laughing. "In the country where we came from they do, sometimes," said Zara, thoughtfully. "My father has told me about things like that." "In Italy, Zara?" "Yes. We're not Italians, really, but that's where we lived." "But you don't remember anything about that, do you?" "No, but I've been told all about it. We used to live in a white house, on a hillside. And there were lemon trees and olive trees growing there, and all sorts of beautiful things. And you could look out over the blue sea, and see the boats sailing, and away off there was a great mountain." "I should think you'd want to go back there, Zara. It must have been beautiful." "Oh, I've always wanted to see that place, Bessie. Sometimes, my father says, the mountain, would smoke, and fire would come out of it, and the ground would shake. But it never hurt the place where we lived." "That must have been a volcano, Zara." "Yes, that's what he used to call it." "Why did you come over here?" "Because my father was always afraid over there. There were some bad men who hated him, and he said that if he stayed there they would hurt him. And he heard that over here everyone was welcome, and one man was as good as another. But he wasn't, or they never seemed to think so, if he was." Bessie looked very thoughtful. "This is the finest country in the world, Zara," she said. "I've heard that, and I've read it in books, too. But I guess that things go wrong here sometimes. You see, it's this way. Just think of Jake Hoover." "But I don't want to think about him! I want to forget him!" "Well, Jake Hoover explains what I'm thinking about. He's an American, but that isn't the reason he was so mean to us. He'd be mean anywhere, no matter whether he was an American or what. He just can't help it. And I think he'll get over it, anyhow." "There you go, Bessie! He's made all this trouble for you, and you're standing up for him already." "No, I'm not. But what trouble has he made for me, Zara? I'm going to be happier than I ever was back there in Hedgeville--and if it hadn't been for him I'd still be there, and I'd be chopping wood or something right now." "But he didn't mean to make you happier, Bessie. He thought he could get you punished for something he'd done." "Well, I wasn't, so why should I be angry at him, Zara? Even if he did mean to be nasty, he wasn't." "But suppose he'd hurt you some way, without meaning to at all? Would you be angry at him then for hurting you, when he didn't mean to do it?" "Of course not--just because he didn't mean to." "Well, then," said Zara, triumphantly, "you ought to be angry now, if it's what one means to do, and not what one does that counts. I would be." Bessie laughed. For once Zara seemed to have trapped her and beaten her in an argument. "But I don't like to be angry, and to feel revengeful," she said. "It hurts me more than it does the other person. When anything happens that isn't nice it only bothers you as long as you keep on thinking about it, Zara. Suppose someone threw a stone at you, and hit you?" "It would hurt me--and I'd want to throw it back." "But then suppose the stone was thrown, and it didn't hit you, and you didn't even know it had been thrown, you wouldn't be angry then, would you?" "Why, how could I be, Bessie, if I didn't know anything about it?" "Well, don't you see how it worked out, Zara? If you refuse to notice the mean things people do when they don't succeed in hurting you, it's just as if you didn't know anything about it, isn't it? And if the stone was thrown, and you saw it, and knew who'd thrown it, you'd be angry--but you could get over it by just making up your mind to forget it, and acting as if they'd never done it at all." Zara didn't answer for a minute. She was thinking that over. "I guess you're right, Bessie," she said, finally. "That _is_ the best way to do. When I get angry I get all hot inside, and I feel dreadful. I'm going to try not to lose my temper any more." "You'll be a lot happier if you do that," said Bessie. "Now, let's get back to the fire. I've got this water, and they must be waiting for it." So Zara, happy again, and laughing now, helped Bessie with the pail of water, and they went back to the fire together. Everyone was busy, each with some appointed task. Two of the girls were spreading knives and forks, and laying out cups and dishes in a great circle near the water, since all the meals were eaten Indian fashion, sitting on the ground. Others, who had been fishing, were displaying their catch, and cleaning the gleaming trout, soon to be cooked with crisp bacon, and to form the chief dish of the evening meal. Wanaka smiled at them as the two girls appeared with the water. "You're making a good start as Camp Fire Girls," she told them. "We all try to help. Later on, if you like, I'll give you a lesson in cooking." Bessie smiled, but said nothing. And presently she called to Zara and disappeared with her in the woods. "I want to give them a surprise, Zara," she said. "There's quite a long time yet before supper. And I saw an apple tree when I was walking through the woods. Let's go and get some of them." Zara was quite willing, and in half an hour or less the two girls were back in camp with a good load of apples. Then Bessie spoke to Wanaka when the Guardian was alone for the moment. "May I have some flour and sugar?" she said. Wanaka looked at her curiously, but gave her what she wanted. And Bessie, finding a smooth white board, was soon busy rolling pastry. Then when she had made a great deep dish pie, and filled it with the apples, which Zara, meanwhile, had pared and cut, Bessie set to work on what was the most difficult part of her task. First she dug out a hole in the ground and made a fire, small, but very hot, and, in a short time, with the aid of two flat stones, she had constructed a practicable outdoor oven, in which the heat of the embers and cinders was retained by shutting out the air with earth. Then the pie was put in and covered at once, so that no heat could escape, and Bessie, saying nothing about what she had done, went back to help the others. Obeying the unwritten rule of the Camp Fire, which allows the girls to work out their ideas unaided if they possibly can, so as to encourage self-reliance and independence, Wanaka did not ask her what she had done. But when the meal was over Bessie slipped away, while Wanaka was serving out some preserves, and returned in a moment, bearing her pie--nobly browned, with crisp, flaky crust. "I've only made one pie like this before and I never used that sort of an oven," she said, shyly. "So I don't know if it's very good. But I thought I would try it." Bessie, however, need not have worried about the quality of that pie. The rapidity with which it disappeared was the best possible evidence of its goodness, and Wanaka commended her before all the girls, who were willing enough to join the leader in singing Bessie's praises. "My, but that was good!" said Minnehaha. "I wish I could make a pie like that! My pastry is always heavy. Will you show me how when we get home, Bessie?" "Indeed I will!" promised Bessie. And that night, after a spell of singing and story telling about the great fire on the beach, Bessie and Zara went to bed with thoughts very different from those they had had the night before. "Aren't they good to us, Zara?" said Bessie. "They're simply wonderful," said Zara, with shining eyes. "And Wanaka talked to me about my father. She says she has a friend in the city who's a lawyer, and that as soon as we get back she'll speak to him, and get him to see that he is fairly treated. I feel ever so much better." The voices of the girls all about them, laughing and singing as they made ready for the night, and the kindly words of Wanaka, made a great contrast to their loneliness of the night before. Then everything had seemed black and dismal. They hadn't known what they were going to do, or what was to happen to them; they had been hungry and tired, and with no prospect of breakfast when they got up. But now they had more friends, gained in one wonderful day, than they had made before in all their lives, and Wanaka had promised to see that in the future there should always be someone to guide them and see that no one abused them any more. No wonder that they looked on the bright camp fire, symbol of all the happiness that had come to them, with happy eyes. And they listened in delight as the girls gathered, just before they went to bed, and sang the good-night song: "Lay me to sleep in sheltering flame, Oh, Master of the Hidden Fire. Wash pure my heart and cleanse for me My soul's desire. In flame of sunrise bathe my mind, Oh, Master of the Hidden Fire, That when I wake, clear eyed may be My soul's desire." And so, with the flames' light flickering before them, Bessie and Zara went to sleep sure of happiness and companionship when they awoke in the morning, with the first rays of the rising sun shining into the tents. But Bessie was to awake before that. She lay near the door of one of the tents, which she shared with Zara, Minnehaha, and two other girls, and she awoke suddenly, coming at once to full consciousness, as anyone who had been brought up with Maw Hoover to wake her every morning was pretty certain to do at any unusual sound. For a moment, so deep was the silence, she thought that she had been deceived. In the distance an owl called; much nearer, there was an answer. A light wind rustled in the trees, stirring the leaves gently as it moved. Looking out, she saw that a faint, silvery sheen still bathed the ground outside, showing that the moon, which had risen late, was not yet set. And then the sound that had awakened her came again--a curious, hoarse call, given in imitation of a whip-poor-will, but badly done. No bird had uttered that cry, and Bessie, country bred, listening intently, knew it. Silently she rose and slipped on moccasins that belonged to Minnehaha, and a dress. And then, making no more noise than a cat would have done, she crept to the opening in the front of the tent and peeped out. For Bessie had recognized the author of that imitation of the bird's call, and she knew that there was mischief afoot. Still intent on keeping the alarm she felt from the others, until she knew whether there was a real cause for it, Bessie slipped out of the tent and into the shadow of the trees. The camp fire still burned, flickering in the darkness, and making great, weird shadows, as the light fell upon the trees. It had been built up and banked before the camp went to sleep, and in the morning it would still be burning, although faintly, ready for the first careful attentions of the appointed Wood-Gatherers, whose duty it was to see that the fire did not die. Bessie, fearing that she might be spied upon, had to keep in the darkness, and she twisted and turned from the trunk of one tree to the next, bending over close to the ground when she had to cross an open space where firelight or moonbeams might reveal her to watching eyes. And now and again, crudely given, as crudely answered, from further down the lake, the call of the mock whip-poor-will guided her in her quest. And Bessie, plucking up all the courage she could muster, still trembled slightly, more from nervousness than from actual fear, for she knew whose voice it was that was imitating the plaintive bird--Jake Hoover's! All Hedgeville, as she well knew, must know that this camp of girls was at the lake--and it would be just like Jake and some of the bullying, reckless crowd of boys that he made his chief friends, to think that it would be a fine joke to play some tricks on the sleeping camp, and alarm these girls who were trying to enjoy themselves with outdoor life, just as if they had been boys. Bessie, setting her teeth, determined that they shouldn't succeed, that in some fashion she would turn the joke on them. Gradually she drew nearer to the sound, and she made up her mind, thankfully, that she had waked in time, before all the jokers had arrived. She had snatched up a sheet as she left the camp, without a clear idea of what she meant to do with it, but now, as she stole among the trees, a dim figure, flitting from one dark place to the next, a wild idea formed in her mind. It was risky--but Bessie was not timid. If Jake Hoover caught her--well, she knew what that would mean. He would not spare her, as his father had done, and there would be trouble for her, and for Zara and, worst of all, for Wanaka and her other new friends. And there was another danger. It might not, after all, be Jake Hoover that she heard. At the Hoovers' she had heard stories of tramps and wandering gypsies, and she had been warned, whenever there was a report that any such vagrants were about, to keep off the roads and stay near the house. Jake, after all, could only betray her to his mother and the others who were after her, but a tramp or a gypsy might do far worse than that. But, though the solitude and the darkness were enough to frighten people older and stronger than Bessie, she kept on. And at last, before her, she heard footsteps tramping down the dry leaves and branches, and she heard a murmur of voices, too. At once part of her fears fled, for it was Jake Hoover's voice that came to her ears. "Ha-ha!" he was laughing. "Gee, it took you fellers long enough to git here. But, say, boys, won't we have some fun with them girls? Actin' up just like they was boys, sleepin' out in the woods an' pretendin' they're as brave as anythin'. I saw that one that bought a lot of truck from Paw to-day. Bet she'll scream as loud as any of them." "Bet she will," said another voice. "Say, Jake, we won't hurt 'em none, will we? Jest throw a scare into them, like?" "Sure, that's all!" "'Cause I wouldn't want to hurt 'em none. They're jest girls, after all." "All we'll do will be just to get around them tents an' start yellin' all at once--an' I'll bet they'll come a-runnin'. Ha-ha!" But the laugh was frozen on his lips. As he spoke he looked behind him, warned by a faint sound--and his hair rose. For waving its arms wildly, a figure, all in white, was running toward him. As it came it made strange, unearthly sounds--horrid noises, such as Jake had never heard. For a moment Jake and the two boys with him stood rooted to the spot, paralyzed with fear. Then they yelled together, and, the sound of their own voices seeming to release their imprisoned feet, turned and ran wildly, not knowing where they were going. They tripped over roots, fell, then stumbled to their feet again, and continued their flight, shrieking. And behind them the ghost, weak with laughter, collapsed on a fallen tree trunk and laughed silently as they fled--for the ghost that had frightened these bold raiders was only Bessie, wrapped in the sheet she had so luckily snatched up when they had given her the alarm. CHAPTER VI A PIECE OF BAD LUCK Bessie laughed until she cried as the bold raiders who had been so sure that they could scare the camp of girls dashed madly off. She could hear them long after they had vanished from sight, crying out in their fear, plunging among the trees, but gradually the sounds grew fainter, and Bessie, sure that they need fear no more disturbance from Jake Hoover and his brave companions, set out on her return to the camp. This time she had no need of the precautions she had taken as she crept in the direction of the disturbing sounds, and she made no effort to conceal herself. Wanaka was outside, looking about anxiously, when Bessie came again into the firelight. Always a light sleeper, and especially so when she was responsible for the safety of the girls who were in her charge, Eleanor Mercer had waked at first of Bessie's terrifying shrieks, almost as frightened, for the moment, as Jake himself. She had risen at once, and a glance in the various tents, where the girls still lay sound asleep, showed her that Bessie alone was missing. Naturally enough, she could not guess the meaning of the outcry. The cries of the frightened jokers puzzled her, and there was nothing about the din that Bessie made to enable the Guardian to recognize the voice of her newest recruit. But she had realized, too, that to go out in the woods in search of Bessie and of an explanation, was not likely to do much good. Her duty, too, was with the girls who remained, and she could only wait, wondering. She greeted Bessie with a glad cry when she saw her. "Oh, I'm so glad!" she exclaimed. "But what are you doing with that sheet? And--why, you're crying!" "I'm not--really," said Bessie. "But I laughed so hard that it made the tears come--that's all, Wanaka." Then she told her story, and Wanaka had to laugh, too. She was greatly relieved. "But you ought to have called me, Bessie," she said. "That's why I'm here, you know--to look out for things when there seems to be any danger, or anything you girls don't quite understand." "But I wasn't quite sure, you see," said Bessie. "And if it had really been a bird, it would have been awfully foolish to wake everyone up just because I thought I heard something." "You'll be able to win a lot of honors easily, Bessie, when you come into the Camp Fire. That's one of the things the girls do--they learn the calls of the birds, and to describe them and all sorts of things about the trees and the flowers. You must know a lot of them already." "I guess everyone does who's lived in the country. Some people can imitate a bird so it would almost fool another bird--but not Jake. He's stupid." "Yes, and like most people who try to frighten others, he's a coward, too, Bessie. He showed that to-night." "I'm not afraid of him any more. If I'd known before how easy it was to frighten him I'd have done it. Then he'd have let me alone, probably." "Well, you go to bed now, and get to sleep again. And try to forget about Jake and all the other people who have been unkind to you. Remember that you're safe with us now. We'll look after you." "I know that, and I can't tell you how good it makes me feel." Wanaka laughed then, to herself. "I say we'll look after you," she said, still smiling. "But so far it looks more as if you were going to look after us. You saved Minnehaha in the lake--and to-night you saved all the girls from being frightened. But we'll have to begin doing our share before long." "As if you hadn't done a lot more for me already than I'll ever be able to repay!" said Bessie. "And I know it, too. Please be sure of that. Good-night." "Good-night, Bessie." In the morning Bessie and Zara woke with the sun shining in their faces, and for a long minute they lay quiet, staring out at the dancing water, and trying to realize all that happened since they had said good-bye to Hedgeville. "Just think, Zara, it's only the day before yesterday that all those things happened, and it seems like ever so long to me." "It does to me, too, Bessie. But I'll be glad when we get away from here. It's awfully close." "And, Zara, Jake Hoover was around here last night!" "Does he know you're here? Was that why he came?" "No," said Bessie, laughing again at the memory of the ghost. And she told Zara what had happened. "He won't come around again at night, but it would be just like him to snoop around here in the daytime, Bessie." "I hadn't thought of that, Zara. But he might. If he stops to think and realizes that someone turned his own trick against him, or if he tells someone, and they laugh at him, he'll want to get even. I'd certainly hate to have him see one of us." But their fears were groundless. For, as soon as breakfast was over, Wanaka called all the girls together. "We're going to move," she said. "I know we meant to stay here longer, but Bessie and Zara will be happier if we're somewhere else. So we will go on to-day, instead of waiting. And I've a pleasant surprise for you, too, I think. No, I won't tell you about it now. You'll have to wait until you see it. Hurry up and clean camp now, and begin packing. We want to start as soon as we can." Bessie was amazed to see how complete the arrangements for packing were. Everything seemed to have its place, and to be so made that it could go into the smallest space imaginable. The tents were taken down, divided into single sections that were not at all heavy, and everything else had been made on the same plan. "But how about the canoes?" asked Bessie. "We can't carry those with us, can we?" "I've often carried one over a portage--a short walk from one lake to the next in the woods," said Minnehaha, laughing. "It's a lot easier than it looks. Once you get it on your back, it balances so easily that it isn't hard at all. And up in the woods the guides have boats that they carry that way for miles, and they say they're easier to handle than a heavy pack. But those boats are very light." "But we'll leave them here, anyhow," said another girl. "They don't belong to us. They were just lent to us by some people from the city who come here to camp every summer. They own this land, too, and they let us use it." And then Bessie saw, as the first canoe was brought in, the clever hiding-place that had been devised for the boats. They were dragged up, and carried into the woods a little way, and there a couple of fallen trees had been so arranged that they made a shelter for the canoes. A few boards were spread between the trunks, and covered with earth and branches so it seemed that shrubbery had grown up over the place where the canoes lay. "In the winter, of course, the people that own them take them away where they'll be safe. But they leave them out like that most of the summer. Some of them come here quite often, and it would be a great nuisance to have to drag the canoes along every time they come and go." Long before noon everything was ready, and Wanaka, who had gone away for a time, returned. "You and Zara look so different that I don't believe anyone would recognize either of you," she told Bessie. "You look just like the rest of the girls. So, even if we should meet anyone who knows you, I think you'd be safe enough." "Not if it was Maw Hoover," said Zara so earnestly that Wanaka laughed, although she felt that there was something pathetic about Zara's fear of the farmer's wife, too. "Well, we're not going to meet her, anyhow, Zara. And she'd never expect to find you and Bessie among us, anyhow. We aren't going across the lake and over to the main road. We're going right through the woods to the next valley. It's going to be a long day's trip, but it's cool, and I think a good long tramp will do us all good." "That's fine," said Bessie. "No one over there will know anything about us. Is that why we made so many sandwiches and things like that--so that we could eat our lunch on the way?" "Yes, and we'll build a fire and have something hot, too. Now you can watch us put out the fire." "I hate to see it go out," said Zara. "I love the fire." "We all do, but we must never leave a fire without someone to tend it. Fire is a great servant, but we must use it properly. And a little fire, even this one of ours, might start a bad blaze in the woods here if we left it behind us." Bessie nodded wisely. "We had an awful bad fire here two or three years ago. It was just before Zara came out here. Someone was out in the woods hunting, or something like that, and they left a fire, and the wind came up and set the trees on fire. It burned for three or four days, and all the men in the town had to turn out to save some of the places near the woods." "Almost all the big fires in the forests start because someone is careless just like that, Bessie. They don't mean any harm--but they don't stop to think." Then all the girls gathered about the fire, and each in turn did her part in stamping out the glowing embers. They sang as they did this duty, and Bessie felt again the curious thrill that had stirred her when she had heard the good-night song the evening before. "I know what it is that is so splendid about the Camp Fire Girls, Zara," she said, suddenly. "They belong to one another, and they do things together. That's what counts--that's why they look so happy. We've never had anything to belong to, you and I, anything like this. Don't you see what I mean?" "Yes, I do, Bessie. And that's what makes it seem so easy when they work. They're doing things together, and each of them has something to do at the same time that all the others are working, too." "Why, I just loved washing the dishes this morning," said Bessie, smiling at the thought. "I never felt like that before, when Maw Hoover was always at me to do them, so that I could hurry up and do something else when I got through. And I did them faster here, too--much faster. Just because I enjoyed it, and it seemed like the most natural thing to do." "I always did feel that way, but then I only worked for myself and my father," said Zara. Then the walk through the cool, green woods began. The girls started out in Indian file, but presently the trail broadened, so that they could walk two or three abreast. It was not long before they came into country that Bessie had never seen, well as she knew the woods near the Hoover farmhouse. Wanaka, careful lest too steady a walk should tire the girls, called a halt at least once an hour, and, when the trail led up hill, oftener. And at each halt one girl or another, who had been detailed at the last stop, reported on the birds and wild animals she had seen since the last check, and, when she had done, all the others were called on to tell if they had seen any that she had missed. "It's just like a game, isn't it?" said Zara. "I think it's great fun!" The halt for lunch was made after they had come out of the woods, by the side of a clear spring. They were on a bluff, high above a winding country road, with a path worn by the feet of thirsty passersby who knew of the spring, and some thoughtful person had piped the water down to a big trough where horses could drink. But they could not, from the place where the fire had been made, see the road or the carriages. "I don't think anyone will come along looking for you," Wanaka told Bessie, "but if we stay out of sight we'll surely be on the safe side." Suddenly, as they were about to sit down, Zara cried out. "My handkerchief!" she said. "It's gone--and I had it just before we crossed the road. I must have dropped it there. I'll go back and see." "I'll go with you," cried Bessie, jumping up. But before she could move, Zara, laughing, had dashed off, and Bessie dropped back to her place with a smile. "She's as quick as a flash," she said. "She always could beat me in a race. There's no use in my going after her." But, even as she spoke, a wild cry of terror reached their ears--that and the sound of a man's coarse laughter. Bessie started to her feet, her eyes staring in fright. And she led the rush of the whole party to the edge of the bluff. Driving swiftly down the road away from Hedgeville was a runabout. And in it Bessie saw Zara, held fast by a big man whose back she recognized at once. It was Farmer Weeks! "Oh, that's Farmer Weeks!" she cried "He'll get them to give Zara to him, and he'll beat her and treat her terribly." Despairingly she made to run after the disappearing horse. But Wanaka checked her, gently. "We must be careful--and slow," she said. CHAPTER VII A FRIEND IN NEED "But we must do something, really we must, Miss Eleanor!" cried Bessie. "I must, I mean. Zara trusted me, and if I don't help her now, just think of what will happen." "You must keep calm, Bessie, that's the first thing to think of. If you let yourself get excited and worked up you won't help Zara, and you'll only get into trouble yourself. You say she trusted you--now you must trust me a little. Tell me, first, just what this man will do and if he has any right at all to touch her." "Why, he's the meanest man in town, Wanaka! He really is--everyone says so! None of the men would work for him in harvest time. They said he worked them to death and wouldn't give them enough to eat." "Yes, but why should he pick Zara up that way and carry her off?" "Because he wants to make her work for him. He's awfully rich, and Paw Hoover said he'd lent money to so many men in the village and all around that they had to do just what he told them, or he'd sell their land and their horses and cattle. And he said he'd make the people at the poor-farm bind Zara over to him and then she'd have to work for him until she was twenty-one, just for her board." "That's pretty serious, Bessie. I'm sure he wouldn't be a good guardian, but if he had such influence over the men, maybe they wouldn't stop to think about that." She was silent for a minute, thinking hard. "Where was he going with her, Bessie? He seemed to be driving away from Hedgeville." "Yes, he was. I suppose he was going over to Zebulon. That's the county seat, and he goes over there quite often. Almost every time they hold court, I guess. Paw Hoover said he was a mighty bad neighbor, always getting into lawsuits." "Well, I think I'd better go to Zebulon. If I talk to him, perhaps I can make him give Zara up. How far is it, Bessie?" "Only about two miles. But if you go, can't I go with you?" "I think I'd better go alone, Bessie. If he saw you, he might try to take you back to the Hoovers, you know. No, I'll go alone. If it's only two miles, it won't take me long to walk there, and I can get someone to drive me back. Girls!" They crowded about her. "I'm going away for a little while. You are to stay here and wait for me. And keep close together. I'll get back as soon as I can. And while I'm gone you can clear up the mess we made with luncheon--when you've finished it, I mean. Now, you'd better hurry up and eat it. I won't wait." And the guardian hurried off, determined to rescue Zara from the clutches of the old miser who was so anxious to make her work for him, because he saw a chance to get a good deal for nothing, or almost nothing. If the general opinion about Silas Weeks was anywhere near true, it would cost him mighty little to satisfy himself that he was keeping faith with the county and giving Zara, in return for her services, good board, lodging, and clothing. Bessie watched Wanaka go off, and she tried to convince herself that everything would be all right. But, strong as was the faith she already had in Miss Mercer, she knew the ways of Silas Weeks too well to be really confident. And she couldn't get rid of the feeling that she, and no one else, was responsible for Zara. It was because of her that Zara had come away, and Bessie felt that she should make sure, herself, that Zara didn't have cause to regret the decision. And then, suddenly, too, another thought struck her. What if she had, without intention, misled Miss Eleanor? Suppose Farmer Weeks didn't go to Zebulon at all? It was possible, for Bessie remembered now that three-quarters of a mile or so along the road was a crossroad that would lead him, should he turn there, back to Hedgeville. With the thought Bessie could no longer remain still. She knew the roads, and she determined that she must at least find out where Zara had been taken. She might not be able to help her herself, but she could get the news, the true news, for those who could. And, saying nothing to any of the other girls, lest they should want to come with her, she slipped off silently. She did not descend to the road. If one farmer from Hedgeville had passed already, others might follow in his wake, and Bessie was fiercely determined not to let anything check her or interfere with her until she knew what had become of Zara. So, although she might have been able to travel faster by the road, Bessie stayed above, and hurried along, making the best progress she could, although the going was rough. She could see, without being seen. If anyone who threatened her liberty came along, she could hide easily enough behind a tree or a clump of bushes. At the crossroad she hesitated. She wasn't sure that Farmer Weeks had turned off. He might very well, as she had thought at first, have been on his way to Zebulon. "What a stupid I am!" she thought in a moment, however. "Of course I ought to take the crossroad! If he's gone to Zebulon Wanaka will find him, and if he hasn't, he must have gone this way. If I turn off here, there'll be someone after him, no matter which way he's gone." So, still keeping to the side of the road, she followed the pointer on the signboard which said, "Hedgeville, six miles." About a mile and a half from the crossroads the road Bessie was now following crossed a railroad, and as she neared that spot she moved as carefully as she could, for a suspicion that gave her a ray of hope was rising in her mind. At the railroad crossing there was a little settlement and an inn that was very popular with automobilists. And Bessie thought it was possible that Farmer Weeks might have stopped there. Miser as he was, he was fond of good food, and, since he was his own cook most of the time when he was at home, he didn't get much of it except when he was away, as he was now. Bessie had heard Maw Hoover sneer at him more than once for the way he hinted for an invitation to dinner or supper. "Old skinflint!" Bessie had heard Maw say. "I notice he has a way of forgettin' anythin' he wants to tell Paw till jest before meal time. Then he comes over post haste, and nothin'll do but Paw's got to stand out there listenin' to him, when all he wants, really, is to have me ring the bell, so's Paw'll have to ask him to stay." Even in her sorrow at Zara's plight, Bessie couldn't help laughing at the remembrance of those times. But then the smoke of the inn came in sight, and Bessie forgot everything but the need of caution. If Farmer Weeks were there, he must on no account see her. That would end any chance she had of helping Zara. She crept through a grove of trees that surrounded the inn, to work up behind it. In the rear, as she knew, were the stables, and the place where the automobiles of the guests were kept. She wanted to get a look at the horses and carriages that were tied in the shed for she would know Farmer Weeks' rig anywhere, she was sure. But she had to be careful, for the inn was a busy spot, and around the horses and the autos, especially, were lots of men, working, smoking, loafing--and any one of them, Bessie felt sure, was certain to question her if they saw her prowling about. She got behind the shed, and then she had to work along to the end farthest from the direction of the road she had left, since, at the near end, a group of men were sitting down and eating their lunch. But, with the shed full of horses making plenty of noise, to screen her movements, that wasn't so difficult. Bessie managed it all right, and, when she got to the far end, and had a chance to peep at the horses, her heart leaped joyfully, for she saw within a few feet of her Farmer Weeks' horse and buggy, the buggy sadly in need of paint and repairs, and the harness a fair indication of the miserly nature of its owner, since it was patched in a dozen places and tied together with string in a dozen others. "Well, I know that much, anyhow!" said Bessie to herself. "He didn't take her to Zebulon, and he can't have done anything yet. I don't believe he's got any right to keep her that way, not unless the people at the poor-farm give him the right to take her. Zara hasn't done anything--it isn't as if she'd been arrested, and were running away from that." Suddenly Bessie started with alarm. She had drawn back among the trees to hide while she tried to think out the best course of action for her to take, and she heard someone moving quite close to her. But then, as the one who had frightened her came into view, she smiled, for it was only a small boy, very dirty and red of face, his white clothes soiled, but looking thoroughly happy, just the same. "Hello!" he said, staring at her. "Hello, yourself! Where did you come from? And wherever did you get all that dirt on yourself?" "Oh, in the woods," said the small boy. "Say, my name's Jack Roberts, and my pop owns that hotel there. What's your name? Do you like cherries? Can you climb a tree? Did you ever go out in the woods all alone? Can you swim?" "My, my! One question at a time," laughed Bessie. "I love cherries. Have you got some?" "Bet I have!" he said. The single answer to all his questions seemed to satisfy him thoroughly, and he pulled out a great handful of cherries from his straw hat, which he had been using for a basket. "Here you are," he said. "Say, do you know that other girl?" Bessie's heart leaped again. She felt that she had struck real luck at last. "What other girl?" she asked, but even as she asked the question, her heart sank again. He couldn't mean Zara. How could he possibly know anything about her? "She was dressed just like you," he said. "And she had black hair and her skin was dark. So she didn't look like you at all, you see. She was crying, too. Say, aren't those cherries good? Why don't you eat them?" Bessie was so interested and excited when she heard him speak of Zara that she forgot to eat the cherries. But she saw that she had hurt his feelings by her neglect of his present, and she made amends at once. She ate several of them, and smacked her lips. "They're splendid, Jack! They're the best I've eaten this year. I think you're lucky to be able to get them." Jack was delighted. "You come here again later on and I'll give you some of the best pears you ever tasted." "Tell me some more about the girl, Jack--the other girl, with black hair. I think perhaps she's a friend of mine. Why was she crying?" "I don't know but she was. She was going on terrible. And she was with her pop, I guess. So I s'pose she'd just been naughty, and he'd punished her." "What makes you think that, Jack?" "Oh, he came in, and he talked to my pop, and they both laughed and looked at her. He had her by the hand, and she didn't say anything--she just cried. And my pop says, 'Well, I've got just the place for her. Too bad to send her off without her dinner, but when they're bad they've got to be punished.' And he winked at her, but she didn't wink back." "What happened then, Jack?" "They put her up in my room. See, you can see it there, right over the tree with the branch torn off. See that branch? It was torn off in that storm yesterday." "And didn't she have any dinner?" "Oh, yes. My pop, he sent her some dinner, of course. He was just joking. That's why he winked at her. He'd never let anyone go hungry, my pop wouldn't!" "What sort of looking man brought her here, Jack?" "Oh, he--he was just a man. He had white hair, and eye-glasses. Say, that's his rig right there in the corner of the shed. I don't think much of it, do you?" Bessie wondered what she should do. She liked Jack, and she was sure he would do anything he could for her. But he was only a little boy, and it seemed as if that would not be very much. But he was her only hope, and she decided to trust him. "Jack," she said, soberly, "that is my friend, and I've been looking for her. And that old man isn't her father at all. He wants to make her do something horrid--something she doesn't want to do at all. And if she doesn't get away, I'm afraid he will, too." "Say, I didn't like him when I first saw him! I'd hate to have him for a pop. Why doesn't she run away?" "How can she, Jack?" "Huh, that's just as easy! Why, I never go down the stairs at all, hardly, from my room. The branches of that big tree stick right over to the window, and it's awful easy to climb down." "She could do that, too, Jack, but she doesn't know I'm here to help her. She'd think there wasn't any use getting down." "Say, I'll climb up and tell her, if you like. Shall I?" "Will you, really, Jack? And tell her Bessie is waiting here for her? Will you show her how to get down, and how to get here? And don't you think someone will see her?" "No, an' if they do, they can't catch us. I've got a cave back here that's the peachiest hiding-place you ever saw! I'll show you. They'll never find you there. You just wait!" He was off like a flash, and Bessie, terribly anxious, but hopeful, too, saw him run up the tree like a squirrel. Then the branches hid him from her, and she couldn't see what happened at the window. But before she had waited more than two minutes, although it seemed like hours to poor Bessie, Jack was in sight again, and behind him came Zara. She dropped easily to the ground, and ran toward Bessie, behind Jack, like a scared rabbit. "Oh, Bessie, I'm so glad--so glad!" she cried. "I was so frightened--" From the inn there was a shout of anger. "Gee! He's found out already," cried Jack. "Come on! Don't be scared! I'll show you where to hide so he'll never find you. Run--run, just as fast as you can!" And they were off, while Farmer Weeks shouted behind them. CHAPTER VIII THE SHELTER OF THE WOODS For the first few minutes as they ran, the three of them were too busy to talk, and they needed their breath too much to be anxious to say anything. Jack, his little legs flying, covered ground at an astonishing pace. Zara had always been a speedy runner, and now, clutching Bessie's hand tightly, she helped her over some of the harder places. They were running right into the woods, as it seemed to Bessie, and more than once, as she heard sounds of pursuit behind, she was frightened. It seemed to her impossible that little Jack, mean he never so well, could possibly enable them to escape from angry Farmer Weeks, who, for an old man, seemed to be keeping up astonishingly well in the race. But soon the noises behind them grew fainter, and it was not long before the ground began to rise sharply. Jack dropped to a walk, and the two girls, panting from the hard run, were not slow to follow his example. "This is like playing Indians," said Jack, happily. "It's lots of fun--much better than playing by myself. Here's my cave." "Don't you think we'd better go on, Bessie?" panted Zara. "We're ahead of them now, and they might find us here." "No, I think we'd better stop right here. Would you ever know there was a cave here if Jack hadn't uncovered the entrance? And see, it's so wild that we'd have to stick to the path, and we don't know the way. I'm afraid they'd be sure to catch us sooner or later if we went on." "Listen!" said Jack. "They're getting nearer again!" And sure enough, they could hear the shouts of those who were following them, and the noise was getting louder. Bessie hesitated no longer, but pushed Zara before her into the cave. Jack followed them. "See," he said, "I can pull those branches over, and they'll never see the mouth of the cave. They'll think these are just bushes growing here. Isn't it a bully place? I've played it was a smuggler's cave, and all sorts of things, but it never was as good fun as this." "Just think that way," said Bessie to poor Zara, who was trembling like a leaf. "When we get back with the girls, we'll think this is just good fun--a fine adventure. So cheer up, we're safe now." "But how will we ever get back to them, even if they don't catch us now?" asked Zara. "We'll be seen when we go out, won't we?" "No, indeed," said Bessie. "I'll bet Jack's thought about that, haven't you, Jack?" "You bet!" he said, proudly. "They'll go by, and they'll keep on for a long way, and then they'll think they've gone so far that a girl couldn't ever have done it. And then they'll decide they've missed her, and they'll turn around and come back again, and hunt around near the hotel. And when they do that--" "Hush!" said Bessie. "Here they come! Keep quiet, now, both of you! Don't even breathe hard--and don't sneeze, whatever you do!" And then, lying down close to one another, at full length on the floor of the cave, which Jack, for his play, had covered with soft branches of evergreen trees, they peeped out through the leafy covering of the cave while Farmer Weeks went by, snorting and puffing angrily, like some wild animal, his eyes straight ahead. He never looked at the cave, or in their direction, but the next man, one employed about the hotel, seemed to have his eyes fixed directly on the branches. Bessie thought he looked suspicious. She was sure that he had spied the device, and was about to call to Farmer Weeks. But, when he was still a few feet off, he tripped over a root, and sprawled on his face, and, if he had ever really had any suspicions at all, the fall seemed to drive them from his mind effectually. He picked himself up, laughing, since the fall had not hurt him, and, after he had shouted back a warning to two men who followed him, he went on, dusting himself off. The root had been good to the fugitives, sure enough, for the men who followed kept their eyes on the ground, looking out for it, since they had no desire to share the tumble of the man in front, and neither of them so much as looked at the cave. "My, but they're brave men!" said Jack. "Three of them, all to chase one little girl!" Zara, her fears somewhat relieved, laughed as she looked at her rescuer. "I'm bigger than you are," she said, smiling. "Yes, but you're a girl," said Jack, in a lordly fashion that would have made Bessie laugh if she hadn't been afraid of hurting his feelings. "And I've rescued you, haven't I? Did you ever read about the Knights of the Round Table, and how they rescued ladies in distress? I'm your knight, and you ought to give me a knot of ribbon. They always do in the books." Zara looked puzzled. "Haven't you ever read about them?" said Jack, looking disappointed. But then he turned to Bessie. "You have, haven't you?" "I certainly have, Jack, and Zara shall, soon. They were brave men, Zara, who lived centuries ago. And whenever they saw a lady who needed help they gave it to her. Jack's quite right; he is like them." Jack flushed with pleasure. He had liked Bessie from the start and now he adored her. "You're Zara's true knight, Jack, and she'll give you that ribbon from her hair. But you mustn't let anyone see it, or tell about this adventure, unless your father asks you. You mustn't say anything that isn't true, but only answer questions. Don't offer to tell people, or else you may be punished, because Farmer Weeks would say we were bad, and that it was wrong to help us." "I wouldn't believe him, and neither would my pop, I know that. He's the greatest man that ever lived--greater than George Washington. And he'll say I was just right if I tell him. I just know he will." "But maybe he and Farmer Weeks are friends, Jack. Then he'd think it was all wrong, wouldn't he?" "My pop wouldn't have him for a friend, Bessie, don't you believe he would! My pop would never lock a girl up in a room by herself without her dinner, even if she'd been bad." "I wonder why they're so long coming back," said Bessie, finally. "Won't they miss you, Jack?" "Not if I get back in time for supper. They don't care what I do when it's a holiday, like this. They know I know my way around here, and there aren't any wild animals. I wish there were!" "Wouldn't you be afraid of them?" "Not a bit of it! I'd have a gun, and I'd shoot them, just as quick as quick!" "Even if they weren't trying to hurt you?" "Yes, why shouldn't I? Everyone does, in all the books." "But we don't act the way people in books do, Jack. We can't. Things aren't just that way. Books are to read, to learn things, and for fun, but we've got to remember that real life's different." "Well, I bet if I saw a lion coming through that wood there I'd kill him." "Suppose he ate you up first?" asked Zara. "He'd better not! My pop'd catch and make him sorry he ever did anything like that! Say, it is taking them a long time to come back. Maybe they've lost their way." "Could they around here?" "You bet they could! Lots of people do, from the hotel, and we have to send out and find them, so's they don't have to stay out all night. Say, did you hear something just then?" They listened attentively, and presently Zara keen ears detected a sound. "There's someone coming," she said. "Listen! You can hear them quite plainly now." They were quiet for a minute. "They must be quite close," said Zara, then. "We heard them much further off than that when they were coming after us. I wonder why they got so near before we heard them this time?" "That's easily explained, Zara," said Bessie. "When they were going the wind was behind them. Now it's in front of them. And they were going up hill, too, so there may have been an echo, because they were shouting toward the rocks upon the hill. Now that's changed, too." "Say, you're a regular scout!" said Jack approvingly. "_I_ knew all that, but I didn't suppose girls knew things like that. Say, when I get old enough I'm going to be a Boy Scout. That'll be fine, won't it? I'll have a uniform, and a badge, and everything." "Splendid, Jack! We're going to be Camp Fire Girls, and we'll have rings, and badges, too." "What are Camp Fire Girls? Are they like the Boy Scouts?" "Something like them, Jack. Sometime, when I know more about them, I'll come back and tell you all about it. I know it's nice--but I don't really know much more than that yet." Then they had to be still again, for the voices of the returning hunters were very plain. They could hear Farmer Weeks, loud and angry, in the lead. "Ain't it the beatin'est thing you ever heard of?" he was asking one of his companions. "How do you guess that little varmint ever got away?" "Better give it up as a bad job, old hayseed," said another voice. "She's too slick for you--and I can't say I'm sorry, either. Way you've been goin' on here makes me think anyone'd be glad to dig out and run away from a chance to work for you." "Any lazy good-for-nothing like you would--yes," said Farmer Weeks, enraged by the taunt. "I make anyone that gits my pay or my vittles work--an' why shouldn't they? If you'd gone on, like I wanted you to, we'd have caught her." "We ain't workin' for you, an' we never will, neither," said the other man, laughing. "Better be careful how you start callin' us names, I can tell you. If you ain't you may go home with a few of them whiskers of your'n pulled out." "You shut your trap!" "Sure! I'd rather hear you talk, anyhow. You're so elegant and refined like. Makes me sorry I never went to collidge, so's I could talk that way, too." They couldn't make out what Farmer Weeks replied to that. He was so angry that he just mumbled his words, and didn't get them out properly. Zara was smiling, her eyes shining. But then the old farmer's voice rose loud and clear again, just as he passed the cave. "I'll git her yet," he said, vindictively. "I know what she's done, all right. She's gone traipsin' off with that passel of gals that Paw Hoover sold his garden truck to yesterday. I heard 'em laughin' and chatterin' back there on the road where I found her. She'll go runnin' back to 'em--and I'll show 'em, I will!" "Aw, you're all talk and no do," said the other man, contemptuously. "You talk big, but you don't do a thing." "I'll have the law on 'em. That gal's as good as mine for the time till she's twenty-one, an' I'll show 'em whether they can run off that way with a man's property. Guess even a farmer's got some rights--an' I can afford to pay for lawin' when I need it done." "I s'pose you can afford to pay us for runnin' off on this wild goose chase for you, then? Hey?" "Not a cent--not a cent!" they heard Farmer Weeks say, angrily. "I ain't a-goin' to give none of my good money that I worked for to any low-down shirkers like you--hey, what are you doin' there, tryin' to trip me up?" A chorus of laughter greeted his indignant question, but he seemed to take the hint, for the fugitives in the cave heard no more talk from him, although for some time after that the sounds in the direction the pursuers had taken on their return to the inn were plain enough. When the last sounds had died away, and they were quite sure that they were safe, for the time, at least, Bessie got up. "Suppose we follow this trail right up the way they went?" Bessie asked Jack. "Where will it bring us?" "To the top of the mountain," said Jack. "But if you want to go off that way I'll walk a way with you, and show you where you can strike off and come to another trail that will bring you out on the main road to Zebulon." "That'll be fine, Jack. If you'll do that, you'll help us ever so much, and we'll be able to get along splendidly." "We'd better start," said Zara, nervously. "I want to get away as soon as ever I can. Don't you, Bessie?" "Indeed I do, Zara. I'm just as afraid of having Farmer Weeks catch us as you are. If he found me he'd take me back to Maw Hoover, I know. And she'd be awfully angry with me." "I'm all ready to start whenever you are," announced Jack. "Come on. It gets dark early in the woods, you know. They're mighty thick when you get further up the mountain. But if you walk along fast you'll get out of them long before it's really dark." So they started off. Little Jack seemed to be a thorough woodsman and to know almost every stick and stone in the path. And presently they came to a blazed tree--a tree from which a strip of bark had been cut with a blow from an axe. "That's my mark. I made it myself," said Jack, proudly. "Here's where we leave this trail. Be careful now. Look where I put my feet, and come this same way." Then he struck off the trail, and into the deep woods themselves where the moss and the carpet of dead leaves deadened their footsteps. Although the sun was still high, the trees were so thick that the light that came down to them was that of twilight, and Zara shuddered. "I'd hate to be lost in these woods," she said. Then, abruptly, they were on another trail. Jack had been a true guide. "You can't lose your way now," he said. "Keep to the trail and go straight ahead." "Good-bye, Jack," said Bessie. "You're just as true and brave as any of the knights you ever read about, and if you keep on like this you'll be a great man when you grow up--as great as your father. Good-bye!" "Good-bye and thank you ever so much," called Zara. "Come again!" said Jack, and stood there until they were out of sight. It was not long before they came out near the main road, and now Zara gave a joyful cry. "Oh, I'm so glad to be here!" she exclaimed. "Those woods frightened me, Bessie. They were so dark and gloomy. And it's so good to see the sun again, and the fields and the blue sky!" Bessie looked about her curiously as she strove to get her bearings. Then her face cleared. "I know where we are now," she said. "We're still quite a little distance from where we stopped for lunch and Farmer Weeks got hold of you, Zara. We'll have to go up the road. You see, it brought us quite a little out of our direct way--going back in the woods as we did. But it was worth it--to get away from Farmer Weeks." "I should think it was!" said Zara. "I'd walk on my hands for a mile to be free from him. He was awful. He drove up just as I got down to the road, and as soon as I saw him I started to run. But I was so frightened that my knees shook, and he jumped out and caught me." "What did he say to you?" "Oh, everything! He said he could have me put in prison for running away, and he asked me where you were, but I wouldn't say a thing. I wouldn't even answer him when he asked me if I'd seen you. And he said that when I came to work for him, he'd see that I got over my laziness and my notions." "Well, you're free of him now, Zara. Oh!" "What is it, Bessie?" "Zara, don't you remember what he said? That he'd find us through the Camp Fire Girls? He knows about them! If we go right back to them now, we may be walking right into his arms. Oh, how I wish I could get hold of Miss Eleanor--of Wanaka!" They stared at one another in consternation. CHAPTER IX A CLOSE SHAVE "I never thought of that, Bessie! Do you suppose he'd really go after the girls and look for us there?" "You could hear how mad he was, Zara. I think he'd do anything he could to get even with you for running away like that. It made him look foolish before all those men and it'll be a long time before folks let him forget how he was fooled by a girl." "What are we going to do?" "I'm trying to think. If I could get word to Miss Eleanor, she'd know what to tell us, I'm sure. I'm afraid she'll be wondering what's become of me--and maybe she'll think I just ran away, and think I was wrong to do it." "But she'll understand when you tell her about it, Bessie, and if you hadn't come I never would have got away by myself. I'd have been afraid even to try, if there'd been a chance." "The worst part of it is that if Farmer Weeks really has any right to keep you, or if you were wrong to run away, it might get Miss Eleanor into trouble if they could find out that she's been helping you to get away." They were walking along the road, but now Bessie, who had forgotten the need of caution in her consternation at the thought of the new plight they faced, pulled Zara after her into the bushes beside the highway. "I heard wheels behind us," she explained. "We mustn't take any chances." They stopped to let the wagon they had heard pass by, but as it came along Bessie cried out suddenly. "That's Paw Hoover!" she said. "And I'm going to speak to him, and ask him what he thinks we ought to do. I'm sure he'll give us good advice, and that he's friendly to us." She hailed him, and the old farmer, mightily surprised at the sound of her voice, pulled up his horses. "Whoa!" he shouted. "Well, Bessie! Turning up again like a bad penny. What's the matter now?" Breathlessly Bessie told him what had happened, and of Zara's escape from Farmer Weeks, while Zara interrupted constantly to supply some detail her chum had forgotten. "Well, by gravy, I dunno what to say!" said Paw Hoover, scratching his head and looking at them with puzzled eyes. "I don't like Silas Weeks--never did! I'd hate to have a girl of mine bound over to him--that I would! But these lawyers beat me! I ain't never had no truck with them." "Will the law make Zara go to him, Paw?" asked Bessie. "I dunno, Bessie--I declare I dunno!" he answered, slowly. "He seems almighty anxious to get hold of her--an' I declare I dunno why. Seems like there must be lots of other girls over there at the poor-farm he could take if he's so powerful anxious, all of a sudden, to have a girl to work for him. I did hear say, though, that he'd got some sort of a paper signed by the judge--an' if that's so, there ain't no tellin' what he can do. Made him her gardeen, I guess, whatever that is." "But Zara doesn't need a guardian! She's got her father," said Bessie. Paw shook his head. He looked as if he didn't think much of the sort of guardianship Zara's father would give her. He was a good, just man, but he shared the Hedgeville prejudice against the foreigner. "I reckon you're right about not wantin' to get those young ladies I saw you with mixed up with Silas, Bessie," he went on, reflectively. "Too bad you can't get hold of that Miss Mercer. She's as bright as a button, she is. Now, if she were here, she'd find a way out of this hole before you could say Jack Robinson!" "I believe she could, too," said Bessie. "If you'd seen the way she started out after Farmer Weeks when I told her I thought he must have gone to Zebulon!" "Zebulon? Was she a goin' there? Then maybe she ain't come back yet, an' we could meet her on the way. Eh?" "Oh, I'm afraid she must have gone back to the girls long ago," said Bessie. "Well, you jump in behind there, and get under cover. Ain't no one goin' to look in--you'll be snug there, if it is a mite hot. An' I'll just drive along an' see if I can't meet your Miss Mercer. Then we'll know what to do. An' I'll spell it over, an' maybe I'll hit on some way to help you out myself, even if we don't meet her. Like as not I'll come across Silas Weeks, too, but he'll never suspicion that you're in here with me. Ha! Ha! Not in a million years, he won't. No, sir!" Bessie laughed, and she and Zara jumped in happily. "We've got ever so many friends, after all, Zara," she said, in a whisper, as they drove along. "Look at Paw Hoover. He's been as nice as he can be, and he thinks I set his place on fire, too! I'm sure things will be all right. We'll find the girls again, and everything will be just as we had planned." "Bessie, why do you suppose Farmer Weeks is so set on having me to work for him? Doesn't that seem funny to you? I'm not as clever as lots of girls he could get, I'm sure." "I can't guess, Zara. But we'll find out sometime, never fear. Did he and your father ever have anything to do with one another?" "They did just at first when we came out here. He came over to our place in the evenings a good deal, and he and my father used to talk together. But I never knew what they talked about." "Did they seem friendly?" "They were at first." "Then I should think he would have tried to help your father when there was trouble." "No, no! They had an awful quarrel one night, and my father said he was as bad as some of the people who hated him in Europe, and that he'd have to look out for him. He said he was so rich that people would do what he wanted, and after that he was afraid, and whenever he did any work, he used to get me to stay around outside the house and tell him if anyone came. And he always used to say that it was Farmer Weeks he wanted me to look out for most." "Well, there's not much use in our thinking about it, Zara. The more we puzzle our brains over it, the less we'll know about it, I'm afraid." "That's so, too, Bessie. I'm awfully sleepy. I can hardly keep my eyes open." "Don't try. You've had a hard time to-day. Get to sleep if you can. I'll wake you up if there's any need for it. I'm tired, but I'm not sleepy at all, and this ride will rest me splendidly." Bessie peeped out now and then, and she kept her eyes open on the lookout for the spring where Farmer Weeks had surprised Zara. But when they passed it, although she looked out and listened hard, she couldn't tell whether the Camp Fire Girls were on the bluff above the roadside or not, and she was afraid to ask Paw Hoover to stop and let her find out for certain, since there was the chance that Farmer Weeks might have returned with the idea that Zara, having escaped his clutches, would naturally have come back to the place of her capture. Bessie understood very well that, while Paw Hoover was proving himself a true friend, and was evidently willing to do all he could for them, it would never do for Silas Weeks or anyone else from Hedgeville to know that he was befriending the two fugitives. She could guess what Maw Hoover would say to him if she learned that he had helped her, and if there was the chance that Farmer Weeks might get Miss Mercer into trouble through her friendship for them, Paw Hoover was running the same risk. Until after they reached the crossroads where Bessie had so fortunately been led to take the right turn in her pursuit of Zara earlier in the day, they did not pass or meet a single vehicle of any sort, nor even anyone on foot. Zara slept soundly, and Bessie, soothed by the motion of the wagon, was beginning to nod sleepily. She had almost dozed off when she was aroused sharply by a sudden shout to his horses from Paw Hoover, and she heard him call out laughingly: "Hello, there, Miss Mercer! Didn't expect to see me again so soon, did you? I'll bet I've got the surprise of your life for you." Then she heard Wanaka's clear voice. "Oh, Mr. Hoover! You don't mean--" "Yes, I do--and the pair of them, too," he said. "Well, really? Oh, I'm so relieved! I've been half wild about poor little Zara. I wasn't so afraid for Bessie--she's better able to care for herself." How proud Bessie was when she heard that! "Jump up, Miss Mercer. Then you can talk to Bessie. She's keeping under cover, like the wise young one she is. I'm afraid there's still trouble stirring, Miss Mercer." "I know there is, Mr. Hoover," Eleanor answered, gravely. And then she looked through to see Bessie, and in a moment they were in one another's arms. "I've been to Zebulon, and I've found out lots of things," said Eleanor. "Bessie, unless we're very careful that horrid old Mr. Weeks will get hold of Zara again, and the law will help him to keep her. I don't know how you got her away from him; you can tell me that later. But just now I've thought of a way to beat him." "I knew you would," said Bessie. "The law is wrong, sometimes, I'm sure," said Eleanor. "And I'm just as sure that this is one of the times. I've seen Mr. Weeks, and no one would trust Zara to him. He'd treat her harshly, I know, and I don't believe it would be easy to get him punished for it--around here, at least." "You're right there, ma'am," said Paw Hoover. "Silas Weeks has got too many mortgages around here not to be able to have his own way when he's really sot on getting it." "Now, listen," said Eleanor quickly to Bessie. "I'm going to change all our plans because I'm sure we can do more good than if we stuck to what we meant to do. Mr. Hoover, can you spare the time to drive Bessie and Zara to the road that crosses this about half a mile before you come to Zebulon, and then a little way down that road, too?" "I'll make the time," said Paw, heartily. "Then it's going to be easy. I want them to get to the railroad. There are too many people around the station in Zebulon, and there'd almost surely be someone there who knew them. I'm not sure of just where Mr. Weeks is right now. He might even be there himself. So that's too risky--" "I see what you're driving at," said Paw, suddenly. His face broke into a smile. "There's a station further down the line--a little no-account station, ain't there? I've seen it." "Yes, Perryville. But the down train stops there, and it isn't just a flag stop, either. Now, listen, Bessie. Mr. Hoover will take you there, or nearly there, so that you can easily walk the rest of the way. And when you get there don't get by the track until you hear the train coming. Stay where no one is likely to see you, and then, when the train whistles, run over and be ready to get on board. And get off at Pine Bridge--Pine Bridge, do you hear? Will you remember that? When you get there, just wait. I'll be there almost as soon as you are." Paw Hoover burst into a roar of laughter as he listened. "Bessie said you'd have a way to beat Silas Weeks, and, great Godfrey, you sure have!" he said. "I never thought of that--but you're right. Get her out of the state, and there ain't no way under heaven that Silas can get hold of the girl unless she comes back of her own accord. Court writs don't run beyond state lines, not unless they're in the Federal court. Godfrey, but you're smart all right, young lady!" "Thank you," said Eleanor, smiling at him in return for the compliment. "You're sure you understand, Bessie? Here's the money for your fare. You won't have time to buy tickets, so just give the money to the conductor." Then she dropped from the wagon to the road and Paw Hoover whipped up his horses. "You sleep, if you can, Bessie," he said. "I'll wake you up when it's time to get down." And Bessie, her mind relieved, was glad to obey. It seemed to her that she had only just gone to sleep when Paw Hoover shook her gently to arouse her. "Here we are," he said. "Station's just over there--see, beyond the bend. Remember what Miss Mercer told you, now, and good luck, Bessie! I reckon we'll see you again sometime." There were tears in Bessie's eyes as she said good-bye. She watched him drive off, and then she and Zara sat down to wait for the coming of the train. They sat on the grass, behind a cabin that had been abandoned, where they could see the track while they themselves were hidden from anyone approaching by the road they had come. And before long the rails began to hum. Then, in the distance, there was the shriek of a whistle. "Come on, Zara," cried Bessie, and they ran toward the station, just as the train came into sight, its brakes grinding as it slowed down. And then, as they climbed aboard, there was the sudden sound of galloping hoofs, and of hoarse shouting. Farmer Weeks, in his buggy, raced toward the train, his hands lifted as he called wildly to the conductor to stop. CHAPTER X OUT OF THE WOODS The train only stopped for a moment at the little station. Seldom, indeed, did it take on any passengers. And on that trip it was already late. Even as the two girls climbed up the steps the brakeman gave his signal, the conductor flung out his hand, and the wheels began to move. And Farmer Weeks, jumping out of his buggy, raced after it, yelling, but in vain. Swiftly the heavy cars gathered speed. And Bessie and Zara, frightened by their narrow escape, were still too delighted by the way in which Farmer Weeks had been baffled to worry. They felt that they were safe now. "I suppose that old hick thought we'd stop the train for him," they heard the conductor say to the brakeman. "Well, he had another guess coming! Look at him, will you?" "He's mad all through!" said the brakeman, laughing, "Well, he had a right to be there when the train got in. If we waited for every farmer that gets to the station late, we'd be laid off in a hurry, I'll bet." Bessie and Zara were in the last car of the train, and they could look back as it sped away. "See, Zara, he's standing there, waving his arms and shaking his fist at us," she said. "He can't hurt us that way, Bessie. Well, all I hope is that we've seen the last of him. Is it true that he can't touch me except in this state?" "That's what Wanaka said, Zara. And she must know." Then the conductor came around. "We didn't get our tickets, so here's the money," said Bessie. "We want to get to Pine Bridge." "You didn't have much more time than you needed to catch this train," said the conductor, as he took the money. "Pine Bridge, eh? That's our first stop. You can't make any mistake." "How soon do we cross the state line, Mr. Conductor?" asked Zara, anxiously. The conductor looked out of the window. "Right now," he said. "See that white house there? Well, that's almost on the line. The house is in one state, and the stable's in the other. Why are you so interested in that?" He looked at them in sudden suspicion. "Here, was that your father who was so wild because he didn't catch the train? Were you running away from him?" Bessie's heart sank. She wondered if the conductor, should be really be suspicious, could make them go back, or keep them from getting off the train at Pine Bridge. "No, he wasn't any relative of ours at all," she said. "Seems to me he was shouting about you two, though," said the conductor. "Hey, Jim!" He called the brakeman. "Say, Jim, didn't it look to you like that hayseed was trying to stop these two from gettin' aboard instead of tryin' to catch the train himself?" "Never thought of that," said Jim, scratching his head. "Guess maybe he was, though. Maybe we'd better send 'em back from Pine Bridge." "That's what I'm thinking," said the conductor. "We've paid our fare. You haven't any right to do that," said Bessie, stoutly, although she was frightened. "And I tell you that man isn't our father. He hasn't got anything to do with us--" "He seemed to think so, and I believe that was why you came running that way to catch the train, without any tickets. You say he's not your father. Who is he? Do you know him at all?" Bessie wished she could say that she did not; wished she could, truthfully, deny knowing Farmer Weeks at all. But not even to avert what looked like a serious danger would she lie. "Yes, we know him," she said. "He's a farmer from Hedgeville. And--" "Hedgeville, eh? What's his name?" "Weeks--Silas Weeks." The effect of the name was extraordinary. Conductor and brakeman doubled up with laughter, and for a moment, while the two girls stared, neither of them could speak at all. Then the conductor found his voice. "Oh, ho-ho," he said, still laughing. "I wouldn't have missed that for a week's pay! If I could only have seen his face! Don't you worry any more! We'll not send you back to him, even if you were running from him. Don't blame anyone for tryin' to get away from that old miser!" "Wish he'd tried to jump aboard after we started," said Jim, the brakeman. "I'd have kicked him off, and I wouldn't have done it gently, either!" "We know Silas Weeks," explained the conductor. "He's the worst kicker and trouble maker that ever rode on this division. Every time he's aboard my train he gives us more trouble in one trip than all the other passengers give us in ten. He's always trying to beat his way without payin' fare, and scarcely a time goes by that he don't write to the office about Jim or me." "Lot of good that does him," said Jim. "They don't pay any attention to him." "No, not now. They're getting used to him, and they know what sort of a mischief maker he is. But he's a big shipper, an' at first they used to get after me pretty hard when he wrote one of his kicks." "Before I came on the run, you mean?" "Sure! He'd been at it a long time before I got you, Jim. You see, he sends so much stuff by freight they had to humor him--and they still do. But now they just write him a letter apologizin' and don't bother me about it at all. Bet I've lost as much as a week's pay, I guess, goin' to headquarters in workin' time to explain his kicks. He's got a swell chance of gettin' help from me!" Then the two trainmen passed on, but not until they had promised to see the two girls safe off the car at Pine Bridge. "People usually get paid back when they do something mean, Zara," said Bessie. "If Farmer Weeks hadn't treated those men badly, they would probably have sent us back. But as soon as they heard who he was, you saw how they acted." "That's right, Bessie. I bet he'd be madder than ever if he knew that. Someone ought to tell him." "He'd only try to make more trouble for them, and perhaps he could, too. No, I don't want to bother about him any more, Zara. I just want to forget all about him. I wonder how long we'll have to wait at Pine Bridge." "Miss Eleanor didn't say what she was going to do, did she?" "No; she just said that she'd get there, and that she had decided to change all her plans on our account." "We're making an awful lot of trouble for her, Bessie." "I know we are, and we've got to show her that we're grateful and do anything we can to help her, if she ever needs our help. I thought when we started from Hedgeville after the fire that we would be able to get along together somehow, Zara, but I see now how foolish that was." "I believe you'd have managed somehow, Bessie. You can do 'most anything, I believe." "I'm afraid you'll find out that I can't before we're done, Zara. We didn't have any money, or any plans, or anything. It certainly was lucky for us that we went to that lake where the Camp Fire Girls were. If it hadn't been for them we'd be back in Hedgeville now, and much worse off than if we hadn't tried to get away." "There's the whistle, Bessie. I guess that means we're getting near Pine Bridge." "Well, here you are! Going to meet your friends here?" said the conductor. "Yes; thank you," said Bessie. "We're ever so much obliged, and we'll be all right now." "You sit right down there on that bench in front of the station," advised the conductor. "Don't move away, or you'll get lost. Pine Bridge is quite a place. Bigger than Hedgeville--quite a bit bigger. And if anyone tries to bother you, just you run around to the street in front of the station, and you'll find a fat policeman there. He's a friend of mine, and he'll look after you if you tell him Tom Norris sent you. Remember my name--Tom Norris." "Thank you, and good-bye, Mr. Norris," they called to him together, as they stepped off the car. Then the whistle blew again, and the train was off. Although there were a good many people around, no one seemed to pay much attention to the two girls. Everyone seemed busy, and to be so occupied with his own affairs that he had no time to look at strangers or think about what they were doing. "We're a long way from home now, Zara, you see," said Bessie. "I guess no one here will know us, and we'll just wait till Miss Eleanor comes." "Maybe she's here already, waiting for us." "Oh, I don't think so." "We'd better look around, though. How is she going to get here, Bessie?" "I don't know. She never told me about that. We were talking as fast as we could because we were afraid Farmer Weeks might come along any time, and that would have meant a lot of trouble." "Suppose he follows us here, Bessie?" "He won't! He'll know that we're safe from him as soon as we're out of the state. I'm not afraid of him now--not a bit, and you needn't be, either." "Well, if you're not, I'll try not to be. But I wish Miss Eleanor would come along, Bessie. I'll feel safer then, really." "You've been brave enough so far, Zara. You mustn't get nervous now that we're out of the woods. That would be foolish." "I suppose so, but I wasn't really brave before, Bessie. I was terribly frightened when he locked me in that room. I didn't see how anyone would know what had become of me, or how they could find out where I was in time to help me." "Did you think about trying to run away by yourself?" "Yes, indeed, but I was afraid I'd get lost. I didn't know where we were. I'd never been that way before." "It's a good thing you waited, Zara. Even if you had got away and got into those woods where Jack took us, it would have been dangerous. You might easily have got lost, and it's the hardest thing to find people who are in the woods." "Why?" "Because they get to wandering around in circles. If you can see the sun, you can know which way you're going, and you can be sure of getting somewhere, if you only keep on long enough. But in the woods, unless you know a lot of things, there's nothing to guide you, and people just seem, somehow, bound to walk in a circle. They keep on coming back to the place they started from." Pine Bridge was a junction point, and while the girls waited, patiently enough, it began to grow dark. Several trains came in, but, though they looked anxiously at the passengers who descended from each one of them, there was no sign of Miss Mercer. "I hope nothing's happened to her," said Zara anxiously. "Oh, we mustn't worry, Zara. She's all right, and she'll come along presently." "But suppose she didn't, what should we do?" "We'd be able to find a place to spend the night. I've got money, you know, and the policeman would tell us where to go, if we went to him, as the conductor told us to do." Another train came in on the same track as the one that had brought them. Again they scanned its passengers anxiously, but no one who looked at all like Miss Mercer got off, and they both sighed as they leaned back against the hard bench. Neither of them had paid any attention to the other passengers, and they were both startled and dismayed when a tall, gaunt figure loomed up suddenly before them, and they heard the harsh voice of Farmer Weeks, chuckling sardonically as he looked down on them. "Caught ye, ain't I?" he said. "You've given me quite a chase--but I've run you down now. Come on, you Zara!" He seized her hand, but Bessie snatched it from him. "You let her alone!" she said, with spirit. "You've no right to touch her!" "I'll show you whether I've any right or not, and I'm going to take her back with me!" Farmer Weeks said, furiously. "Come on, you baggage! You'll not make a fool of me again, I'll promise you that!" "Come on," said Bessie, suddenly. She still held Zara's hand, and before the surprised farmer could stop them, Bessie had dragged Zara to her feet, and they had dashed under his outstretched arm and got clear away, while the loafers about the station laughed at him. "Come back! You can't get away!" he shouted, as he broke into a clumsy run after them. "Come back, or I'll make you sorry--" But Bessie knew what she was about. Without paying the slightest attention to his angry cries, she ran straight around to the front of the station, and there she found the fat policeman. "Won't you help us?" she cried. "Mr. Norris, the conductor, said you would--" "What's wrong?" said the policeman, starting. He had been dozing. "Any friend of Tom's is a friend of mine--here, here, none of that!" The last remark was addressed to Farmer Weeks, who had come up and seized Zara. "I've got an order saying I've a right to take her," exclaimed Weeks. "But it's not good in this state--" interrupted Bessie. "Let's see it," said the policeman. Weeks, storming and protesting, showed him the court order. "That's no good here. You'll have to get her into the state where it was issued before you can use that," said the policeman. "You're a liar! I'll take her now--" The policeman's club was out, and he threatened Weeks with it. "You touch her and I'll run you in," he said, angrily. "We don't stand for men laying their hands on girls and women in this town. Get away with you now! If I catch you hanging around here five minutes from now, I'll take you to the lock-up, and you can spend the night in a cell." "But--" began Weeks. "Not a word more--or I'll do as I say," said the policeman. He was energetic, if he was fat, and he had put a protective arm about Zara. Weeks looked at him and then he slunk off. And, as he went, the girls heard a merry chorus, "Wo-he-lo, Wo-he-lo," just as another train puffed in. CHAPTER XI THE CALL OF THE FIRE "Wo-he-lo!" How they did thrill at the sound of the watchword of the Camp Fire! How clearly, now, they understood the meaning of the three syllables, that had seemed to them so mysterious, so utterly without meaning, when they had first heard them on the shores of the lake, as, surprised, they peeped out and saw the merry band of girls who had awakened them after their flight from Hedgeville. For a moment, so overjoyed were they, they couldn't move at all. But then the spell was broken, as the call sounded again, loud and clear, rising above the noises of the engine that was puffing and snorting on the other side of the station. Farmer Weeks, a black look in his eyes as he shot them a parting glance full of malice, was forgotten as he slunk off. "Thank you, oh, thank you!" cried Bessie to the astonished policeman, who looked as if he were about to begin asking them questions. "Come on, Zara!" And, hand in hand, they raced around to the other side of the station again, but blithely, happily this time, and not in terror of their enemy, as they had come. And there, looking about her in all directions, was Eleanor Mercer, and behind her all the girls of the Manasquan Camp Fire. "Oh, I'm so glad! I was afraid something had happened to you!" cried Eleanor. "But now it's all right! We're all here, and safe. In this state no one can hurt you--either of you!" Laughing and full of questions, the other girls crowded around Zara and Bessie, so happily restored to them. "We feel as if you were real Camp Fire Girls already!" said Eleanor Mercer, half crying with happiness. "The girls were wild with anxiety when they found you had gone away, too, Bessie, even though we hadn't told them everything. But they were delighted when I got back and told them you were safe." "We were, indeed," said Minnehaha. "But it was awful, Bessie, not to know what had become of you, or how to help you! We'd have done anything we could, but we didn't know a single thing to do. So we had just to wait, and that's the hardest thing there is, when someone you love is in trouble." Bessie almost broke down at that. Until this wonderful meeting with the Camp Fire Girls no one but Zara had loved her, and the idea that these girls really did love her as they said--and had so nobly proved--was almost too much for her. She tried to say so. "Of course we love one another," said Eleanor. "That's one of the laws of the Fire, and it's one of the words we use to make up Wo-he-lo, too. So you see that it's just as important as it can be, Bessie." "Yes, indeed, I do see that. I'd be awfully stupid if I didn't, after the splendid way you've helped us, Miss Eleanor. What are we going to do now?" "We're going to join the big camp not far from here. Three or four Camp Fires are there together, and Mrs. Chester, who is Chief Guardian in the city, wants us to join them. I talked to her about you two over the long-distance telephone before we got on the train, and she's so anxious to see you, and help me to decide what is best for you to do. You'll love her, Bessie; you're sure to. She's so good and sweet to everyone. All the girls just worship her." "If she's half as nice as you, we're sure to love her," said Zara. Eleanor laughed. "I'm not half as wonderful as you think I am, Zara. But I'm nicer than I used to be, I think." "Oh!" "Yes, indeed! I used to be selfish and thoughtless, caring only about having a good time myself, and never thinking about other people at all. But Mrs. Chester talked to me." "I'll bet she never had a chance to scold you." "I'm afraid she did, Zara; but she didn't want to. That's not her way. She never scolds people. She just talks to them in that wonderful, quiet way of hers, and makes them see that they haven't been doing right." "But I don't believe you ever did anything that wasn't right." "Maybe I didn't mean to, and maybe it wasn't what I did that was wrong. It was more what I didn't do." "I don't see what you mean." "Well, I was careless and thoughtless, just as I said. I used to dance, and play games, and go to parties all the time." "I think that must be fine! Didn't you have to work at home, though?" "No; and that was just the trouble, you see. My people had plenty of money, and they just wanted me to have a good time. And I did--but I've had a better one since I started doing things for other people." "I bet you always did, really--" "I'm not an angel now, Zara, and I certainly never used to be, nor a bit like one. Just because I've happened to be able to help you two a little, you think altogether too much of me." "Oh, no; we couldn't--" "Well, as I was saying, Mrs. Chester saw how things were going, and she started to talk to me. I was horrid to her at first, and wouldn't pay any attention to her at all." "I'm going to ask her about that. I don't believe you ever were horrid to anyone." "Probably Mrs. Chester won't admit it, but it's true, just the same, Bessie. But she talked to me, and kept on talking, and she made me think about all the poorer girls who had to work so hard and couldn't go to parties. And I began to feel sorry, and wonder what I could do to make them happier." "You see, that's just what we said! You weren't selfish at all!" "I tried to stop as soon as I found out that I had been, Zara; that's all. And I think anyone would do that. It's because people don't think of the unhappiness and misery of others that there's so much suffering, not because they really want other people to be unhappy." "I guess that's so. I suppose even Farmer Weeks wouldn't be mean if he really thought about it." "I'm sure he wouldn't--and we'll have to try to reform him, too, before we're done with him. You see, if there were more people like Mrs. Chester, things would be ever so much nicer. She heard about the Camp Fire Girls, and she saw right away that it meant a chance to make things better, right in our home town." "Is that how it all started?" "Yes, with us. And it was the same way all over the country, because, really, there are lots and lots of noble, unselfish women like Mrs. Chester, who want everyone to be happy." "Is she as pretty as you, Miss Eleanor?" "Much prettier, Zara; but you won't think about that after you've talked to her. She got hold of me and some of the other girls like me, who had lots of time and money, and she made us see that we'd be twice as happy if we spent some of our time doing things for other people, instead of thinking about ourselves the whole time. And she's been perfectly right." "I knew you enjoyed doing things like that--" "Yes; so you see it isn't altogether unselfish, after all. But Mrs. Chester says that we ought all try to be happy ourselves, because that's the best way to make other people happy, after all, as long as we never forget that there are others, and that we ought to think of serving them." "That's like in the Bible where it says, 'It is more blessed to give than to receive,' isn't it?" "That's the very idea, Bessie! I'm glad you thought of that yourself. That's just the lesson we've all got to learn." "But we haven't been able to help anyone yet, Miss Eleanor. Everyone's helping us--" "Don't you worry about that, Bessie. You'll have lots of chances to help others--ever so many! Just you wait until you get to the city. There are lots of girls there who are more wretched than you--girls who don't get enough to eat, and have to work so hard that they never have any fun at all, because when they get through with their work they're so tired they have to go right to sleep." "Bessie was like that, Miss Eleanor." "I'm afraid she was, Zara. But we're going to change all that. Mrs. Chester has promised to help, and that means that everything will be all right." "Do you think I could ever do anything to help anyone else, Miss Eleanor?" "I'm sure you have already, Zara. You've been a good friend to Bessie, and I know you've cheered her up and helped her to get through days when she was feeling pretty bad." "Indeed she has, Miss Eleanor! Many and many a time! Since I've known her I've often wondered how I ever got along at all before she came to Hedgeville!" "You see, Zara, doing things for others doesn't mean always that you're spending money or actually doing something. Sometimes the very best help you can give is by just being cheerful and friendly." "I hadn't thought of that. But I'm going to try always to be like that. Miss Eleanor, when can we be real Camp Fire Girls?" "I talked to Mrs. Chester about that to-day, and I think it will be to-night, Bessie." "Oh, that will be splendid!" "Yes, won't it? You see, it's the night for our Council Fire--that's when we take in new members, and award honors and report what we've done. We hold one every moon. That's the Indian name for month. You see, month just means moon, really. This is the Thunder Moon of the Indians, the great copper red moon. It's our month of July." "And will we learn to sing the songs like the other girls?" "Yes, indeed. You'll find them very easy. They're very beautiful songs and I think we're very lucky to have them." "Who wrote them? Girls that belong?" "Some of them, but not all, or nearly all. We have found many beautiful songs about fire and the things we love that were written by other poets who never heard of the Camp Fire Girls at all. And yet they seem to be just the right songs for us." "That's funny, isn't it, Miss Eleanor?" "Not a bit, Zara. Because the Camp Fire isn't a new thing, really. Not the big idea that's back of it, that you'll learn as you stay with us, and get to know more about us. All we hope to do is to make our girls fine, strong women when they get older, like all the great brave women that we read about in history. They've all been women who loved the home, and all it means--and the fire is the great symbol of the home. It was fire that made it possible for people to have real homes." "I've read lots and lots of things about fire," said Bessie. "Longfellow, and Tennyson, and other poets." But then her face darkened suddenly. "It was fire that got me into trouble, though," she said. "The fire that Jake Hoover used to set the woodshed afire." "That was because he was misusing the fire, Bessie. Fire is a great servant. It's the most wonderful thing man ever did--learning to make a fire, and tend it, and control it. Have you heard what it says in the Fire-Maker's Desire? But, of course, you haven't. You haven't been at a Council Fire yet. Listen: "For I will tend, As my fathers have tended And my father's fathers Since Time began The Fire that is called The love of man for man-- The love of man for God." "That's a great promise, you see, Bessie. It's a great honor to be a Fire-Maker." "I see, Miss Eleanor. Yes, it must be. How does one get to be a Fire-Maker? One begins by being a Wood-Gatherer, doesn't one?" "Yes, and all one has to do to be a Wood-Gatherer is to want to obey the law of the Fire--the seven points of the law. I'll teach you that Desire before the Council Fire to-night. To be a Fire-Maker you have to serve faithfully as a Wood-Gatherer, and you have to do a lot of things that aren't very easy--though they're not very hard, either." "And you talked about awarding honors. What are they?" "Have you seen the necklaces the girls wear?" "Oh, yes! They're beautiful. They look like the ones I've seen in pictures of Indians. But I never thought they were so pretty before, because I've only seen pictures, and they didn't show the different colors of the beads." "That's just it, Bessie. Those beads are given for honors, and when a girl has enough of them they make the necklaces. They're awarded for all sorts of things--for knowing them, and for doing them, too. And you'll learn to tell by the colors of the beads just what sort of honors they are--why the girl who wears them got them, and what she did to earn them." "I'm going to work awfully hard to get honors," said Zara, impulsively. "Then, when I can wear the beads, everyone will know about it, and about how I worked to get them. Won't they, Miss Eleanor?" "Yes, but you mustn't think about it just that way, Zara. You won't, either, when you've earned them. You'll know then that the pleasure of working for the honors is much greater than being able to wear the beads." "I know why--because it means something!" "That's just it, Bessie. I can see that you're going to be just the sort of girl I want in my Camp Fire. Anyone who had the money--and they don't cost much--could buy the beads and string them together. But it's only a Camp Fire Girl, who's worked for honors herself, who knows what it really means, and sees that the beads are just the symbol of something much better." "Aren't there Torch-Bearers, too, Miss Eleanor?" "Yes. That's the highest rank of all. We haven't any Torch-Bearer in our Camp Fire yet, but we will have soon, because when you girls join us there'll be nineteen girls, and there ought to be a Torch-Bearer." "She'd help you, wouldn't she, Miss Eleanor?" "Yes, she'd act as Guardian if I were away, and she'd be my assistant. This is her desire, you know, 'That light which has been given to me, I desire to pass undimmed to others.'" "I'm going to try to be a Torch-Bearer whenever I can," said Zara. "There's no reason why you shouldn't be, Zara. That ought to be the ambition of every Camp Fire Girl--to be able, sometime, to help others to get as much good from the Camp Fire as she has herself." While they talked it had been growing darker. And now Miss Mercer called to the girls. "We're going to be driven over to the big camp, girls," she said. "I think we've had quite enough tramping for one day. I don't want you to be so tired that you won't enjoy the Council Fire to-night." There was a chorus of laughter at that, as if the idea that they could ever be too tired to enjoy a Council Fire was a great joke--as, indeed, it was. But, just the same, the idea of a ride wasn't a bit unwelcome. The troubles of Bessie and Zara had caused a sudden change in the plans of the Camp Fire, as Miss Mercer had made them originally, and they had had a long and strenuous day. So they greeted the big farm wagons that presently rolled up with a chorus of laughs and cheers, and the drivers blinked with astonishment as they heard the Wohelo cheer ring out. There were two of the wagons, so that there was room for all of them without crowding. Bessie and Zara rode in the first one, close to Wanaka, who had, of course, taken them under her wing. "You stay close by me," she said to them. "I want you to meet Mrs. Chester as soon as we get to the camp." "Where is it?" "That's the surprise I told the girls I had for them this morning. A friend of Mrs. Chester, who has a beautiful place near here, has let us use it for a camping ground. It's the most wonderful place you ever saw. There are deer, quite tame, and all sorts of lovely things. But you'll see more of that in the morning, of course. We've all got to be ever so careful, though, not to frighten the deer or to hurt anything about the place. It's very good of General Seeley to let us be there at all, and we must show him that we are grateful. For the girls who couldn't get far away from the city it's been particularly splendid, because they couldn't possibly have such a good time anywhere else that's near by." "Oh!" cried Bessie, a moment later, as the wagons turned from the road into a lane that was flanked on both sides by great trees. "I never saw a place so pretty!" Wide lawns stretched all around them. But in the distance a pink glow, among a grove of trees, marked the real home of the Camp Fire. CHAPTER XII A NEW SUSPICION "I think the fire is more beautiful than anything else, almost," said the Guardian, as she looked at it and pointed it out to Bessie and Zara. "It means so much." "It looks like a welcome, Wanaka." "That's just what it is--a real, hearty welcome. It shows us that our sisters of the fire are there waiting for us, ready to make us comfortable after the trouble of the day. Around the fire we can forget all the bad things that have happened, and think only of the good." "It's easy to do that now. I've been frightened since Jake locked Zara up in the woodshed, awfully frightened. And I've been unhappy, too. But I've been happier in these last two days than I ever was before." "That's the right spirit, Bessie. Make your misfortunes work out so that you think only of the good they bring. That's the way to be happy, always. You know, it's an old, old saying that every cloud has a silver lining, but it's just as true as it's old, too. People laugh at those old proverbs sometimes,--people who think they know more than anyone else ever did--but in the end they usually admit that they don't really know much more about life and happiness than the people who discovered those great truths first, or spoke about them first, even if someone else had discovered them." "I've been happy, too," said Zara, but there was a break in her voice. "If I only knew that my father was all right, then I wouldn't be able to be anything but happy, now that I know Farmer Weeks can't take me with him." "You must try not to worry about your father, Zara. I'm sure that all his troubles will be mended soon, just like yours. Don't you feel that someone has been looking after you in all your troubles?" "Oh, yes! I never, never would have been able to get away from Farmer Weeks except for that--" "Well, just try to think that He will look after your father, too, Zara. If he has done nothing wrong he can't be punished, you may be sure of that. This isn't Russia, or one of those old countries where people can be sent to prison without having done anything to deserve it, just because other people with more money or more power don't like them. We live in a free country. Be sure that all will turn out right in the end." "I feel cramped, Miss Eleanor. May I get out and run along by the horses for a little while?" "Yes, indeed, Zara." And Wanaka stopped the wagon, so that she could get out. "Do you want to go, too, Bessie?" "I think I'd rather ride, Miss Eleanor. I'm awfully tired." "You shall, then. I want you to do whatever you like to-night. You've certainly done enough to-day to earn the right to rest." They rode along in silence for a few minutes, while the glow of the great welcoming fire grew brighter. "Miss Eleanor?" "Yes, Bessie?" "Don't you think it's very strange that Farmer Weeks should take so much trouble to try to get hold of Zara?" "I do, indeed, Bessie. I've been puzzling about that." "I believe he knows something about her and her father that no one else knows, something that even Zara doesn't know about, I mean. You know, he and Zara's father were very friendly at first--or, at least, they used to see one another a good deal." "Yes? Bessie, what sort of man is Zara's father? You have seen a good deal of him, haven't you?" "I used to go to see Zara sometimes, when I was able to get away. And unless he was away on one of his trips he was always around, but he never said much." "He could speak English, couldn't he?" "Yes, but not a bit well. And when I first went there he was awfully funny. He seemed to be quite angry because I was there, and as soon as I came, he rushed into one of the rooms, and put a lot of things away, and covered them so I couldn't see them. But Zara talked to him in their own language, and then he was very nice, and he gave me a penny. I didn't want it, but he made me take it and Zara said I ought to have it, too." "It looks as if he had had something to hide, Bessie. But then a man might easily want to keep people from finding out all about his business without there being anything wrong." "If you'd seen him, Miss Eleanor, I'm sure you wouldn't think he'd do anything wrong. He had the nicest face, and his eyes were kind. And after that, sometimes, I'd go there when Zara was out, and he was always just as nice and kind as he could be. He used to get me to talk to him, too, so that he could learn to speak English." "Well, there's something very strange and mysterious about it all. You found this Mr. Weeks there the night he was taken away, didn't you?" "Yes." "That looks as if he had something to do with it. I don't know--but we'll find out the truth some time, Bessie." "I hope it will be soon. And, Miss Eleanor, I've been waiting a long time to find out about myself, too. Sometimes I think I'm worse off than Zara, because I don't know where my father and mother are, or even what became of them." The Guardian started. "Poor Bessie!" she said. "But we'll have to try to find out for you. There are ways of doing that that the Hoovers would never think of. And I'm sure there'll be some explanation. They'd never just go away and leave you, without trying to find out if you were well and look after you." "Not if they could help it, Miss Eleanor." Bessie's eyes filled with tears. "But perhaps they couldn't. Perhaps they are--dead." "We must try to be cheerful, Bessie. After all, you know, they say no news is good news, and when you don't positively know that something dreadful has happened, you can always go on hoping." "Oh, I do, Miss Eleanor! Sometimes I've felt so bad that if I hadn't been able to hope, I don't know what I'd have done. And Jake Hoover, he used to laugh at me, and say that I'd never see them again. He said they were just bad people, glad to get rid of me, but I never believed that." "That's right, Bessie. You keep on hoping, and we'll do all we can to make your hopes true. Hope is a wonderful thing for people who are in trouble. They can always hope that things will be better, and if they only hope hard enough, they will come to believe it. And once you believe a thing, it's half true, especially when it's a question of doing something." "How do you mean?" "Why, I'll try to explain. When Mrs. Chester first wanted me to take charge of a Camp Fire, I thought I was just a silly, stupid, useless girl. But she said she knew I wasn't, and that I could make myself useful." "You certainly have." "I'm trying, Bessie, all the time. Well, she told me to wish that I might succeed. And I did. And then I began to hope for it and to want it so much that gradually I believed I could. And as soon as I believed it myself, why, it began to come." "You wanted to so much--that's why, I suppose." "Yes. You see, when you believe you can do a thing, you don't get discouraged when you fail at first. It's when you're doubtful and think you can't do a thing at all, that it's hardest. Then when anything goes wrong, it's just what you expected, and it makes you surer than ever that you're going to fail." "Oh, I see that! I understand now, I think." "Remember that, Bessie. It's done me more good, knowing that, than almost anything else I can think of. When you start to do a thing, no matter how hard it is, be hopeful and confident. Then the set-backs won't bother you, because you'll know that it's just because you've chosen the wrong way, and you go back and start again, looking for the right way." "Oh, look!" said Bessie, suddenly. "Isn't it growing black? Do you see that big cloud? And I'm sure I felt drops of rain just then." "I believe it is going to rain. That's too bad. It will spoil the great Council Fire." "Won't they have it if it rains?" "I'm not sure whether there's a big enough place inside or not. But, even if there is, it's much better fun to have it out of doors--a great big fire always seems more cheerful if it's under the trees, so that the great shadows can dance about. And the singing sounds so much better in the open air, too. Oh, I do hope this won't be a real storm!" But that hope was doomed to disappointment. The rain came down slowly at first, and in great drops, but as the wagons neared the fire and got under the shelter of the trees, the wind rose, and soon the rain was pouring down in great sheets, with flashes of lightning now and then. As they climbed out by the fire it hissed and spluttered as the rain fell into it. No girls were in sight. "They must all have gone in to get out of the rain, or else they'd be out here to welcome us," said the Guardian. "Oh, there's Mrs. Chester! I knew she wouldn't let the rain keep her!" And Wanaka ran forward to greet a sweet-faced woman whose hair was slightly tinged with grey, but whose face was as rosy and as smiling as that of a young girl. Bessie and Zara followed Eleanor shyly, but Mrs. Chester put them at their ease in a moment. "I've heard all about you," she said. "And I'm not going to start in by telling you I'm sorry for you, either, because I'm not!" Had it not been for the laugh that was in her eyes, and her smile, the words might have seemed unkind. "I don't believe in being sorry for what's past," the Chief Guardian explained at once. "If people are brave and good, trouble only helps them. And it's the future we must think about, always. That is in your own hands now, and I'm sure you're going to deserve to be happy--and if you do, you can't help finding happiness. That's what I mean." The two girls liked her at once. There was something so motherly, so kind and wholesome about Mrs. Chester, that they felt as if they had known her a long time. "I don't know about the Council Fire to-night, Eleanor," she said, looking doubtfully at the rain. "It's too damp, I'm afraid, to have it outdoors, and you know that there are so many times when we have to hold the ceremonial fires indoors, that I hate to do it when, by waiting a day, we can have it in this beautiful place." "Yes, that's so," said Eleanor. "It's almost sure to be clear to-morrow. And in winter, when it gets cold, we can't even hope to be outdoors very much, except for skating and snowshoeing. Do you know, girls, that in winter we sometimes use three candles instead of a real fire?" "Yes," said Mrs. Chester. "Of course, after all, it's the meaning of the fire, and not just the fire itself that counts. But I think it's better to have both when we can. So I'm afraid you'll have to wait until to-morrow night for your first Council Fire, girls." Eleanor looked at them. Then she laughed. "Really, it's a good thing, after all," she said. "They're so tired that they can hardly keep their eyes open now, Mrs. Chester. I hope there's going to be a good, hot supper." "There certainly is, my dear! And your girls won't have to cook it, either. Just for to-night you're to be guests of honor. And the new Camp Fire--the Snug Harbor camp, you know--begged me so hard to be allowed to cook the meal and serve it, that I agreed. Julia Kent has done wonders with those girls. You'd think they'd been cooking and working all their lives, instead of it having been just the other way 'round. And they simply worship her. Well, there are your tents over there. You'll hear the call to supper in a few minutes." She turned and left them, and Eleanor led the way to the tents she had pointed out. "I'm so delighted to hear about the Snug Harbor girls," she told Bessie and Zara. "You know we've wondered how that was going to turn out. There are about a dozen of them, and they're all girls whose parents are rich. They go to Europe, and have motor cars, and lovely clothes, and servants--two or three of them have their own maids, and they've never even learned to keep their own rooms neat." "But if they're going to cook our supper--" "That's just it, Bessie. That's what the Camp Fire has done for them. It has taught them that instead of being proud of never having to do anything for themselves, they ought to be ashamed of not knowing how. And before the summer's over I believe they'll be the best of all the Camp Fires in the whole city." Supper, in spite of the storm that raged outside, was a jolly, happy meal. The girls were tired, but they brightened as the meal was served, and the few mistakes of the amateur waitresses only made everyone laugh. Taps, the signal for bedtime, sounded early. All the girls, from the different Camp Fires, were together for a moment. "We'll have the Council Fire to-morrow night," said Mrs. Chester. "And the longer you sleep to-night, the readier you'll be to-morrow for all the things we have to do. Good-night!" And then, after all the girls together had sung the beautiful "Lay me to sleep in sheltering flame," silence rested on the camp. Bessie slept like a log. But in the morning she awoke while everyone else was still asleep. In the east the sky was just turning pink, with the first signs of the coming day. The sky was a deep, beautiful blue, and in the west, where it was still dark, the last stars were still twinkling. Bessie sighed with the beauty of everything, and the sense of comfort and peace that she enjoyed. Then she tried to go to sleep again, but she could not. She had too many things to think about. Zara, disturbed by her movements, woke up too, and looked at her sleepily. "You remember," said Bessie, "that Wanaka told us last night that in a field not far away there were loads and loads of wild strawberries that we could pick? I think I'll get dressed and see if I can't get enough for breakfast, as a surprise." "Shall I come with you?" asked Zara. "No," said Bessie, laughing. "You go to sleep again--you're only half awake now!" She had no trouble in finding the strawberries, although, just because it was so beautiful, she walked around the great estate for quite a while first. It was a wonderful place. Parts of it were beautifully cared for, with smooth, well clipped lawns, and a few old trees; parts were left just as nature had meant them to be, and to Bessie they seemed even more beautiful. And still other acres were turned into farm lands, where there were all sorts of growing crops. A few gardeners were about, and they smiled at Bessie as they saw her. She saw some of the deer that Eleanor had spoken of, too, who were so tame that they let her come as close as she liked. But she spent little time in looking at them, and when she found the field where the berries grew she had soon picked a great apronful of them. When she returned everyone was up, and she was greeted with cries of joy when the girls saw her burden. "They'll make our breakfast ever so much nicer," said Eleanor. "It was good of you to think of them." Not until after breakfast did they see Mrs. Chester--not, indeed, until all the dishes had been washed and put away. And then she approached with a grave face, and called the Guardian aside. They talked together earnestly for a few minutes, and Eleanor's face grew as serious as the Chief Guardian's. Bessie saw that they looked at her more than once as they spoke, and that Eleanor shook her head repeatedly. "I wonder what can be wrong, Zara," she said. "Do you suppose that Farmer Weeks has been making trouble for us again?" "Oh, I hope not! Do you think it's about us they're talking?" "I'm afraid so. See, they're calling me. We'll soon know." Bessie did indeed, soon know what had happened. "Bessie," said Mrs. Chester, "did you go anywhere else this morning when you went for berries?" "I just walked about the place, Mrs. Chester, and looked around. That's all." "But you were quite alone?" "Yes, quite alone. I only saw a few men who were working, cutting the grass, and trimming hedges." "Oh, I'm sorry! Bessie, over there in the woods there's a place that's fenced off, where General Seeley keeps a lot of pheasants. And some time since last night someone has been in there and frightened the mother birds and taken a lot of the eggs. Some of them were broken--and it was not an animal." Bessie looked frightened and concerned. "Oh, what a shame! But, Mrs. Chester, you don't think I did it?" CHAPTER XIII A TANGLED WEB Bessie's eyes were full of fear and dismay as she looked at Mrs. Chester and Eleanor. At first she hadn't thought it even possible that they could think she had done anything so cruel as to frighten the birds and steal their eggs, but there was a grave look on their faces that terrified her. "No, Bessie," said Mrs. Chester, "I don't believe you did--certainly, I don't want to believe anything of the sort." "I _know_ you didn't do it, Bessie!" cried Eleanor Mercer. "But General Seeley is very indignant about it, Bessie," Mrs. Chester went on to say. "And some of the men told him that one of the girls from the camp was around very early this morning, before anyone else was up, walking about, and looking at things. So he seemed to think right away that she must have done it. And he sent for me and asked me if I could find out which of you girls had been out." "Bessie went out openly, and she came back when we were all up," said Eleanor, stoutly. "If she'd been doing anything wrong, Mrs. Chester, she would have tried to get here without being seen, wouldn't she?" "I know, Eleanor, I know," said Mrs. Chester, kindly. "You think she couldn't have had anything to do with it--and so do I, really. But for Bessie's own sake we want to clear it up, don't we?" Bessie stood her ground bravely, and kept back the tears, although it hurt her more to have these friends who had been so good to her bothered about her than it would had almost anything happened to her. "Oh, I wish I'd never seen you, Miss Eleanor!" she cried. "I've done nothing but make trouble for you ever since you found us. I'm so sorry! Zara wanted to come with me this morning, and if I'd let her, she could have told you that I didn't even see the birds." "It'll all come out right, Bessie," said Mrs. Chester. "I thought perhaps you might have done it by accident, but if you weren't there we'll find out who really did do it, never fear. Now, you had better come with me. General Seeley asked me to bring any of the girls who had been out this morning with me when I went to see him. He will want to talk to you himself, I think." So Bessie, tears in her eyes, which she tried bravely to keep back, had to go up to the big house that they could see through the trees. It was a big, rambling house, built of grey stone, with many windows, and all about it were beds of flowers. Bessie had never seen a house that was even half so fine. "General Seeley is very particular about his birds, and all the animals on the place," explained Mrs. Chester, as they made their way toward the house. "Some men keep pheasants just so that they can shoot them in the autumn, and they call that sport. But General Seeley doesn't allow that. He's a kind and gentle man, although he's a soldier." "Has he ever been in a war, Mrs. Chester?" "Yes. He's a real patriot, and when his country needed him he went out to fight, like many other brave and gentle men. But, like most men who are really brave, he hates to see anyone or even any animal, hurt. Soldiers aren't rough and brutal just because they sometimes have to go to war and fight. They know so much about how horrible war is that they're really the best friends of peace." "I never knew that. I thought they liked to fight." "No, it's just the other way round. When you hear men talk about how fine war is, and how they hope this country will have one some time soon, you can make up your mind that they are boasters and bullies, and that if a war really came they'd stay home and let someone else do the fighting. It isn't the people who talk the most and brag the loudest who step to the front when there's something really hard to be done. They leave that to the quiet people." Then they walked along in silence. The place seemed even more beautiful now, but Bessie was too upset to appreciate its loveliness. She wondered if General Seeley would believe her, or if he would be more like Maw Hoover than Mrs. Chester. "We'll find him on the porch in the back of the house, I think, Bessie. If he's there we can find him without going inside and bothering the servants. So we'll go around and see." General Seeley was a small man, with white beard and moustache, and at her first look at him Bessie thought he looked very fierce indeed, and every inch a soldier, though there were so few inches. He had sharp blue eyes that were keen and piercing, and after he had risen and bowed to Mrs. Chester, which he did as soon as he saw her, he looked sharply at Bessie--so sharply that she was sure at once that he had judged her already, and was very angry at her. "Well, well, so you've found the poacher and brought her with you, eh?" he said. "Sit down, ma'am, sit down, while I talk to her!" And now Bessie saw that there was really a twinkle in the keen eyes, and that he wasn't as angry as he looked. "What's her name? Bessie, eh? Bessie King? Well, sit down, Bessie, and we'll have a talk. No use standing up--none at all! Might as well be comfortable!" "Thank you, sir," said Bessie, and sat down. She was still nervous, but her fright was lessened. He was much more kindly than she had expected him to be, somehow. "Now, let's find out all about this, Bessie. Didn't you know you oughtn't to frighten the birds? Or didn't you think they'd be frightened--eh, what?" Bessie didn't understand, fully, at first. "But I didn't frighten them, sir," she said. "They thought so. Stupid birds, eh, to think they were frightened when they weren't? But you remember they didn't know any better." He laughed merrily at his own joke, and glanced at Mrs. Chester, as if he expected her to laugh, too, and to be amused, but her eyes were troubled, and she was very thoughtful. "Come, come," he went on. "It's not so very terrible, after all! We've all of us done things we were sorry for--eh, Mrs. Chester? I'll wager that even you have--and I know very well that there are lots of things I can think of that I did just because I didn't think there was any harm in them." "Some people wouldn't admit that, General Seeley, but it's very true," said Mrs. Chester. "I know it is in my case." "Well, well, can't you talk, Bessie? Aren't you going to tell me you're sorry and that you won't do it again?" "I'm sorry the birds were frightened," said Bessie, bravely. "But I can't say that I won't do it again--" "What's that? What's that? Bless me, what's the use of saying you're sorry if you mean to do it the next time you get a chance?" The general was flushed as he spoke, and his eyes held the same angry look they had worn at first. Mrs. Chester sighed and decided that it was time for her to speak. "I don't think that was just what Bessie meant, General. I think you didn't understand her--" "Well, well, perhaps not! What do you mean, Bessie?" "I mean I can't promise not to do it again, sir, because I didn't do it at all, in the first place. Really, I didn't--" "Oh, nonsense!" said the general, testily. "I'm ready to overlook it--don't you understand that? All I want you to do is to confess, and to say you're sorry. Nothing's going to happen to you!" "I can't confess when I didn't do it," pleaded Bessie. "And if I had done it, I'd say so, whether anything was going to happen to me or not. That wouldn't make any difference." General Seeley jumped to his feet. "Oh, come, come! That's nonsense!" he said. "Who else could have done it, eh? Answer me that! I've said I'd forgive you--" "But, General," protested Mrs. Chester, "if Bessie didn't do it, she'd be telling you an untruth if she said she had--and you wouldn't have her do that?" "I'm a just man, Mrs. Chester, but I know what's what. She must have done it--she was around the place. And I know that none of my men did it. They know better! No one but the game-keepers are allowed to go into the preserve, and they all know they'd be dismissed at once if they disobeyed my rules about that. I'm strict--very strict! I insist upon obedience of orders and truthfulness--learned the need of them when I was in the army. Don't you think I can tell what's going on here, ma'am?" "I think you're mistaken, General--that's all. I'm sure Bessie is telling the truth. Why shouldn't she? You've told her that she needn't be afraid to confess if she did frighten the birds, and that was very kind and generous of you. So, if she had, she wouldn't have anything to lose by saying so, and promising not to be careless that way again." "What do you know about her, ma'am? Isn't it true that she's one of the two girls you told me about last night--that Miss Mercer had found? If--" "I know she's a brave, honest girl, General. She's proved that already." "I disagree with you, Mrs. Chester," said the general, stiffly. "You're a lady, and you naturally think well of everyone. I've learned by bitter experience that we can't always do that. I've trusted men, and had them go wrong, despite that. If she was one of the girls like the others, that you'd always known about, it would be different. Then I'd be happy to take your word for it. But when I think you aren't in any better position to judge than I am, I've got to use my own judgment." "I'm sorry, General," said Mrs. Chester. "I can't tell you how sorry I am--but I'm sure you're wrong." "She can't stay here, that's certain," said the general, testily. "I can't have a girl about the place who frightens my birds and then tells--lies--" Bessie cried out sharply at that word. "Oh--oh!" she said. "Really, I've told the truth--I have, indeed! If I said what you want me to say, than I'd be lying--but I'm not." "Silence, please!" said General Seeley, sternly. "I'm talking with Mrs. Chester now, young woman. You've had your chance--and you wouldn't take it. Now I'm done with you!" "What do you mean, General?" asked Mrs. Chester, looking very grave. "You'll have to send her away--where she came from, Mrs. Chester. You and the girls you can vouch for are welcome, but I can't have her here." "I can't do that, General," said Mrs. Chester, not angrily, but gravely, and looking him straight in the eyes. "But you must! I won't let her stay here! And these are my grounds, aren't they?" "Certainly! But if Bessie goes, we all go with her. It's not our way to desert those we've once befriended and taken in, General." "That is for you to decide, ma'am," he said, stiffly. He got up and bowed to her. "I'm sorry that this should cause a quarrel--" "It hasn't," said Mrs. Chester, smiling. "It takes two to make a quarrel, and I simply won't quarrel with you, General. I know you'll be sorry for what you've said when you think it over. Come, Bessie!" Bessie, quite stunned by the trouble that had come upon them so suddenly out of a clear sky, couldn't speak for a minute. "Oh," she said, then, "you don't mean that all the girls will have to leave this lovely place because of me?" "Not because of you, but because of a mistake that's not your fault, Bessie. You mustn't worry about it. Just leave it to me. I'm sure you're telling the truth, and I'm going to stick by you." CHAPTER XIV THE TRUTH AT LAST But Bessie, despite Mrs. Chester's kind words, was terribly downcast. "Really, Mrs. Chester," she said miserably, "it's awfully unfair to make all the other girls suffer on account of me." "You mustn't look at it that way, Bessie. You couldn't tell a lie, you know, even to prevent this trouble." "No, but I'm sure he thinks I did that. He's not an unkind man, and he really doesn't want to make me unhappy, and drive you all away, I know. Mrs. Chester, won't you send me away?" "Nonsense, Bessie! If you haven't done anything wrong, why shouldn't we stand by you? Even if you had, we'd do that, and we ought to do it all the more when you're in the right, and unjustly suspected. Don't you worry about it a bit! Everything will be all right." "But I really think you ought to let me go. I'm just a trouble maker--I make trouble for everyone! If it hadn't been for me, Jake Hoover would never have burnt his father's barn--don't you know that?" "That isn't so, Bessie. If you hadn't been there, something else would have happened. And it's the same way here. You haven't anything to do with all this trouble here. It would have come just the same if you hadn't arrived at all, I'm sure of that. And then one of the girls would have been accused, and everything would have happened just the same." "Oh, I'm afraid not!" "But I'm sure of it, Bessie, and I really know better than you. You mustn't take it so hard. No one is going to blame you. Rest easy about that. I'll see to it that they all understand just how it is." "I wish I could believe that!" Mrs. Chester told Eleanor what General Seeley had said as soon as they returned to the camp, and Eleanor, after a moment, just laughed. "Well, it can't be helped," she said. "If he wants to act that way, we can't stop him, can we? And I'm so glad that you're going to stick by poor Bessie. I know she feels as bad as she can feel about it--and it's so fine for her to know that she really has some friends who will trust her and believe her at last. She's never had them before." "She has them now, Eleanor. And it's because you're so fond of her already that I'm so sure she's telling the truth. I think I'd trust her, anyhow, but, even if I'd never seen her, I'd take your word." "Will you tell all the girls why we're going?" "I think not--just at first, anyhow. We'll just say that we're going to move on. I'm pretty sure that the people over at Pine Bridge will have some place where we can make camp, and that we can have our Council Fire to-night just the same. It won't be as nice as it is here, of course, but we'll make it do, somehow." So Mrs. Chester went around to the different Guardians of the Camp Fires, and told them of the change in the plans. At once the order to strike the tents and pack was given, and then Mrs. Chester went to make arrangements for carrying the baggage over to Pine Bridge and for getting a camping place there. "I'll get back as soon as I can, Eleanor," she said, "but I may be delayed in finding a camping place. If I am, I'll send the wagons over--I don't want to use General Seeley's, while he's angry at us. And you can take charge and see that everything goes as it should. You'll just take my place." "No one can do that, Mrs. Chester, but I'll do my best." Bessie, forlorn and unhappy, helped in the work of packing, and longed for someone to talk to. She didn't want to tell Zara, who had troubles enough of her own to worry her, and Eleanor, of course, was too busy, with all the work of seeing that everything was done properly. She had to keep a watchful eye on the preparations of the other Camp Fires as well as of her own. And then, suddenly, Bessie got a new idea. "All this trouble is for me," she said. "Suppose I weren't here--suppose I just went away? Then they could all stay." The more she thought of that, the more the idea grew upon her. "I will do that--I will!" she said to herself, with sudden determination. "I'm just like a sign of bad luck--I make trouble for everyone who's good to me. Like Paw Hoover! He was always good--and the fire hurt him more than it did anyone else, though it was Maw Hoover and Jake who made all my trouble. I won't stay here and let them suffer for me any longer." And, very quietly, since she wanted no one to know what she was doing, Bessie went into the tent, which had not yet been taken down, and changed from the blouse and skirt, which had been lent to her, into the old dress she had worn when she had jumped into the water to rescue Minnehaha. Then, moving as silently and as cautiously as she could, Bessie slipped into the woods behind the camp. She dared not go the other way, which was the direct route to the main road outside of General Seeley's estate, because she knew that if any of the girls, or one of the Guardians saw her, she would be stopped. She didn't know the way by the direction she had to take, but she was sure that she could find it, and she wasn't afraid. Her one idea was to get away and save trouble for the others. Of course, if Bessie had stopped to think, she would have known that it was wrong to do what she planned. But her aim was unselfish, and she didn't think of the grief and anxiety that would follow her disappearance. She was sensitive, in any case, and General Seeley's stern manner, although he had not really meant to be unkind, had upset her dreadfully. To her surprise, the woods that she followed grew very thick. And she was still more surprised, presently, to come upon a wire fence. In such woods, it seemed very strange to her. Then, as she saw a bird with a long, brilliantly colored tail strutting around on the other side of the fence, she suddenly understood. This must be the place where the precious pheasants she was supposed to have frightened were kept. And she hadn't even known where they were! Bessie wondered, as she looked at the beautiful bird, how anyone could have the heart to frighten it, or any like it. "I don't blame General Seeley a bit for being angry if he really thought I had done that," she said to herself. "And he did, of course. They don't know anything about me, really. He was quite right." Then she remembered, too, what he had said about the game-keepers. Probably, after what had happened, they would be more careful than ever, and Bessie decided that she had better move along as fast as she could, lest someone find her and think she was trying to get at the birds again. But, anxious as she was to get away from the dangerous neighborhood, she found that, to move at all, she had to stick close to the fence, since the going beyond it was too rough for her. Then, too, as she went along, she heard strange noises--as if someone was moving in the woods near her, and trying not to make a noise. That frightened and puzzled her, so she moved very quietly herself, anxious to find out who it was. A wild thought came to her, too--perhaps it was the real poacher, for whom she had been mistaken, that she heard! Presently the fence turned out, and she had to circle around, following it, to keep to the straight path. And, as the fence turned in again, she gave a sudden gasping little cry, that she had the greatest difficulty in choking down, lest it betray her at once. For she saw a dark figure against the green background, bending over, and plucking at something that lay on the ground. "It is! It really is--the poacher!" she whispered to herself. She longed to know what to do. There was no way of telling whether there was anyone about. If she lifted her voice and called for help, it might bring a game-keeper quickly--and it might simply give the poacher the alarm, and enable him to escape, leaving the evidence of the crime to be turned against her. And this time no one, not even Mrs. Chester, would believe in her innocence. Slowly Bessie crept toward the crouching figure. At least she would try to see his face, so that she would recognize him again, if she was lucky enough to see him. For Bessie was determined that some time, no matter how far in the future, she would clear herself, and make General Seeley admit that he had wronged her. And then, when she was scarcely ten feet from him, she stepped on a branch that crackled under her feet, and the poacher turned and faced her, springing to his feet. Bessie screamed as she saw his face, for it was her old enemy--Jake Hoover! For a moment he was far more frightened than she. He stared at her stupidly. Then he recognized her, and his face showed his evil triumph. "Ah, here, are yer?" he cried, and sprang toward her, his hands full of the feathers he had plucked from the tail of the pheasant he had snared. That move was Jake's fatal mistake. Had he run at once, he might have been able to escape. But now, Bessie, brave as ever, sprang to meet him. He was far stronger than she, but she had seen help approaching--a man in velveteens, and for just a moment after Jake, too, had seen the game-keeper, Bessie was able to keep him from running. She clung to his arms and legs, and though Jake struck at her, she would not let go. And then, just in time, the game-keeper's heavy hand fell on Jake's shoulder. "So you're the poacher, my lad?" he said. "Well I've caught you this time, dead to rights." Squirm and wriggle as he would, Jake couldn't escape now. He was trapped at last, and for once Bessie saw that he was going to reap the reward of his evil doing. The game-keeper lifted a whistle to his lips, and blew a loud, long blast upon it. In a moment the wood filled with the noise of men approaching, and, to Bessie's delight, she saw General Seeley among them. "What? At it again?" he said, angrily, as he saw Bessie. Jake was hidden by the game-keeper, and General Seeley thought at first that it was Bessie who had fallen to the trap he had set. Bessie said nothing--she couldn't. "No, General. It wasn't the girl, after all," said the game-keeper. "Never did seem to me as if it could be, anyhow. Here's the lad that did it all--and I caught him in the act. The feathers are all over him still." "It wasn't me! She did it! I saw her, and I took the feathers from her," wailed Jake, anxious, as ever, to escape himself, no matter how many lies he had to tell, or who had to suffer for his sins. But the game-keeper only laughed roughly. "That won't do you no good, my boy. You'd better own up and take your medicine. Here, see this, General." He plunged his hands into Jake's pockets, and produced the wire and other materials Jake had used in making his snare. "I guess that's pretty good evidence, ain't it, sir?" "It is, indeed," said the general, grimly. "Take him up to the house, Tyler. I'll attend to his case later. Go on, now. I want to talk to this girl." Then he turned to Bessie and took off his hat. "I was wrong and you were right this morning," he said, pleasantly. "I want to apologize to you, Bessie. And I shall try to make up to you for having treated you so badly. How can I do that?" "Oh, there's nothing to make up, General," said Bessie, tearfully. "I'm so glad you know I didn't do that!" "But what are you doing here--and in that dress?" "I--I was going away--so that the others could stay." "I see--so that they wouldn't have to suffer because I was so brutally unkind to you. Well, you come with me! Why didn't you wear the other clothes, though? They're nicer than these." "They're not mine. These are all I have, of my own." "Is that so? Well, you shall have the best wardrobe money can buy, Bessie, just as soon as Mrs. Chester can get it for you. I'll make that my present to you--as a way of making up, partly, for the way I behaved to you. How will you like that?" "That's awfully good of you, but you mustn't--really, you mustn't!" "I guess I can do as I like with my own money, Bessie. And I'm going to be one of your friends--one of your best friends, if you'll let me. Will you shake hands, to show that you don't bear any hard feelings?" And Bessie, unable to speak, held out her hand. General Seeley wrung it--then he started, suddenly. "Here, here, what am I thinking of?" he said, briskly. "I must find Mrs. Chester and ask her to forgive me. Do you think she will do it, Bessie? Or haven't you known her long enough--" "Why should she forgive you, sir? You just thought what anyone else would have thought. What I don't understand is why she was willing to believe me. She didn't know anything about me--" "I'll tell you why, Bessie. It's because she knows human nature, and I, like the old fool I am, wouldn't acknowledge it! But I've learned my lesson--I'll never venture to disagree with her again. And I'm going to hunt her up and tell her so." So Bessie, as happy as she had been miserable a few minutes before, went with the general, while he looked for Mrs. Chester. She returned from Pine Bridge just as they reached the camp, and she listened to General Seeley's apologies with smiling eyes. "I knew I was right," was all she said. "And I'm more than glad that the real culprit was found. But, my dear, you oughtn't to have tried to leave us that way. It wasn't your fault, and we should have gone, just the same, and we would have had to look for you until we found you. When we once make friends of anyone, we don't let them get away from us. That wouldn't be true to the spirit of the Camp Fire--not a bit of it!" Then, while Bessie changed again into the clothes Ayu had lent her, Mrs. Chester gave the welcome order to unpack, and explained to the Guardians that Bessie was cleared, and they were going to stay in camp, and have the Council Fire just as it had been planned. Everyone was delighted, Eleanor Mercer most of all, because she had had real faith in Bessie, and it was a triumph for her to know that her faith had not been misplaced. CHAPTER XV THE COUNCIL FIRE The girls of the Manasquan Camp Fire did little that day except to cook their meals and keep the camp in order. The order to unpack had come, fortunately, in time to save a lot of trouble, since very little had been done toward preparing to move, and, when it was all over, Eleanor called the girls together, and told them just what had happened. "There is a fine lesson for all of us in that," she said. "If Bessie had been weak, she might very well have been tempted to say what General Seeley wanted her to say. She knew she hadn't done anything wrong--and she said so. But she was told that if she would confess she wouldn't be punished, or even scolded, and still she would not do it, even when she found that it meant trouble for her and for us. And, you see, she earned the reward of doing the right thing, for the truth came out. And it will happen that way most of the time--ninety-nine times out of a hundred, I believe." "I should think you'd be perfectly furious at Jake Hoover, Bessie," said Zara. "He makes trouble for you all the time. Here he got you blamed for something he'd done again, and nearly spoiled things just when they were beginning to look better." "But he didn't know that, Zara. He did something wrong, but he couldn't have known that I was going to be blamed for it, you know." "Aren't you angry at him at all?" "Yes, for killing that beautiful bird with his horrid snare. But I'm sorry for him, too. I think he didn't know any better." "What will happen to him, do you think, Bessie! Will he be sent to prison?" "I don't believe so. General Seeley is a kind man, and I think he'll try to make Jake understand how wrong it was to act so, and send him home. I certainly hope so." "I don't see why. I should think you'd want him to be punished. He's done so many mean things without being found out that when he is caught, he ought to get what he deserves." "But it wouldn't be punishing just him, you see, Zara. It would be hard for Paw Hoover, too, and you know how good he was to us. If it hadn't been for him I don't believe we'd ever have got to Pine Bridge at all." "Yes, that's so. He was good to us, Bessie. I'd like to see him again, and tell him so. But I can't--not if Farmer Weeks can get me if I ever go back into that state." "There's another thing to think of, too, Zara, about Jake. He's more likely to be found out now, when he does something wrong." "Oh, yes, that's true, isn't it? I hadn't thought of that. He won't be able to make Maw Hoover think you did everything now, when you're not there, will he?" "That's just what I mean. And maybe, when she finds that the things she used to blame me for keep on happening just the same, though I'm not there, she'll see that I never did do them at all. It looked pretty bad for me this morning, Zara, but you see it came out all right. And I'm beginning to think now that other things will turn out right, too, just as Miss Eleanor's been saying they would." "Oh, I do hope so! There's Miss Eleanor coming now." "Well, girls, have you chosen your fire names yet?" asked the Guardian. "You'll have to be ready to tell us to-night at the big fire you know, when you get your rings." "Why, I hadn't thought about it, even. Had you, Zara?" "Yes, I had. I think I'd like to be called by a name that would make people think of being happy and cheerful. Is there an Indian word that would do that?" "Perhaps. But why don't you make up a new word for yourself, as we made up Wo-he-lo? You could take the first letters of happy and cheerful, and call yourself Hachee. That sounds like an Indian word, though it really isn't. And what for a symbol?" "I think a chipmunk is the happiest, cheerfulest thing I know." "That's splendid! You can be Hachee, and your symbol shall be the chipmunk. You've done well, Zara. I don't think you'll ever want to burn your name." "What is that? Burning one's name?" inquired Zara. "Sometimes a girl chooses a name and later she doesn't like it. Then, at a Council Fire, she writes that name, the one she wants to give up, on a slip of paper, and it's thrown into the fire. And after that she is never called by it again." "Oh, I see. No, I like my new name and I'll want to keep that, I know." "I've always liked the name of Stella--that means a star, doesn't it?--so that my name and my symbol could be the same, if I took that." "Yes, Bessie. That's a good choice, too. You shall be Stella, when we are using the ceremonial names. Well, that's settled, then. You must learn to repeat the Wood-Gatherer's desire to-night--and after that you will get your rings, and then you will be real Camp Fire Girls, like the rest of us." Then she left them, because there was much for her to do, and that afternoon Bessie and Zara made very sure that they knew the Wood-Gatherer's desire, and learned all that the other girls could tell them about the law of the fire, and all the other things they wanted to know. But they waited anxiously for it to be time to light the great Council Fire. All afternoon the Wood-Gatherers worked, gathering the fagots for the fire, and arranging them neatly. They were built up so that there was a good space for a draught under the wood, in order that the fire, once it was lighted, might burn clear and bright. A cloudless summer sky gave promise of a beautiful starlit night, so that there was no danger of a repetition of the disappointment of the previous night--which, however, everyone had already forgotten. After supper, when it was quite dark, the space around the pile was left empty. Then Mrs. Chester, in her ceremonial Indian robes, stood up in the centre, near the fire, and one by one the different Camp Fires, led by their Guardians, came in, singing slowly. As each girl passed before her, Mrs. Chester made the sign of the Fire, by raising her right hand slowly, in a sweeping gesture, after first crossing its fingers against those of the left hand. Each girl returned the sign and then passed to her place in the great circle about the fagots, where she sat down. When all the girls were seated, Mrs. Chester spoke. "The Manasquan Camp Fire has the honor of lighting our Council Fire to-night," she said. "Ayu!" And Ayu stepped forward. She had with her the simple tools that are required for making fire in the Indian fashion. It is not enough, as some people believe, to rub two sticks together, and Bessie and Zara, who had never seen this trick played before, watched her with great interest. Ayu had, first, a block of wood, not very thick, in which a notch had been cut. In this notch she rested a long, thin stick, and on top of that was a small piece of wood, in which the stick or drill rested. And, last of all, she had a bow, with a leather thong, which was slipped around the drill. When everything was ready Ayu, holding down the fire block with one foot, held the socket of the drill with the left hand, while with the right she drew the bow rapidly back and forth. In less than a minute there was a tiny spark. Then rapidly growing, flame appeared and a moment later, along the carefully prepared tinder, the fire ran to the kindling beneath the fagots. And then, as the flames rose and began to curl about the fagots all the girls began to sing together the Camp Fire Girl Ode to Fire: "Oh Fire! Long years ago when our fathers fought with great animals you were their protection. From the cruel cold of winter you saved them. When they needed food you changed the flesh of beasts into savory food for them. During all the ages your mysterious flame has been a symbol to them for Spirit. So to-night we light our fire in remembrance of the Great Spirit who gave you to us." Then each Guardian called the roll of her Camp Fire, and as each girl's ceremonial name was called she answered, "Kolah!" "That means _friend_," someone whispered to Bessie and Zara. "We are to receive two new members to-night," said Mrs. Chester, then. "Wanaka, they come in your Camp Fire. Will you initiate them into the Camp Fire circle?" Then she sat down, and Wanaka took her place in the centre. Bessie and Zara understood that it was time for them to step forward, and they stood out in the dancing light of the fire, which was roaring up now, and casting its light into the shadows about the circle. All the girls stood up. Bessie came first, and Wanaka turned to her. "Is it your desire to become a Camp Fire Girl and follow the law of the Fire?" And Bessie, who had been taught the form to be followed, answered: "It is my desire to become a Camp Fire Girl and to obey the law of the Camp Fire, which is to Seek Beauty, Give Service, Pursue Knowledge, Be Trustworthy, Hold on to Health, Glorify Work, Be Happy. This law of the Camp Fire I will strive to follow." Then she held out her left hand, and Eleanor took it, saying: "In the name of the Camp Fire Girls of America, I place on the little finger of your left hand this ring, with its design of seven fagots, symbolic of the seven points of the law of the Fire, which you have expressed your desire to follow, and of the three circles on either side, symbolic of the three watchwords of this organization--Work, Health, and Love. And-- "As fagots are brought from the forest Firmly held by the sinews which bind them, So cleave to these others, your sisters, Whoever, whenever, you find them. "Be strong as the fagots are sturdy; Be pure in your deepest desire; Be true to the truth that is in you; And--follow the law of the Fire." Then, as Bessie, or Stella, as, at the Council Fire she was to be known thereafter, made her way back to her place, all the girls sang the Wo-he-lo song by way of welcoming her as one of them. Then it was Zara's turn, and the same beautiful ceremony was repeated for her. "Now the Snug Harbor Camp Fire is going to entertain us with some new Indian dances they have learned," said Mrs. Chester. "I am sure we will all enjoy that." And they did. No Indian girls ever danced with the grace and beauty that those young American girls put into their interpretation of the old-fashioned dances, which made all the other Camp Fires determine to try to learn them, too. And after that there was a talk from Mrs. Chester on the purpose of the organization. Then, finally, taps sounded, and the Council Fire was over. "So you really are Camp Fire Girls," said Eleanor, to the two new members. "Soon we shall be back in the city and there I am sure that many things will happen to you. Some of them will be hard, but you will get through them all right. And remember we mean to help you, no matter what happens. Zara shall have her father back, and we will do all we can, Bessie, to help you find your parents. Good-night!" "Good-night!" Every Child's Library * * * * * No child has come into his full and rightful heritage in the world of books until he has read the stories comprising Every Child's Library HEIDI--_Spyri_ TREASURE ISLAND--_Stevenson_ EAST O' THE SUN AND WEST O' THE MOON--_Dasent_ HANS BRINKER--_Dodge_ THE SWISS FAMILY ROBINSON--_Wyss_ ROBINSON CRUSOE--_Defoe_ PINOCCHIO--_D. Collodi_ ROBIN HOOD--_Gilbert_ KING ARTHUR FOR BOYS--_Gilbert_ ANIMAL STORIES--_P. T. Barnum_ KIDNAPPED--_Stevenson_ CORNELLI, HER CHILDHOOD--_Spyri_ A CHRISTMAS CAROL--_Dickens_ A DOG OF FLANDERS--_Ouida_ THE CUCKOO CLOCK--_Molesworth_ JIM DAVIS--_Masefield_ AT THE BACK OF THE NORTH WIND--_MacDonald_ THE PRINCESS AND CURDIE--_MacDonald_ THE PRINCESS AND THE GOBLIN--_MacDonald_ BLACK BEAUTY--_Sewell_ MAXA'S CHILDREN--_Spyri_ A LITTLE SWISS BOY--_Spyri_ UNCLE TITUS IN THE COUNTRY--_Spyri_ THE BLACK ARROW--_Stevenson_ THE RED FAIRY BOOK--_Lang_ THE BLUE FAIRY BOOK--_Lang_ GRANNY'S WONDERFUL CHAIR--_Browne_ LITTLE MEN--_Alcott_ AN OLD-FASHIONED GIRL--_Alcott_ Each volume is well illustrated, is bound in cloth and has a jacket in colors. * * * * * THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING CO. AKRON, OHIO The Companion Series These books will in truth prove companions to the child through many a happy reading hour and grow into memory companions for later life, enriching all the years. The type is large and plain, the books are exceptionally illustrated--most of them having a hundred or more illustrations which add keen zest to the stories. LITTLE WOMEN--_Alcott_ LITTLE MEN--_Alcott_ AN OLD-FASHIONED GIRL--_Alcott_ HEIDI--_Spyri_ A CHILD'S GARDEN OF VERSES--_Stevenson_ CORNELLI, HER CHILDHOOD--_Spyri_ MAXA'S CHILDREN--_Spyri_ UNCLE TITUS IN THE COUNTRY--_Spyri_ A LITTLE SWISS BOY--_Spyri_ EVERY DAY BIBLE STORIES--_Pollard_ ARABIAN NIGHTS GRIMM'S FAIRY TALES ANDERSEN'S FAIRY TALES ALICE'S ADVENTURES IN WONDERLAND--_Carroll_ Bound in boards, frontispiece in colors, cover and jacket in colors, size 6-3/4 x 9 inches. THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING CO. AKRON, OHIO John Newbery Series Early in the 18th century John Newbery was born in a little Berkshire village in England, and became a bookman in the old St. Paul's churchyard. It was he who first believed children needed books of their own, and he set about to supply that need. Many of the old stories, quaint jingles and nursery rhymes we have today are due to him. It is therefore peculiarly fitting this series, comprising the best written for childhood, should bear his name. THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN--_Robert Browning_ THE KING OF THE GOLDEN RIVER--_John Ruskin_ MONI, THE GOAT BOY--_Johanna Spyri_ FAIRY TALE GIANTS FAIRY TALE PRINCES FAIRY TALE PRINCESSES A DOG OF FLANDERS--_Louisa de la Ramee_ (_Ouida_) THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW--_Washington Irving_ RIP VAN WINKLE--_Washington Irving_ THE NURNBERG STOVE--_Louisa de la Ramee_ (_Ouida_) THE ADVENTURES OF A BROWNIE--_Miss Mulock_ CHILD VERSES--_Eugene Field_ These books are well bound in cloth, are profusely illustrated, have a colored frontispiece and a colored jacket, and contain 92 pages each. THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING CO. AKRON, OHIO The Billy Whiskers Series * * * * * As Originated by FRANCES TREGO MONTGOMERY Mrs. Montgomery has the happy faculty of knowing just what the small boy and his sister like in stories, and the added ability of giving it to them. Her ideas are touched with the sparkle of real genius and little folks find it a delight to travel in her company. These adventures of a frolicsome goat never fail to please. Twenty-five Volumes BILLY WHISKERS BILLY WHISKERS' KIDS BILLY WHISKERS, JUNIOR BILLY WHISKERS' TRAVELS BILLY WHISKERS AT THE CIRCUS BILLY WHISKERS AT THE FAIR BILLY WHISKERS' FRIENDS BILLY WHISKERS, JR., AND HIS CHUMS BILLY WHISKERS' GRANDCHILDREN BILLY WHISKERS' VACATION BILLY WHISKERS KIDNAPPED BILLY WHISKERS' TWINS BILLY WHISKERS IN AN AEROPLANE BILLY WHISKERS IN TOWN BILLY WHISKERS OUT WEST BILLY WHISKERS IN THE SOUTH BILLY WHISKERS' ADVENTURES BILLY WHISKERS IN THE MOVIES BILLY WHISKERS OUT FOR FUN BILLY WHISKERS' FROLICS BILLY WHISKERS AT HOME BILLY WHISKERS' PRANKS BILLY WHISKERS IN MISCHIEF BILLY WHISKERS AND THE RADIO BILLY WHISKERS' TREASURE HUNT Quarto, six full color illustrations and many black-and-white drawings, bound in cloth, colored jacket. Price, $1.25 each. * * * * * THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY, AKRON, OHIO * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Obvious punctuation errors repaired. 
6895	----	[Illustration: "YES, I AM RUNNING AWAY," SAID THE GIRL IN A TONE OF DESPERATION.] The Camp Fire Girls Go Motoring OR Along the Road that Leads the Way By HILDEGARD G. FREY AUTHOR OF "The Camp Fire Girls in the Maine Woods," "The Camp Fire Girls at School," "The Camp Fire Girls at Onoway House." THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS GO MOTORING CHAPTER I. It is at Nyoda's bidding that I am writing the story of our automobile trip last September. She declared it was really too good to keep to ourselves, and as I was official reporter of the Winnebagos anyway, it was no more nor less than my solemn duty. Sahwah says that the only thing which was lacking about our adventures was that we didn't have a ride in a patrol wagon, but then Sahwah always did incline to the spectacular. And the whole train of events hinged on a commonplace circumstance which is in itself hardly worth recording; namely, that tan khaki was all the rage for outing suits last summer. But then, many an empire has fallen for a still slighter cause. The night after we came home from Onoway House and shortly before we started on that never-to-be-forgotten trip, I was sitting at the window watching the evening stars come out one after another. That line of Longfellow's came into my mind: "Silently, one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven, Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels." That quotation set me to thinking about Evangeline and the tragedy of her never finding her lover. Could it be possible, I thought, that two people could come so near to finding each other and yet be just too late? Not in these days of long distance telephones, I said to myself. As I looked out dreamily into the mild September twilight, I idly watched two little girls chasing each other around the voting booth that stood on the corner. They kept dodging around the four sides, playing cat and mouse, and trying to catch each other by means of every trick they could think of. One would go a little way and then stop and listen for the footsteps of the other; then she would double back and go the other way, and thus they kept it up, never coming face to face. I stopped dreaming and gave them my entire attention; I was beginning to feel a thrill of suspense as to which one would finally outwit the other and overtake her. The darkness deepened; more stars came out; the moon rose; still the exciting game did not come to a finish. Finally, a woman came out on the porch of the house on the corner and called, "Emma! Mary! Come in now." They never caught each other. When I was elected reporter on the trip to keep a record of the interesting things we saw, so we wouldn't forget them when we came to write the Count, Nyoda said jokingly, "You'd better take an extra note-book along, Migwan, for we might possibly have some adventures on the road." I answered, "We've had all the adventures this last summer that can possibly fall to the lot of one set of human beings, and I suppose all the rest of our lives will seem dull and uninteresting by comparison." I presume Fate heard that remark of mine just as she did that other one last summer when I observed to Hinpoha that we were going to have such a quiet time at Onoway House, and sat up and chuckled on the knees of the gods. In the light of future events it seems to me that it couldn't have done less than kick its heels against that Knee and have hysterics. As I was in the Glow-worm all the time, of course, I was an eye witness to the things which happened to our party only; but the other girls have told their tale so many times that it seems as if I had actually experienced their adventures myself, and so will write everything down as if I had seen it, without stopping to say Gladys said this or Hinpoha told me that. It makes a better story so, Nyoda says. After Gladys's father had told us we might take the two automobiles and go on a trip by ourselves, he gave us a road map and told us to go anywhere we liked within a radius of five hundred miles and he would pay all the bills, provided, we planned and carried out the whole trip by ourselves, and did not keep telegraphing home for advice unless we got into serious trouble. All such little troubles as breakdowns, hotels and traffic rules we were to manage by ourselves. He has a theory that Gladys should learn to be self-reliant and means to give her every opportunity to develop resourcefulness. He thinks she has improved wonderfully since joining the Winnebagos and considered this motor trip a good way of testing how much she can do for herself. Gladys scoffed at the idea of wiring home for help when Nyoda was along, for Nyoda has toured a great deal and once drove her uncle's car home from Los Angeles when he broke his arm. Gladys's father knew full well that Nyoda was perfectly capable of engineering the trip or he never would have proposed it in the first place, but he never can resist the temptation to tease Gladys, and kept on inquiring anxiously if she knew which side of the road to stop on and where to go to buy gas. Gladys, who had driven her own car for three years! Finally, he offered to bet that we would be wiring home for advice before the end of the trip and Gladys took him up on it. The outcome was that if we returned safe and sound without calling for help Mr. Evans would build us a permanent Lodge in which to hold our Winnebago meetings. Gladys danced a whole figure dance for joy, for in her mind the Lodge was as good as built. How we did pore over that road map, trying to make up our minds where to go! Nyoda wanted to go to Cincinnati and Gladys wanted to go to Chicago, and the arguments each one put up for her cause were side-splitting. Finally, they decided to settle it by a set of tennis. They played all afternoon and couldn't get a set. We finally intervened and dragged them from the court in the name of humanity, for the sun was scorching and we were afraid they would be doing the Sun Dance as Ophelia did if we didn't rescue them. The score was then 44-44 in games. So now that neither side had the advantage of the other we did as we did the time we named the raft at Onoway House--joined forces. We decided to go both to Cincinnati and Chicago. As we finally made it out, the route was like this: Cleveland to Chicago by way of Toledo and Ft. Wayne; Chicago to Indianapolis; Indianapolis to Louisville. Here Hinpoha got a look at the map and wanted to know if we couldn't take in Vincennes, because she had been crazy to see the place since reading Alice of Old Vincennes. So to humor her we included Vincennes on the road to Louisville, although it was quite a bit out of the way. Then from Louisville we planned to go up to Cincinnati and see the Rookwood Pottery that Nyoda is so crazy about and come back home through Dayton, Springfield and Columbus. We were all very well pleased with ourselves when we had the route mapped out at last, and none of us were sorry that Nyoda and Gladys couldn't agree on Cincinnati or Chicago and had to compromise and take in both. Then, when it was decided where we were going, came the no less important question of what we were to wear on the road. We decided on our khaki-colored hiking-suits as the shade that would show the dust the least, and our soft tan regulation Camp Fire hats, with green motor veils. Besides being eminently sensible the combination was wonderfully pretty, as even critical Hinpoha, who, at first wanted us to wear smart white and blue suits, had to admit. It seemed to me the most fitting thing in the world for a group of Camp Fire Girls to sally forth dressed in wood brown and green, the colors of nature which in my mind should be the chosen colors of the whole organization. We had a discussion about goggles and Gladys and Hinpoha declared flatly that they wouldn't disfigure their faces with them, but Nyoda made us all get them whether we wanted to wear them all the time or not. Nyoda is an advocate of Preparedness. It was this spirit that prompted her to make me take an extra note-book along, not the premonition that there was going to be something to put into it. Nyoda doesn't believe in premonitions since she didn't have any the time she and Gladys got into the blue automobile with the cane streamer that awful day in May. Then there came the weighty matter of the names of the two cars. I will skip the discussion and merely announce the result. The big, brown car which Gladys was to drive was christened the Striped Beetle, on account of the black and gold stripes, and the black car was called the Glow-worm, because that's what it reminds you of when it comes down the road at night with the lamps lighted and the body invisible in the darkness. Nyoda was to be at the helm, or rather at the wheel, of the Glow-worm. In order that no feelings might be involved in any way over which car we other girls traveled in, Nyoda, Solomon-like, proposed that she and Gladys play "John Kempo" for us. (That isn't spelled right, but no matter.) Gladys won Hinpoha, Chapa and Medmangi, and Nyoda won Sahwah, Nakwisi and myself. Thus the die was cast and my fortunes linked with those of the Glow-worm. I don't remember ever being so supremely happy as I was the night before we were to start. All my troubles seemed over for good. The summer venture had been a success and the doors of college stood wide open to receive me when the time came. The awful weight of poverty which had sat on my shoulders last year, and had made my school days more of a nightmare than anything else was lifted, and here was I, "Migwan, the Penpusher", actually about to start out on an automobile trip such as I had often heard described by more fortunate friends, but had never hoped to experience myself. We were all over at Hinpoha's house that night, because Aunt Phoebe had just come back with the Doctor and they wanted to see us. "And you be careful of your bones, Missis Sahwah!" said the Doctor, playfully shaking his finger at her. "Are you going if it rains?" asked Aunt Phoebe. The possibility of rain had never occurred to us, as the only picture we had seen in our mind's eye had been country roads gleaming in the sunshine, but Gladys said scornfully that she would like to be shown the group of Camp Fire Girls who would let themselves be put off by rain. "Let's build a Rain Jinx," said Sahwah, who always has the most whimsical inspirations. "A what?" asked Gladys. "A Rain Jinx," said Sahwah, warming to the idea. "A 'doings' to scare away the Rain Bird and the Thunder Bird." As the foundation for her Rain Jinx she took Hinpoha's Latin book, which she declared was the driest thing in existence. On top of that she piled other books which were nearly as dry until she had a sort of altar. Then she proceeded to sacrifice all the rubbers, rain-coats and umbrellas she could find, as a propitiatory offering to the Rain Bird. Thoroughly in the mood for such nonsense, now she proceeded to chant weird chants around the altar to protect us from all sorts of things on the road; to soften the hearts of traffic policemen; to keep the tires from bursting, and the machinery from cutting up capers. It was the most ridiculous performance I have ever seen and Aunt Phoebe and the Doctor laughed themselves almost sick over it. I laughed so myself that I could not take notes on what she was saying and so can't let you laugh at it for yourselves. As a reporter I'm afraid I'm not an unqualified success. In the midst of that "Vestal Virgin" business--Sahwah was flourishing a chamois vest to give us the idea of _vestal_--Nyoda walked in. There was only one low lamp burning in order to carry out Sahwah's idea of what a Rain Jinx ceremony should be like, and Nyoda couldn't clearly make out the objects in the room. "Look out for the Rain Jinx!" called Sahwah, warningly. "If you touch it it will bring us bad luck instead of good." But it was too late. Nyoda had stumbled over the pile of things on the floor, and in falling sent the elements of the Rain Jinx flying in all directions. Hinpoha flew to light the light and Sahwah picked Nyoda up out of the mess and set her in a chair, while the rest of us collected the scattered articles and tidied up the room, and Sahwah painted in lurid colors to Nyoda the dire consequences of her crime, and made her give her famous "Wimmen Sufferage" speech as an act of atonement. The Rain Bird must have forgiven her on the strength of that speech, for there never was such a perfect blue and gold day as the morning we started out. I have already told you how we were divided up in the cars. Gladys in the Striped Beetle went first, carrying with her Hinpoha, Chapa and Medmangi, and Nyoda drove the Glow-worm right behind her with Sahwah, Nakwisi and myself. Hinpoha insisted upon bringing Mr. Bob, her black cocker spaniel, along as a mascot. Of course, everybody wanted to sit beside the driver and we had to compromise by planning to change seats every hour to give us all a chance. We all carried our cameras in our hands to be ready to snap anything worth while as it came along, and beside that Nakwisi had her spy-glass along as usual and I had my reporter's note-book. In honor of my being reporter they let me sit beside Nyoda at the start. Nakwisi couldn't wait until we got under way and bounced up and down on the seat with impatience. "What's the matter with you?" said Sahwah, "You're a regular _starting-crank_!" "That will do, Sahwah," said Nyoda, with mock severity. "I want it distinctly understood that anybody who indulges in puns on this trip is going to get out and walk." With that threat she settled herself behind the wheel and turned on the gasoline, or whatever it is you do to start a car. Thus we started off, like modern day Innocents Abroad, with the Winnebago banner across the back of each car, and our green veils fluttering in the breeze. Mr. Evans waved the paper on which the bet was recorded significantly, and shouted "Remember!" in a sepulchral tone, and it was plain to be seen he was sure he would win the bet. He even tempted Fate so far as to throw an old rubber after us as we departed, instead of an old shoe, to bring us luck according to the Rain Jinx. It landed in the tonneau of our car and Sahwah pounced upon it as a favorable omen and kept it for a mascot. With a great cheering and waving of handkerchiefs we were off. The Striped Beetle was just ahead of us in all the glory of its new coat of paint and its bright banner, and I couldn't help thrilling with pride to think that I, for once, belonged to such a gay company, I, who all my life had to be content with shabby things. I suppose we must have cut quite a figure with our tan suits all alike and our green veils, for people stopped to look at us as we passed through the streets. It was not long before we were outside the city limits and running along the western road toward Toledo. I always did think September was the prettiest month in which to go through the country in the lake region on account of the grapes. The vineyards stretched for miles along the road and the air was sweet with the perfume of the purple fruit. There were wide corn-fields, too, that made me think of the poem: "Up from the meadows rich with corn, Clear in the cool September morn--" Oh, there never was such a beautiful country as America, nor such a happy girl as I! In one place someone had planted a long strip of brilliant red geraniums through the middle of a green field and the effect was too gorgeous for description. (I'm glad I noted all those things and put them down on the first part of the trip, for afterwards I scarcely thought of looking at the scenery.) The girls in the car ahead kept shouting back at us and trying to make up a song about the Striped Beetle, and, of course, we had resurrected the one-time popular "Glow-worm" song and made the hills and dales resound with the air of the chorus: "Shine, little Glow-worm, glimmer, Shine, little Glow-worm, glimmer, Lead us lest too far we wander, Love's sweet voice is calling yonder; Shine, little Glow-worm, glimmer, Shine, little Glow-worm, glimmer, Light the path, below, above, And lead us on to love!" Then there would come a chorus of derision from the Striped Beetles, who politely inquired which one of us expected to be led to her Prince Charming by that mechanical Glow-worm; and flung back our chorus in a parody: "Shine, little Glow-worm, glimmer, Till the Law makes you put on the dimmer!" Then we christened the horn of the Striped Beetle "Love", because that was the only "sweet voice" we heard calling yonder. I don't believe I ever had such a good time as I did on the road to Toledo. We got there about noon and went to a large restaurant for dinner. Even there people looked up from their tables as we eight girls came in, dressed in our wood brown and green costumes, and we heard several low-voiced remarks, "They're probably Camp Fire Girls." We had a great deal of fun at dinner where we all sat at one big table. Sahwah and Hinpoha sat at the two ends and got into a dispute as to which end was the head of the table. "Stop quarreling about it, you ridiculous children," said Nyoda. "'Wherever Magregor sits--' you know the rest." While she was speaking I saw a tourist at another table, dressed in a long dust coat and wearing monstrous goggles that covered the entire upper half of his face and made him look like a frog, lean forward as if to catch every word. Nyoda is perfectly stunning in her motor suit and I couldn't blame the man for admiring her, but we did want Nyoda to ourselves on this trip, and the thought of having men mixed up in it put a damper on my spirits. I suppose Nyoda will leave us for a man sometime, but the thought always makes me ill. I came out of my little reverie to find that Gladys had appropriated my glass of water and Sahwah and Hinpoha were still disputing about being the head of the table. Finally, we jokingly advised Sahwah to ask the waiter, and she promptly took us up and did it, and found that Hinpoha was the head. "I'm going to have the head at the next place we eat," Sahwah declared, owning her defeat with as good grace as she could. And Fate winked solemnly and began to slide off the knees of the gods. From Toledo to Ft. Wayne, our next stop, there were two routes, the northern one through Bryan and the southern one through Napoleon and Defiance. As there didn't seem to be much difference between them we played "John Kempo" and the northern route won, two out of three. As we were threading our way through the streets of the town, an old woman tried to cross the street just in front of the Glow-worm. Nyoda sounded the horn warningly but the noise seemed to confuse her. She got across the middle of the street in safety and Nyoda quickened up a bit, when the woman lost her head and started back for the side she had come from. She darted right in front of the Glow-worm, and although Nyoda turned aside sharply, the one fender just grazed her and she fell down in the street. Of course, a crowd collected and we had to stop and get out and help her to the sidewalk where we made sure she was not hurt. Nyoda finally took her in tow and piloted her across the street to the place where she wanted to go. When the excitement was over and the crowd had dispersed we returned to the car and Nyoda started up once more. Then for the first time we noticed that the Striped Beetle was nowhere in sight. Apparently Gladys had not noticed our stopping in the confusion of the busy street and had gone on ahead without us. CHAPTER II. Gladys, as the leader, had the road map with her with the route marked out which we were to follow. We hastened to the end of the street, expecting to catch sight of the Striped Beetle just around the corner, but it was nowhere to be seen. We stopped at a store and asked if they had seen it come by and they said, yes, it had just passed and had turned to the left up --th Street. We followed swiftly, thinking to come upon the girls each moment, but there was no sign of them. "They surely have discovered by this time that we are not behind them and must be waiting for us," said Nyoda. "I can't understand it." "Gladys is probably trying to see if we can trail her through the city to the motor road," said Sahwah. "You know how much we talked about being self-reliant? We'll probably find her where the road branches out from the city, waiting with a stop watch to see how long it took us to find her." "We'll get there," said Nyoda grimly, her sporting blood up. Everywhere along the road people told us about the brown car that had gone just ahead of us and pointed out the direction it had taken. Every time we turned a corner we expected to hear the laughter of the girls who were leading us such a merry chase, but we didn't. Soon we were out of the city and on the country road once more, and we were quite a bit puzzled not to find them waiting for us. We certainly thought the joke was to have ended here. But a man walking along the road had seen the car go by half an hour before. "Half an hour!" we echoed. "Gladys must have been speeding to have gotten so far ahead of us." Of course, the Striped Beetle is a six-cylinder car and more powerful than the Glow-worm, which is a four, and then they hadn't stopped at every corner to ask the way, so it wasn't so strange after all that Gladys was so far ahead. "We'll make some speed on this road," said Nyoda resolutely, "and if we don't catch Lady Gladys before she gets to Ft. Wayne, I'll know the reason why. This is the road to Bryan, isn't it?" she asked, with her hand on the starting-lever. "No," said the man. "This here road goes through Napoleon and Defiance. It gets to Ft. Wayne all right, but it doesn't go through Bryan." Nyoda stopped in surprise. "The southern route?" she said, wonderingly. "Why, we decided on the northern. Whatever could have made Gladys change her mind without letting us know? Are you sure it was a brown car with four girls dressed just like us?" The man was positive. It was the suits and the veils all alike that had caught his eye in the first place. He didn't generally remember much about the cars that went past. There were too many of them. But these girls looked so fine in their tan suits that he just had to look twice at them. They were laughing fit to kill and all waved their handkerchiefs at him as they passed. We looked at each other in astonishment. It was undoubtedly the Striped Beetle that was going along the southern route and we couldn't understand it. "Do you suppose," I said, "that Gladys could have misunderstood when you were playing 'John Kempo' and thought it was the southern route that won?" "She must have," said Nyoda. "It's not impossible. We were all laughing and talking so much nonsense at the time that it was hard to think straight. But it doesn't make any difference," she added, "this route is as good as the northern, and we are right behind them and I mean to catch up before we get to Ft. Wayne." I knew what Nyoda was thinking about. The man had said the girls in the car were laughing fit to kill, and that looked very much as if there were some joke on foot. We knew very well they were running away from us and were going to lead us a chase to Ft. Wayne. As we started off in pursuit I looked around from the tonneau, where I was then sitting, and saw a red roadster not far behind us. There was one man in it and he was the Frog I had seen goggling at Nyoda in the dining-room at Toledo. We were not so terribly surprised when we did not find the Striped Beetle at Napoleon where we stopped for gasoline. We knew now that they would not let us catch them before we got to Ft. Wayne. We inquired at the service station and found that the brown car had stopped for gasoline nearly an hour before. Clearly they were not losing any time on the road. Neither were we gaining on them at that rate. Nyoda looked thoughtful as she started out once more. I knew she was meditating a lecture for Gladys when she caught up with her, about running away from us. Nyoda was responsible for the welfare of seven girls and how could she fulfil her trust if she had only three under her eye? And I knew as well as I knew anything that Gladys would forfeit her right to be leader by that little prank and for the rest of the trip would follow meekly along behind us. Nyoda would never in the world stand for her going off like that. But by the puzzled frown on her face I knew that she didn't understand it any more than I did. Gladys was the last one in the world to do such a thing. There must be some reason. From my seat I could see that the Frog, who had also stopped for gasoline when we did, was not far behind us. The car he was in looked like a racing car, with a very long hood in front, and he could easily have gotten ahead of us. I wondered for a long time why he did not do so, and then suddenly I had a premonition. He was following us, or rather Nyoda. Something had told me when I first saw him that we should see him again. I made a horrible face at him behind my veil and wished something would happen to his car. As we were passing through the village of S---- a chicken started up right under our front wheels, uttering a startled and startling squawk. Nyoda swerved to one side and ran squarely into a tree. There was a bump and a grating sound somewhere beneath us and then the nice cheerful humming of the motor stopped. Nyoda got out of the car to see what had been damaged. "As far as I can see, only the lamp bracket is bent," she said, but when she tried to start the car again it wouldn't start. "Maybe the driving spider has caught the flywheel," said Sahwah, trying to be funny. Just then the red roadster did pass us, going slowly, and the Frog kept his eyes riveted on Nyoda all the while. She never looked at him. She had unbuttoned the roof over the engine and was poking her fingers down into the dragon's mouth, but undoubtedly the trouble wasn't there. There was a repair shop not far away--all of the towns along the touring routes which have an eye to business have some sort of one--and Nyoda repaired thither and fetched a man who tinkered knowingly with the regions underneath the Glow-worm and then reported in a dust choked voice that one of the gears was "on the blink". Just what part of a car's vital organs a gear is I don't know, but I judged it was an important one because Nyoda looked serious. "What will we do?" she said, tragically. "Can fix you up in the shop," said the man, wiping his forehead with a blue and white handkerchief. "We have a dismantled car of the same make there and can take a gear out of that." So the Glow-worm was trundled up the street into the shop, and we were told that the damage would be fixed by the next morning. The next morning! We looked at each other in consternation. "But we must get to Ft. Wayne to-night," said Nyoda, in a tone of finality. "Sorry, ladies," said the foreman of the repair shop, "but it can't be done." Then we realized that we would have to stay in S---- all night. Here was a pretty mess. And Gladys and Hinpoha and the other two waiting for us in Ft. Wayne. "We'll have to let them know," said Nyoda. "They'll worry when they see we're not coming." "Let them worry," said Sahwah, darkly. "It serves them right for what they did to us." But, of course, we had to let them know. So Nyoda wired the little hotel where we had planned to stay--and what a good time we were going to have!--and told the girls to stay there for the night and to please wait for us in the morning and not leave us again. Of course, the message was much more condensed than that, but Nyoda got it all in. Then there was nothing else for us to do but make the best of a bad bargain and hunt up the one hotel in S---- and prepare to spend the night. But when we got there it was crowded. There was a big wedding in town that night, we were informed, and the out-of-town guests had filled the hotel. They were already two in a room and there was no hope of doubling up. Seeing our dismay at this news, the clerk bethought himself of a woman in the village who had a very large house and often let rooms to tourists when the hotel was full. She had once been very wealthy, but had lost everything but the house and now made her living by keeping boarders. We thanked him and hurried off to the address to which he had directed us. We were very hot and tired and dusty and amazingly hungry. It was already six o'clock in the evening, and with the difference in time between our city and this we had been on the road a long day. We were glad after all that the hotel had not been able to accommodate us when we saw this house. The hotel was on the main street and the rooms must have been small and stuffy; anything but comfortable on this hot night. But this house stood far back from the street in an immense shady yard, one of those enormous brick houses that well-to-do people were fond of building about thirty-five years ago, with large rooms and high ceilings and enough space inside them to quarter a regiment. We blessed the good fortune which had led our feet to this hospitable looking door, which, in times gone by, must have opened to admit throngs of distinguished people. There was no door-bell, but a big bronze knocker, and in answer to it a young girl, presumably the "hired girl", let us into the hall. She took our coming as a matter of course, so we judged they were prepared for tourists that day, knowing that the hotel was full on account of the wedding. Without a word she led us up-stairs and we breathed a sigh of relief when we thought of a bath and supper. The house must have been the home of fashionable people in its time, for the furnishings, though old, were still luxurious. The carpet on the stairs was still thick and soft to our feet, and the curtains I could see on the windows were of a fine quality. At the head of the stairs there was an oil painting of a woman in the dress of a by-gone day. The servant opened the door of a room at the front end of the long up-stairs hall and we passed in. We had known instinctively as soon as we entered the place that the lady of the house was a woman of refinement and culture, notwithstanding the reduced circumstances which made it necessary for her to rent out rooms in this big mansion of a house in order to make her living. "I should think she'd rent it or sell it," said practical Sahwah. "She probably can't bear to part with these things, which remind her of her former life," I said, sentimentally. We were all anxious to see the woman who had been the mistress of so much splendor in days gone by and could not give up the house. The bedroom we were shown to was luxurious compared to what I had been used to at home. The bed was a mahogany four-poster covered with a spread of lace, and the rug on the floor was a faded oriental. Opening out of the bedroom was a bath with a shower and we made a dash to get under the cooling flood. I have never seen such towels as were stacked up on that little white table in the bathroom. They were all heavily embroidered with initials and the fringe on them was every bit of six inches long. "The fringe for me!" exclaimed Sahwah, when she saw them. She seized a whole pile of them at once, using only the fringe for drying, and putting on affected aristocratic airs that made us shriek with laughter. We had been dressing all over the two rooms and the floor was strewn with towels and articles of clothing. Suddenly the door of the bedroom opened and a woman stood in the room. She was a gray-haired woman of about fifty, very handsome and proud-looking, and dressed in a gown of plum-colored satin. She said nothing; just looked at us. I glanced around at the others. There was Sahwah, her kimono wrapped loosely around her, patting her feet dry with the fringe of a dozen towels; Nyoda stood in front of the dressing-table with a towel wrapped around her, combing her hair: I was sitting on the floor putting my shoes on, while through the bathroom door came the sounds of the shower turned on full force, with an occasional shriek from Nakwisi when she got it too cold. Suddenly I felt unaccountably foolish. Nyoda and Sahwah looked up and saw the woman the next instant. She stood looking at us, her eyes nearly popping out of her head, her face purple, leaning against the foot of the bed for support. Nobody said a word. As Sahwah expressed it afterward, "Silence reigned, and we stood there in the rain." "How did--how did you get in?" the woman gasped faintly, after a silence of a full minute. We knew something was wrong. We could feel it in the marrow of our bones. Nyoda, holding her towel closely around her, answered in as dignified a manner as possible. "We were directed to your house from the hotel as a place where we could spend the night, and your maid admitted us and brought us in here. Is there anything the matter?" The woman stood staring as if fascinated at the towels which were lying all over the floor. At that moment Nakwisi opened the door of the bath and emerged in her dressing-gown, the open door behind her revealing splashes of water all over the room and more towels on the floor. The woman put her hand to her throat as if she were choking. She tried to speak but evidently could not. "Isn't this Mrs. Butler's house?" asked Nyoda, with growing misgiving. "Don't you take in tourists when the hotel is filled?" The woman swallowed convulsively and found her voice. "No," she said, emphatically, "this is not Mrs. Butler's house, and I don't take in tourists when the hotel is filled. This is the McAlpine residence and my husband is State Senator McAlpine. My daughter is getting married to-night and we have a houseful of wedding guests. We had two special trains, one from Chicago and one from New York, bringing guests. If my maid let you in she thought you were some of them." Then she looked around the room and seemed on the verge of apoplexy once more. "But how did you get in here?" she cried, wildly. "This is the bridal chamber!" I suddenly felt weak in the back-bone, and thought my head was going to drop into my lap. The towel fell from Nyoda's shoulders and she stood there like a statue with her long hair around her. Sahwah stopped still with her foot on the stool and the handful of towels in her hand. For one moment we remained as if turned to stone and then Sahwah buried her face in the towels with a muffled shriek. If embarrassment ever killed people I know not one of us would have survived. Nyoda apologised profusely for our intrusion, which, after all, was not our fault, as we soon found. The hotel man had told us number 65 South Vine Street when it was number 65 North Vine Street he had meant. We got dressed faster than we ever had before in our lives and packed up our scattered belongings, leaving the rooms nearly as tidy as they were when we came in. Mrs. McAlpine had withdrawn into the next room, and through the closed door we could hear the sound of excited talking and knew that she was telling the story to someone. When she had finished we heard a man's voice raised in a regular bellow. Evidently it had struck him as funny. "No!" we heard him chortle. "You don't mean it! Got put into the bridal chamber, ha, ha! When you wouldn't let me put a foot into it! Took a bath and used up all the wedding towels that you wouldn't even let me touch! Oh, ha! ha! ha!" The very house seemed to shake with the violence of his mirth. Senator McAlpine, for we judged it was he, must have had a sense of humor. "Where are they?" we heard him shout. "Let me see them!" But at the thought of facing that battery of laughter we fled in haste. Feeling unutterably small and ridiculous, we crept down-stairs and out of the front door, past numbers of people who were arriving. Once out on the sidewalk we leaned against the ornamental iron fence and laughed until we cried. The more we thought about it the funnier it seemed. What a tale we would have to tell the other girls when we met them in the morning! As we had had our bath there only remained supper, and we certainly did justice to it when we finally arrived at Mrs. Butler's house on North Vine Street. It was after eight o'clock and we were ravenous. The rooms we had in that house, while they were nothing compared to what we almost had, were still very comfortable, and we were in such high spirits that any place at all would have looked good to us. Our long day in the open air had made us sleepy and it was not long before we were all touring in the Car of Dreams. While we were eating breakfast in Mrs. Butler's big, airy dining-room we heard a boy arrive at the kitchen door and ask for the "automobile ladies." He had been sent out from the telegraph office and the hotel clerk had told him where we were. He handed Nyoda a message. As she read it a surprised and puzzled look came into her face. "What is it, Nyoda?" we all cried. She handed us the bit of yellow paper. It was what is called a service message from the telegraph company, and read: "Message sent Gladys Evans Potter Hotel Ft. Wayne undelivered. No such party registered." CHAPTER III. We stared in open-mouthed astonishment. Gladys and the others not in Ft. Wayne? If they weren't there, where were they? We were expecting to join them this very morning. Nyoda came to a sensible conclusion first, as she always does, "Where are they?" she repeated. "Why, stranded in some place along the road, just as we are, of course. We're not the only ones that can have accidents. I thought Gladys would get into some trouble or other at the rate she was driving that car. I hope none of them got hurt, but it serves them right if they did have a hold-up of some kind. And I hope the trouble, whatever it is, keeps them tied up until we overtake them. We must ask at every village whether the Striped Beetle is there. Wouldn't we laugh to see them standing around some garage waiting impatiently for the damage to be mended?" It was nine o'clock before the Glow-worm was in running order again and we were ready to take the road once more. Since being towed into the repair shop the night before we had seen nothing of the Frog, and I concluded that he had gone on his way and would cross our path no more. But we had not gone many miles on the road when I saw the now familiar roadster traveling leisurely along behind us. I mentioned the fact casually to Nyoda as I was sitting beside her, and while she made no comment whatever, I noticed that she began gradually to increase the pace of the car. As yet neither of us had hinted at our unspoken antagonism to this persistent follower--for Nyoda was antagonistic to him, because I noticed that she bit her lip in an annoyed way when she saw him again. After all, he might not be following us. He certainly had every right in the world to be traveling in the general direction of Chicago over the public highway at the same time we were making our trip. And yet--why did he stay all night in S---- when there was nothing the matter with his car, and when accommodations were so very scarce. We hadn't the least idea where he had stayed, but he must have been in S---- all night or he couldn't have followed us out in the morning. Even that fact, which might have been a coincidence, did not convince me so much that he was following us as my own intuition did. And I have learned by experience to respect those intuitions. Out of a whole dining-room full that man had been the only one who had attracted my attention, and I felt antagonistic toward him instantly. I had the same feeling when I saw him behind us on the road to Napoleon. And the worst part of it was that he had done absolutely nothing to make me feel that way toward him. He hadn't been impertinent, in fact, he had never said a single word to any of us! All he had done was to stare searchingly at Nyoda through that goggle mask of his. There was nothing the matter with his looks, goodness knows. All we could see under the big goggles were part of a nose and a brown mustache and they looked harmless enough. Then why did Nyoda and I both have the same feeling toward him? We inquired carefully all the way, but nowhere did we come upon any trace of the Striped Beetle. At several places they had seen the brown car go by the day before and at one place it had stopped for gasoline, but no one knew of any repairs that had been made on it. The thing began to loom up like a puzzle. If the Striped Beetle had not been delayed by accident why had not Gladys arrived in Ft. Wayne the night before as per schedule. "Possibly they did arrive all right, and didn't go to a hotel because you weren't with them," suggested Sahwah. "Gladys may have friends there and they may have stayed with them." That fact was so very probable that we ceased to worry about the girls, trusting that the whole thing would be made clear when we got to Ft. Wayne. We were in Indiana now, running through beautiful farm country, with occasional tiny villages. Sahwah made up a game, estimating the number of windmills we would see in a certain time and then counting them as we passed to see how near she came to being right. As we were keeping a sharp lookout on each side of the road so as not to miss any, we saw a girl running across a field toward the road just ahead of us. She was waving her arms and we looked to see whom or what she was waving at, but there was nothing in sight. "I actually believe she's waving at us!" said Sahwah. There was no mistake about it. The girl stood still in the road waiting for us to come up and motioned us to stop. We did so. She stood and looked at us for a minute as if she were afraid to speak. I looked back to see if the Frog was gaining on us. The red roadster had disappeared. The girl who stood before us looked about eighteen or twenty. She wore a plain suit of dark blue cloth with a long skirt down to the ground and a white sailor hat with a veil draped around it that covered her face. In her hand she held a small traveling bag. She looked beseechingly from one to the other of us and then her eyes came back to Nyoda. "Could you--would you--will you take me to Decatur?" she faltered. "I'll pay you whatever you think it's worth," she added hastily. Now Decatur was out of our course altogether, some miles to the south. We were hurrying to Ft. Wayne to find out what had become of Gladys and why our telegram had come back unanswered. But this girl was plainly in trouble. Through the veil we could see that her face looked haggard and her eyes were big and staring. She looked frightened to death. No girl in trouble ever came to Nyoda in vain. "Do you want to go to Decatur very badly?" she asked, gently. "I must go," said the girl, earnestly. "I have to catch a train there, the train for Louisville." She checked herself when she had said that and looked around as if afraid she had been overheard. "But why go to Decatur?" asked Nyoda. "You can get the Louisville train in Ft. Wayne. We are going directly to Ft. Wayne and are nearer there now than Decatur. We will be very glad to take you along." But at the mention of Ft. Wayne the girl shrank back. "No, no, not there," she said in evident terror. "They--they would be watching for me there." Nyoda looked at the girl keenly. She must have seen what we did not. "My dear," she said, in a big sister tone, "are you running away from home?" The girl started and looked haunted. "Yes, I am running away," she said in a tone of desperation, "but I'm not running away from home. I'm running back home. Home to my mother." She looked over her shoulder at a house set far back from the road. "Tell me about it," said Nyoda, with that smile of hers that never fails to win a confidence. The girl looked into Nyoda's eyes and did not look away again. It's the way everybody does. "I'm Margery Anderson," she said. "You know now who I am and why I'm running away." Yes, we all knew. The papers all over had been full of the fight Mr. and Mrs. Anderson, who were separated, had been making to get possession of their daughter Margery. The law had given her to her mother, but she had been kidnapped twice by her father and the last that had been published about her was that she was in the keeping of an uncle, who was hiding her from her mother. But the papers had said that Margery was only thirteen years old. This girl looked older. "My uncle wants to take me to Japan, where I'll never see my mother again," she said. "I want my mother!" she finished with a very childish sob. Nyoda got out of the car and put her arm around her. "You shall go to your mother, my dear," she said. "We'll take you to Decatur." In walking to the car Margery fell all over the long skirt she was wearing, and then we realized that she was dressed up in someone else's clothes to make herself look older. She was only thirteen after all. Nyoda had been able to observe this right away when she had looked at her closely. She was as straight and as slender as a boy and the jacket modeled for an older woman hung on her as on a pole. "Do you know the road to Decatur?" asked Nyoda. Margery said that she did, and told Nyoda how to turn. Our arrival in Ft. Wayne would be delayed an hour or so by going to Decatur, but none of us minded. We were all keenly interested in this much talked of young girl and were anxious to see her get to her mother before her uncle could stop her. Who would not have done the same thing in our place? "What time does the Louisville train leave Decatur?" asked Nyoda, looking at her watch. "Eleven-thirty," said Margery. Nyoda put the watch back hastily and increased the speed of the car. She did not say what time it was and none of us asked her, thinking that the time might be short and Margery would be worried for fear we would not make it. We knew Nyoda would make it if she possibly could do so. Margery looked at her inquiringly, and Nyoda answered with a bright reassuring smile. Once Nyoda and I caught each other looking behind at the same moment and we each smiled faintly. The red roadster was nowhere in sight. By making this detour to Decatur while it was delayed on the road we had undoubtedly thrown it off the track. We could not have been many miles from Decatur when a shot startled us. We all looked around expecting to see Margery's uncle after us, but it was only the bursting of a tire. Only the bursting of a tire! But to this day I hold that that tire did not burst of its own accord. Fate deliberately jabbed a pin into it. We carried an extra and with the help of a farmer who was passing we jacked up the Glow-worm in a hurry and put on its new gum shoe, Margery walked up and down the road nervously during the process. I suppose the minutes seemed like hours to her. I beguiled the time by scribbling verses in my note-book to celebrate the occasion: "Tires, brand new tires, I know not what they mean, Freshly inflated from the Free Air pump, Giving no warning of their base designs, Scatter in air with a terrific bang, And all upon a sudden are no more. "Sweeter it is than dreams of paradise To ride with friends beside one in one's car, O'er sunlit roads; past fields of waving grain. Bitter it is as drops of greenest gall, To blow a tire, and sit there in the sun." At this juncture the exchange of tires was completed and we were off once more. I saw Nyoda look at her watch. "What time is it?" asked Margery. "My watch has stopped," answered Nyoda. There was a clock on the corner of two streets in the next village we passed through and the hands pointed to eleven. This would give us plenty of time. We were not far from Decatur. We all breathed a sigh of relief, for we had been afraid that the bursting of the tire had caused us to miss the train. Nyoda calculated closely and announced that we would have time to stop and buy gasoline. She was not sure whether we had enough to make Decatur or not, and it would be a shame to go dry outside the very walls of Rome, she said. It took the young boy in charge of the place where they sold the gasoline some minutes to fill our tank, as he was only looking after the place while the proprietor was out and he was awkward. It was ten minutes after eleven when we got under way again. Nyoda set her watch by the clock. When we got into Decatur we had an unpleasant surprise. All the clocks we came to said ten minutes to twelve. The other clock we had seen had been half an hour slow. We hurried to the station in the hope that the train was late, but there was no such luck. It had been on time for once. Margery sank down on the seat in the waiting-room and looked at us with wide frightened eyes. Clearly she was appealing to Nyoda to tell her what to do. "When is the next train to Louisville?" Nyoda inquired at the ticket window. "None until to-morrow noon," was the reply. Margery looked so dismayed that Nyoda said hastily, "Why won't you go to Ft. Wayne and get the train there? The fast trains that don't stop here stop there and you can get one later in the day." But Margery looked more frightened than ever. "I can't go to Ft. Wayne," she said. "My uncle would expect me to go there and would have the station watched. That's why I wanted to go to Decatur. They would never think of looking there for me. What shall I do. I know I'll never get to mother!" She looked so young and babyish and helpless that Nyoda made up her mind on the spot that she was not the kind of girl who could be left on her own resources. "Tell me," she said, "does your mother expect you to-morrow?" Margery shook her head. "She doesn't even know that I'm coming." "Then," said Nyoda decidedly, "I'm not going to leave you to find your way there alone. We will be going through Louisville in a few days and you're going to stay right with us until we get there. Your uncle will probably be having trains watched and would never think of you in an automobile. It is the best solution of the problem. We'll get you a dress and veil like the other girls and everyone will think you are one of our party. In that case you don't need to be afraid to go to Ft. Wayne, where we must stop, as we will not go near a railway station." Margery agreed to this plan with such an air of relief that it was plain to be seen what an ordeal it had been for her to try to travel alone. With this delay of having to go to Decatur it was past noon before we got to Ft. Wayne. Once there we were at a loss how to proceed to find the Striped Beetle and the girls. I believe everyone of us confidently expected to find them waiting for us at some point where the road entered the city, and it threw us off our bearings to find they were not there. Even Nyoda was plainly puzzled what to do. We found the little Potter Hotel where we were to have stayed and asked to see the register. It was possible that the girls had been there after all in spite of the telegram not having been delivered. Telegrams have failed to connect before. But they had not been there. If they had stayed with friends we did not know where they were now. It was a riddle. Not getting any light on the subject we decided to eat our dinner before we looked farther. We checked our cameras and the man at the checking counter looked at us closely when we came up. There was no one else there and he seemed inclined to be talkative. "There was a party just like you here yesterday," he said. "What do you mean by 'just like us?'" we asked. "Same clothes," he answered. "Four girls in tan suits and green veils and one in a blue suit and white veil." We all looked at each other. The four girls were evidently ours, but who was the one in blue? "What time were they here?" we asked. "About five o'clock yesterday afternoon," he answered. "They checked some things here and then went into the dining-room." Five o'clock was the time we should all have reached Ft. Wayne if things had gone right. "Have you any idea where they have gone now?" we asked, eagerly. "They were on their way to Chicago, going through Ligonier," answered the man. "I heard them talking about it. They seemed to be in a great hurry and were only in the dining-room about fifteen minutes. The one in blue kept telling them to make haste." "The plot thickens," said Sahwah. "Gladys is mixed up in some adventure of her own, apparently. She's not running away from us for the fun of the thing, you can rest assured. I never thought so from the first. She's probably taking some distressed damsel to Chicago in a grand rush and counts on us to trust her until we catch up with her and hear the explanation." "Yes," agreed Nyoda, "she must have had some urgent reason for acting so, that's a foregone conclusion." "It's a _four gone_ one all right," said Sahwah, but Nyoda's mind was too busy with wondering about Gladys to notice the pun. "I think the best thing to do is to follow them as fast as we can," said Sahwah. "I think so too," said Nyoda. Puzzled as we were about Gladys's strange behavior, we were yet relieved of all anxiety about the Striped Beetle and its passengers. The girls were on their way to Chicago by way of Ligonier, the way we had planned in the beginning, and had undoubtedly not fallen by the wayside. We did wait long enough in Ft. Wayne to buy Margery a suit and veil just like ours and were surprised and gratified to find that we could get a suit exactly like ours down to the last button. "Who do you suppose the girl in blue is with Gladys?" we asked each other, as we took the road again. But, of course, no one could answer this. I was sitting in the front seat beside Nyoda. We had not gone very far on the way when I saw her knit her brows in a frown and heard her mutter to herself, "I thought we had lost you!" At the same time she increased the speed of the car. Naturally, I looked ahead in the direction in which she was looking, but there was nothing in sight. Then I looked behind. About a hundred yards behind us was the red roadster with the Frog calmly sitting at the wheel. How did Nyoda know he was there? She had not turned around since we had left Ft. Wayne. "Have you an eye in the back of your head?" I asked, curiously. "No, but I have one in the back of my collar," she answered, trying to hide her annoyance in a joke. "I just had a feeling he was there," she added. This time I actually had a chill when I saw him. There was something terrifying in that figure always following us, never coming any nearer, never saying anything, but yet, never losing sight of us. Those mask-like goggles and the cap he wore pulled low over his face made him look like one of the creatures you see in a bad dream. We had spent so much time in Ft. Wayne looking for a suit for Margery that it was four o'clock before we finally got under way. The morning had been fine, but the afternoon was misty and chilly. It must have rained not long before, for the road was muddy. We did not make such very good time, for the car began to act badly, and it was soon evident that something was wrong. We began to run slowly. Involuntarily, I glanced around to see how much the roadster was gaining on us. It had slowed down too and was going at exactly our pace. By this time the other girls could not help noticing that it was following us. Margery crouched in the seat and clung to Sahwah's arm. She was sure it was her uncle after her, and then I had to explain that the Frog had been following us all the way from Toledo, before we had taken her in. We had expected to make Ligonier in a very short time and reach South Bend before night, but as things turned out we never got there at all. Somewhere between Ligonier and Goshen, at a little town called Wellsville, the poor Glow-worm must have been taken with awful pains in its insides, for it began to pant and gasp like a creature in misery, and utter little squeals of distress. There was nothing left to do but hunt up the one garage in town, which fortunately had a repair shop in connection with it, and get someone to look at the engine. I don't pretend to know anything about the machinery of the car, so I haven't the slightest idea what was the matter, but the man talked knowingly about magnetos and carburetors and said he could have the trouble fixed by eight o'clock in the evening. We were vexed that it should take so long, because we had expected to make South Bend early in the evening, but there was no help for it, so we repaired to the hotel next door--"hotel" by courtesy, for it was nothing more than a wayside inn--for supper. It was raining a fine drizzle, and, as we did not care to walk around in it, after supper we sat in the stuffy parlor and tried to pass away the hours until the Glow-worm would be cured of its sickness and we could resume our journey. The carpet on the floor was a mixture of hideous red and pink roses on a green background. I can see that carpet yet. It was a Brussels, and Sahwah kept referring to it as one of the Belgian Atrocities. There was a larger room opening out of the parlor in which we sat, a sort of general reception and smoking-room combined. There was an old square piano out there and some young man was banging ragtime on it, while half a dozen others leaned over it and roared out songs in several different keys at once. All around the room sat men, smoking until the air was blue, and talking in loud voices, or shouting snatches of the songs. They seemed a rather noisy lot and from the scraps of conversation we heard we judged that they had come from somewhere to attend the September horse races which were being held in the neighborhood. At any rate, the hotel was swarming with them and we were glad that we were to get out of there by eight o'clock and did not have to stay all night. Once one of them walked into the parlor where we sat and said "Good evenin', ladies," in an impertinent sort of way, but we all froze him up with a glance and he went out without saying anything more to us. We saw him cross the other room toward a door at the farther side, and, as he crossed the floor we saw someone else get up from a chair in the corner of the room and go out after him. The second man was right under a light and we recognized the Frog, still with his goggles and cap on. Soon there came a loud uproar from the invisible room and unmistakable sounds of scuffling. We waited to hear no more. If there was going to be a quarrel in that hotel we did not wish to see any of it. We ran out in the rain and went into the garage where the man was working on the Glow-worm. The quarrel we had fled from didn't amount to anything after all, I suppose, for in a few minutes we heard the men back at their singing. It was now nearly eight o'clock and we looked anxiously from time to time at the Glow-worm to see if it was nearly finished, but some of the parts were scattered out on the floor and the man was wrenching away at what was left in the car and did not seem to be in any hurry to put the others back. At eight o'clock it was not done and Nyoda asked him how soon it would be. "Not before nine or nine-thirty, Miss," replied the man. The rain had stopped and we walked up and down the main street for the next two hours, stopping in at the garage every time we passed, in the vain hope that the work was finished and we could go on. But it was not to be so. It was half past ten before it was finally ready and that was too late to start. We realized that we would have to stay in that inn all night, much as we were disinclined to do so. The racket was still in full blast when we returned and were shown to rooms. We had to go up on the third floor because the other rooms were all taken by the racketers. The ceiling sloped down on our heads and the windows were small and the furniture was exceedingly cheap, but it was a place to stay and that was the main thing. "There's only one quilt on my bed," said Nakwisi rather disdainfully, "and I don't believe that has more than an eighth of an inch of batting in it." "I think an eighth of an inch is a pretty good batting average for a hotel quilt," giggled Sahwah, whose spirits nothing can dampen. We made up our minds to get up at six o'clock and get a good early start the next morning. As things turned out we got a much earlier start than we had anticipated. Margery didn't like the room at all and cried while she was undressing, and Nyoda had to pet her and make a fuss over her before she would lie down in the bed. I couldn't help wondering just what Nyoda would have done to one of us if we had cried about that hotel room. But then Margery isn't a Winnebago, and that makes a lot of difference. We went to sleep with the banging of the piano and the sound of the songs floating up from downstairs, and each of us puzzling about the appearance of the Frog and wondering why he hadn't approached us in the parlor if he were really trying to make our acquaintance. Possibly he meant to, later, only we upset his plan by going out when we did, I reflected. It really had been rather an eventful day, I thought, even if we hadn't made much progress with our trip. Think of spending a whole day in going a distance that should have consumed at the most only a few hours! We really must get an early start to-morrow and make Chicago in good time, or be laughed at for running a lame duck race, I thought as I dropped off to sleep. CHAPTER IV. I woke up with the strangest feeling I have ever had in my life. I remember dreaming that we had left the door open, and all the tobacco smoke from below had floated up into the room and was choking me. When I first awoke I thought that the racketers were still at it below, for from somewhere there came a horrible din. There was the sound of many voices shouting unintelligible things, when suddenly above the roar one voice shrieked out "Fire!" Then I knew. The room was filled with smoke, dense and choking. "Wake up!" I shouted, shaking Sahwah, who was sleeping with me. I dragged her out of bed and we two ran into the other room where Nyoda and Nakwisi and Margery were sleeping. The smoke was still thicker there and I believe they must have been nearly suffocated. We had hard work rousing them. Above the shouts of the people in the street below we could hear an ominous crackling that increased every minute. At first I was so frightened I could hardly move. It was the first time I had ever been in a burning building. The time the tepee burned we were out of it in one jump, before we had realized what had happened. I shudder yet, when I hear crackling wood. Nyoda's voice roused me to action. She had regained her wits and was cool-headed as usual. Margery clung to her and screamed and she shook her and told her to be quiet. "Carry out your clothes if you can find them, girls," she said calmly, "but don't wait to put anything on." We groped through the smoke and found our clothes on the chair beside the bed, and gathering them up went out into the hall. The hotel was old-fashioned, with a long, narrow wooden hallway running the entire length of the up-stairs, crossed in places by other halls. Somewhere along that hall was the stairway; we had a dim remembrance of the direction from which we had come up the night before. We had to grope our way along by keeping our hands on the wall, for the smoke was so thick that it was impossible to see a step before us. We reached the stairs at last. After one look we jumped back in alarm. The whole stairway was one mass of leaping flames. I have never seen such a dreadful sight. We groped our way back toward our rooms, which were at the front of the building, intending to lean out of the windows and shout for help from below. But we lost our way in the smoke and could not find the way back. There we were, caught like rats in a trap, with the flames beginning to come through the floor in places, and the smoke rolling around us in blinding, suffocating clouds. There was no escape, then. We were to perish in this hotel blaze. Would we ever be identified? How soon would they know at home? All these things flashed through my mind as we stood there in the midst of that awful nightmare. Suddenly something appeared out of the smoke close beside us, something white and ghostlike. Then a voice spoke. "Follow me, girls," it said, and we knew that the ghost was a man with a towel tied over his face. "All of you get in line behind your mother," said the voice thickly, "and each one hold onto the one in front of you. Don't let go, or you'll be lost and I can't watch you." We didn't even smile at his thinking Nyoda was our mother. With the military precision we have learned from long practice of doing things together, we formed in a goose line behind Nyoda, each one gripping tightly the hand of the one ahead of her, and thus we began to move forward. After what seemed a hundred years, but could not have been more than five minutes, we felt a gust of fresh air blowing on us, and knew that we were standing beside an open window. "This window looks out on the roof of the second story at the back of the building," said the voice, "and it's an easy drop to the roof." We had to take his word for it, for the smoke obscured everything so that we did not know whether we were going to drop three feet or thirty. The air coming in the window blew the smoke away from our faces for a moment and we got a breath, or otherwise I am afraid we would have strangled on the verge of being rescued. Without a moment's hesitation the hands that belonged to the towel and the voice seized Nyoda and swung her out of the window as if she had been a feather, and in a moment her "All right" told that she had landed safely on the roof. One by one he took us in the same manner. We were still in a dangerous position, for there was fire under us, although the worst blaze was at the front of the building, and as far as we could see there were no ladders anywhere around waiting to take us down. "Confound these one-horse country towns, anyway", we heard the voice mutter, "that can't support a decent Fire Department. "Here," he shouted to the gaping crowd below who were watching the few that were trying to fight the flames with garden hoses, "bring blankets, hurry!" It was rather a thrilling moment when we stood on that burning building waiting for the blankets to come into which we were to jump. Now that I look back at it I think we must have been a funny sight, for while we stood there we threw on our jackets over our night-dresses and held the rest of our belongings in our hands. With all the rest of her impedimenta Nyoda had rescued her camera, Nakwisi her spy-glass and I my note-book, and they gave us an odd, jaunty tourist appearance which must have been amusing. Well, the people came running with blankets and held them for us to jump and we jumped, although we had to throw Margery down. She stood there trembling, afraid to jump and there was no time to argue the necessity of prompt action. We gathered up our possessions from the people to whom we had tossed them and hastened into a near-by house where we got ourselves dressed. Our rescuer had jumped right after us, and by the time we had picked ourselves up and got our breath back enough to thank him he had vanished from the scene. He must have been the proprietor, we judged, for he knew the inside of the hotel so well. Possibly he went back to rescue some more of his patrons. After we were dressed we returned to the scene of the fire, which had drawn people from all the country around, in the usual half-dressed state in which people go to midnight fires. Of course, there was no hope of saving the building, for the few thin streams of water that were playing on it went up in steam as soon as they touched the blaze. The walls fell in with terrifying crashes and the roof caved in like a pasteboard box. It had been nothing but a dry shell of a building and burned like tinder. "It's an ill wind that blows nobody any good," said Sahwah, giggling nervously, "that piano is a hopeless ruin and the people around here won't have to listen to it any more. And even if they do rebuild the hotel they can never get another piano like it, for there aren't two such tin pans in existence." After the rain had stopped that night a fog had settled down and the glare of the flames through the mist made a weird lurid scene that I shall never forget. All this time the wind had been from the east, which drove the flames toward an open square where they could set nothing else afire, but suddenly it veered to the west, and showers of burning brands began to fall on the roof of the garage where the Glow-worm was standing. The scanty water force was then turned to save this building and we had several anxious moments until the wind shifted again. "How foolish I was not to have taken the car out immediately," said Nyoda. Other people were hurrying to the spot to rescue their cars and we also went over. The interior of the place had not been damaged by the small blazes which had been kindled on the roof, though I tremble to think what might have happened if the gasoline stored inside had exploded. Thankful that fortune had favored us so far in this night of accident, we took our way among the other cars in the place to where the Glow-worm had stood. Then we rubbed our eyes and looked at each other. For where the Glow-worm had been when we left the place the night before there was an empty space. A hasty search through the place, which was not very large, revealed that the car was gone. Frantically we rushed after the proprietor, who was standing in the doorway watching the grand spectacle next door. He knew nothing about the matter. The car had been there when he closed up that night, but as soon as the fire broke out people had been coming for their cars and the place had been open. He was much excited over it and declared that such a thing had never happened before as long as he had been in business, but then, he added, neither had the hotel ever burned down before. To say that we were dismayed was putting it mildly. To have your own car stolen is bad enough, but when it is a car belonging to someone else who has kindly loaned it to you to take a pleasure trip in, it is ten times worse. Nyoda had promised to bring the car back in safety and she was almost beside herself at the thought of its being stolen. None of us ever felt like facing Mr. Evans again. We reproached ourselves a thousand times that we had not gone for the Glow-worm immediately upon getting out of the burning building, without waiting to dress or stand around and watch the walls fall. We searched vainly through the line of motors moving up and down the street for the familiar black body and yellow lamps of the Glow-worm. Discouraged and heartsick over this new calamity, we retired to the park-like square on the other side of the hotel to talk things over and lay out our course of action. Through the trees in the square we could see something moving along the road, and, by a sudden glare from the fire we made out the Glow-worm, proceeding slowly and silently in the opposite direction, and the man at the wheel was the Frog! We all darted after him, shouting "Stop thief!" at the top of our voices. The Frog turned around in the seat, saw us streaming across the square, and evidently decided that the chase was too hot, for he jammed on the brakes and jumped from the car, leaving the motor still running. He ran into a clump of shrubbery and disappeared from sight. We were too glad to get the car back to hunt for the thief and bring him to justice. In our relief from the dismay of the moment before we were ready to hug the old Glow-worm. "Girls," said Nyoda, "what do you say to starting out for South Bend this very minute? I don't believe any of us could sleep any more to-night even if we had a place to do it, which is extremely doubtful. It's positive folly to leave this car standing around here any longer. That garage man is too much interested in the fire to take care of his business. We have no belongings to go back after, for everything we left in the hotel is lost." We were thankful then that we had carried so little hand luggage, for beyond a few toilet articles which could easily be replaced at the next town we had lost nothing. The trunk with our extra clothes was carried on the car. We agreed to Nyoda's proposal eagerly. Sleep for the rest of the night was out of the question and we might as well be driving as not. It would be a good way to get an appetite for breakfast, we all agreed. "Jump in, girls," said Nyoda, taking her place behind the wheel. "You sit up here with me, Margery." Then we had the second shock of the evening. Margery was nowhere to be seen! We were all sure that she had been there just a moment ago, clinging to Sahwah's arm and squealing, although we could not remember whether she had been with us when we ran across the park after the Glow-worm or not. "She has gotten separated from us in the crowd," said Nyoda. "You girls run and find her while I stay here and watch the car." We hunted everywhere, high and low, asking everybody we met, but there was no trace of her. Finally, we ran into the garage man and thought it only fair to tell him that we had found the car. He was much overjoyed at the fact and listened sympathetically when we told him we had lost Margery. "Did she have on a tan suit like yours?" he asked. "Yes," we answered eagerly, "have you seen her?" "I saw a girl in a tan suit driving away just a minute ago with a man in a red roadster," he answered. "What did the man look like?" we asked. "I can't tell you much about his looks," replied the garage man. "He wore great big green goggles that covered up half of his face. Looked just like a frog." We looked at each other in dismay. The Frog had run off with Margery! We ran in haste to tell the news to Nyoda. "It's queer," she said. "He must be one of her relations after all, though I surely thought he had begun to follow us from Toledo. But it might have been only a coincidence that he was behind us then, for after all he never said anything to us." "But why did he take our car first, if it was Margery he was after all the while?" I asked. "So we couldn't follow him," said Sahwah, with startling clear-sightedness. Nyoda, who doesn't believe in premonitions, had one then. "I don't believe he's a relative of hers at all," she said, flatly. "I have a feeling in my bones that he isn't. I also have a feeling that something has happened to Margery which it is our business to investigate." In less time than it takes to tell about it we had inquired the direction taken by the driver of the red roadster and had started in pursuit. The fog was closing in on us thicker than ever and the Glow-worm's eyes shone dimly through the white curtain. We could not go ahead at full speed because we had to proceed slowly and carefully. The fact that the road was exceptionally good along here was the only thing that kept us from accident, I suppose. If we had struck some of the holes that we did a distance back-- We were divided between joy over the fact that the Frog couldn't go any faster than we were going in that fog and so couldn't use his powerful car to his advantage, and the fear that he would slip off into some side road without our noticing it and so escape us. The fog naturally muffled all sounds, but we recognized at last the steady throbbing of a motor ahead of us on the road and knew that we were on the trail of the fugitives. We didn't know whether the Frog knew we were after him or not, but it seemed to us that the throbs began to grow fainter after a time as if the car were getting farther away. Finally, they stopped altogether and we began to realize that after all we had not much chance to catch up with that powerful car. "They're leaving us behind," said Sahwah, in a disappointed tone The next instant we crashed full into a car that was standing still in the road and which loomed out of the fog with the suddenness of an apparition. Nyoda had jammed on the emergency brake a half minute before we struck or there would have been a worse smash. As it was the Glow-worm was shaken from end to end and I can imagine what the stalled car felt like. We experienced all the thrills of the heroines in the moving picture plays when we ran into that car and expected to see the grotesque face of the Frog in the light of our lamps, with the terrified Margery near-by. The next minute showed us our mistake. The man who was standing beside his car in the road, when we had torpedoed it from the rear was not the Frog. It was a man we had never seen before. He was all alone. The automobile was not the red roadster, but a limousine. We all sprang out to see what damage had been done the Glow-worm. We were relieved to find it not so terrible after all. Nyoda had given the steering-wheel a sharp twist the instant she saw she was going to strike something, and the car glanced to one side, so that it was the right front wheel and fender that actually struck. The limousine was in worse shape. Our wheel had jammed into its rear wheel and torn it off, while the side of the Glow-worm had scraped across the hack of the bigger car, splintering the wood in places. Every window in the limousine had been broken by the shock. The driver of the battered car stood and looked gloomily at the havoc we had wrought. "Can't you look where you're going?" he burst out angrily. "You didn't have your tail lamp lit," replied Nyoda calmly, "and we couldn't see you in the fog. I tried to turn out but it was too late." "It's true," said the man, pacifically. "It's my fault, or rather the fault of the car. I couldn't make the lights burn. That's why I was standing here. I was afraid to go ahead in the fog." Then I suppose he was afraid that we could bring suit against him for the damage done to the Glow-worm because he was standing in the road without any lights, for he left the limousine and came and looked carefully at what had happened to us. He was much relieved when he saw it was no worse. The front wheel wobbled tipsily and the fender was torn off, but these it appeared were not mortal wounds. His eye went back from our car to his. "It's a good thing no one was riding in the back," he said thoughtfully, looking at the shattered windows. At that very moment a wail rose from somewhere, coming apparently from the inside of the limousine. Startled, he leaped over and pulled the door open. He turned a pocket flash into the car and we could all see that there was somebody lying on the floor half under the seat. It was a girl in a tan suit. When the light was flashed into her face she looked up and saw us. Then she sat up. It was Margery. "Margery!" exclaimed Nyoda. "What are you doing here?" Margery got out of the tipping car and ran to Nyoda and hung on her arm. She was trembling so she could hardly stand. She looked from one to the other of us with big frightened eyes. The owner of the limousine regarded her in wide-eyed astonishment. "How did you get into that car?" asked Nyoda, gently. "I hid in it," said Margery. "In the garage. And he," she pointed to the man, "drove away and I was afraid to come out." "What made you hide in the car?" asked Nyoda. Margery gave a quick glance around. "I saw my uncle," she said in a half whisper. "He was looking at the fire. He didn't see me. I ran away and hid in the garage and when people began coming for their cars I was afraid they would find me and I got into this one. Pretty soon my uncle came into the garage. I was down on the floor of the limousine and he didn't see me. Just then the driver got up in front and began to take the car out, but I didn't dare open the door and come out. He drove away with me and I didn't know what to do, so I stayed in. Then the car stopped on the road and I was going to get out and run away when the other car came up behind and ran into us. I was afraid it was my uncle and didn't even come out when the car nearly fell over. But I was frightened and cried and you heard me and opened the door." "Tell me," said Nyoda, "was your uncle the man with the goggles?" "No," answered Margery, "he wasn't. My uncle is a little, thin man with gray hair." "It's a mercy you weren't hurt," said Nyoda, thinking with a shudder of the blow we had dealt the limousine. "You did get cut," she cried, turning the flashlight full on her face. The blood was running down her cheek from a cut in her forehead and her arm was also bleeding. We tied her up with strips of handkerchiefs and set her on the back seat of the Glow-worm. The owner of the limousine decided to leave it there and come for it in the morning, and, as our engine was not hurt we thought best to drive on. The man offered to pay for having our wheel fixed and the fender put on again and seemed dreadfully afraid we were going to sue him. He gave us his name and address and told us to send the bill to him. He lived in the neighborhood and could find his way home on foot. After he had disappeared in the fog and the Glow-worm was once more proceeding on her journey, we suddenly realized that we did not know where we were nor in which direction we were going. We were not on the road to Chicago, we knew, because the road we had followed out of Wellsville in pursuit of the Frog had gone off at right angles to that road. At the time we had thought only of finding out what had become of Margery and had followed him blindly. The fog was getting thicker instead of thinner and it was impossible to see anything like a sign post. A sharp east wind was blowing that chilled us to the bone. It was rather a dismal situation we found ourselves in. Of all kinds of bad weather I hate fog the worst. It makes me feel as if I had lost my last friend. Nyoda hadn't any idea where she was going, but she kept the car moving slowly, hoping that we would come to a town pretty soon. We sounded the horn constantly to warn any other vehicles on the road and Nakwisi offered to sit in front and keep a lookout with her telescope. "Telescope!" said Sahwah, scornfully. "What you want is a collide-o-scope!" Whereupon we all pinched her for making a pun and went on shivering. Just when we got off the road I don't know, but gradually we became aware that it was not hard earth we were riding over but something that swished under the wheels like long grass. "We're in a field!" cried Sahwah. Nyoda turned the car around and we went a few yards, expecting to get back into the road every minute. Then suddenly the car began to go down hill very rapidly, and at the bottom there was a grand splash, and we found ourselves up to the wheel hubs in water. We had run into a stream of some kind. The bottom was soft mud and to keep from sinking we had to go on across. Luckily it was shallow and not very wide and the water did not come inside the car. Margery screamed all the way across and we had a rather breathless few minutes, until we came out on the farther bank. Once on dry land again Nyoda stopped the car and flatly refused to drive another inch. We were off the road, we had no idea where we were, and there was too much danger of running into things in the fog. None of us dared to think what might have happened if that river had been deep. So here we were stranded, at about two o'clock in the morning, in a field nobody knew where, by a road whose direction we could not even guess, with a thick mantle of fog rolling around us as dense as the smoke had been a few hours before. Could it have been only a few hours before that we came near burning to death? And now we were in nearly as much danger of freezing to death. Fire and dampness all in one night! It certainly was a varied experience. And the cold was no joke. It pierced the very marrow of our bones. We were not dressed for any such weather as that. We had had two blankets in the car but there was only one left when we recovered it from the Frog. Sahwah suggested that we join hands around the Glow-worm and sing "When the mists have rolled away". "You'll have to get out and walk around, if you don't want to catch cold," said Nyoda. We walked up and down for a while, each with a hand on the other's shoulder so as not to get separated and lost in the fog. This walk soon turned into a snake dance and then a war dance around the Glow-worm. It must have been a weird sight if anyone had seen us, ghostly figures flitting about in the illumined fog around the car. I suppose they would have taken us for dancing nymphs or will-o'-the-wisps, or some other creatures which inhabit the swamps. We really became hilarious as we danced, although it was a serious business of keeping warm, and on the whole I would not have missed that night for anything. I adore unusual experiences and I'm sure not many people have been stalled in a fog when on an automobile trip and have had to spend the night dancing to keep warm. Margery didn't see the funny side of it, and you really couldn't blame her, poor thing, for it was all her fault that we were in this mess and she had been so badly frightened earlier in the night and then so shaken up when the Glow-worm ran into the limousine. She didn't want to dance to keep warm and sat shivering in the car with the one blanket around her, except when Nyoda made her get out and exercise. Morning came at last and when the sun rose the fog lifted. We found ourselves in the middle of a field some distance from the road, near the stream into which we had plunged the night before. We must have been off the road for some time before we noticed it. The place where we had run off was where the road turned and we had kept on straight ahead instead of turning. We got out of the field and followed the road. It was not a regular automobile road and was not sign-posted. We did not know whether we had gone north or south from Wellsville the night before. The fog had us completely turned around. By the position of the sun, the road extended toward the south. How far we had come we could not tell. We thought of going back to Wellsville and striking the main road again, but then Nyoda decided that by finding a road which ran toward the west we could strike the other trunk line route that went up to South Bend by way of Rochester and Plymouth. We did not want to make Wellsville again if we could possibly help it, for fear we would run into Margery's uncle. That ride to Rochester was more like a bad dream than anything else. As I have said, we were not on the main automobile road, and we soon got into such ruts and mud holes as I have never seen. In places the road was strewn with stones and we were nearly shaken to pieces going over them. It was not long before we came to a sound asleep little townlet, but we didn't have the heart to wake it up and ask it its name, so we went on to the next. It was then about six in the morning and a few people were stirring in the main street. We found by inquiry that we were in the town of Byron and that by turning to the west beyond the schoolhouse we would strike a road which eventually led to Rochester. "Eventually" was the right word. It certainly was not "directly". It twisted and turned and ended up in fields; it wound back and forth upon itself like a serpent; it dissolved in places into a lake of mud. We didn't go very fast because we were afraid the wobbly wheel would wobble off. Hungry as we were we decided to wait until we reached Rochester before getting breakfast, so we could put the car into the repair shop the first thing and save time. We staved off the keenest pangs of hunger by plundering an apple tree that dangled its ripe fruit invitingly over the road, and I haven't tasted anything so delicious before or since as those Wohelo apples, as we named them. The poor Glow-worm minus the one fender looked like a glow-worm with one wing off and the wobbling wheel gave it a tipsy appearance. Nyoda frowned as she drove; I know she hated the spectacle we made. "Needles and pins, needles and pins, When a girl drives an auto her trouble begins," spouted Sahwah. "Aren't we nearly there?" sighed Nakwisi, as she came back to the seat after rising to the occasion of a bump. "Long est via ad Tipperarium", replied Sahwah, and then bit her tongue as we struck a hole in the road. The morning was beautiful after the foggy night and our spirits soared as we traveled along in the sunshine, singing "Along the Road that Leads the Way". But it was not long before there was a fly in the ointment. Turning around one of the innumerable curves in the road we saw the red roadster proceeding leisurely ahead of us. CHAPTER V. As far as we could make out there was only one person in the car and that was the driver, and if he had left the scene of the burning hotel with a girl in a tan suit she was no longer with him. I think Nyoda would have turned aside into some by-road if there had been such a thing in sight, but there wasn't. The Frog turned around in the seat and saw us coming. That action seemed to rouse Nyoda to fury. Two red spots burned in her cheeks and her eyes snapped. "I'm going to overtake him," she said with a sudden resolution, "and ask him pointblank why he is always following us." At that she put on speed and went forward as fast as the wobbling wheel would allow. But no sooner had she done this than a surprising thing happened. The Frog looked around again, saw us gaining on him, and then the red roadster shot forward with many times the speed of ours and disappeared around a bend in the road. "He's running away from us!" exclaimed Sahwah. "He may be afraid we are going to make it unpleasant for him for stealing the Glow-worm," said Nyoda. "But," she added, "I can't understand why he has ventured near us at all since that episode. You would expect him to put as much space as possible between himself and us." "He probably didn't know we were following him," said Sahwah, shrewdly. But the whole conduct of the Frog since the beginning was such a puzzle that we could make neither head nor tail out of it, so we gave it up and turned our attention to the scenery. Behind us a motorcycle was chugging along with a noise all out of proportion to the size of the vehicle, and we amused ourselves by wondering what would happen if it should try to pass us on the narrow road, with a sharp drop into a small lake on one side and a swamp on the other. But the rider evidently had more caution than we generally credit to motorcyclists and made no attempt to pass us, so we were not treated to the spectacle of a man and a motorcycle turning a somersault into the lake or sprawling in the marsh. We certainly were ready for our long delayed breakfast when we finally got to Rochester, after giving the Glow-worm into the hands of the doctor once more. The poor Glow-worm! She never had such a strenuous trip before or after. The man on the motorcycle came into the repair shop while we were there to have something done to his engine, and he listened with interest while we were telling the repair man how we had run into the limousine in the fog. He looked at Margery curiously and I wonder if he noticed that her suit did not fit her by several inches. But Nyoda says men are not very observant about such things. He was a good-looking, light-haired young man, and he stared at us with a frank interest that could not be called impertinent. I believe there is a sort of freemasonry between motor tourists, especially when they are having motor troubles, that makes it seem perfectly all right to talk to strangers. When the young man asked where we were from and where we were going we answered politely that we were on our way to Chicago by way of Plymouth and LaPorte. (We had decided not to go to South Bend at all, as it was out of the way of the route we were now traveling.) Nyoda added that we hoped to make Chicago before night. Here Sahwah advised her to rap on wood. We had planned to make it before nightfall once before. When we told about the fire the young man agreed that we certainly had had adventures a-plenty. He ended up by telling us a good restaurant where we could get breakfast (he evidently had been in town before) and we hastened to find it, leaving him explaining to the repairman what was the matter with his motorcycle. While we were eating breakfast we saw him pass on the opposite side of the street and enter a building which bore the sign of the telegraph company. I couldn't help wishing that we knew his name and would meet him again on the trip, he seemed such a pleasant chap. I am always on the lookout for romantic possibilities in everything. The Glow-worm was to be ready to appear in polite society sometime in the afternoon and we had nothing to do but kill time until then. There were no picture shows open in the morning so the only thing left for us to do was to go for a walk through the town. It was terribly hot, nearly ninety in the shade, and what it was out in the sun we could only surmise. Margery wanted to keep her veil down because she was afraid of meeting people, and Sahwah thought it would appear strange if only she were veiled and suggested that we all keep ours down, but they nearly stifled us. So we compromised on wearing the tinted driving goggles, which really were a relief from the glare of the sun, even if they did look affected on the street, as Nakwisi said. I'm afraid we didn't have our usual blithe spirit of Joyous Venture, as we walked up and down the streets of the town, looking, as Sahwah said, "for something to look at". The frequency with which the Glow-worm was being laid up for repairs was beginning to get on our nerves. Sahwah remarked that if we had set out to walk to Chicago we would have been there long ago, and that the rate at which we were progressing reminded her of that gymnasium exercise known as "running in place", where you use up enough energy to cross the county and are just as tired as if you had gone that far, while in reality you haven't gotten away from the spot. Nakwisi stood up on a little rise of ground and focused her spy-glass in the direction of Chicago and said she had better try to get a look at the Forbidden City from there because she might never get any nearer. Nyoda had torn her green veil on her hatpin and the wind had whipped the loose ends out until they looked ragged and she was frankly cross. "When lovely woman stoops to folly, And learns too late that veils do fray--" chanted Sahwah, trying to be funny, but no one even laughed at her. We were too much exhausted from the heat and too busy wiping the perspiration out of our eyes. As a town of that size must necessarily come to an end soon, we found ourselves after a while, beyond its limits and on a country road. We saw a great tree spreading out its shady branches at no great distance and made for it. With various sighs and puffs of satisfaction we sank down in the grass and made ourselves comfortable. Of all the sights we had seen so far on our trip the sight of that tree gave us the most pleasure. We had not sat there very long when a young man passed us in the road. He was the light-haired young man we had seen in the repair shop. He lifted his hat as he passed but he did not say anything. He was on foot, from which we judged that he also had some time to kill while his motorcycle was being fixed. We did not sit long under that tree after all. First, Sahwah discovered that she was sitting next to a convention hall of gigantic red ants and a number of the delegates had gone on sight-seeing excursions up her sleeves and into her low shoes, which naturally caused some commotion. Then a spider let himself down on a web directly in front of Margery's face and threw her into hysterics. And then the mosquitoes descended, the way the Latin book says the Roman soldiers did, "as many thousands as ever came down from old Mycaenae", and after that there was no peace. We slapped them away with leaves for a time but there were too many for us, so in sheer self-defense, we got up and began to walk back to town. The only thing we had to be thankful for so far was that the Frog had apparently vanished from the scene. We went back to the little restaurant where we had eaten our breakfast and ordered dinner. We had our choice between boiled fish and fried steak and we all took steak except Margery, who wanted fish. The heat had taken away our appetites, all but Margery's, and she ate heartily. Dinner over, we went out into the heat once more. We went up to see if the picture show was open yet, for the thought of a comfortable seat away from the sun and with an electric fan near, was becoming more alluring every minute. It was open and we passed in with sighs of joy. Somewhere along the middle of the performance, Sahwah, who was sitting next to me, gave me a nudge and pointed to the other side of the house. There sat the Frog, as big as life. "I should think he'd smother in those goggles," whispered Sahwah. At the same time Nakwisi, who was on the other side of me, also nudged me and told me to look around a few minutes later so it wouldn't look as if she had called my attention. After a short interval I looked. There sat the motorcyclist directly behind us. How I did wish we could tell him about the Frog and how he was always following us around, why, we could not guess. Before the picture was finished Nyoda thought it was time to go and get the Glow-worm, which should be finished by that time. But when we got out into the sun again Margery began to feel dizzy and sick. We were perplexed what to do. This little country town was not like the big city where there are rest rooms in every big store. We finally decided to get a room at the hotel, which was near-by. But here as everywhere, that miserable Jinx had raised an obstacle against us. There was a rural church conference going on in town that week and, of course, the hotel was filled to overflowing. Delegates with white and gold badges were standing around everywhere and there was not a room to be had. Margery sat down in the parlor awhile and then said she felt somewhat better, but she still looked so white that Nyoda refused to set out with her in the car. As in S----, the clerk gave us the name of a woman near-by who would let us have a room if we wanted it, and after a while we went up there. We wanted Margery to lie down on a bed for a while. But no sooner were we there than she was taken with terrible pains. Thoroughly alarmed, Nyoda went across the street where a doctor's sign swung on a post before a house and brought him over. Margery was very ill by this time and the doctor said she had symptoms of ptomaine poisoning. He asked what she had eaten for dinner. At the mention of fish he nodded his head gravely. Eating fish with the thermometer at ninety-five degrees is a somewhat hazardous proceeding, he remarked. How glad we all were then that we had taken the steak, even if it was tough! The doctor gave Margery some medicine and said we needn't worry because she wouldn't get any worse, and left us with a few more remarks about eating fish in a restaurant in hot weather. Margery was more distressed about having delayed our start than she was over her own discomfort, so we had to make light of it, even though we were dismayed ourselves. Now the Glow-worm was ready and we were not! I couldn't help feeling that it had been no ordinary fish from the near-by lake that Margery had eaten, but one of the fateful fishes of the zodiac itself, especially prepared for the occasion. For it soon became evident that we could not leave town that night. Margery was feeling better, but was still too weak for automobile traveling. Nyoda knit her brows for some time. "I'll have to wire Chicago," she said, thoughtfully. Gladys and the others must be there by this time. I walked over to the telegraph office with her and stood beside her while she wrote the message: "Held in Rochester to-night on account sickness. Address Forty-three Main Street." She directed it to Gladys at the Carrie Wentworth Inn, the new Women's Hotel where we were to stay in Chicago. She read it out loud to me, counting over the words. As we turned away from the window-desk someone turned and went out just ahead of us. It was the motorcyclist. Margery was sleeping when we returned, and we sat down beside the bed and read the paper we had bought at the corner stand. Nyoda gave a smothered exclamation as she read and pointed to an article which said that both Margery Anderson's father and uncle were scouring the country for her, and the uncle was accusing the father of having spirited her away. The paper said that private detectives were trying to trace her. Then it was that we remembered the mysterious reappearance of the Frog. We hadn't much doubt that he was a detective. But if he were a detective, why had he attempted to steal the Glow-worm? The only reason could have been the one which Sahwah suggested, namely, that he wanted to cut us off from following him. He had probably carried away the wrong girl in the excitement of the fire and did not discover his mistake until later and then had let her go. This accounted for the fact that there was no girl in the red roadster when it loomed up ahead of us in the road that morning. But why had he run away from us when we tried to overtake him? That was a baffling question, and the only way we could explain it was that he was afraid we would accuse him of theft. That he had not gone very far away from us was shown by the way he had appeared in the picture theatre that afternoon. But if he was a detective, why did he not boldly march up to Margery and attempt to take her away from us? Between the heat and the puzzle we were reduced to a frazzle. We carefully hid the paper so Margery wouldn't see it when she woke up and went down to supper. The house was on a corner and it seemed to me, as I sat at the table that I saw the Frog walking down the side street. But it was growing dark and I was not sure, so I said nothing about it. Margery was very weak when she woke up and still unable to eat anything, and I believe she had a touch of sunstroke along with her ptomaine poisoning. She was clearly not a strong girl. The room seemed stuffy and close and we fanned her to make her feel cooler. But we were still thankful that we were not in the hotel, with its crowd of delegates and its band continually playing. Sahwah was telling that joke about the man thinking the car was empty, when all the while there was a miss in the motor and a "dutchman" in the back seat, when there came a rap on the door and the lady of the house came in. A minute later we were all looking at each other in bewildered astonishment. _She had asked us to leave the house._ "But we've engaged the rooms for the night," said Nyoda. That made no difference. We could have our money back. She had changed her mind about letting the rooms. "You certainly can't think of turning this sick girl out of the house!" exclaimed Nyoda, incredulously. Mrs. Moffat's face did not change in the least. She looked from one to the other of us with a steely glitter in her eye, which was a great change from the professional hospitality of her manner when she had let the rooms. "People aren't always as sick as they make folks believe," she said, sourly. "You certainly don't doubt that this girl is sick!" said Nyoda, in desperation. "I'm not saying I doubt anything," replied Mrs. Moffat. "I said I didn't want you to have the rooms to-night and I meant it." "Will you please come outside and explain yourself," said Nyoda, "where it won't excite this sick girl?" They went down-stairs to the lower hall, where Nyoda argued and pleaded to be told the meaning of Mrs. Moffat's strange attitude toward us, but she got no satisfaction. Mrs. Moffat would say nothing more than that she had a reputation to keep up. When Nyoda defied her to put Margery out Mrs. Moffat said grandiloquently that her son was on the police force (I suppose she meant he was _the_ police force) and we would see what she could do. Nyoda, at her wit's end, was trying to think of what to say next when there was a rap on the door and a small boy arrived with a note, which he would not give into Mrs. Moffat's hand. He just held it up so she could see what was on the outside. It was addressed to "The black-haired automobile lady". This, of course, was Nyoda and the boy was perfectly satisfied to give her the note once he had looked at her. Wonderingly she unfolded it. It contained only one line: "Go 22 Spring Street." It was signed "A fellow tourist." Nyoda turned to ask the boy who had given him the note, but he had disappeared. 22 Spring Street. Spring Street was one block down Main Street. Nyoda called me to go with her and we went to 22 Spring Street. A perfectly dear old lady came to the door and, when we asked if she could keep us all night, she said she would be delighted to. She asked such few questions that I have a suspicion that she knew all about us already from the motorcyclist, for we had no doubt that it was he who had sent Nyoda the note. How he knew Mrs. Moffat was trying to put us out was beyond us, unless he had been passing the open front door and overheard her conversation, which had not been in low tones by any means. As the new place was so near we got Margery over without any trouble and shook the dust of Mrs. Moffat's house from our feet disdainfully, if still completely in the dark as to why it should be so. What had caused the change in her manner toward us? She had been perfectly cordial at the supper table and asked how we liked the beds. Something had evidently occurred while we sat upstairs, but what it was we could not guess. Then, like a flash, I remembered having seen the Frog sauntering past the house while we were eating supper. Had he gone to Mrs. Moffat with some story about us which had caused her to put us out? It sounded like a moving picture plot, and yet we all realized the possibility of it. We were simply dazed with the events of the day and evening by the time we reached the new rooms and had put Margery to bed. "What a record we are setting this week!" said Sahwah. "First night we wandered into a Congressman's house by mistake and were put out; second night we got burned out of a hotel and finished by getting lost in the fog; third night we are put out of a lodging house for some mysterious reason. There aren't enough more things that can happen to us to last the week out." Which showed all that Sahwah knew about it. When we had simmered down to something near normal again we realized that we would need the trunk which was carried on the Glow-worm. Nyoda drove the Glow-worm over and we carried the trunk up-stairs while she ran the car back to the garage. It was heavier than we expected and we were pretty well winded when we set it down on the floor of our room. "Won't I be glad to see my dressing-gown again," said Sahwah, sucking her thumb, which had gotten under the trunk when it was set down. "This dress shrank when it got drenched in the fog last night and the collar's too tight." "Slippers are what appeal to me," I sighed, wishing Nyoda would hurry back with the key. My shoes had been soaked in mud which had dried and left them stiff, and walking around all day on the scorching sidewalks had about parboiled my feet. Nyoda returned just then and opened the trunk without delay, while we crowded around to seize upon our wished-for belongings as soon as possible. But when the cover was tilted back we fell over in as much surprise as if a jack-in-the-box had sprung out at us. Instead of Sahwah's red dressing-gown on top as we had expected there were rows and rows of bottles. We stared stupidly, not knowing whether to believe our eyes or not. "You've got the wrong trunk!" we cried to Nyoda. Nyoda went post-haste back to the garage. When she came back she wore a puzzled look. "The garage man declares that was the trunk that came with the Glow-worm," she said, in a dazed voice. "He says it was never removed from the rack, as all the work was on the front wheel and front fender." Sahwah took one of the bottles from the trunk and held it up. It contained some fluid guaranteed to make the hair stay in curl in the dampest weather. There was a bright yellow label halfway around it that bore the classic slogan, "One touch of Curline makes the whole world kink." Sahwah began to giggle hysterically. At any other time we would all have laughed heartily over that ridiculous trademark, but just now we were too much concerned with the loss of our things to feel like laughing. "No wonder the trunk was so heavy," said Sahwah, rubbing her arms at the remembrance of that climb up the stairs. We searched our memories for the events of the previous day and tried to remember just where the trunk had been all the while. Then we remembered the scene of the fire and the fact that the Glow-worm might have been unguarded for some time in the garage. The trunk had been taken off the rack the day before when the repairs were made, because they had some work to do on the tail lamp bracket, and I heard the man say the trunk was in the way. This trunk with the bottles was the same on the outside as ours with the exception of Gladys's initials, and it might have been put onto the rack of the Glow-worm by mistake when the repairs were finished. Nyoda lost no time in getting the proprietor of the garage at Wellsville on the long distance phone. When she returned this time she was entirely cheerful again. "He says there's another trunk just like it in the garage," she said. "He didn't know whom it belonged to. I told him to send it to us by express and it will be here in the morning. We will send this one back to him, for the rightful owner will be coming back after it." "Whatever would anyone want with a trunkful of this stuff?" asked Sahwah, curiously. "Probably a traveling salesman," suggested Nyoda. She took the bottle from Sahwah's hand and put it back into its place in the trunk. "One touch of Curline makes the whole world kink," she mused. "Well, 'one touch of Curline' has put a 'kink' in our retiring arrangements, all right." She locked up the trunk with our key, which fitted the lock perfectly, remarking as she did so that locks weren't quite as useful as they might be, since other people's keys fitted them. The rest of the night passed peacefully, and we were so tired out from having had scarcely any sleep the previous night that we sank to slumber as soon as we touched the pillows. In the morning we took the stranger's trunk to the express office and called for ours. We hailed that six-sided thing of boards and leather as though it had been a long lost friend and cheered it lustily when it was set down in our room. We could easily see where the garage man had made the mistake in giving us the salesman's trunk, for the two were identical. We opened ours up to see if our belongings were still intact. It took us a few minutes to realize the import of what we found. There, apparently, was our trunk, but the things in it were not ours. _They belonged to the other girls._ There was Gladys's pink silk crepe kimono; and Hinpoha's blue one; there were Gladys's Turkish slippers with the turned up toes; there were Hinpoha's stockings, plainly marked with her name. We stared at each other with something like fear in our eyes. The thing was so uncanny. Gladys's trunk had not been in the garage when we arrived; it must have come after we left; and yet, _the Striped Beetle had gone on to Chicago ahead of us_! The thing was monstrous; incredible. Had the fairies been playing tricks on us? We stood gazing with fascinated eyes at the open trunk which stood in our midst like a silent portent. CHAPTER VI. For the second time Nyoda got the garage man at Wellsville on the long distance phone. This conference only deepened the puzzle. He declared solemnly that no car even remotely resembling the Striped Beetle had been in his establishment and no party of girls such as we described. He was as much in the dark as we were about the trunk. Had we been carrying Gladys's trunk ever since we left home? we asked ourselves. No, for we had opened ours several times on the road. We gave it up when the puzzle threatened to addle our brains, and prepared to start away on our journey. Margery felt well again and ready to travel. We were standing in the street around the Glow-worm, and through gaps between houses we could see Mrs. Moffat's house down on Main Street. We saw a boy in the uniform of a telegraph messenger come along Main Street and stop at her house. "Maybe the Frog's sending her some more mysterious messages," said Sahwah, idly. But in a moment the boy ran down the steps again and retraced his steps up Main Street. As he passed the street where we were he looked down, and then he came toward us. "Which one is Miss Elizabeth Kent?" he asked. Nyoda stepped forward and he handed her the telegraph envelope. Nyoda tore it open and a look of blank astonishment came over her face as she read. "What is it?" we all chorused. "Read it," she said. This is what we read: "Where on earth are you? Wait Rochester for us. Coming to-day noon. Gladys." It was sent from Indianapolis! We looked at each other dazedly. Gladys in Indianapolis? What was she doing there? Indianapolis was far out of our way, miles to the south. With the main roads marked as they were it was impossible for her to have gotten lost. Then on the heels of this question came another one; if Gladys had gotten side-tracked and had fallen behind us on the road, who had passed ahead of us along the northern route to Chicago whom we had been blindly following? How had Gladys in Indianapolis received the telegram we had sent to Chicago, giving our address in Rochester? If Gladys had not come along the northern route, how came her trunk to be in Wellsville? It was a Chinese puzzle no matter which way you looked at it, and as Sahwah remarked, not being Chinamen we had no cue. But we sighed with relief at the thought that Gladys and the rest would be with us at noon and the mystery would all come to an end. Till noon then, we would possess our souls in patience. To kill time we decided to look around at some of the stores. To the city bred the small town store is as much of a curiosity as the big city store is to the country bred. Most people think that the department store is a product of the big city, but I think it is a development of the general store of the country town. We found a place where they sold everything from handkerchiefs to plows, and wandered about happily, looking at farm implements whose use we did not even guess, and wonderful displays of crockery and printed calico. We seemed to create quite a sensation when we came in although there were other people in the store. The proprietor came forward hurriedly and asked us what we wanted. A strange look came into his face when we said we just came in to look around. He and his wife and the two or three clerks in the place all looked at each other, but they said no more. But as we moved up one aisle and down another he was always right at our elbow, and he never seemed to take his eyes from us. I picked up a pile of handkerchiefs to look them over, thinking I might buy some, as mine were in the lost trunk nobody knew where, but they were all cotton and I despise cotton handkerchiefs. As I put them down again and passed on I saw the proprietor pick them up and although he turned his back to us I could see that he was counting them. We became conscious of a chill in the air. It seemed that everybody in the place was watching us with suspicious eyes. With one accord we moved toward the door and stepped out into the street, where we faced each other questioningly. What was this baffling thing that we were running up against of late? The people around here seemed to know something about us which we did not know ourselves. Last night our landlady for no satisfactory reason had put us out of her house, and here were the store people plainly suspicious of us. Was Margery the cause of it? She had not come with us this morning, as she thought it would be wiser to stay in her room. But even if they knew about Margery we would hardly have expected them to act this way. Why did they make no attempt to take her away from us? Everywhere we turned we came against a wall of mystery. Was the Frog at the bottom of it? But why did he always loiter in the background and never openly molest us? There was something more terrifying about this silent, skulking foe than there would have been about an armed highwayman. So far to-day he had not appeared, but we did not doubt that he was lurking in the shadows somewhere. As we stood there we saw the motorcyclist walking down from the upper end of the street in our direction. "Let's wait until he comes up and thank him for telling us about the other rooms," suggested Sahwah. So we stood still and waited. But no sooner had he seen us standing there on the sidewalk than he paused suddenly, turned abruptly and went up a side street. "Even he is avoiding us!" said Sahwah. "What on earth can be the reason?" We wished with all our hearts for noon, when Gladys would come and we could get out of this wretched town. But there were still two hours until then. We decided to go into another store and see if they would treat us the same way. They did, only perhaps a little more so. The proprietor followed us around like a shadow and heaved an audible sigh of relief when we went out. Utterly disgusted, we went back to Margery. The time passed heavily until noon and then we went out on Main Street to watch for the arrival of the Striped Beetle. The events and accidents we were ready to pour out to the coming girls were enough to fill a volume, and we were sure that nothing they would have to tell would match our story of the fire and the night in the fog. The telegram had said they would come at noon and we were to wait for them. Noon came and went; one o'clock; two o'clock; and like the Blue Alsatian Mountains, we were still watching and waiting. There was no sign of the Striped Beetle. The sun beat down mercilessly on the glaring earth and we grew faint and dizzy straining our eyes up the road. It was several degrees hotter than the day before. We ate our dinner in squads, one squad eating while the other did sentinel duty. We beguiled the time by singing "Wait for the Wagon", "Waiting at the Church ", and every other song we knew on the subject. People looked at us curiously as we sat in a row on a low stone wall. One man asked us if we were waiting for the circus parade, because if we were we had our dates mixed; the circus was not due until the next day. The afternoon advanced; carful after carful of tourists came down the dusty road, but none of them the ones we so eagerly awaited. Margery had refused to sit there where everyone could see her, and stayed in her room, and we took turns sitting with her. "Are you sure we didn't dream that telegram?" asked Sahwah wearily, at half past three. Nyoda shook her head. "It's real, all right," she answered. "I have it here in my coat pocket." "Let me see it again," said Sahwah, "and see at what time it was sent." Nyoda put her hand into her pocket. When she brought it out again she held to the light, not the yellow telegraph form, but a queer, bluish beetle-like thing. She stared at it with amazed eyes and we were all too much astonished to speak. "What is it?" asked Sahwah, finding her voice first. "It's a scarab." answered Nyoda, "the ancient Egyptian figure of a beetle. There are several in the museum at home." We passed it from hand to hand with growing wonder and admiration. But how came it into Nyoda's coat pocket? Was this also a part of the witchcraft that had sent Gladys's trunk to us so mysteriously? "Curiouser and Curiouser," said Sahwah. "Are you sure you didn't pick it up somewhere without knowing it?" I asked. "People sometimes do those things absent-mindedly, you know. I came home from down-town once with a gold-handled umbrella and I hadn't the slightest notion of where I got it. And the next day there was a notice in the paper, 'Will the young lady who took the gold-handled umbrella from the wash-room of Levy & Strauss's yesterday afternoon please return same to the office? She was recognized and followed.' And I couldn't remember being in the wash-room of Levy & Strauss's at all!" Nyoda racked her brain. "It's impossible," she said. "I haven't been anywhere since noon but up to that restaurant and Sahwah and I sat alone at a table. There wasn't anything belonging to anyone else near us." "You didn't get it this morning when we were looking through the stores?" I asked. "No," said Nyoda, "I didn't. It wasn't there when I started up to dinner. Besides," she added, "that scarab never came from a store in this town. Things like that are handled by dealers in curios in large cities, and by private collectors." Her brow was puckered into a bewildered frown. "However it got there," she said, "it doesn't belong there and I have no right to keep it. I'm going to turn it over to the police, and if anybody reports the loss to them they will find it intact." As we stood there looking at the curious scarab in Nyoda's hands a motorcycle putt-putted past in a cloud of dust and we recognized our light-haired friend apparently leaving town. "We'll never get a chance to thank him for that address!" I said, half regretfully. Little did we think that the only decent thing fate did for us on that trip was to withhold that chance! Nyoda and I went in search of the police station, leaving Sahwah and Nakwisi sitting and watching for the Striped Beetle. It was only Sahwah who was doing any watching out, however, for Nakwisi was looking through her spy-glass at the clouds. After some inquiry we found the police station. When Nyoda told her story about finding the scarab in her pocket, the policeman in charge looked at her with a peculiar expression and a wise grin. But when she wanted to leave it there he waved her away. "Wouldn't have it around here for a farm," he declared. "Lady left a necklace here once: said she found it in the road. The next night the police station burned down and the necklace disappeared. We just got this new station and it nearly broke the town and we can't have any more accidents. You take it on to the next town and tell 'em you didn't find it till you got there, see?" Half angry and half amused at this dauntless representative of the law we went back to the girls, with the mysterious scarab still in the pocket of Nyoda's coat. If only we had followed Sahwah's joking advice and stuck it on an ornamental shrub near us to startle passers-by and left it there! "Something must have happened to the Striped Beetle," said Nyoda in a worried way, when we had exhausted our patience with waiting. "I don't know but what it would be a good idea to set out in the direction of Indianapolis and try to find them. We will surely come upon a trace of them somewhere." "What strikes me queer," said Sahwah, "is, if Gladys knows our address and wired that she would be here at noon, why she didn't wire again when she found she couldn't get here. She might know we would begin to tear our hair when she didn't appear." Nyoda began to look uneasy. "That's what makes me think something has happened to her," she said. "Somehow I always have visions of the Striped Beetle lying smashed up somewhere and our girls being carried to a hospital. I can't get it out of my mind. Something has happened to Gladys which has kept her from wiring and it is our duty to find out what it is." "Maybe she did wire and they didn't deliver it to us," suggested Sahwah. Nyoda and I promptly went up to the telegraph office and inquired if any later message had come for us. Nothing had, we were told. Nyoda made up her mind at once. She consulted the road map she had bought after the marked one had gone with Gladys and looked at the route to Indianapolis. "If any message comes to this office for us, kindly forward it to the office at Kokomo," she directed. "We will stop there and inquire." We got into the Glow-worm without delay, picked up Margery from the house, piled the other girls into the car and shook the dust of Rochester (it was nearly a foot thick) from our tires. I looked around every little while from my seat in the tonneau to see if the Frog was following us, but there was no sign of him. In fact, I may as well tell you now, that we had seen the last of him until we saw him in such an amazing attitude two days later. Driving gave us a little relief from the heat, for the motion of the car created a little breeze, although there was none of any other kind stirring. I think if we had sat out in that hot street any longer I should have been overcome. It was bad enough in the car, for the dust rose up in choking whirls until we could taste it. I have never known such a hot day before or since, although I have seen the thermometer higher; but that day the air seemed to be minus its breathing qualities and we gasped like fish out of water. We kept a close watch on Margery for signs of collapse, but she seemed to be bearing up pretty well; I suppose it was because she had not been sitting out on Main Street for four hours. "I wouldn't be surprised if we had a thunder shower to-night," said Nyoda, scanning a bank of apoplectic-looking clouds that were lying low over the distant horizon. "I hope so," I replied. "Anything to break this heat. The air over the street looks like the heat waves over the radiator." I could not help wishing fervently that Gladys had chosen a cool breezy day to get lost on. We stopped at so many places and asked if they had seen a brown car with black stripes carrying four girls in tan suits that our voices became husky on those words. Sahwah suggested that we print our inquiry on a pennant and fasten it across the front of the car. But nowhere was there a sign or a trace of the car for which we were seeking. People had seen brown cars, but no girls in them, and they had seen tan coats in black or red cars, but nowhere was the tan and brown in combination. Looking for a needle in a haystack has several advantages over looking for an automobile on a hundred mile stretch of road. For one thing, there is only one haystack, so you are pretty sure of finding your needle there if you look long enough; whereas there were several roads to Indianapolis; and for another thing, your needle is stationary and not traveling through the haystack, so you are reasonably sure when you have ascertained that it is not in a certain part of the haystack that it will not be there at a later time; whereas the Striped Beetle might be moving from place to place, in which case we were going to have a lively time catching up with it. Especially did we inquire if there had been any accidents. Once we had a scare; we were told that a brown car had been struck by a suburban car that morning and several girls seriously injured. The injured ones had been taken to a hospital in Indianapolis, but the automobile was in a repair shop in the village of D----. We hastened to D---- and elbowed our way through the crowd in front of the repair shop to see the wreck of the car and sighed with relief when we saw it was not the Striped Beetle. One door was still intact and that bore the monogram DPS in large block letters. If Fate has anything to do with the color of paint, or rather, if the color of paint has anything to do with Fate, brown must be an unlucky shade to paint a car. The number of brown cars which had come to grief along that road was unbelievable. In another place one had turned turtle on a bridge and thrown its passengers into the river beneath, but those passengers were all men, we were told, and we did not stop to investigate further. One woman told a story of having seen four girls walking along the road almost frantic because their car had been stolen while they got out to look at something in a field, and we thought these might possibly be our girls. Hinpoha is crazy about calves and if she saw a calf in a field she would not only go over and pet it herself, but drag all the others along too. When asked to describe their dresses the woman said vaguely that they had had on some light kind of coats or suits, she couldn't remember which, and she wasn't sure about the veils. They might have been green for all she knew, but she always had been color blind and hated to make a definite statement because she had been fooled on more than one occasion. Where the girls were now she did not know; she thought they were walking to the nearest town to notify the police. While there was nothing definite about this information it was just enough to tantalize us, and we wondered if the Striped Beetle really had been stolen and the girls were wandering about in distress. We strained our imaginations trying to picture what had happened to Gladys that she did not appear in Rochester, and conjured up all sorts of circumstances to account for it. But I doubt if an imagination as rich as the mine of Ophir could have guessed at the truth, so I don't see how we can be blamed for missing it entirely. The clouds that had been reclining along the horizon all afternoon began to mount and deepen in color, and the occasional mutterings of thunder became more frequent. From being oppressive the air became stifling and we were all on the verge of collapse. The fatigue of getting out of the car so often to follow up things that looked like clues was beginning to tell on us. And the suspense was worse than anything else. Up to now, when we thought that Gladys was on the road ahead of us and we would catch up with her in Chicago, we had cheerfully put up with all the mishaps which had befallen us, for none of them turned out seriously and we were entirely light-hearted. But now we were really worried about Gladys. Her not appearing after she had wired us that she was coming began to take on a sinister meaning. It is much easier to live through mishaps yourself than imagine them happening to someone else. Taken altogether, that afternoon's trip is one on which I like to put the soft pedal when harking back in memory. And happy for us then that we did not know what it was going to end in. The sky behind us had turned inky black and it became evident that the storm which was coming would be no ordinary one. A wind sprang up that increased in velocity with a peculiar moaning sound. A strange light was in the air that made the white farm houses and barns gleam sharply against the dark sky. Nyoda looked with some anxiety at the lowering clouds. "I think it would be a wise plan to make the next town before that storm breaks loose," she observed, thoughtfully. "You know the storm curtains don't fasten tightly on the one side, and if we're caught we're going to be drenched." The next town was Kokomo, about ten miles away, where we were to stop at the telegraph office and see if there was a message from Gladys. Then began a race the like of which I have never seen before. It was the speed of man matched against the speed of the storm gods. Behind us the storm was breaking; we could see the grey wall of the rain in the distance; the wind was rising to a tornado and the thunder claps seemed to split the earth open. And there we were, scudding along before it, like a tiny craft fleeing from a tidal wave. The Glow-worm bore us onward like a gallant steed, and I compared our headlong flight with the King of Denmark's ride when his Rose of the Isles lay dying. "Think of something cheerful," said Sahwah, crossly; "Gladys isn't lying at the point of death." After all, the comparison didn't hold good, for the King's steed reached his destination and the Glow-worm didn't. We had been so taken up with our search for Gladys that we had neglected to supply the life blood to our iron steed, namely, gasoline, and we came to a dead stop in the road four or five miles from town. Our exclamations of disgust were still hovering in the air when the storm struck us. As Sahwah has always described it, "And then the water came down at Lodore." I could devote several pages to the fury of that rainfall, but what is the use of taking up the reader's time when her own imagination will supply the details? Just imagine the worst storm you were ever caught in, or ever saw anyone else caught in, and multiply it by two or three times and you have our situation. With a shriek of delight the wind seized the loose end of the storm curtain and tore the whole curtain from the car with one neat pull. When we last saw that storm curtain it was traveling eastward at the rate of sixty miles an hour. In one minute we were all as wet as if we had fallen off the dock at home. We abandoned the car and ran for the shelter of a big tree near-by. We were no sooner under its spreading branches when, with a sound like the crack of doom, lightning struck it and it went crashing to earth in the opposite direction from us. We didn't stop to reflect what would have happened to us if it had fallen in our direction, but made for the open road where there was nothing but the sky to fall on us, which it was doing as hard as it could. We were just wondering how long it would take the inside of the Glow-worm to dry out, and whether rain made spots on the leather when a closed limousine came along the road. The driver, in rubber coat and cap, stopped his car and asked if he could be of assistance. Nyoda, suddenly conscious that the color was running out of her dripping veil all over her face, put her hand in her pocket to find her handkerchief and wipe her face. Along with the handkerchief out fell the curious scarab which we had forgotten in the search for Gladys. The man eyed it intently as Nyoda put it back into her pocket. A change seemed to have come over him. Before he was merely an automobile driver offering help to a stranded motorist, but now he acted like a minion in the presence of a queen. He touched his hat with the greatest respect, got down from his seat in a hurry and opened the door of the limousine. "Get in quickly," he said, and we did, glad of the glass enclosed shelter from the downpour. With deft motions he fastened the Glow-worm behind the limousine with a tow line and then sent his car rolling down the road at a rapid pace. CHAPTER VII. We had not proceeded very far up the road when the car turned into a long winding driveway of gravel, bordered on either side by well kept lawns and trim trees. We could see that much through the windows of the car when the rain would cease its furious whirling against the glass for a moment. Soon we came to a stop under a wide sheltering porte-cochere, and the driver got down and opened the door ceremoniously. It was quite dark, but we could see that the house at which we had stopped was an immense mansion, probably the country home of some millionaire. "I will see that the tanks are filled in good time," said the chauffeur, touching his hand to his cap. He had been driving without gloves, and I noticed that the little finger on both of his hands was turned inward at the second joint. I believe that is what brother Tom calls a baseball finger. Just then the door of the house opened and a trim looking maid appeared and greeted the chauffeur familiarly as "Heinie". He replied by a wink and a series of movements with his eyebrows which threw the maid into a spasm of amusement. Then he started the limousine, with the Glow-worm still in tow, around the side of the house, presumably toward the garage, although from where we stood we saw no building. The maid held the door open for us and we stepped into an entry paved with marble. "If we could stay here a few minutes until the rain is over--" began Nyoda. For no reason at all the maid began to giggle violently. I suppose she was still amused over the grimaces of the chauffeur. It takes so little to amuse some people. "Come this way," she said, and led the way from the entry into a hall and up a flight of stairs. There was a big triple window on the landing and as we passed the rain was dashing against it so violently that we thought the glass must give way. Severe as the storm had been when we were caught in it, it was twice as bad now, and we gave a thankful sigh that we were under shelter, and blessed the gasoline for giving out when it did, for if it hadn't we must have been overtaken on the road and would have missed this chance of getting in the dry. We went up-stairs as quickly as possible so as not to drip on the rich carpet that covered the steps. The maid threw open the door into the most luxurious bedchamber I have ever seen. It was clear that we were in the house of a very wealthy man. Another maid was in the room which we entered and she looked at us five dripping refugees with a stare of curiosity. "Some friends who were caught in the rain," explained the maid who had acted as our guide. "Come, get them some dry clothes." The two of them bustled about laying out things for us to put on, and for the first time in my life I was waited on by a maid. The first one, whom the other addressed as Carrie, was inclined to be talkative, and sympathized noisily with our drenched state. She was quite pretty, with rosy cheeks and black hair and black eyes. There was something odd about her appearance at first and upon looking at her closely I discovered this odd appearance came from the fact that her eyes did not seem to be on a level. But she was very deft in her movements and had our wet garments hung up on hangers and spread out before the little grate fire in no time. I felt a passing envy for the woman who was the mistress of this maid and who did not have to worry whether she threw her clothes in a heap on the floor or not, as she would always find them properly taken care of when she wanted them again. Taking care of my clothes is the greatest trial of my life. The other maid spoke not at all; she seemed newer at her job and obeyed the directions of the first meekly and in silence. Carrie picked up Nyoda's soaked coat and shook it, and as she did so the scarab flew out of the pocket and fell to the floor. She hastily picked it up and held it in her hand for an instant, turning it over and looking at it curiously. I saw her glance sidewise at Agnes, the other maid, who stood with her back to us putting Nyoda's shoes onto trees; then she looked boldly at Nyoda and deliberately winked one eye! Nyoda looked at her with a puzzled frown. Carrie became all meekness and deference in a moment; she laid the scarab down on the table beside Nyoda's purse and went about her duties without raising her eyes. In a moment she left the room and we sat listening to the rain beating against the panes and wondering when it would stop and how soon our clothes would be dry so we could resume our journey. Agnes went out presently and when she came back she carried a tray full of cups of steaming broth and a plate of sandwiches. We were very thankful for this favor, as we were beginning to feel chilled through. Getting drenched that way when we were so hot was bad enough, but the wind that accompanied the shower was decidedly cool and we were pretty uncomfortable by the time we were picked up. "To whom are we indebted for this hospitality?" asked Nyoda of Agnes. "Ma'm?" said Agnes. "In whose house are we?" asked Nyoda. "This is the home of Simon McClure," answered Agnes. "Oh-oh!" we said altogether. The name of Simon McClure was a household word with us. It was his yacht that had sprung a leak and gone down the summer before just as it was on the point of winning the cup race. We had all heard about this millionaire sportsman and his horses, dogs and boats. Well, we were not sorry, after all, that the heat had ended up in a shower. It was worth a drenching to be taken into such a house. I'm afraid our anxiety about Gladys faded a little in the enjoyment of our unique position. The rain had gradually subsided from a cloudburst into a steady downpour and we trembled to think what the road would be like. In our mind's eye we saw ourselves stuck up to the hubs in yellow clay from which it would require the pulling power of a locomotive to release us. I suppose Carrie must have told her mistress of our presence, for after one of her absences from the room she said that Mrs. McClure had said we were welcome to stay all night if we wished. We looked at each other with rather comical expressions. To our widely varying list of night's lodgings there was about to be added one more, as different from the rest as they had been from each other. One more adventure was to be added to our already long list! But even then we did not guess that this one was to surpass all the others as the glare of a rocket outshines the glimmer of a match! Carrie returned again presently and after looking at Agnes steadily for a minute, with a peculiar expression in her black eyes she turned to Nyoda and said respectfully that Mrs. McClure was giving a fancy dress ball that night and, as several of the invited guests had been prevented from coming at the last moment, which would spoil the number for a certain march figure she had planned, she wanted to know if we would mind attending the ball in their places. She begged us to excuse her for not coming in to speak to us herself, but she was in the hands of her hair-dresser. Would we mind attending the ball! Did things ever happen to other people the way they happened to us? And such a ball as the McClures would give would be like a page out of the Arabian Nights to us, who knew nothing of high society. "But what could we wear?" asked Sahwah, always the first to come to earth and see the practical side of the question. Carrie flashed her a sparkling look from her black eyes, giggled, and then shifted her gaze to Agnes, whom she watched narrowly. Agnes looked indifferent, both at her and at us. The stony expression on Agnes's face began to puzzle me; I wondered if there was any mystery about her. Carrie finally took her eyes from Agnes's face and allowed them to travel around the room to where our touring suits hung up to dry. "The automobile suits," she suggested respectfully, "and the veils, and the goggles--You could masque as a party of tourists. The clothes are quite dry." Our spirits revived again, for the thought that we might have to miss this grand opportunity of witnessing a gorgeous spectacle because we had nothing to wear had sent our hearts down into our shoes. Carrie was summoned away then by a soft purring little buzzer and directed Agnes to help us dress. I must say that we made very nice looking tourists in our tan suits and green veils. Agnes had the suits pressed until there were no wrinkles left in them and arranged our veils with a practised hand. All the while we were dressing we could hear automobiles driving up under the porte-cochere, and guests arriving, and we were in a fever of anticipation. Strains of music floated up from below, together with the subdued hum of many voices. We judged from the direction of the sounds that the ballroom was on the first floor. It was after ten o'clock when we were finally ready and Carrie appeared in the door for us. She took us down another stairway into a vast hall filled with paintings and statuary, where a man in a dark blue suit and silver braid (I suppose that's what you'd call a footman in livery), stood stiffly as the statues around him. Carrie said something to him in a low tone (I presume she was explaining our presence without cards of invitation, such as he was collecting from the other guests), and he looked at us with an impassive eye and nodded his head. He was a very homely man with an exceedingly red nose with one bright blue vein running across it that gave him somewhat of a singular appearance. I remember thinking that if I were his mistress I should set him to working in the garden where nobody could see him, instead of posting him in the front hall to admit the guests. After Carrie had turned us over to the Nose with the Vein she went up-stairs again and the man slid back a door on the left side of the hall. We found ourselves in the ballroom and in the midst of a scene as bewildering as it was gorgeous. Of course, our first thought had been to find our hostess and make ourselves known, but there was no way of telling which one Mrs. McClure was. Everybody was masked and frolicking around and there didn't seem to be anyone doing the duty of a hostess whom we could suspect of being Mrs. McClure. Later on we discovered that there was a reception-room off at the other end of the ballroom where Mrs. McClure had been receiving her guests, but at the time we saw nothing but the shifting masses of light and color around us, that resolved themselves into kings and queens and princes and Indians and turbaned Hindoos and pirates and Turks and peasants and fairies. The orchestra was playing the opening bars of a waltz and the dancers were seeking partners. We withdrew into a corner behind a large palm to look on. To our surprise and somewhat to our embarrassment we were asked to dance before the waltz was over. My partner was a Scottish highlander and a good dancer, and he evidently thought I belonged in the set who were the guests at this ball, because he kept pointing out different people and asking if I thought they were this one or that one. I did not speak much, however, and do not think he ever guessed that I was not a friend of Mrs. McClure's, was an outsider at the ball, and was, in fact, the mere tourist I was supposed to represent. I thought, however, I might get one piece of information out of him. "I don't see Mrs. McClure," I said, looking over the dancing couples. Then it was that the Highlander told me about the reception-room at the other side of the conservatory that opened out of the ballroom, where Mrs. McClure was. I mentally thanked him for this piece of information and purposed to tell Nyoda about it as soon as the dance was over. But when that dance came to a close we were claimed by other partners for the next, and so on, and we did not get out of the ballroom. The memory of that ball is like some queer oriental dream and even while we were in the midst of it I had to pinch myself to make sure that I was awake and the things around me were real. But the events that followed were real enough for anyone to know that they were not dreaming. There came an intermission in the dancing at last, and we five found ourselves in the glassed-in sun parlor opening from the ballroom while somebody was going for ices for us. As it happened we were the only ones in that little room, for the bigger conservatory next to it was a more popular resting-place. Sitting there waiting we began to talk about the scarab and the queer effect it seemed to have had on the chauffeur. "Let me look at it again," said I. I was utterly fascinated by the thing. Nyoda put her hand in the pocket of her coat where she had put the scarab for safe keeping, and drew out, not the odd-looking beetle, but something that flashed in the light like a thousand rain-drops in the sunshine. It was a diamond necklace, with a diamond pendant at the end, the stones arranged in the form of a cross. The thing blazed in Nyoda's hand like liquid fire running down over her fingers, and we fairly blinked as we looked at it. We were too astonished to say a word and simply stared at it as if we were hypnotised. "Girls," said Nyoda in a horrified tone, "there's something queer going on here and we're mixed up in it. The sooner we get out of this house the better. There's a gang of thieves at work at this ball--there usually are at these big affairs--and unless we want to find ourselves drawn into a net from which we can't escape easily we'll have to run for it." It was a good thing that the sun parlor was empty and the crush around the table where the ices were being served kept our friends from returning. Nyoda put the necklace into a jardinier containing a monstrous fern and we looked around for a way out. We thought we would slip out to the garage and get the Glow-worm. The sun parlor must have had a door leading to the outside, but it was so full of plants in pots and jardiniers that if there was a door it was covered up. We fled back into the conservatory, where couples were sitting all over, but there was no outside door from there. After that we got into a library filled with people playing cards at tables. We were looking anxiously around for a door into the hall which led to the porte-cochere entrance when we saw the maid Carrie come into the room with a tray full of glasses. When she saw us standing there she came up to us and under the pretense of offering us refreshments she whispered: "You are looking for the way out? Follow me." We followed her across the room and out the door at the opposite side, which opened into a small reception-room. There stood the footman with the vein in his nose and without a word he led the way through various rooms and hallways to the porte-cochere entrance. We passed out quickly, and to our surprise there stood the Glow-worm under the porte-cochere with the lamps all lighted and the tanks filled. In a moment we were speeding down that driveway again and out into the midnight. The events of the evening were whirling through our heads. As yet we could make neither head nor tail to them. Bit by bit we began to see the significance of things, although, of course, the whole story was not clear to us until a day later, when things came to a head and the resulting explosion cleared up all mysteries. This much we did understand, however, that someone had stolen a diamond necklace from one of the guests at the ball and expected us to get away with it. Also that the servants must have been in the plot, for how else had our get away been made so easy? And how came the Glow-worm to be standing at the door ready to drive away? We laughed when we thought of the diamond necklace which they had supposed was safe in our possession, lying in the jardinier in the sun parlor. We fancied the commotion that would take place when the owner discovered its loss, and the equal dismay in the breasts of the conspirators when it was found in the jardinier. But here we were again, without a place to spend the night, when we had expected to sleep in such luxurious beds. With one accord we decided to drive all night and put as much distance between us and the house as possible. We were constantly afraid that we were being pursued as it was, and strained our ears for the throb of a motor behind us that would tell of the chase. We did not make very fast headway, for the roads were abominable after the storm. In places we went through regular lakes and the water was thrown into the car by the wheels, so that we were drenched a second time, as well as spattered with mud from head to foot. Then we came to a hold-up altogether. In one place a small stream had risen from the flood and carried away the bridge by which we were supposed to cross. The water was too deep to drive through and we had to turn back and find another road. Then our troubles began in earnest. The main road had been bad enough, but these side roads full of deep wagon ruts and mud holes were ten times worse. It would have been a problem to drive through there by daylight, but after dark it was a nightmare. Our electric head lamps were dim that night for some reason or other and only partly showed up the bad places, and several times I thought we were going to upset. The drizzling rain was still falling and we were soaked and uncomfortable. After a time we gave up trying to find another bridge to cross the stream and get back on the main road and frankly owned that we were lost. Once in a while we saw the dark outline of a farmhouse far back from the road, but we hesitated to wake up the people at that time of night and ask our way. Margery complained of the feeling of her wet coat and Sahwah suggested that we all sing "How Dry I Am", and see if there was anything in mental suggestion. So we stopped still at the cross-roads and sang hoarsely in the rain and darkness like disconsolate frogs. The starter refused to work when we wanted to go on again and Nyoda had to get out in the mud and crank the engine. "She stoops to crank her," said Sahwah, but none of us had the ambition to pinch her for making a pun. We were apparently traveling through the country in a sort of Roman key pattern, up one road and down another without getting any nearer to the town for which we imagined we were headed. Suddenly something white loomed up before us which proved to be the gate of a fence; we were evidently on private property. Sahwah got out to open it but she could not do it alone, so both Nakwisi and I jumped out to help her. The mud was piled up so high under the gate that it was all we could do to swing it back. The Glow-worm passed through slowly and we closed the gate again. Just then a gust of wind sent down a heavy shower of drops from a near-by tree and we ran hastily for the shelter of the car. Nyoda started immediately and we found ourselves in the main road once more. The gust of wind continued and blew our veils into our faces and made us screw our eyes shut. In such fashion did we travel down the king's highway, and if ever my ardor for automobile touring was dampened, it was then. For a long time nobody had a word to say, not even irrepressible Sahwah. Each one of us sat apart wrapped in our own gloomy thoughts. Finally Nakwisi spoke. "Does the water run down over the tip of your nose if your nose turns up? Sahwah, yours turns up, will you look and see which way the rain-drops are going?" There was no answer. "Well, don't answer, if you don't want to," said Nakwisi, rather crossly. We took our veils down from our eyes and looked around to see the cause of this unusual silence on Sahwah's part. Then we got the second big shock of the evening. _Sahwah was not in the car!_ She had vanished utterly, silently, mysteriously, into the rainy darkness! CHAPTER VIII. If I were an experienced writer of fiction I would know how to weave all the various odds and ends of my story into the telling so as to keep the action moving forward all the time, with all parts nicely balanced. But as it is, I am afraid that I have been trying to tell it all at once and am getting it rather one-sided. So far I have told only what happened to us girls in the Glow-worm, and I fear that the reader will have forgotten by this time that there were eight girls who started out on the trip instead of four. So now I am going to carry you back to a point almost at the beginning of the story; the point where we almost struck the old woman and where the Striped Beetle vanished from sight. As I said before, I am going to tell the story just as if I had been along and seen everything, without stopping to quote Gladys or Hinpoha or Medmangi or Chapa. You will remember that we were proceeding westward through Toledo at the time and the Striped Beetle was in the lead. Hinpoha sat in the front seat with Gladys, holding Mr. Bob in her lap. The street was crowded with vehicles and Gladys was driving carefully. A wagon loaded almost to the sky with barrels threatened to fall over on them and they had a narrow squeeze to get through between it and the curb. Some small boys on the sidewalk shouted at the driver of the wagon and he shouted back; a street car trying to make headway on a track from which a sand wagon refused to move itself raised an ear-splitting racket with its alarm bell; the noise was so deafening that the girls put their hands over their ears and did not take them down again until Gladys had turned a corner into a quieter street. They had turned another corner before they discovered that the Glow-worm was not right behind them. Gladys merely stopped the car and waited for us to come up. "They're probably caught in that line of wagons and trucks on T---- Street," said Gladys, when we did not come immediately. "I hope their engine didn't stall on that corner." The minutes passed and we did not appear. "Run down to the corner and see what is keeping them," said Gladys to Chapa and Medmangi. The two girls got out and retraced their steps. But nowhere did they see the Glow-worm. Puzzled, they returned to Gladys and she promptly turned the Striped Beetle around and drove back through the streets the way she had come. The Glow-worm had apparently vanished off the face of the earth. Inquiry at frequent points brought out the fact that the Glow-worm had knocked down an old woman (that is the way such things are exaggerated) and had gone on again. Their asking which way it had gone started an argument which ended in a fist fight, for the two small boys they asked each maintained stoutly that it had gone in a different direction. Then the mother of the boys ran out from a grocery store to see what the racket was about and seizing them by the back of their necks she shook them apart, boxing their ears. When the cause of the argument was made known to her she settled it in an emphatic manner by pointing with a fat forefinger down the street. "They went that way," she declared. "Four girls in tan suits and green veils just like yours." They took her word for it and started in pursuit of the Glow-worm, expecting to come upon it at every turn, their wonder growing momentarily. They could not understand why Nyoda had ceased to follow them and was taking a route which was not marked in the route book. They inquired at numerous places and found that we had passed just ahead of them. "I don't blame Nyoda for going this way," said Gladys, "it's lots quieter than the other way; sort of back streets. She probably turned off when the jam occurred on T---- Street and thought we saw her and followed. It seems a little strange that she didn't wait for us to come up, though." Mr. Bob, our long-eared mascot, had a most angelic disposition, but nevertheless, he knew when he was outraged, and when a yellow cur of no special breed and no breeding at all snarled impudently at him from the curb he jumped through Hinpoha's restraining arms with the intention of chewing up the insolent one. The yellow dog saw him coming and, turning tail, he fled yelping up a side street. Hinpoha shouted commands in vain; Mr. Bob had set out to put his teeth into that yellow dog and he would not be turned aside from his purpose. Gladys stopped the car and Hinpoha ran after Mr. Bob. The yellow cur knew his neighborhood and turned into an alley just as Mr. Bob nearly had him. Mr. Bob, with Hinpoha hard after him, also turned into the alley. The back door of an empty store offered the fugitive a safe refuge and he darted inside. So did Mr. Bob, growling ferociously, and so did Hinpoha, panting for breath and holding her hand to her side. From the back room of the store the dogs passed to the front and Mr. Bob caught the yellow dog in a tight corner behind a counter. For all he had run in such a cowardly fashion the yellow dog was a good fighter and the battle which occurred when the two clinched frightened Hinpoha out of her wits. She seized an old broom which was standing against the wall and ran behind the counter to beat them apart. In the darkness behind the counter she almost fell over something on the floor, and the broom clattered out of her hand. In her astonishment she forgot the fighting dogs. The thing she had fallen over and which she had, at first, thought was a sack of something, stirred and huddled up against the wall and Hinpoha heard the sharp intaking of a breath. Then she made out the form of a girl; a girl in a blue suit sitting on the floor with her hands over her face. "Did--did the dogs frighten you?" asked Hinpoha. The girl dropped her hands and looked up quickly. Just then the yellow dog broke away from Mr. Bob and retreated through the back door. Mr. Bob, who had evidently derived honorable satisfaction from the encounter, came over to Hinpoha and subsided at her feet. With a look of wonder Hinpoha turned to the girl crouching on the floor. She had moved into the light from a window and Hinpoha could see that fear was written all over her face. It was a girl about eighteen years old with a round cherubic countenance, framed in fluffy light hair, wide open guileless blue eyes, with an expression as innocent as a baby's. Just now the eyes were swimming in tears. "You are in trouble?" asked Hinpoha, with ready sympathy. The girl reached out her hand and took hold of Hinpoha's jacket as a child holds on to its mother, in spite of the fact that she was evidently older than Hinpoha. Hinpoha caught her hand and held it tightly. "Tell me about it," she said, gently. The girl gulped down a big sob and wiped her eyes. "I'm--I'm hiding," she said, in a shaky voice. "Hiding from what?" asked Hinpoha. "From--from the man I work for," said the girl. "He said I stole something and I didn't, and he says he can have me arrested," she said with fresh sobs. "But how can anyone have you arrested if you didn't steal anything?" asked Hinpoha. "I don't know," answered the girl, "but I'm afraid he will." She cried for a moment and then collected herself and went on. "My name is Pearl Baxter," she said. "I used to live on a farm down state with my mother and then she died and I came here to the city and went to work in an office. I was the only girl in the office and I knew the combination of the safe. A few days ago Mr. Sawyer, that's one of the men I work for, asked me to get certain papers out of the safe, and when I went there I couldn't find them. He made an awful fuss and said I had taken them. They were bonds, if you know what they are. He said he would have me arrested. I believe his son took them because he knew they were there. When the other partner of the firm found they were gone he insisted on having the office searched and the bonds were found in my desk drawer. They would not believe me when I said I did not put them there. That was yesterday and I ran away and hid here all night and I'm afraid to go out for fear they will get me." She broke down again and wept into her handkerchief. Tender-hearted Hinpoha was ready to weep in sympathy. "You poor thing!" she exclaimed. "Have you no friends who would help you?" she asked. The girl shook her head. "I don't know anybody up here," she said. "I've only been working here three months." For Hinpoha there was always one court of last resort. That was Nyoda. "You come along with me," she said. "I know somebody who can tell you what to do." She led the girl out to the Striped Beetle and told her story to the other girls. They all agreed that the only thing to do was to take her to Nyoda as quickly as possible. She sat in the tonneau of the car between Chapa and Medmangi with her veil tied down over her face, through which she peered nervously to the right and left as the car moved on through the streets. Gladys's brow was drawn up into a frown of perplexity as corner after corner was turned and they still did not come upon the Glow-worm. Boys playing in the street told them that it had gone past over fifteen minutes before. Hinpoha anxiously wished for a sight of the familiar car so that Pearl could be turned over to Nyoda very soon. "It's like a game of Hare and Hounds," said Chapa from the back seat "Nyoda is the hare and we are the hounds. She's probably doing it on purpose to see how well we can trail her to the city limits. You know how fond she is of putting us to unexpected tests." "I'll make it," said Gladys, determinedly. Several times she consulted her route book and then she laughed. "The joke is on Nyoda after all," she said. "This way leads to the southern route and not the northern, and they'll have the pleasure of crossing the city again. Won't we have the laugh on them, though, when we meet them at the city limits?" But the Glow-worm was not waiting for them at the city limits and they were much surprised to learn that it had traveled on over the road to the west. "The southern route?" asked Gladys, wonderingly, "I can't imagine what Nyoda is doing. I'm sure she understood we were to take the northern. It's all right, of course, because there is no great difference in the routes, they each lead to Ft. Wayne, but I can't imagine why she changed without telling us." "Maybe she couldn't stop the car," said Hinpoha, beginning to giggle. "It's happened before. The fellow next door to us bought a motorcycle and got it started and couldn't stop it again and he whizzed up and down the city until the gas gave out, and there were eleven policemen chasing him before he got through." The picture of the Glow-worm traveling across country with the bit between its teeth, carrying its passengers willy-nilly over the wrong road, was so funny that they all laughed aloud, in spite of the improbability of it. "Maybe she'll make us trail her all the way to Ft. Wayne," said Gladys, musingly. "It's really our fault for losing her; we should have kept a better lookout. But it's a cold day when the Striped Beetle can't catch up with the Glow-worm." And Gladys put on full speed ahead. Hinpoha was not worrying much about us and our disappearance; her thoughts were taken up with Pearl and her night in the empty storeroom. Hinpoha always takes other people's troubles so to heart. At Napoleon they stopped for gasoline and learned that the Glow-worm had passed some time before and had also stopped for gasoline. For the most part Pearl sat silent, turning her head every little while to watch the road behind them. She was that pink-and-white-doll-baby-helpless-in-emergency type of girl who ought never be allowed away from home without a guardian. After they had been traveling awhile she leaned back against the seat and looked so white and faint that the girls became alarmed. "Do you feel ill?" asked Medmangi, feeling her pulse with a practised hand. Medmangi is going to be a doctor and is in her element when she has a patient to attend to. Pearl opened her big blue eyes languidly. "I just got light-headed," she said, in a weak voice. "I think maybe it's because I'm--I'm hungry." "Why didn't we think of it before?" asked Hinpoha, filled with self-reproach. "We might have known you hadn't had anything to eat since yesterday if you stayed in that storeroom all night. We'll stop in this village and get you something." "I'd rather you wouldn't," said Pearl, in a somewhat embarrassed manner. "I really don't want anything to eat." "Not want anything to eat!" echoed Hinpoha. "Why don't you want to eat if you're hungry?" "You see," answered Pearl, still more embarrassed, "when I, when I ran away, I didn't stop to take my purse and I haven't any money to pay--" "That's nonsense," said Gladys, firmly. "You have got to let us help you. It isn't any more than you would do for someone in the same position." They stopped and got her something to eat and the others drank pop to keep her company. In spite of her being as hungry as she must have been Pearl did not eat very much; her trouble had evidently taken away her appetite. The girls exerted themselves to cheer her and assured her that everything would come out all right as soon as they found Nyoda and got her advice. Somebody must have been moving a crockery store in the neighborhood and dropped it in the middle of the road, for, as they were passing through the outskirts of the little village where they had stopped they ran into a regular field of broken china. Gladys stopped short when she saw it, but it was too late, they were already in the midst of it. Both the front tires breathed their last. I think it should be made a criminal offense to leave things like that in the road. But then maybe the man carrying the china was knocked down by an automobile in the first place, and left the pieces in order to get revenge on some member of the auto driving fraternity. Ever since then I have been wondering how many of our calamities are brought down upon us by our best friends. Gladys backed out of the mess and set about repairing the damage. The Striped Beetle carried two extra tires done up in a nice shiny cover all ready for emergency, but for some reason or other Gladys couldn't get the old tires off. It seems the demountable rims refused to demount, or whatever it is they are expected to do when you take a tire off. Don't expect me to get the details straight or I shall throw up the job of reporter right here. I never could see through the workings of a motor car. I am like the Indian who had the automobile explained to him until he knew every part like a brother and then, when asked if he understood it, he replied that he understood all but one thing and that was what made it go without horses. So if the reader, who knows a car from A to Z, will kindly forbear to smile when I muddle things up, I will be her debtor forever. Gladys saw that she would have to have help in getting those tires off and began scanning the horizon for a man. There are times when a man is a most useful member of society. There was not a man on the horizon at that time, though, and the only promising thing was a house set far back from the road in a grove of trees, and with a vegetable garden running down to the road. They had already left the village behind and habitations were scarce. Gladys went up to the house and returned in a short while with a man, who wrestled with the tires awhile and then proposed driving the car into the yard in the shade of the trees, as the sun was scorching hot in the road. Gladys accepted the invitation with alacrity. While the Striped Beetle was holding up its poor cut front shoes for the man to take off the girls strolled over to the pump for a drink. A tired-looking woman, holding a fretful baby in her arms, came to the door and asked the girls to come up on the porch and sit down until the exchange of tires was made. Medmangi promptly offered to hold the baby while the woman finished her work. With a sigh of relief the woman handed her the baby. "Such a time I've had with him to-day," she said, mopping her forehead. "He's cried steady since morning. He acts sick and he's got a fever." Medmangi took the fretful child and endeavored to soothe him while his mother went about her work. Hinpoha, who is crazy about babies, insisted on holding him half the time, but neither of them could make him stop crying. A three year old girl, red-faced and heavy-eyed, as if she had recently awakened from sleep, peered shyly through the screen door and Chapa coaxed her to come out and sit in her lap. The mother came to the door every few minutes to tell us how thankful she was for the relief. The relief promised to be one of considerable length, for the Striped Beetle steadfastly refused to put on its new tires. At last, the man proposed going after another man who lived down the road to help him. Gladys joined us on the porch while he was gone and helped amuse the babies. Still the little fellow cried. Medmangi explored for pins with a skilled hand but there was nothing sticking into him. Neither did he appear to be teething. "There's something the matter with this baby," she said to the mother, when next she came to the door. "Hadn't you better have a doctor?" The woman came out on the porch and looked down at the child in a worried way. "I sent my husband to town for the doctor this morning," she said, "but he had gone out into the country on a call and would not be back until late to-night. The next nearest doctor is in B----; that's eight miles away and we have no horse. So we'll have to wait until Dr. Lane gets back from the country." "Wouldn't you like to have me drive over and get the doctor from B---- as soon as the tires are on?" asked Gladys. Gladys is always the one to offer the helping hand. "Would you?" asked the woman, eagerly. "I would be very glad to," said Gladys. The man came back with his friend and between the two of them they managed to get the Striped Beetle shod anew. Gladys drove off to B----, leaving Chapa and Medmangi and Pearl and Hinpoha on the porch with the babies and taking Mrs. Martin with her. She had seen Mrs. Martin give a wistful glance toward the big car and surmised rightly that she had few chances to go automobile riding. They were back in less than an hour saying that the doctor would be right along, and he appeared presently in a dusty roadster with another man beside him, probably a friend. I suppose everybody has been taught from childhood that virtue is its own reward and one good turn deserves another. But once in awhile they discover that the reward of virtue is just as apt to be trouble as not, and that one good turn can unscrew the lid of a whole canful of calamities. Thus it was that Gladys's generous offer to fetch the doctor from B---- ended up in disaster for all five of us. For the doctor examined the fretful baby and the heavy-eyed little girl and announced that they both had scarlet fever. Scarlet fever! The girls looked at each other in dismay. Not one of them had had it. And they had all handled both the babies; Medmangi had hung over the little boy most of the time. "If we have ourselves disinfected," said Medmangi, as they moved hastily toward the car, "there won't be much danger of our getting it. Scarlet fever isn't really contagious in the first stages." "Stay right where you are," said the doctor, in a tone of authority. "No one must leave this house. You are all under quarantine." "But we can't stay here," said Gladys. "We're touring and only stopped here." "That makes no difference," said the doctor. He was a very young doctor and had recently been appointed health officer in his district. There was a serious epidemic of scarlet fever in that part of the state which it was almost impossible to check because people would not keep to themselves when they had it in the house. Young Dr. Caxton had made up his mind that the next case that was reported would be as rigidly quarantined as they were in the big cities. And automobile tourists would be the very ones to spread the infection abroad through the countryside. He was determined to hold them there at all costs. They argued and pleaded in vain; he was obdurate. He had brought a friend with him in the car and he proceeded to station him as guard over the house to see that no one left it. Oh yes, he would see to it that they got all necessary supplies; they would suffer no hardship, but, on no account, would a member of that household set a foot off the grounds. He ordered the babies put to bed and the curtains taken down in that room and the rugs taken out. Mrs. Martin obeyed his orders in a flutter of distress. She was frightened because her children had the scarlet fever and worried half to death at the predicament her passing guests were in. She had been so grateful to Gladys for taking her along in the automobile to B----. But her distress over it was nothing compared to theirs. To be held up in the midst of a tour and quarantined with a scarlet fever case! Whatever was to become of them? If Nyoda were only there! "Now you'll have to telegraph your father," said Chapa. Gladys's face was drawn with distress. "Mother would be frightened to death if she knew about it," she said. "I don't believe I'll tell her yet. I'll wait until I hear from Nyoda." "How will we get word to Nyoda?" asked Hinpoha. "Ft. Wayne," answered Gladys. "We were to stay there to-night and she must be there by this time." "You'll send a wire for us?" she asked the doctor beseechingly. "Certainly," he answered, amiably. "Any service--" But Gladys cut him short. He was plainly enjoying the situation. The doctor departed with his horrid shiny little case and the message in his pocket and left the guard to watch the house. The first thing he did was to take something out of the Striped Beetle--I don't know what--so Gladys couldn't start it and make a dash for liberty. Gladys was ready to cry with rage at this high handed act, but that was all the good it did her. "Well, there's one thing about it," said Hinpoha, who was far more philosophical than the rest, "if we have to stay prisoners here we might as well get busy and help Mrs. Martin. It's no fun to have five people quartered on you when there are two sick children in the house." Medmangi was already in the sick room giving medicine and drinks of water in an accomplished manner. It seems that the Winnebagos have a specialist in every line. The others went down to the kitchen and finished paring the peaches which Mrs. Martin had been trying to can. Later in the evening the guard slipped an envelope through the screen door. It was a telegram. It was signed by the telegraph company and read: "Yours date addressed Elizabeth Kent Potter Hotel Ft. Wayne undelivered. Party not registered." CHAPTER IX. The girls were entirely at sea at not reaching Nyoda at Ft. Wayne. They had counted so confidently upon her advice to help them out of the difficulty in which they found themselves. Being lost from her was the worst calamity they could conceive of. They were very much puzzled and a little hurt that she should have run away and left them as she did. It was so unlike Nyoda. On all other expeditions she had kept them under her eye every minute, like the careful Guardian she was. None of them slept much that night for worrying over the strange predicament they were in. Besides that they had to sleep three in a bed. Gladys made up her mind to wire her father in the morning when the doctor came. When they looked out of the door in the morning the guard of the day before was gone and a new one had taken his place. Evidently Dr. Caxton was going to do the job thoroughly. Towards noon a buggy drove into the yard and a white-haired man got out and came up on the porch. He carried a shabby medicine case. "Why, Dr. Lane!" exclaimed Mrs. Martin cordially, when she saw him. "You left a call for me yesterday when I was out in the country," said Dr. Lane, in a pleasant voice. "I did not get in until early this morning. What's the trouble?" "It's the children," said Mrs. Martin. "They've got scarlet fever. I was so worried about Bobby yesterday that I sent for Dr. Caxton from B----. We'll have to keep him now, I suppose, but do you want to look at them anyhow? Mary doesn't want to take her medicine, and maybe you could--" "Certainly I'll go up and see them," said Dr. Lane. He was the kind of man you would love to have for your grandfather. His pockets bulged suspiciously as though they contained bags of lemon drops or peanuts. Talking cheerfully all the while he entered the sick room and looked at the patients. "So Dr. Caxton said they had scarlet fever!" he said, musingly. "Yes," said Mrs. Martin. "Scarlet fever your grandmother!" returned Dr. Lane. "They've got prickly heat. If Dr. Caxton called that scarlet fever, what would he call a real case of scarlet fever?" A minute later the man on guard heard a laugh that almost shook the windows of the house. Not long after that he was pedaling down the road on the bicycle that had brought him, very red in the face and very hot under the collar. The quarantine ended right then and there. Whether Dr. Caxton came again or not we never found out, for the girls left immediately. They sped over the road to Ft. Wayne as fast as the Striped Beetle could carry them. They went to the Potter Hotel and naturally discovered that we had not stayed there. I believe they had held to the hope all the time that we had arrived after the telegram had gone back undelivered. They stood around irresolutely until the check man to whom we had talked spied them and told them that we had left not half an hour before and were on our way to Chicago by way of Ligonier. They could hardly believe their ears when they heard that Nyoda had gone off and left them the second time. But as they were so close behind us the only thing for them to do was to follow. Gladys stopped at a service station and had the Striped Beetle's carburetor adjusted, or something that sounded like that, and then started post-haste on the road to Chicago. Pearl looked from one to the other of the girls with fear and suspicion in her face. "Is there--is there really such a person as you say you are taking me to see, or are you taking me somewhere else?" she faltered. And the girls had a hard time convincing her that Nyoda was not a myth, although they began to wonder if she had not turned into one. Gradually Pearl began to thaw out under their persistent cordiality and was really not such a bad companion after all. She still furtively watched the road behind them as if she feared pursuit, but some of the scared rabbit look was going out of her eyes when she began to realize that the width of a whole state lay between her and her persecutors and they had absolutely no clue to her whereabouts. She repeatedly expressed her amazement that a group of girls so young had the courage to travel by themselves in an automobile, and were not frightened to death to have gotten separated from their chaperon, but were calmly following her up as fast as they were able. She was much interested when she heard they were Camp Fire Girls, and wanted to know all about the Winnebago doings. "I wish I could have belonged to something like that in the city where I worked," she said with a sigh, "maybe I wouldn't have been so lonesome all the time. And I would have had a Guardian--is that what you call her?--to go to when I got into trouble." "Maybe you'll get into a group yet," said Hinpoha, optimistically. "There are some in the city where you live." Pearl was as great a curiosity to them as they were to her. How any girl of eighteen could be so babyish and helpless as she was was a revelation to them. Everyone of them wished devoutly that she could become a Winnebago so they could make something out of her. Hinpoha began making plans right away. "As long as you have no people and it doesn't matter where you work, why couldn't you come to Cleveland and find work, and possibly join our group?" she suggested. "I'm sure Nyoda would take you in. When Migwan goes to college she won't be able to attend the meetings regularly and there will be a vacant place. Couldn't you?" she cried, warming to her plan, and the rest of the girls voiced their approval. "Oh, do you suppose I could?" asked Pearl timidly, clasping her hands before her in a nervous manner. "Oh, I never could do it. I'm afraid to go to a bigger city for fear I'll get into trouble again. And I never could do the things you girls do, I just never could." And she looked at them with appealing helplessness in her big blue eyes. "Nonsense," said Hinpoha, "you can do anything you want to if you only think you can do it." And she told her a marvelous tale of how I earned the money to go to college when things seemed determined to go against me. Which is all perfectly nonsensical; the chance of earning money to go to college fell right into my lap. Pearl only opened her eyes wider at Hinpoha's recital and answered with a sigh, "Oh, I never could do it!" The girls went on happily planning how they would take her back to Cleveland with them and make her one of the Winnebagos. They had to slow up the Striped Beetle along the road for a cow and a calf that were monopolizing the right of way and Hinpoha decided to take a picture of them. "Oh, this film's finished," she said impatiently, examining her camera. "I'll have to stop and reload. Oh, Gladys, do you mind if I open the trunk here on the road? My extra films are all in there." "Go ahead and open it," said Gladys good-naturedly, handing her the key. Hinpoha got out and went behind the machine to get her film from the trunk, all the while calling out to the cow and her calf in a friendly and coaxing manner not to walk away before she could take them. But she stopped suddenly in the midst of a persuasive "Here, bossy, stay here," to utter a surprised exclamation. "What's the matter?" asked Gladys. "There isn't any trunk here." cried Hinpoha. "It's gone!" Consternation reigned in the Striped Beetle. The trunk, containing all their extra clothes, had vanished from the rack at the back of the car! "And my scarf was in it," said Hinpoha, ready to cry with distress, "that mother sent me from Italy!" "Don't worry, we'll get it again," said Gladys soothingly, although she was as much dismayed herself. "Where did we have it last? We had it in Ft. Wayne, I know, because we opened it there. It must have been taken off in the service station where we had the carburetor adjusted. We'll have to go back and see if it's there." Accordingly they turned around and drove swiftly back to Ft. Wayne. Inquiries at the service station at first brought out nothing, because the proprietor declared that the trunk had not been touched--whoever heard of taking off a trunk to adjust a carburetor? But a repairman coming in just then, heard the talk about the trunk and said he was the man who had made the adjustment on the car and he noticed that the trunk rack seemed to be sagging and took off the trunk to fix it. He had not put the trunk on again, because just then he had been called to help install new gears in a car for a man who was in a great hurry and had called one of the helpers to put on the trunk and fill the tank. The helper was called and admitted that he had put a trunk on a car, but it was not the Striped Beetle; it was a similar car owned by a man who was driving to Indianapolis. He had thought the trunk belonged to him. The girls looked at each other tragically. Their trunk on the road to Indianapolis! "How long ago did he start?" asked Gladys. "About an hour," answered the repairman. "We'll have to go after him," said Gladys, resolutely. "We need that trunk. Can you tell us what the man's name is?" "Hansen," replied the repairman. "George Hansen. Driving seven passenger touring car, brown, with black streamer and gold striping. He was driving to Indianapolis over the road that goes through Huntington, Marion and Anderson; I heard him talking about it. That's one of the main roads out of here. You ought to be able to overtake him on the way; he's a slow driver and his motor was missing pretty badly. Wouldn't let me fix it though, because it would take too long and he wanted to get to Indianapolis in time to see the races. He lives there, so you ought to be able to find him; runs some kind of a store." He poured out his information eagerly; he seemed anxious to do anything he could to aid in the recovery of the trunk, since he had put it on the wrong car. "Funny how well it fitted that other rack!" he said. But Gladys says there is nothing peculiar about that because the two cars, being the same make, had the same style rack, and the trunk was the ordinary one carried by automobilists. She hastily looked up the route to Indianapolis and started in pursuit of the unconscious thief. It was then nearly five o'clock in the evening. They really did not have much hope of catching the other car on the way, since it had an hour's start, but they were confident of recovering the trunk in Indianapolis, where they could find out the man's address and follow him to his home. Fortune played into their hands in that they found good roads all the way and had no breakdowns, and sometime after eight they reached Indianapolis. There were half a dozen George Hansens in the telephone book, four of whom were away on automobile trips. But further inquiry brought out the fact that one of them did own a seven passenger brown W---- car. He was expected home that evening, but had not yet arrived. His wife (it was she who was talking) was very sorry about the trunk, but if it had been placed on the rack of her husband's car it would undoubtedly arrive when he did. He would probably come home during the night, as he was very anxious to see the races, which were to take place the next two days. Would they call later? Somewhere on the road they had passed him, but it was too late now to wonder where. The only thing to do was to wait until he came. At ten o'clock he had not arrived yet. The girls went down to the Young Women's Christian Association, where they could spend the night. Gladys concluded that Nyoda must be told if possible where they were, and judging that she had reached Chicago by that time she wired the Carrie Wentworth Inn, where they had planned to stay that night, telling what had happened and saying she would arrive in Chicago the next day. They called the Hansen home the first thing in the morning and learned to their dismay that Mr. Hansen had not yet returned. But he was expected any minute and Hinpoha would not hear of leaving without the trunk. Shortly afterward their telegram came back undelivered from the Carrie Wentworth Inn in Chicago, with the notation, "Party not registered." That threw them into a state of bewilderment, but Gladys, after thinking hard and long about the matter, remarked that the Glow-worm had a habit of breaking down at inconvenient times and that probably accounted for our not having reached Chicago the night before. Every half hour they called up the Hansen home to find out if Mr. Hansen had returned and every time they received a negative answer. Finally, Hinpoha suggested that they drive out to his house and sit on the curbstone where they could see him coming, before they spent all their substance in a riotous feeding of nickels into the public telephone. Which they proceeded to do. But their vigil was vain, for he came not and it became apparent that they must either depart without the trunk or stay there another night. Gladys was for going on and having it sent after them, but Hinpoha refused to budge until she had seen that scarf with her own eyes. Accordingly, they sent another wire to the Carrie Wentworth Inn, thinking surely Nyoda must have arrived by that time, and stayed a second night in Indianapolis. The next morning they received the news that Mr. Hansen had arrived, but alas, he had brought no trunk with him. He knew nothing about the matter at all. He could remember no trunk being on the back of his car when he left the repair shop in Ft. Wayne, but then, he had not looked particularly. He had made several stops on the way home on business--he was a traveling salesman--and that was how they had passed him on the road. The car had stood for a time in a dozen different places, the trunk could easily have been stolen, and he had never known the difference. Possibly they could hold the repair shop responsible. The girls were much downcast at this news, especially Hinpoha, on account of the scarf that had been the last gift of her mother. Where was the trunk now? It might be anywhere between the north and south poles in that length of time. Gladys's only hope was now that it had been mislaid and not stolen, and that it would fall into the hands of some honest person who would ferret out the owner. They were just about to start out for Chicago again when they were handed a telegram. It was from the Carrie Wentworth Inn and was dated midnight of the night before. It read: "Wire from party you want says address Forty-three Main Street Rochester Indiana." That wire threw them into great perplexity. What were Nyoda and the girls doing in Rochester, when they had been on the road to Chicago two days before? "The Glow-worm is more like a flea than a glow-worm," said Hinpoha. "It's never where you expect to find it. I really believe Nyoda has lost control of the car and it is taking her wherever it wants to." Gladys was consulting the route book. "Rochester is on the direct road to Indianapolis," she said. "We can make the run in a few hours. I'm going to wire Nyoda that we're coming and she should wait for us." So she sent the wire we received that morning in Rochester: "Where on earth are you? Wait Rochester for us. Coming to-day noon." That was Friday, the day of the big races in Indianapolis. The town was full of people. Tourists from all over managed to make the city just at that time, and the streets were crowded with motor cars of every description. Gladys looked sharply at every car they passed on the way out of the city to see if her trunk was on the back of any of them, but in vain. "I suppose I'll never see that scarf again," said Hinpoha, sadly. Pearl looked a little enviously at the women who came to town in their big fine cars with drivers and bull dogs. "It must be lovely to be rich and taken care of," she said, with a sigh. Pearl was the kind of a girl who should have been born to a life of luxurious ease. She certainly had no backbone to fight her own battles in the world. She was a Clinger, who would curl around the nearest support like a morning glory vine. She didn't seem to have any more spirit than an oyster. Hinpoha, still imbued with the idea of taking her in hand and making a Winnebago out of her, kept trying to draw her out with an idea of finding out what her possibilities were. It was rather a matter of pride with us that each one of the Winnebagos excelled in some particular thing. When Hinpoha asked her what her favorite play was she answered that she had never been to the theater and considered it wicked. She opened her eyes in disapproval when Hinpoha mentioned motion pictures. Hinpoha had been on the verge of launching out on our escapade with the film company the summer before, but checked herself hastily. She also suppressed the fact that I had written scenarios, which fact Hinpoha glories in a great deal more than I do and which she generally sprinkles into people's dishes on every occasion. The fact that Gladys danced in public seemed to shock her beyond words. Clearly she was unworldly to the point of narrowness, and Hinpoha began to reflect that, after all, she might be somewhat of a wet blanket on the Winnebago doings if she came and joined the group. Pearl showed such marked disapproval of Gladys when she remarked that she wished her father were in town so they could have gone to the races that an awkward silence fell on the group. No topic of conversation seemed safe to venture upon. They were driving along country roads now and in one place they crossed a small river with the most gorgeous early autumn flowers growing along its banks. They caught Hinpoha's color-loving eye and she must get out and wander among them. Gladys and Chapa and Medmangi decided that they too would like a stroll beside the river, after sitting in the car so long. Pearl did not care to get out; she offered to stay in the car and hold the purses of the other girls until they returned. The four girls walked along the stream, admiring the flowers, but not picking any, because they would only fade and wither and if left on the stems they would give pleasure to hundreds of people. Now and then they dabbled their fingers in the cool water. "It's such a temptation to go wading," sighed Hinpoha, who never will grow up and be dignified if she lives to be a hundred. Gladys was afraid Hinpoha would yield to the temptation if it stared her in the face too long, and announced that it was time to be under way. Reluctantly, Hinpoha tore herself away from the river and followed Gladys to the road. What a rude ending that little wayside idyll was destined to have! For when they returned to the road where they had left the Striped Beetle there was nothing but empty air. Car, Pearl, and four purses, containing every cent the girls had with them, had vanished! CHAPTER X. At first the girls could not believe their eyes. But it was all too true. The deep tracks in the dust of the road showing the well-known prints of the Striped Beetle's tires told beyond a doubt that the car had gone on and left them. "But I never heard it start!" said Gladys. "It was the murmuring of your old brook, Hinpoha, that you were raving about," said Chapa, "that filled our ears." It took them actual minutes to realize that Pearl, the spineless clinging doll-faced girl they had befriended, had sold them out. "And we took her for such a baby!" said Hinpoha, in bewilderment. "Who would ever dream she could drive a car?" gasped Gladys. "She was afraid to toot the horn." To lose your automobile in the midst of a tour must be like having your horse shot under you. One minute you're en route and the next minute you're rooted, if the reader will forgive a very lame pun. And the spot where the Striped Beetle had been (figuratively) shot from under the girls could not have been selected better if it had been made to order for a writer of melodrama. There was not a house in sight nor a telephone wire. The dust in the road was three inches deep and the temperature must have been close to a hundred. They were at least five miles from the nearest town. Chapa looked at Medmangi, Medmangi looked at Hinpoha, and Hinpoha looked at Gladys. Gladys, having no one else to look at, scratched her head and thought. "Well," she said finally, "we can't stay here all day. We might as well walk to the nearest town and tell the police. They may be able to trace the car. It was stolen once before and they found it in a town forty miles away." Whenever anyone mentions that walk in the heat the four girls begin to pant and fan themselves with one accord. They had gone about three miles when they came upon the Striped Beetle standing in the road, abandoned. With a cry of joy the girls threw themselves upon it. The cause for its abandonment soon came to light. The gasoline tank was empty. Otherwise it was undamaged. But before it could join the innumerable caravan again it must have gasoline, and naturally there was none growing on the bushes. "You two sit in the car and see that no one else runs away with it," said Gladys to Medmangi and Chapa, "and Hinpoha and I will go for gasoline." It was not until they had finished the two miles to town and stood by a gasoline station that they remembered that they had no money. The gasoline man firmly refused to give them any gas unless they paid for it. Gladys was aghast. Hinpoha leaned wearily against a post and mopped her hot face. Hinpoha suffers more from the heat than the rest of us. "Pretty tough to be dead broke, aint it, lady?" asked a grimy urchin, who had been an interested witness of Gladys's discomfiture. "Worse to be alive and broke," jeered another one. Gladys's face was crimson with heat and embarrassment. She turned and walked rapidly away from the place, followed by Hinpoha. "You'll have to wire home for money now," said Hinpoha. "And lose the bet," said Gladys, disconsolately. "And father'll laugh his head off to think how neatly we were beaten. "I know what I'll do," she said, resolutely. "I'll not wire him at all. I'll wire the bank where I have my own money and have them wire me some." Accordingly, she hunted up the telegraph office and sent a wire collect to her bank, feeling much pleased with herself at the idea of having found a way out without calling on her father for aid. The telegraph office was in the railway station and she and Hinpoha sat down after sending the wire and waited for the ship to come in, wondering what the other girls would think when they failed to come back with the gasoline. It was past dinnertime but there was no dinner for them as long as they had no money. From jaunty tourist to penniless pauper in two hours is quite a change. An hour passed; two hours, but no gold-laden message came over the wire. Hinpoha had been chewing her fingers for the last hour. "Oh, please stop that," cried Gladys irritably, "you make me nervous. You remind me of a cannibal." "Isn't there a poem about 'My beautiful Cannibalee?" returned Hinpoha. "I'll go out and eat grass if that will make you feel any better," she continued. She strolled outdoors, leaving Gladys listening to the clickety-click of the telegraph instrument and growing more nervous every minute. Presently Hinpoha came back and said she couldn't stand it outside at all because there was a crate of melons and a box of eggs on the station platform, and she was afraid she wouldn't have the strength to resist if she stayed out there with them. "And it's going to rain," she announced. "You ought to see the sky toward the west." And then the darkness began to make itself felt; not the blue darkness of twilight, but the black darkness of thunder clouds through which zig-zags of lightning began to stab. A baby, waiting in the station with its mother for the train, began to wail with fright and Hinpoha forgot her hunger in an effort to amuse him. Then the storm broke. The train roared in just as it began and mingled its noise with the thunder. Hardly had it disappeared up the track when there came a crash of thunder that shook the station to its foundations, followed by a dazzling sheet of blue light, and then the telegraph operator bounded out of his little enclosure, white with fear. His instrument had been struck, as well as the wires on the outside of the building and the roof began to burn. Gladys and Hinpoha rushed out into the rain regardless of their unprotected state and found shelter in a near-by shed, from which they watched the progress of what might well be taken for a second deluge. "If the water rises much higher in the road we won't need any gasoline," remarked Hinpoha. "The Striped Beetle will float." "I only hope the girls got the storm curtains buttoned down in time," Gladys kept saying over and over again. "If it starts to float," persisted Hinpoha, "do you suppose it will come this way, or will they have to steer it? Would the steering-wheel be any good, I wonder, or would they have to have a rudder? Oh," she said brightly, "now I know what they mean by the expression 'turning turtle'. It happens in cases of flood; the car turns turtle and swims home. If it only turned into turtle soup," she sighed. Gladys looked up suddenly. "What time was it when we sent that wire to my bank?" she asked. "A quarter after one," replied Hinpoha, promptly. "I heard a clock chiming somewhere. And I calculated that I would just about last until you got an answer." "A quarter after one," repeated Gladys. "That's Central time. That was a quarter after two Cleveland time. The bank closes at two o'clock. They probably never sent me any money!" "Now you'll have to wire your father after all," said Hinpoha. For answer Gladys pointed to the blackened telegraph pole which was lying with its many arms stretched out across the roof of the station. There would be no wires sent out that day. By the time the rain had ceased the darkness of the thunder clouds had been succeeded by the darkness of night, and Hinpoha and Gladys took their way wearily back over the flooded road to where the Striped Beetle stood. "Did you have to dig a well first, before you got that gasoline?" called Chapa, as they approached. (They _had_ put down the storm curtains, Gladys noted.) Gladys made her announcement briefly and they all settled down to gloom. "Talk about being shipwrecked on a desert island," said Hinpoha. "I think one can get beautifully shipwrecked on the inhabited mainland. We are experiencing all the thrills of Robinson Crusoe and the Swiss family Robinson combined." "We haven't any Man Friday," observed Gladys. "What good would he be if we had him?" inquired Hinpoha, gloomily. "He could act as chauffeur," replied Gladys, "and supply the modern flavor." "This is Friday, too," remarked Medmangi. "That's why the car won't start," said Hinpoha, "it won't start anything on Friday." "Couldn't we dig for oil?" suggested Chapa. "We're in the oil belt. There must be all kinds of gasoline in the earth under our very feet, and we languishing on top of it! It's like the stories where the man perishes of thirst in the desert right on top of the water hole." "We really and truly are Robinson Crusoe-like," said Gladys, looking out at the flooded fields and deserted road. "Robinson Crusoe had the advantage of us in one thing," said Hinpoha, returning to her main theme. "He had a corn-stalk, and clams, and things." "'If we only had some ham, we could have some ham and eggs, if we only had some eggs,'" quoted Gladys. "Here's where the Slave of the Lamp would come in handy," sighed Hinpoha. "You might rub the lamp," said Gladys, pointing to the tail light, "and maybe the Slave will appear." "I want baked potatoes on my order," said Gladys. "And I want broiled chicken," said Chapa. Hinpoha got down and solemnly rubbed the tail lamp of the Striped Beetle, exclaiming, "Slave, appear!" Something black bounded out of the darkness at the side of the road and landed at her feet. It was Mr. Bob, who had gone off for exercise. He carried something in his mouth which he laid decorously on the ground beside her. She stooped to look at it. It was an apple. The girls all shouted. Hinpoha straightened up. "Girls," she said solemnly, "coming shadows cast their events before, I mean, coming events cast their shadows before. Where there's honey you'll find bees, and where there's apples you'll find trees. The famine is over, and now for the feast." She led the way down the road with Chapa and Medmangi on either side. They found the tree, close beside the road, and loaded with fruit. They filled their pockets for Gladys and returned to the Striped Beetle, and then for some time, as Hinpoha said, "Nothing was heard in the air but the hurrying munch of the greening." "It must be a disadvantage to be a negro," remarked Hinpoha reflectively, "you can't tell the difference when they're clean." "May I ask," inquired Gladys politely, "just what it was that caused you to make that remark at this time?" "Greening apples," returned Hinpoha, calmly. "You can't tell which are ripe and which are green." "You can tell by the seeds," said Gladys. "All seeds are black by night," returned Hinpoha. "Not changing the subject," said Chapa, "but where are we going to stay to-night?" "You're not _going_ to stay," replied Hinpoha, "you're staying. Right here. The Inn of the Striped Beetle. "Under the wide and starry sky Fold up the seats and let us lie!" "We'll sleep with the raggle taggle gypsies, O!" added Gladys. "I want a fire," said Hinpoha. "We always have a fire when we sleep out." "Well, build one in a puddle, if you can," said Gladys. "Your hair will be the only blaze we have to-night." Chapa and Medmangi stood up together on the running-board and began to sing dolefully, "Forsaken, forsaken, forsaken, am I, Like the bones at a banquet, all men pass me by." "I wish a few would pass by," said Gladys, "By the way, have you noticed that not a single car or wagon has passed through here since we've been stranded? I thought this was the main road." "If this is the main road," said Hinpoha, "I'd hate to be stranded on a by-path." Of course, the girls did not know then that the storm had washed out the bridges on either side of them and the roadway had been closed to traffic. They sat peering into the darkness like Columbus looking for land and wondering why no one came along to whom they could appeal for a tow into the village. The moon shone, a slender sickle in the west that Gladys said reminded her of the thin slices of melon they used to serve for breakfast at Miss Russell's school. "I think it looks more like a toe nail," said Hinpoha, squinting sidewise at it. "Don't look at it squarely, it'll bring you bad luck," said Chapa. "I'm not looking at it," said Hinpoha, "it's looking at me." "Where does the man in the moon go when it turns into a sickle?" asked Medmangi. "That doesn't worry me half so much as where Pearl went with my silver mesh bag," said Gladys. That brought them all down to earth again and back to the cause of their predicament, and the moon turned into a yellow banana and fell off the sky counter while they voiced their indignation. And, of course, they all turned on Hinpoha for being taken in by her in the first place, and Hinpoha vented her irritation on Mr. Bob, who was sitting with his head on her knee in a lover-like attitude. "It's all your fault that we are in this mess," she said to him, crossly. "If you hadn't jumped out of the car after that yellow dog and chased him into the empty store I wouldn't have had to go after you, and if I hadn't gone after you I would never have discovered Pearl and brought her along with us. It's the last time I'll ever travel with you." Mr. Bob, feeling the reproach in her tone, crept away with his head down. "O come, let's not quarrel about whose fault it was," said Gladys. "It isn't the first time people have been taken in." "We seem to be left out, rather than taken in," murmured Hinpoha. "You're unusually brilliant to-night," remarked Chapa. "It must have been the apples, because on an ordinary diet you never say anything bright." "Is that so?" said Hinpoha. "Look at the stars," said Gladys hastily, "aren't they brilliant to-night?" "Almost as brilliant as Hin--" began Chapa. "If we sit up late enough," said Gladys, cutting in on Chapa's remark, "we may see some of the winter stars. I actually believe there's Orion now." "And the Twins," cried Hinpoha, forgetting her momentary offended feeling in the interest of her discovery. "And Sirius and the Bull and the River," added Gladys. "It's just like getting a peep at the actors in their dressing-rooms before it is time for them to come out on the stage, to see the winter stars now." "I hate to look at the stars so much," said Hinpoha, dolefully. "They make me feel so small." "I should think that anything that made you feel small would--" Gladys again interrupted the flow of Chapa's wit, directed this time against Hinpoha's bulk. "I'm going to bed," she announced. There was a scramble for the robes and for comfortable places in the tonneau, and it took much adjusting and readjusting before there was anything resembling quiet in the bedchamber of the Striped Beetle. But weariness can snore even on the floor boards of a car and that long walk over the road had done its work for at least two of the girls. The last thing they heard was Hinpoha drowsily spouting: "Let me sleep in a car by the side of the road, Where the hop toads are croaking near-by, With Medmangi's camera between my knees stowed, And Gladys's foot in my eye!" And then, when they were all nicely settled and had dropped off to sleep, Hinpoha had the nightmare and screamed the most blood-curdling screams and cried out that the apple tree was hugging her to death, which sounded nonsensical, but was really suggestive. For, in the morning she discovered that green apples are gone but not forgotten when used as an article of diet and sat doubled up in silent agony on the floor of the car and announced she was dying. "It serves you right," said Medmangi, in her best doctor manner. "You were in such a hurry to eat them that you ate every one that came along without waiting to find out whether it was ripe or not. The rest of us stuck to the ripe ones and we're all right." "Well, the unripe ones are sticking to me," groaned Hinpoha, unhappily. Mr. Bob laid his head on her knee with an air of sympathy. Where Hinpoha is concerned he never stops to think whether the sympathy is deserved or not. "What family do apples belong to, anyway?" asked Gladys idly, seeing it was time to turn Medmangi aside from preaching to Hinpoha. "Not my family," said Chapa, "we're all peaches." "Forget-me-not family," said Hinpoha, with another groan. They ate more apples for breakfast, except Hinpoha, who pretended not to see when they offered them to her. Then Gladys decided to walk to town again to see what cheer there was there. "Up, up, Hinpoha," she cried, "and join me in my morning stroll." "You should say 'Double up, Hinpoha', like 'double up Lucy'," said Chapa, and then dodged as Hinpoha's hand reached out for her hair. Hinpoha tried to stand up, but immediately sat down again, and Chapa went to town with Gladys. They sat and watched the repairmen fixing the wires of the telegraph and, after a while, the messages began to pour in again. And one of them was the one that brought joy to Gladys's soul and as soon as the formalities were gone through she had actual money once more. They bought enough gasoline to bring the Striped Beetle in and returned to the anchored ones in triumph. They found that during their absence Hinpoha had manufactured a large "For Rent" sign and hung it on the front of the car, intending, as she said, to go into business and rent out the car at a dollar an hour until they had enough money to proceed. "How were you intending to rent it out without any gasoline to run it?" inquired Gladys. "Make them pay in advance," replied Hinpoha. "With the constant stream of foot-sore pedestrians over this road it would no doubt have been profitable," said Gladys, scanning the road up and down. There was not a living being in sight. But Gladys knew the reason now, for she had seen the washout. To get the Striped Beetle back to town they had to drive through private property to reach the other road. After eating breakfast--the first real meal they had had since the morning before--they set out once more for Rochester to meet Nyoda. "So it's money makes the Striped Beetle go," said Hinpoha reflectively, as they sped along. "And I had been thinking all the while it was gasoline." CHAPTER XI. When the gust of wind overtook us that night while Sahwah and Nakwisi and I were struggling to shut the gate we had run against in the darkness, Nakwisi and I jumped into the Glow-worm in haste and we all thought Sahwah was in too. But in running for the car she slipped in the mud and fell flat on her face in the puddle. By the time she had picked herself up and wiped the mud out of her eyes the Glow-worm was gone. Slopping along in the pools of water she ran shouting down the road. She could hear the engine of the Glow-worm throbbing in the distance; then the sound began to die away. She knew then that they had not yet noticed her absence, but they must presently and would return for her. So she set out in the direction in which the car had vanished, going, as she supposed, to meet them. The road was so dark she could not see her hand in front of her eyes, and what with the wind moaning mournfully and the rain falling all around her, it was rather a dismal walk. On one side of her was a stretch of swamp where frogs glumped and piped in every known key. Sahwah is not nervous, however, and to her the voice of a frog is simply the voice of a frog and not the wail of a banshee, and anyway, her mind was occupied with pulling her feet out of the mud in the road and setting them in again. And she was straining her ears for the sound of the Glow-worm, and all other noises made little or no impression on her. It seemed to her that it was high time the others had missed her and were coming back to pick her up. "Probably stuck in the mud somewhere," was her consoling thought, "and I'll come upon them if I keep going far enough." And so she kept on pulling her feet out of the mud and setting them in again. By and by the road narrowed down until it seemed no more than a path, and then without warning it ended abruptly against a building. Sahwah had been looking at her feet and not into the distance, and due to the force of inertia which we learned about in the Physics class, which keeps people going once they have started, she did not stop as soon as the road did and ran her nose smartly against the building, which proved to be a barn, Sahwah drew back with a start, rubbing her injured nose. Gradually, the fact dawned on her that she was lost. She looked for the road from which she had strayed, but it seemed to have rolled itself up and departed. The croaking of the frogs came from everywhere and she could not locate the swamp. She walked around for awhile, and finally, did walk into the swamp, but there was no road anywhere near. There was water, water, everywhere. Sahwah, who had once declared she could never get enough of water, got enough of it that night. She thought of the wicked uncle brook in _Undine_ which had risen up and covered the land, and she wondered if something of the kind had not happened again. She railed inwardly against the darkness of the country roads and wished with all her heart for the lighted byways of the city, with their rows of cheerful lights on posts and their frequent catch basins that were capable of subduing the most rampant uncle brook. Several times more she fell, and once she stepped into a puddle over her shoe-tops. Then she fell against a fence and tore her skirt. Then, when she was sure she had found the road again she ran plump into the barn again, from a different side this time. A window frame minus a window told that the barn was empty and with a grunt of utter disgust at the wetness of the world in general, Sahwah climbed in and stood on a dry floor. She made up her mind to stay there until the sound of the engine would tell her that the Glow-worm had come for her. As the time went by and no familiar throbbing rose on the air, she began to have cold chills when she realized that we might not yet have noticed her absence, and might be miles away by that time. "At any rate," she decided, "I'm going to stay in here until it stops raining. If I get any wetter somebody'll take me for a sponge." She took off her jacket and wrung the water out of it and then wrung the water from the tail of her skirt, where it had been dripping on her ankles. Luckily she could not see herself in the darkness, for the green color from her veil had run in streaks all over her face and she looked like a savage painted for the war-path. A half hour drizzled by and then she heard the most welcome sound in the world, the honk of the Glow-worm's horn. Then she saw the glimmer of the headlights coming toward her out of the distance. And the strangest part of it was that the road was in just the opposite direction from where she thought it was. She climbed out of the barn window and ran toward the lights, landing in a puddle in the road with a mighty splash. The next minute the lights were full on her and the car came to a sudden stop. "You will run off and leave me, will you?" she called, running forward. Then she paused. The driver at the wheel was not Nyoda, but a man. There was no one else in the car. "Excuse me," she said, stepping back. "I thought you were friends of mine." And the car moved on. But if Sahwah had not found the Glow-worm she had, at least, found the road, and she made up her mind not to lose it again until she had come upon the others. Dawn found her still trudging along, very wet, very muddy, very tired and very much puzzled. For she had not come upon the Glow-worm stuck in the mud as she had expected. The rain had stopped and the sun was opening a watery eye on the horizon. The east wind was rising and ushering in the day. The frogs ceased croaking and the birds began to twitter. It was a morning to delight the soul, that is, any but a lonely soul which was wandering around, wet to the knees, unutterably weary, separated from its kindred souls, and without a cent of money. Sahwah had left her purse in the Glow-worm. By the position of the sun she discovered that she was traveling toward the west. The events of the night before were like a dream in her mind. The storm, the ball, the finding of the necklace in Nyoda's pocket and the flight in the rain were all jumbled together. She sat down on a stone by the roadside to think things over, and let down her damp hair to fly in the wind. For once in her life Sahwah was at a loss what to do next. So she sat still and waited for inspiration. The sun dried her hair and her coat and the mud on her shoes. The wild asters along the road craned their necks to get a look at this great muddy creature that sat in their midst, and a bird or two paused inquiringly before her. "I shall sit here," she said aloud, quoting the Frog Footman in _Alice in Wonderland_, "till tomorrow, or next day, maybe." It suddenly seemed to Sahwah as if she would like nothing better than to sit there forever. The stone she was sitting on was so soft and comfortable, and the sun was so warm and pleasant and the breeze was so soft and caressing. The song of the birds became very loud and clear; then it began to melt away. Sahwah's head nodded; then she slid off the stone and lay full length in the grass, sleeping as soundly as a babe in its cradle. Mr. and Mrs. James Watterson of Chicago were motoring back to their home from the races in Indianapolis. The night before the Indianapolis papers had been full of the disappearance of Margery Anderson and the efforts her uncle was making to recover her. He even offered a reward for information concerning her whereabouts. The papers said he had gone to Chicago to follow up a clue. Mrs. Watterson had read every word of the article with great interest. She did not know the Andersons and she was not particularly interested in them and their troubles, but she had nothing else to do at the moment, her husband having gone out and left her alone in the hotel, so she read and reread the details of the affair until she knew them by heart. The next morning, on their way north, they came upon Sahwah sleeping in the road. "Somebody dead or hurt here," exclaimed Mr. Watterson, and he stopped the car and jumped out. Sahwah's face was streaked with green from the soaked veil and she looked absolutely ghastly. And her arm was twisted under her head in the peculiar position in which Sahwah always sleeps, so that it looked as if she had fallen on it. "Her heart's beating," announced Mr. Watterson, after investigating. Mrs. Watterson came out and also looked Sahwah over. A handkerchief was dangling half out of the pocket of Sahwah's coat and a name written on it in indelible ink caught the woman's eye. That name was _Margery Anderson_. Sahwah had gotten something into her eye the day before, and not having a handkerchief handy--Sahwah never has when she wants one--Margery had handed her one of hers. At the sight of that name Mrs. Watterson was in a flutter of excitement. The story in the newspaper was fresh in her mind. "It's that Anderson girl!" she exclaimed, holding up the handkerchief. Quickly they lifted Sahwah, still sleeping, into the car. They thought she was unconscious and I believe their idea was to take her to the next house they came to. But, of course, as soon as the car started Sahwah woke up and looked with a gasp of surprise into the faces near her. At first when she felt the throb of the engine under her she had thought she was in the Glow-worm. Mr. and Mrs. Watterson were as surprised as she was. They had not expected her to come to life in just that manner. Of course, Sahwah wanted to know where she was and whither she was going. "You are going to your friends, my dear," replied Mrs. Watterson. "Do you know where they are?" asked Sahwah, wondering how they had come upon the whereabouts of the Glow-worm. Mrs. Watterson merely smiled ambiguously. Sahwah looked at her with instant suspicion. "Who are you?" she demanded. "And where are you taking me?" Mrs. Watterson smiled again, somewhat uncertainly this time. There is something about Sahwah's direct gaze that is a trifle disconcerting. "I am a friend of your uncle's"--she told the falsehood glibly--"and I am taking you back to him." "My uncle?" echoed Sahwah, wonderingly. "Taking me back to him?" She was completely at sea. Mrs. Watterson did not answer. She looked away, over the green fields they were passing. She was having visions of the reward. Sahwah clutched her arm. "I don't believe it," she said. "I don't know you. Stop the car and let me out." Mr. Watterson drove a little faster. Sahwah rose in the seat and looked as if she were about to cast herself headlong from the car. Mrs. Watterson took a firm hold of her coat and pulled her back into the seat. "Sit right where you are, Margery Anderson!" she said. "We will let you out when we turn you over to your uncle in Chicago and not before." Sahwah looked petrified. Margery Anderson! "You've made a mistake," she said. "I'm not Margery Anderson." "Don't tell lies, my dear," said Mrs. Watterson. "You are Margery Anderson." And she drew the handkerchief from Sahwah's pocket and held it before her eyes with a triumphant flourish. Sahwah was so overcome with astonishment that she could not speak for a moment and it was just as well that she could not, or she might have explained how she came to be carrying Margery's handkerchief and that would have revealed the whereabouts of the real Margery. Mrs. Watterson was triumphantly quoting from the newspaper article: "Tall, slender, brown eyes and hair, one upper front tooth shorter than the remainder of the row--" Sahwah, while actually resembling Margery no more than red-haired Hinpoha did, yet fitted the description perfectly! An idea had come into Sahwah's mind. She abandoned her half-formed plan of jumping from the car the moment it should slow up for any reason. Since these people insisted that she was Margery Anderson in spite of all she could say to the contrary, well and good, there was so much less chance of Margery's being discovered. After all the trouble they had taken so far to return the girl to her mother it would never do for her to betray her. So she sat silent under Mrs. Watterson's fire of cross questioning as to where she had been since running away, which Mrs. Watterson took for conclusive proof that she was Margery. "Did you say my--my uncle was in Chicago?" Sahwah asked at last. Mrs. Watterson replied affirmatively. Sahwah was inwardly jubilant but the expression of her face never altered. It was all right as long as they were taking her to Chicago. Once confronted with Margery's uncle, if he were there, the truth would come out and she would be free to go as she pleased. Then she could go directly to the Carrie Wentworth Inn and await the arrival of the others. She chuckled to herself, as she pictured the meeting between this man and woman and Margery's uncle and their discomfiture when they discovered that they had bagged the wrong bird. Sahwah is keen on humorous situations. But how was Nyoda to know that she was safe in Chicago? She might spend endless time looking for her, nearly wild with anxiety, thinking some misfortune had befallen her. Sahwah puzzled awhile and then her originality came to her rescue. Somewhere on this very road Nyoda had vanished the night before, and she herself had walked, as she supposed, in a straight line from the gate. She did not know that the light of the strange automobile she had seen from the barn had lured her across to an entirely different road. Well then, she reflected, it was reasonable to believe that Nyoda would be making inquiries for her along this road. Very well, she would drop a clue. With the swiftness of chain lightning she whipped her little address book out of her pocket and wrote on a leaf: "To those interested: Picked up by tourists. On way to Carrie Wentworth Inn, Chicago. Sarah Ann Brewster." For obvious reasons she made no mention of having been mistaken for Margery Anderson. She tied the address book in the corner of her green veil while Mrs. Watterson looked on curiously. Then she tied the veil around her hat to give it weight and threw it out of the car into the road just in front of a house. The green veil shone like a headlight and could not fail to attract attention. Thus someone would get the information that would eventually reach Nyoda. Then, Sahwah-like, having overcome her perplexities, she settled down to enjoy her trip. Surely a worse fate might have befallen her, she decided, after being lost from her companions, than to wake up and find herself being hurried toward the city which had been her destination in the first place. At that time Sahwah thought that the fates were kind to her, but ever since she has declared that they had a special grudge against her in making her miss the spectacular finish of our trip to Chicago. Sahwah, who was the only one who would really have enjoyed that exciting ride, was doomed to a personally conducted tour. I consider it unfair myself. But was there a single feature about the whole trip that was as it should have been? Sahwah's ride to Chicago was tame enough although the circumstances of it were rather melodramatic. She did not make any thrilling escape such as jumping from the moving car onto a passing train the way they do in the movies, or shrieking that she was being abducted and, as a result, being rescued by a handsome young man who became infatuated with her on the spot and declared himself willing to wait the weary years until she was grown up, when he could claim her for his own. That was the trouble with our adventures all the way through; while they were thrilling enough at the time they were happening, they lacked the quality that is in all book adventures, that of having any permanent after-effects. While there were several men mixed up in our trip none of us came home with our fate sealed, that is, none of us but---- But I am rambling again. It is as hard for me to keep on the main track of my story as it was for the Glow-worm to stay on the sign-posted highway. If I am not careful I will be telling the end of it somewhere along the middle, and that would be rather confusing for the reader who likes to turn to the back of the book to see how things come out before beginning the story. Nyoda said I should put a notice in the frontispiece saying that the end was on page so-and-so instead of the last chapter, and save such readers the trouble of hunting for it. As it is, I am afraid the last chapter will be crowded with afterthought incidents which I forgot to put in as I went along, and which should really be part of the story. But after all, I suppose it is immaterial in what order they come, for, by the time the reader has finished the book she will have them all, which is no more than she would have done if they had all been fitted together in the proper order. And she always has the privilege of rearranging them to suit herself. Mr. Watterson, as well as his wife, had doubtless been picturing to himself the dramatic moment in Mr. Anderson's office, when his niece should be turned over to him. He began to look important and self-conscious as they entered the city. Both he and his wife looked at the people around them in the street with a you-don't-know-whom-we-have-in-this-car expression, while Sahwah put on a very doleful countenance. Secretly she could hardly wait for the meeting to take place. They crossed the city and began threading their way through the down-town streets, crowded with the traffic of a busy week afternoon. Mr. Watterson, thinking of the coming interview on Michigan Avenue, failed to notice that a traffic policeman was waving peremptorily for him to back up from a crowded corner. The result was that he became involved in the line of vehicles which was coming through from the cross street and rammed an electric coupe containing two ladies and a poodle. The coupe tipped over onto the curb and the ladies were badly shaken and the poodle was cut by flying glass, or the ladies were cut by the flying poodle, I forget which. Mr. Watterson and his party emerged from the crush under the escort of a police officer who directed the finish of the tour. Their destination was the police station. CHAPTER XII. "What a tale of adventure we will have to tell Nyoda when we find her," said Gladys, as the Striped Beetle followed its nose Rochesterward. "It will make Sahwah green with envy. She is always so eager for adventure. And there never was such a combination as we have experienced. First, we picked up a girl in trouble, then we got quarantined; next, we lost our trunk and followed a man all the way to Indianapolis, thinking that he had it, which he didn't; then we were robbed of all our money and the Striped Beetle at one fell swoop, and were stranded on a country road without a cent or a drop of gas and had to spend the night in the car. There certainly never was such a chapter of events. The Count for the next Ceremonial will be a regular book. "I wonder what the girls in Rochester have been doing all this time while they have been waiting for us?" "Migwan's writing poetry, of course," said Hinpoha, "and Sahwah's getting into mischief and Nakwisi's staring into space through her spy-glass. It's easy enough to guess what they are doing." "Well, anyway, they know why we were delayed," said Chapa. "You got a second wire off to Nyoda before the storm?" "Yes," said Gladys, "I sent it right after I wired for money." Hinpoha sat silent for a long time. "A penny for your thoughts," said Gladys. "I can't help thinking about the scarf," said Hinpoha. "I brought it along because I was afraid something would happen to it if I left it behind, and here we had to lose it on the way. I would rather lose anything than that." And she sighed and looked so woe-begone that it quite affected the spirits of the others. "Nyoda can help us find the trunk," said Gladys confidently, thinking with relief as they neared Rochester that Nyoda would soon be at the helm of the expedition again. This thought filled them all with so much cheer that even Hinpoha brightened up. She ceased thinking about the scarf and looked at the flying landscape. "As a sight-seeing trip this has been somewhat of a failure," she said. "And I had intended making so many sketches of the interesting things we saw on the way to put into the Count, but the only thing that comes to my mind now is the picture of ourselves, always standing around wondering what to do next." "You might draw a picture of the pain you had from eating green apples," suggested Chapa. "That pain was about the only real thing about the whole trip," said Hinpoha. "All the rest seems like a dream." Hinpoha began idly sketching herself running away from a large apple on legs which was pursuing her. And that is the only picture we have of the whole trip! The girls got to Rochester about noon and went immediately to Number 43 Main Street. Mrs. Moffat came to the door and when she saw the girls in tan suits and green veils she closed it all but a crack. "My rooms are all taken," she said, coldly. "We don't want rooms, we want someone who is staying here," said Gladys. "Is Miss Kent here with three girls?" "No, she isn't," said Mrs. Moffat "They came here as bold as brass, but you can bet they didn't stay long after I found out about them. Do you belong to her company, too? You're dressed just like the rest of them." "Why yes, we belong to her party," said Gladys, bewildered beyond words at this reception. "Will you please tell us what--" But Mrs. Moffat closed the door in their faces with a resounding bang and no amount of ringing would induce her to open it again. The girls were simply staggered. What could be the meaning of the woman's words? "You can bet they didn't stay long after I found out about them." After she found out what about us? When had we left the house and where were we now? They stood around the Striped Beetle irresolutely. "If she only hadn't shut the door in our faces before we could ask some more questions!" said Gladys. "I don't suppose it would do any good to try again; she'd do the same thing a second time." Just then a small boy came whistling down the street and Gladys had an idea. Getting the girls quickly into the car she drove down to meet him. When they met him they were well away from the house. Gladys called him to her. "I'll give you ten cents," she said, "if you'll go to Number 43 Main Street and ask the lady where the girls in the tan suits, who stayed at her house, went when they left. Maybe you had better go around to the back door," she added. "Give me the ten cents first," said the boy, squinting his eyes shrewdly. "Not until you bring back the answer," said Gladys. "I won't go unless you give me a nickel first," he maintained, firmly. Gladys gave him the nickel and he departed in the direction of Number 43. Still keeping out of sight of the house, they awaited his return. In five minutes he was back. "She says she doesn't know where they went," he said, speaking in an unnecessarily loud voice, the way young boys do. "She says she doesn't keep track of rogues. Where's the other nickel?" Stupefied, Gladys gave it to him and he ran off down the street "What did he say?" she gasped. "She doesn't keep track of rogues? She turned them out of the house when she found out about them? Whatever has happened? What made her think the girls were rogues? And where did they go?" They were standing almost within a stone's throw of Number 22 Spring Street, where we had gone from Mrs. Moffat's, but, of course, there was no sign on the house to tell them we had been there. "Well," said Gladys, "they were here in Rochester, that much we know, and perhaps they are here yet. Somebody must have seen them. Where do you think we had better go to inquire?" "Do you see a candy store anywhere?" asked Hinpoha. "Sahwah would surely have to buy some candy if she saw any. Whenever I lose her downtown at home I go straight to the nearest candy store, and I invariably find her, standing on one foot and unable to make up her mind whether she should buy chocolates or Boston wafers." Accordingly, they visited each of the three candy stores on Main Street, and Hinpoha bought a mixed collection of stale chocolates and peppermint drops while they were making their inquiries, but they came out about as wise as they went in. The tan quartet they were seeking had evidently not invested in candy. "Sahwah's either reformed or short of cash," said Hinpoha, decidedly. Which half of that statement was true at that particular moment the reader already knows. Next, they reached the "department" store which carried everything from handkerchiefs to plows. The proprietor started when they entered and looked keenly at their suits. To their questions about the other four he replied that he hadn't seen them, and if he had he wouldn't know where they were now. "What a queer thing to say!" exclaimed Gladys, when they were outside once more. "'If he had seen them he wouldn't know where they were now.' It sounds almost like what the woman said, 'She didn't keep track of rogues.' What on earth has happened?" While they were standing there the boy to whom they had given the dime came walking by again. He walked past several times, and finally he stood still near them. "Say," he called, "will you give me another dime if I tell you something?" He was very red-headed and very freckled, and his eyes were screwed up in an unpleasant squint which might have been dishonesty and might have been the effect of sunlight, but, at any rate, they weren't much taken with his looks. Still, he might be honest after all. "What do you know?" parried Gladys. "I saw the girls you're looking for," he said. "Where?" asked Gladys, eagerly. "Give me the ten cents first," he demanded. Gladys gave him a dime. "They had their car fixed at the garage over there," he said. "They came in with a lamp and a fender smashed. I was in the garage and I saw them. They were talking to a young fellow on a motor-bike. Afterward, I seen them leaving town and pretty soon I seen the fellow starting after them." "What day was that?" asked Gladys. "It was Thursday morning when they came in," he said, "and it was Friday afternoon when they went out." Friday afternoon! And that was Saturday! The girls hastened over to the garage and inquired about the Glow-worm. "There was a car like that in here Thursday morning," agreed the proprietor. "The right headlight and the right front fender were broken. They had run into a limousine in the fog the night before. I had it all fixed up by three in the afternoon and they came and got the car, but pretty soon they brought it back and said they weren't going to leave town that night. One of the girls was sick, they said. They got it the next morning and I haven't seen them since. But I heard them tell a young fellow that came in to get his motorcycle looked over that they were going to Chicago. By the way, you say there were four girls in tan suits. There were five when they brought the car in in the morning." Well might the girls be puzzled by the three things they had found out that day. First. Nyoda and the other girls were considered rogues by the woman at Number 43 Main Street. Second. There were five girls in the Glow-worm instead of four. Third. Nyoda had gone on to Chicago instead of waiting for them as they had requested in their message and had left no word for them. "It's as clear as mud," said Hinpoha, who was plunged into deepest gloom again, now that Nyoda was not there and there was no one to advise them what to do about the trunk. "Did she get our telegram?" wondered Gladys. "We might go down to the office and find out if it was delivered." The first one was delivered, they were informed. The messenger boy who had delivered it (the company had only two) was in at the time and he testified that he had gone to Number 43 Main Street and was told that the parties had left, and he was on his way back to the office when he saw them standing in the road beside the automobile and gave it to them. He knew them because he had been delivering a message in the hotel the day before when they had come there and asked for rooms, and he had overheard the clerk telling them to go to Number 43 Main Street because the hotel was filled with convention delegates. He also said that there were five girls in the party instead of four. But no second telegram had been received at the office. Gladys rubbed her head wearily. The puzzle was getting deeper all the while. For the hundredth time she wondered what could have induced Nyoda to keep running away from them like that. Nyoda, who was the chaperon of the party, and who had promised her mother that she would never let the girls out of her sight! "Well, if Nyoda's gone to Chicago," she said, "there's nothing left for us to do but go too, although I don't know what to make of it." So, puzzled and perplexed, they looked up the route to Chicago from Rochester and set out to follow it. "We aren't very good hounds in this game," sighed Hinpoha, "or we'd have run down our hare before this." "But it's such an uncommonly fast hare," sighed Gladys. "And it leaves such amazing and apparently contradictory footprints." "Hi," said Chapa, "look at the crowd in this town. What do you suppose has happened?" In fact, the streets of the village through which they were passing were choked with vehicles of every kind and the sidewalks were crowded with people. "It's a band," said Hinpoha, "I hear the music." Mr. Bob began to quiver with excitement and whine, and Hinpoha caught him firmly by the collar and held him so he could not jump out again. "It's a circus parade!" cried Gladys. And sure enough, it was. From a side street the crimson and gold wagons began to stream into the main street. How it happened they were never able to tell, but the next thing they knew they were in the line of the parade and were being swept along with the procession. They could not turn out because the street was too narrow. They had to keep going along, behind a huge towering wagon with pictures of ferocious wild beasts painted on its sides, which drew shrieks of excitement from the children on the sidewalk, and just ahead of the line of elephants. Gladys slowed the car down to a crawl and wondered every minute if she could keep it going so slowly. They could easily be taken for a part of the circus, for the Striped Beetle is rather a conspicuous car outside of the fact that it had the Winnebago banner draped across the back, and besides the girls were all dressed alike. "What do you suppose they are?" they heard one small boy shout at another. "Look like snake charmers," answered the second. Hinpoha giggled. "That's meant for you, Gladys," she said. "Tain't either snake charmers," said a third small boy. "It's the fat lady." And he pointed directly at Hinpoha. Gladys laughed so she nearly lost control of the car while Hinpoha turned fiery red. Without warning the elephant directly behind them thrust his trunk into the car and picked up Medmangi's camera, to the immense delight of the crowd on the sidewalk. After much prodding from his rider he released it again, dropping it safely into Medmangi's lap. All the rest of the ride Medmangi kept her head over her shoulder so she could watch what the beast was doing. He kept blinking at her knowingly, and every few minutes he would extend his trunk toward the car in a playful manner and send her into a panic, and then he would drop it decorously to the ground like a limp piece of hose, with a sound in his throat that resembled a chuckle. "Poor beast," she said, after watching him plod rather wearily along for several blocks, "a circus life is no snap." "He's better off than we are," said Hinpoha crossly, "for he has his trunk, and that's more than we have." Hinpoha's temper had been slightly ruffled by her having been mistaken for the fat lady. "We'd still have our trunk if we carried it in the front the way he does, instead of in the back," said Medmangi. Mr. Bob was nearly barking his head off at the shouting boys, and about drove the girls frantic with his noise. Gladys's hands were shaking as she held on to the steering-wheel, while Hinpoha vainly tried to silence him. Chapa dared Medmangi to reach out her hand and touch the elephant's trunk and she did so. The elephant sneezed a sneeze that nearly unseated his rider and blew Chapa's hat off. Medmangi screamed and ducked under the seat, thinking that the beast was about to attack her. Gladys turned around to see what she was screaming at and just then the red and gold mountain ahead of her stood still for a minute, with the result that she bumped into it. It resounded with a hollow clang and something inside set up a fearful roaring like a whole jungle full of wild beasts. Then the small boys shouted worse than ever and the perspiration stood out on Gladys's forehead. "Stop that dog barking, or I shall go wild," she said. After numerous ineffectual commands and shakes, Hinpoha rolled Mr. Bob in one of the robes, which nearly smothered him, but produced the desired result. Save for a few smothered growls and "oofs" nothing more was heard from him. Then, as Hinpoha always said afterward, after the parade the real circus began. The man-killing anaconda got loose. How it happened no one ever found out, but the first thing anybody knew, there he was, tearing down the middle of the street like an express train. "How does he go so fast without wheels?" gasped Gladys, as he shot by them. Then there was a scene of pandemonium. The crowd tried to scatter, but it was packed in so closely between the buildings and the street that there was no place to scatter to. Most of the stores had been closed in honor of the greatest show on earth, and the thieves that accompanied it and the people found only locked doors when they tried to enter the stores. Shrieks filled the air. The whole line of elephants began trumpeting. "Oh, if we could only get out of this," cried Gladys. The next minute they were out of it, but in a manner they had not foreseen. For down from one of the painted wagons a man leaped directly into the Striped Beetle, picked Gladys up as if she had been a feather, lifted her over the back of the seat into the tonneau and took the wheel himself. Round went the Striped Beetle into the side street through a gap in the line of wagons and after the snake. The scattering of the people told the trail it was taking, and a low cloud of dust lengthening rapidly along the road showed that it was still in the middle of the street. Up one street and down another they flew, as fast as the Striped Beetle would go, with the snake always a length ahead of them. At last, it darted across the sidewalk, up the front walk of a brick mansion, up the front steps and in at the open front door. Wild screams from within indicated that his presence had been observed. The next instant two maids tried to issue from the door at the same instant and stuck there in the doorway, fighting to get out, until both were shot out as from the mouth of a cannon by the impact of the body of a man, coming behind them down the stairs. They rolled down the steps, picked themselves up, and rushed out of the gate and up the street, closely followed by the man in shirt sleeves, shouting wildly that it was only a drop he had taken for his rheumatism, but he would never take another. Shaken and breathless as they were, the girls laughed until they cried at the trail of superstitious terror left by the man-killing anaconda. The man who had taken such cool possession of the Striped Beetle jumped out and followed the snake into the house. When he returned some five minutes later the man-eater was wrapped around his body in great coils. Gladys got one look at the monster which the man evidently intended placing in the car, and then she was over the back of the seat and behind the steering-wheel, and the Striped Beetle went gliding off down the street. "There's one thing I object to being, and that's careful mover of a circus," she said through her teeth. She was still too breathless to talk properly. "I'd just as soon take the man back to his wagon, but I won't sit beside a snake. There's nothing in the etiquette book about how to behave toward them and I'm afraid I might do the wrong thing and rouse his ire." We were well into the country before she slackened her dizzy pace and the circus and the man-killing anaconda were left far behind. Hinpoha was still giggling about the man who thought he was seeing snakes and had forgotten all about poor Mr. Bob, who was still wrapped in his muffling blanket. A convulsive movement of the roll in her arms brought her back to earth and she undid the bundle in time to save him from being completely smothered. All the rest of the trip Mr. Bob retired under the seat every time anyone touched that blanket. Later in the afternoon they stopped for gasoline and while the tank was being filled were entertained by the loud-voiced conversation of two men who were standing against the wall of the gasoline station. "But I tell you it isn't my trunk," said the first, "and I'm not going to carry it. The rear end of the car hits the bumpers now every time we strike a bump in the road and I won't have any unnecessary weight back there." "Oh say, be a good sport and carry it," said the second man. "It's a good looking trunk and I can get something for it when we get back to the city. But I hate to pay express on it." "How did you get it, anyway?" asked the first man. Gladys, who had pricked up her ears at the word "trunk" and was intently listening to the above conversation, was disappointed in not hearing the end of it. For, with the question just recorded the two men moved across the street toward a car which stood there. Just then the tank of the Striped Beetle was filled and they were released. Gladys steered across the street just as the engine of the other car started up. But she had caught a glimpse of the trunk under discussion, standing on the unoccupied rear seat of the car, and there, full in the sunlight, were the initials GME, Cleveland, O. Without a doubt it was her trunk. The other car gained speed rapidly and began to draw away from them. Gladys put the Striped Beetle on its mettle and followed. They passed through several towns at the same high rate of speed, never gaining on the car ahead of them until it stopped in front of a hotel in one place. Gladys also stopped. She jumped out of the car and was alongside the other before either man was out. She began without preliminary. "Excuse me," she said, "but we have lost our trunk from our car and the one you have is exactly like it. Would you mind telling me whether it is your own or not?" The two men looked at each other. One of them, the one who had objected to carrying the trunk, flushed red and looked uncomfortable. As he was driving the car it was to him that Gladys had addressed her remarks. "It's not mine," he answered. "It belongs to Mr. Johnson, this gentleman here." "Yes, it's mine," said the man referred to, as if daring her to dispute his statement. Gladys was nonplused. There was something queer about their possession of the trunk she knew from the conversation she had overheard. "You say your name is Johnson?" she asked. "Then how does it come that you have the initials GME--my initials--on your trunk?" The man glared at her in silence. A crowd began to gather around them on the sidewalk. A policeman elbowed his way to the front. "What's the matter here?" he asked. "Lady says the man stole her trunk," replied one of the bystanders. Gladys grew hot all over when she heard that, because she had not said a word about the man's having stolen the trunk, although that thought was uppermost in her mind. "How about it?" asked the policeman. "It's none of your business," growled the man addressed as Mr. Johnson. "That's my trunk, whether those are my initials or not. It was given me in exchange for something else." "But I believe it's mine," said Gladys, looking helplessly around the circle of faces. "It was stolen off our car in Ft. Wayne." "It was no such thing," said Mr. Johnson, hotly. "We'll soon find out," said the policeman. "What was in your trunk, lady?" Gladys described several articles which were inside, and mentioned that it was lined with grey and had the same initials on the inside of the cover. "Open the trunk," said the Solomon in brass buttons. Mr. Johnson had no key, which was another suspicious fact. Gladys produced her key and unlocked the trunk. It was absolutely empty. There was the grey lining all right and the initials on the inside of the cover, GME, Cleveland, O. "Disposed of the contents," said a voice from the sidewalk. Hinpoha, who had been on a pinnacle of hope for her scarf ever since they had recognized the trunk, slumped into despair again when she saw that it was empty. "Is that your trunk, lady?" asked the policeman. "It looks like it," said Gladys. "It answered her description all right," said the voice in the circle. "Where did you get the trunk and from whom?" asked the policeman of Mr. Johnson. "None of your business," replied that individual, with a savage look. "But it's mine, I tell you." Here his companion pulled out his watch and uttered an exclamation. "Give her the trunk and come along," he said, in a stage whisper. "We'll never make it if we stand here bantering all day." Scowling like a thundercloud, Mr. Johnson gave the trunk a savage kick as it stood on the sidewalk and got back into the car, snapping out that it was his and never would have given it up if he wasn't in such a tearing hurry. The grey car glided away in a cloud of dust and the policeman lifted the trunk to the rack of the Striped Beetle. "Fellow stole it, all right," rose the murmurs on every side, "or he wouldn't have been so willing to give it up. Probably threw the contents away. Well, you've got the trunk, lady, and that's worth more than what was in it." Hinpoha could not agree with this, of course. That scarf was worth more in her eyes than the price of a dozen trunks, and she was not very much overjoyed at having the trunk returned without the scarf, for it was certain now that the contents were stolen and would never be recovered. They arrived in Chicago during the afternoon and went directly to the Carrie Wentworth Inn. As they got out at the curb a man lounged down from the doorway and approached them. "You are under arrest," he said, quietly. "Arrest!" gasped Gladys, thinking of all the traffic rules she might have broken in crossing the busy corner they just passed. "What for? And who are you, anyway, you're not a policeman." The man opened his coat and showed an official badge. "I'm a policeman all right, you'll find," he said, calmly. "What have we done?" gasped Gladys. The trunk was in her mind now. What if it were not theirs after all and they were to be accused of stealing it! "You are wanted in connection with an attempt to steal a diamond necklace from the home of Simon McClure," said the detective, for such he was. "What?" said Gladys, in sheer amazement. "I never heard of such a person." "Tell that to the police," said the man facetiously, "and in the meantime, just come along with me." He got into the car and motion them to follow. Too much dazed to resist, they obeyed. CHAPTER XIII. Sahwah's vanishing from the car was so uncanny and mysterious that, for a few minutes, we could think of nothing but a supernatural agency. The wind was like the wail of a banshee, and to our excited eyes the mist wraiths hovering over the swamp were like dancing figures. The croaking of the frogs was suddenly full of menace. They were not real frogs croaking down there in the mud; they were evil spirits dwelling in the swamp and they held the secret of Sahwah's disappearance. Shudders ran up and down our spines and the perspiration began to break out in our faces. "Did Sahwah get into the car again after she helped you open the gate?" asked Nyoda. At the sound of her voice our fear of the supernatural vanished and we were back to reality again. We were lost on a lonely road, it is true, but it was a (more or less) solid dirt road in the misty mid-region of Indiana, and not a ghoul-haunted pathway in the misty mid-region of Weir. We all declared Sahwah had gotten into the car. "She couldn't have," maintained Nyoda. "We haven't stopped since then and she couldn't have fallen out while we were going without making a splash that would have sent the water over the car." "It's nearly a foot deep most of the way." We thought hard about the circumstances attendant upon our getting back into the car and it came to us that we were not positive, after all, that Sahwah had been with us. "That wind--don't you remember?" said Nakwisi. "It whipped the corner of my veil into my eye and I couldn't open it again for some time after we started." I remembered the wind. It had wrapped my veil around my face so that I couldn't see anything, and in my blindness I had slammed the door on my finger, and the pain made me forget everything else. It hadn't been a propitious time to count noses. I had dropped into the corner of the seat trying to get my finger into my mouth through the folds of my veil, and the effort not to cry out with pain made me faint. I had not even noticed when the car started. Margery was on the front seat with Nyoda and they had thought, of course, that Sahwah was in the back with Nakwisi and me. Well, it was evident that she wasn't. "Poor Sahwah," said Nyoda. "Such a night to be waiting at the gate!" "Backward, turn backward, Glow-worm, in your flight, Rescue poor Sahwah from her muddy plight!" I spouted. Which was easier said than done. That road was built for traveling ahead and not for turning. On one side was the swamp and on the other a steep drop off into a lake. "We're in the straight and narrow path all right," said Nyoda, viewing the landscape. Then she sarcastically began to quote from a well-known automobile advertisement which emphasized the superiority of a long wheel base, whatever that is. "The Glow-worm simply won't make the turn," she said. "Here's one instance when the worm won't turn." "It's a long worm that knows no turning," I misquoted. Nyoda tried again, and this time, with its rear wheels in the swamp and its front lamps hanging over the precipice, the Glow-worm did turn. We were limp as rags from the strain by the time we were safely back in the road. I had been trying to make up my mind which would do the least damage to my clothes, landing in the swamp or in the lake, and had just about decided on the lake as the lesser of the two evils, as I couldn't get much wetter anyhow, when Nyoda called out, "It's all over." "If you're speaking of the mud it certainly is all over," I said, feeling of the spatters on the back of the seat. "Mud baths are hygienic," said Nyoda drily, if anyone can be said to speak drily when they are dripping at every corner. "Be a sport if you can't be a philosopher." Which statement contained food for reflection, as they say in books. We made our way slowly and splashily back to the mud-wreathed gate, alas, we shoved sir--Gracious! I'm tobogganing into a quotation again! But, like the girl in the poem when the lover comes back to the gate after many years, Sahwah wasn't there. We called, oh, how we did call! With voices as hoarse as the frogs in the swamp. "We might as well stop calling," said Nyoda, disgustedly. "She won't be able to tell the difference between us and the frogs." But we kept on calling just the same and a hideous echo from somewhere threw our words back at us in a broken, mocking answer. That was all. We were paralyzed with fear that Sahwah had wandered into the swamp or had fallen over the precipice in the dark into the lake. We turned the lights of the car on the swamp for a long distance, but saw nothing. I shuddered until my teeth chattered at that lonely stretch of marsh. Given the choice between a graveyard at night and a swamp, I think I should take the graveyard. The nice friendly ghosts that sit on tombstones are so much more cheerful than the nameless and shapeless Things that flit over a swamp at night. The yellow circle thrown by the Glow-worm's lamps was the only thing that linked us to earth and reason. Within that circle the mysterious shadows melted and no spirits dared dance. Then without warning the yellow circle dimmed and vanished, and left us completely at the mercy of the Shapes. The lights had gone out on the Glow-worm. "Probably short circuited," we heard Nyoda's voice say. "Where was Moses when the light went out?" I asked, trying to be cheerful. Margery trembled and clung to Nyoda. The swamp now seemed a living thing that clutched at us with hands. And somewhere in that darkness that pressed around us Sahwah was wandering around lost, or perhaps lying helpless in the water. It is not my intention to dwell on the unpleasant features of our trip any more than I have to. But somehow that night stands out more clearly in my memory than any of the other events. Nyoda says it is because I am gifted, or rather cursed, with a constructive imagination, and see and hear things that aren't there. I suppose it is true, because I can see whole armies marching in the sky, and boats and horses and dragons, when the other girls only see clouds. But I know I heard sounds in that swamp that night that weren't earthly; voices that sang tunes and children that cried, and things that fiddled and shrieked and sobbed and laughed and whispered and gurgled and moaned. Our hunt for Sahwah had to be given up because without lights we dared not venture forth on the road for fear of running into the swamp. "Sit up in front, Migwan, and be the headlight; you're bright enough," said Nyoda, cheerfully. "I'm having an eclipse to-night," I replied. So we sat still in the Glow-worm not far from the gate which had been the fountain and origin of all the trouble and wished fervently, not for Blucher or night, but for Sahwah or morning. And the reader knows which one of them came. The rain stopped about dawn and the east began to redden and then we knew there was going to be a sunrise. I have been glad to see many things in my life; but I never was so glad to see anything, as I was, when the sun began to rise that morning after the night of water. Viewed in the magic light of morning, the road was not so bad, while the lake, rippling in the wind, was a thing of beauty, and the swamp was merely a swamp. The gate was right at the corner of a fence which enclosed a very large farm. We could just barely see the house and barn in the distance, set up on a sort of hill. The property ended on this end at the gate, and just beyond it began the descent to the lake. How we had gotten inside that fence the night before we never found out. We must have crossed that entire farm in the darkness on a private road which we mistook for the main road. In the broad light of day we descended the steep way down to the lake and examined every foot of ground around it. It was all soft mud and if Sahwah had been down there she must have left traces of some kind. But the surface was unbroken save for a few tracks of birds. Clearly, she had not fallen over the edge. Where, then, had she gone. The mud around the gate was such soup that no footprints could be seen. Oh, if the gate could only speak! "Could she have possibly found her way up to that farmhouse?" I asked. "I don't see how she ever did it in the dark, but still it's a possibility." So we dragged the gate open again and drove up to the farmhouse. The men were just starting to work in the fields. It must be nice to work where you can see the earth wake up every morning. There are times when I simply long to be a milkmaid. A lean, sun-burned woman was washing clothes out under the trees and she looked up in surprise when we appeared. No, Sahwah had not been there. The mystery was still a mystery. But from the height of the farmhouse we saw what we had not seen from the level of the road, and that was that there was another road running parallel to the one we had been on, skirting the swamp on the other side and bordered by thick trees. From the gate we had thought that those trees grew in the swamp, as we could not see the road beyond it. Sahwah must have blundered into that road in the darkness, we concluded, and thought she was going after us. We found a narrow lane leading to it, covered with water for most of its length, and there, sure enough, we saw deep footprints in the new road. We followed these, expecting to come upon her sitting in the wayside every minute. But the footprints went on. There were no houses along here; the only building we passed was an empty red barn covered over with tobacco advertisements. A little farther on the road ran into a highway and so did the footprints. A little beyond the turn Nyoda spied something lying in the road. How she managed to see it is beyond me, but Nyoda has eyes like a hawk. It was a button from Sahwah's coat. Sahwah's button-shedding habit is very useful as a clue. "Here is a button; Sahwah can't be very far now," said Nyoda, cheerfully. A sign post we passed said "Lafayette 20 miles." At last we knew where we were. Deep ruts in the road showed where a car had passed just ahead of us. Then all of a sudden the footprints came to a stop; ended abruptly in the road, as if Sahwah had suddenly soared up into the air. There was a low stone where the footprints came to a stop and around it the mud was all trampled down. At first we were frightened to death, thinking that Sahwah had been attacked and carried off. But the footprints did not lead anywhere. "Of course, they don't," said Nyoda. "Whoever made them got into that car and Sahwah did too. It's the car that's traveling ahead of us. It stopped and picked Sahwah up." (Just how literally Sahwah had been "picked up" we did not guess.) "What will we do now?" asked Nakwisi. "Follow the car," replied Nyoda. "It sounds like Cadmus and 'follow the cow'," said I. So we followed the ruts. The sun was up fair and warm by this time and we were beginning to dry off beautifully. I took off my soaked shoes and tied them out on the mud guard where they could bake. Nakwisi went me one better in the scheme of decoration and hung hers on the lamp bracket. Then we hung up our wet coats where they could fly in the wind. Margery was cold all the time and we let her have the exclusive use of the one robe, and the rest of us took turns being wrapped in the Winnebago banner. It was blanket shaped and made of heavy felt and served the purpose admirably. In a moment of forethought Sahwah had taken it down from the back of the car just before we were caught in the storm, and so it had escaped being soaked also. "This is traveling _de luxe_" said I, stretching out my stockinged feet on the foot rail, and wiggling my cramped toes. "I don't know about de looks," said Nyoda with a twinkle, "but as long as no one sees you it doesn't matter." "Who's making puns now?" inquired Nakwisi, severely. "What's this in the road?" asked Nyoda presently, as we came upon a bundle of bright green. We stopped and picked it up. "It's a veil just like ours, and a hat," said Nyoda. "It's Sahwah's veil and hat!" she exclaimed, looking in the hatband where Sahwah's name was written. Then she discovered something tied in the veil. It was Sahwah's address book and on the first page was scrawled a message: "To those interested: Picked up by tourists. On way to Carrie Wentworth Inn, Chicago. SARAH ANN BREWSTER." Beside the signature was the familiar Sunfish which is Sahwah's symbol. There was no doubt about the note being genuine. Besides, it could only be quick-witted Sahwah who would think of leaving a blaze in the road on the slender chance that we would be coming along that way. How it smoothed everything out! Not knowing that we were so close behind her, Sahwah had had a chance to go on to Chicago, and would simply go to our hotel and wait until we came! What a long headed one Sahwah was, to be sure! We could have played hide and seek with each other around those roads for days and never found each other, the way the children did around the voting booth, but by clearing out altogether and going to our place of rendezvous she knew the chances of our meeting were much greater. How she had managed to find tourists who were on the way to Chicago was a piece of luck which could only have befallen Sahwah. "I think the best thing for us to do is to hunt some breakfast and then make for Chicago as fast as we can," said Nyoda. "I've been thinking that that would be the best way to find the others. We don't seem to have been very successful in running around the country after them, and if they managed to get the wire we sent to Chicago the other day they will probably find us if we go there too." "Did Gladys start out with us, or didn't she?" asked Nakwisi, thoughtfully. "I think sometimes it was all a delusion, and there were no more than four of us at the start." "Sometimes I think so too," I agreed. Was the Striped Beetle a myth? We had almost forgotten our original quest in the chase after Sahwah. We still debated uncertainly whether we had better go back to Indianapolis and hunt for Gladys, now that we were reasonably certain where Sahwah was, or go on to Chicago and make sure of her, at least. There were so many arguments on both sides that we could come to no decision and so we flipped a coin for it. Chicago won and the die was cast. The next move was breakfast and a place to clean up. We looked as though we had been fished out of the lake. Breakfast we would find in the town of Lafayette, which we were approaching. But we faltered by the wayside as usual. Whether or not that had any bearing on what happened later I don't know, but Nyoda says it would have been the same anyway, only different. Which is rather a neat little phrase, after all, in spite of being impure English. To me our stop over was simply another move in the game of checkers Fate was playing with us as counters. The thing which caused us to falter by the wayside before we reached Lafayette was a sign on a big, old-fashioned farmhouse near the road which read: TOURISTS TOOK IN Meals 35 cents Nyoda couldn't resist the delicious humor of it. She stopped before the door. "You aren't going to stop here, are you?" I inquired. "I want to be 'took in'," declared Nyoda. "Just as if all the other places don't do the same thing; only they aren't quite so frank about it. I want to see the creator of that sign. So we drove into the big, shady yard and parked the panting Glow-worm at the end of the long drive under arching trees. Then we went up on the side porch and knocked at the screen door while a black cat inspected us drowsily from the cushioned depths of a porch chair. A bustling, red-faced woman came to the door. "We're tourists," said Nyoda, "and we want to be took in. We want breakfast." "Come in an' set on the table," said the woman, and we knew we had found the author of the "Tourists Took In" sign. Upon our asking for water and soap we were directed to a room on the second floor where a bowl and pitcher stood on a wash-stand and a towel hung over a chair. "After having had such a dose of water last night I didn't think I'd ever care to wash again," said Nakwisi, "but that wash bowl's the best thing I've seen yet this morning. Hurry up and give me my turn." I got through as quickly as possible to stop her clamoring, and while she scrubbed and primped I strolled over to the window, which overlooked the road in front of the house. The high spots were already drying in the warm wind. As I stood there I saw a speck coming down the road which gradually grew to the proportions of a man on a motorcycle exceeding the speed limit by about ten miles. He came to a stop in front of the house with such a jerk that I thought he would pitch off onto his head. He leaned the motorcycle against the porch and came up the steps, and as he did so I recognized the light-haired young man that had been in Rochester when we were. I must say it gave me a little thrill of pleasure to see him again. The woman had evidently gone to the door in answer to his knock, for we heard her voice the next instant. Every word came up distinctly through the open window. "Are there five young ladies in tan suits here?" he demanded. The woman was evidently offended at his curt manner. "What business is it of yours?" she asked, in a harsh voice. "See here," he said sternly, "if you're in league with them and are trying to hide them you'll get into trouble. They're wanted by the police, and I'm here to arrest them." We looked at each other thunderstruck. Wanted by the police! It was all a part of the strange mystery that had been surrounding us for the last few days. Could they be after us on account of the necklace? "Tell me at once," persisted the man, "are they here, or did they go by?" The woman evidently saw visions of her four breakfasts remaining uneaten and consequently un-paid for if she delivered us up, and tried to parley. "There's no such people here," she said brazenly, "they went by over an hour ago." "They did nothing of the kind," said the young man, "they turned in here. I saw them across the field where the road turns." "You can come in an' set in the parlor," said the woman firmly, "an' don't you set a foot in the rest of the house, an' I'll bring them to you." We heard the front door open and close; then a movement in the room below us and the squeak of a chair as somebody sat down. Then we heard the door shut and the footsteps of the woman toward the back part of the house. "I believe she locked him in," said Nyoda, laughing in the midst of her bewilderment, "and she doesn't mean to produce us until we've paid for that breakfast. It's too bad to disappoint her, but necessity comes before choice." "What do you mean to do?" I asked. Margery was as pale as a ghost. "It's my uncle after me," she gasped. "Oh, don't let them get me!" I was too stupefied to say another word. That the nice young man with the light hair should turn out to be a police agent after us was too much for my comprehension. Nyoda held up her hand for us to be silent and led us on tiptoe into a room which opened off at one side of the hall. She led us to the window, and we could see that it overlooked the yard on the other side from the dining-room and, that it opened out on a porch roof. A little way off we saw the Glow-worm standing under the trees. Nyoda crept out of the window and swung herself down to the ground by means of a flower trellis and we followed, helping Margery. Then we raced across the yard to the Glow-worm and started it just as a car drove by tooting its horn for dear life so that the sound of our engine was drowned in the noise. We reached the road without going past the house and Nyoda opened the throttle wide. The last glimpse we had of the house where the tourists were "took in" was of a motorcycle leaning up against the porch. Our one thought was to get Margery safely to Chicago before the detective got her and took her back to her uncle. Nyoda had friends in Chicago who would take Margery in until she could go safely to Louisville in the event we could not take her with us. We knew that it would not be long before the man on the motorcycle would find out that we had escaped and would take the road after us, and we must not lose a minute. Lafayette flew by our eyes a mere line of stores and houses; we hardly slackened our speed going through, and then we began the long run northward to Chicago. We saw people turn to look at us as we rushed along, and then their faces blurred and vanished from sight. Now and then a chicken flew up right under the very wheels and once we ran over one. But we went on, on, unheeding. Then we struck a stretch of soft road and thought for a minute we were going to get stuck. "Would you get through any better if you threw me overboard?" asked Nakwisi. "I'm pretty heavy." Nyoda only smiled and put on more speed and we went through. Margery's face was chalk white and her eyes were wide with fear; but excited as I was, I was enjoying the flight immensely. This was life. I thought of all the famous rides in history that I used to thrill over; _Paul Revere's Ride, How they Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix, Tam o' Shanter's Famous Ride_, and all the others. Sahwah will regret to her dying day that she missed it. Halfway to Chicago, Nakwisi, who was keeping a sharp lookout with her spy-glass, reported that there was a motorcycle chasing us about half a mile behind. The Glow-worm leapt forward a trifle faster under Nyoda's steady hand, but she never flicked an eyelash. Nyoda is simply a marvel of self-control in an emergency. Soon we could all see the pursuer without the aid of the glass. He was gaining on us rapidly. We were approaching a railroad crossing and there was a train coming. If we had to wait until it went by we would be overtaken surely. Nyoda measured the distance between the train and the crossing with a swift eye and put on the last bit of speed of which the Glow-worm was capable. We bumped across the tracks just as the gates were beginning to go down. A minute later the way behind us was cut off by one of those interminably long, slow moving freight trains, and one the other side of the barrier was the impotent pursuer. But the time gained by this lucky incident merely postponed the inevitable end of the chase. When did a loaded car ever outrun a motorcycle? We watched him approaching, helpless to ward off the thing which was coming, yet running on at the top of our speed, hoping against hope that his gas would give out or he would run into something. But none of these things happened and he drew alongside of us and caught hold of the fender. Nyoda slowed down and came to a stop. "What do you want?" she asked, haughtily. "Your little game is up," said the man, quietly. Nyoda faced him bravely, determined not to give Margery up without a struggle. "Will you kindly tell me what you mean?" she asked. The motorcyclist grinned. "Don't try to play off innocent," he said, severely. "You know as well as I do what I mean. But it isn't you I'm after most," he continued. "It's this one," and he pointed to Margery. Margery buried her face in Nyoda's arm. Nyoda saw it was no use. "Are you looking for Margery Anderson?" she asked. "Margery Anderson!" said the man, with another grin. "That's a new one on me. But she changes so often there's no keeping track of her. She may be Margery Anderson now, but the one I'm after is Sal Jordan, better known as 'Light Fingered Sal', the slickest pickpocket and shoplifter between New York and San Francisco." We all stared at him open-mouthed. "Oh, you may have forgotten about it," he said sarcastically, "but I'll refresh your memory." He was speaking to Margery now. "After you robbed that jewelry store in Toledo you got away with such a narrow squeak that the doors of the police station almost closed on you. Your friends didn't dare show themselves in town, so they went riding around in an automobile, pretending they were tourists, and you joined them out in the country somewhere. I've had my eye on you ever since you left Ft. Wayne. But we had word you were going to Indianapolis to carry on another little piece of business and I thought I'd let you go free awhile and catch you with the goods on. But you gave me the slip and didn't go, and I must say you've led me a fine chase. But it's all over now and you'll go along with me to Chicago like a little lamb with all your pretty friends." He looked us over carefully. "Where's the other one?" he asked, suddenly. "There were five of you before. Great Scott!" he exclaimed. "You've sent her back to Indianapolis. Pretty cute, Sal, but it won't do any good. They're watching for her." We sat petrified, looking at Margery. She had collapsed on the seat with her face in her hands--the very picture of Admission of Guilt. "Margery!" cried Nyoda, "is it true?" But Margery shook her head. "I don't know anything about it," she said. "You're mistaken," said Nyoda cooly to the man, "we know nothing whatever about this Sal person." Just then she drew her hand from her pocket with a convulsive movement, and out flew the scarab at the man's feet. He picked it up with a triumphant movement. "Oh, no, you don't know anything about it," he said. "But you are carrying Sal's scarab, which is the countersign between the members of her gang. As I mentioned before, your little game is up." "Margery!" said Nyoda the second time, "is it true?" But Margery buried her face in her hands and said nothing. Our thoughts went whirling in somersaults. The girl we had picked up was not Margery, but "Light Fingered Sal", a pickpocket! The appearance of the scarab and the scene at the ball when Nyoda had found the necklace in her pocket came over us like a flash. What dupes we had been never to suspect the truth before! The procession moved on again with the motorcyclist keeping hold of the fender. Thus it was that we came into Chicago, under police escort, and were chaperoned up the steps of the police station. Once inside, we blinked around with greater wonder than we had at anything which had happened so far. Against the wall were standing in a row: Gladys, Chapa, Medmangi, Hinpoha, Sahwah between a strange man and woman, four young women we had never seen before but who wore suits and veils exactly like ours, and a girl in a blue suit. CHAPTER XIV. Before we had finished staring at each other in stupefied surprise the door opened again, and a woman ran in, at the sight of whom "Sal" darted forward and threw herself into her arms. "Margery!" cried the newcomer. "Mother!" cried the girl. A few steps behind the woman came a man and he looked coldly at the two. "You have forestalled us, I see, Mrs. Anderson," he said, coldly. The girl was Margery Anderson after all! I shall never forget the expression on the light-haired detective's face when he saw Margery rush into that woman's arms. He turned all shades of red and purple and looked ready to burst. "Confound that Sal!" we heard him mutter under his breath. "She's given us the slip again." Then we happened to look at Sahwah and the two people with whom she was standing. Sahwah was doubled up with laughter and the man and woman were as surprised looking as the detective. The man reminded me of nothing so much as a collapsed balloon. It was the queerest police station scene anyone could imagine. Instead of making charges against us the various policemen and detectives all looked bewildered and uncertain how to proceed. Everybody looked at everybody else; and everybody waited to see what would happen next. And things kept right on happening. The door opened a second time and an officer came in leading a young woman in a stylish blue suit. Her appearance seemed to create a profound sensation with Gladys and Hinpoha and Chapa and Medmangi; they all uttered an exclamation at once and started forward. The one in blue looked at them and then burst into a mocking laugh. The four unknown girls dressed like us and the other one in blue seemed to be good friends of hers for they hailed each other familiarly. "The game's up, dearies," said the newcomer, gaily. "My, but I did have the good time, though, playing the abused little maiden. Took you in beautifully, didn't I?" she said over her shoulder to Gladys. "Maybe Sal can't act like an angel when she wants to!" "Light Fingered Sal!" exclaimed the detective who had brought us in, staring at her fascinated. "And all the rest of your company! Can't really blame me for getting on the wrong scent," he remarked, looking from them to us. "The only description I had was the suits and they are identical. Well, you're safe home, Sal, safe home at last," he added, with a grin. Sal and her companions were taken out then and we saw them no more. Then we heard the officer who had brought her in tell his tale to the detective. A man in an automobile had come to him that morning and said he had been robbed of his pocketbook and watch by a young woman he had picked up on the road. He had run into her and knocked her down and was taking her to her home. After he had put her down at the address she gave him he discovered that his property was missing and returned to the house, but could get no answer to his ring. The officer took note of the address and promised to keep an eye on the place. Later on he saw a young woman come out of the house and enter a near-by pawn shop. He followed her and saw that she was pawning the watch whose description had been given him. He arrested her and discovered she was the famous Light Fingered Sal, whom the police of a dozen cities were looking for. The house was searched, but the other inmates had fled. But it seems that they were fleeing in an automobile and went several miles beyond the speed limit with the result that they were brought into the station, where their real identity was established. They were the four tourists in tan and the one in blue, whom we had blindly followed out of Toledo, thinking they were Gladys and the other girls in the Striped Beetle. Sal still had the man's purse in her pocket when she was brought into the station and the owner was notified of that fact while we stood there. Again, it was these friends of Sal's who had been ahead of us at the hotel in Ft. Wayne, whom the check man had told us about and who had left for Chicago by way of Ligonier. Together with Sal, they had committed some daring thefts in Toledo stores, and when the police had almost caught them they had escaped in an automobile. There had been no time to wait for Sal; they trusted her to join them somewhere along the road. The police were so hot on her trail that she had to spend the night in the empty storeroom where Hinpoha had found her, waiting until after dark that night to venture out. Then Mr. Bob had blundered in on her hiding-place, followed by Hinpoha. Sal saw her chance of working on Hinpoha's sympathies and so getting out of Toledo, and how she accomplished it we already know. She told her a well fabricated tale of being accused wrongfully of taking a paper from the office safe, and played the role of the helpless country girl in the city, with the result that the girls took her in tow and set out to find Nyoda. She assumed airs of helplessness until they did not think her capable of lacing her own shoes. All the while she was keeping a sharp lookout for the police along the road. At the same time she found out that the girls were carrying all their money in their handbags. At first, she had intended staying with them until she got to Chicago, as that was her destination, but the losing of the trunk made them go to Indianapolis, where the automobile races had drawn great crowds from everywhere. She was sorely tempted to break away from the girls there and slip into the crowd, where she could gather a rich harvest; but she had been afraid that the police would be watching for her and decided that the prudent thing would be to go to Chicago. But after they had actually left Indianapolis and she began to think of what she had missed, she wished she had stayed there. She blinded the girls to her real character by pretending to know nothing about any kind of worldly pleasure and amusement, and acted as though she disapproved of everything gay, and Gladys had remarked somewhat loftily that when she had seen a little more of life she would not be so narrow in her views! Then the girls had seen the flowers growing beside the river and had gotten out of the car to walk among them, leaving her to sit in the car and hold their purses. It was as if opportunity had fallen directly into her lap. The lure of the crowd at Indianapolis was too strong and she started to drive back, leaving the girls minus their money and their car. But some distance down the road the car had come to a stop and she could not make it go on. She did not know that the gasoline had given out. She abandoned it in the road and walked across country until she came to the electric line, which she had taken into Indianapolis. She had a narrow escape from the police there and took the train for Chicago. There she had been run into by the man in the automobile and her fertile brain had whispered to her to feign injury and have him take her home. While she was in the car she had managed to get the watch and purse. Later she tried to pawn the watch and was caught. The detective, who had started out from Toledo after her had never seen her or her companions and had somehow gotten onto our trail and believed we were the ones. He had made no attempt to arrest us when he first came up with us, because he believed there were still others in her crowd and he wanted to wait until she joined them in Chicago and so get a bigger catch in his net, when he finally drew it in. He had waited around Rochester simply on our account; there had been nothing the matter with his motorcycle at all. We had told him ourselves we were going to Chicago, and then he had heard Nyoda telegraphing to friends at the Carrie Wentworth Inn there. He had told Mrs. Moffat to keep a close watch on us because we were dangerous characters, and she had promptly put us out of the house. The news spread through the town like wild-fire that there was a gang of pickpockets there and wherever we went we were watched. That accounted for the queer actions of the various storekeepers. But then, who had given us the address of 22 Spring Street when Mrs. Moffat had turned us out? That point still remained to be cleared up. When we abruptly left town in the direction of Indianapolis the detective had followed us, but the storm had thrown him off our track. He had come across us the next day near Lafayette and had made up his mind to hold on to us that time. Our headlong flight when we became aware of his presence drove all doubt away as to our being the ones, and then when he had seen the scarab the last link was forged in the chain which held us. The timely arrest of Sal and her companions and the arrival of Margery's mother had naturally wrought sad havoc with the charges upon which we had all been brought into the station, and instead of feeling like criminals we all sat around and talked as if we were perfectly at home in a police station. The facts I am telling you somewhat in order all came out bit by bit and sometimes everybody talked at once, so it would be useless to try to put it down just the way it was said. When Nyoda finally got the floor, she told about the finding of the scarab and about our being taken into the McClure home and sent down to the ballroom where she later found the diamond necklace in her pocket. This tale created a profound sensation and now it was the turn of the detective who had brought in Gladys and those girls to look foolish. The police asked us the minutest details about the appearance of the servants who had admitted us. We told about the maid Carrie with the black eyes which were not the same height and one of the detectives nodded his head eagerly. "Black-Eyed Susan," he said. "She's one of the crowd we're after." He also recognized the footman with the blue vein in his nose and the chauffeur with the crooked fingers. We were praised highly for having observed those little things. Then it was that we found the solution of the mystery which had been tantalizing us since the night of the ball, and which we thought we had found when we believed Margery to be Sal. That diamond robbery had been skilfully planned as soon as the invitations for the ball were sent. Three of the crowd were in the employ of Mrs. McClure. It happened that these three did not know Sal and her intimates personally. They had been instructed that on the evening of the ball five young women would arrive in an automobile. They were to be admitted into the house and gotten into the ballroom. Carrie was to do the actual robbery, slipping the necklace into the pocket of one of the five. They would then leave the ballroom and ride away. Their automobile was to be kept in readiness at the door and the way made clear when the time came. The mark of identification of these five was to be a certain scarab which one would carry in her pocket. Naturally, when Nyoda had dropped the scarab out of her pocket that day the chauffeur had taken us for the five. The rest you know. The only hitch in their plans had been the maid Agnes. Carrie had an idea that she suspected her for some reason or other and was afraid she would think there was something strange in our being admitted into the house and made ready for the ball. She had therefore taken advantage of our drenched condition to pretend that we were merely seeking shelter from the storm. Then, in Agnes's hearing, she had come in and said that Mrs. McClure wanted us to attend the ball. That made everything regular in Agnes's eyes and apparently cleared Carrie of connivance. The person who had put the scarab into Nyoda's pocket had been still another member of the crowd who had gotten on the trail of the wrong ones. He was to drop it into the pocket of one of the five girls in motor costumes who would be at the Ft. Wayne hotel at a certain time. The real ones found themselves too closely watched by the police to attempt the diamond robbery, and abandoned it, heading straight for Chicago. Thus they went through Ft. Wayne a day before they were expected and did not stop. We came on the day they were expected and got away before he could give it to us. He, therefore, trailed us to Rochester and dropped it into Nyoda's pocket when she sat in the restaurant eating lunch. Of course, we did not find out everyone of these facts in the police station that day, although I am telling them as if we did. One of Sal's companions later turned state's evidence and it was from her statement that we got the whole story. When the scarab was produced everybody crowded around it curiously. It was one which was stolen from a private collection in Boston some time before, and occasional rumors had leaked out about it's being used as a sign of identification between members of the gang who were so scattered that they did not all know each other. The light-haired detective left in a great hurry to get the three servants in the McClure home. I might say right here, however, that he never got them, for they had fled on the finding of the necklace in the jardinier, fearing an investigation. There was so much that happened that afternoon in the police station that I really don't know what to tell first. I suppose the reader has been wondering all the time what has become of Margery Anderson and how it happened that her mother appeared on the scene just at that time. It seems that she was in Chicago on business and had gone to the office of her brother-in-law, Margery's uncle. He was out and she was waiting for him. While she was there she heard the stenographer take a message over the telephone to the effect that Margery was in the police station, and leaving the office hurriedly she had gone right down, determined to get there before Margery's uncle did. She found Margery as we already know, not in the company of the man and woman, as she had expected, but with us three. When Margery's uncle finally received the message he also hastened to the station, but it was too late. Margery was with her mother and he could not take her away again. Sahwah came over and stood by us, breaking into giggles every few minutes at the discomfiture of Mr. and Mrs. Watterson, in spite of her heroic efforts to keep a straight face. Her captors left the station very red and uncomfortable after their little business with the police was over. By the time all our stories were told we were good friends with the police lieutenant and all the officers standing around, who were inclined to be pleased with us because we had helped bring Sal and her crowd into their hands. This would be a feather in their cap, although, of course, we would get no official credit. Finally, there were only Nyoda and the seven Winnebagos left in the station, and when one of the officers offered to show us around Nyoda accepted the invitation gladly. She is always anxious that we should see as much as possible. Nyoda stood and talked to the matron a long time while we went on through, and when we came back she was invisible. We waited awhile, but she did not appear. "She's probably waiting for us out in the room where the fat one is," said Sahwah. "The fat one" was her disrespectful way of referring to the police chief. (Sahwah saw me writing this down and corrected me, saying that he wasn't the chief; he was a lieutenant, because we were in a branch station, but I have always thought of him as chief.) So we moved back toward the "main reception-room". "What's in there?" asked Sahwah, pointing to a closed door. Sahwah, like the Elephant's Child, was filled with 'satiable' curiosity. "It's the matron's room," answered the row of brass buttons, who was guiding us. "May we look in?" asked Sahwah. "May if you like," answered the row of buttons. Sahwah quietly opened the door and we looked in. We looked in and we kept on looking. In fact, we couldn't have taken our eyes away if we had wanted to. For there in that matron's office--the matron was not there--stood Nyoda, and there stood the Frog, _and he had his arms around her and he was kissing her_! By the time we had gotten our breath back again they were miles apart, nearly the whole width of the carpet runner, and the Frog had his goggles off and explanations were in full swing. The Frog was Sherry, Nyoda's camp serenader of the summer before. They had been corresponding ever since and he had been to see her several times, although we did not know it. They had been almost engaged at the beginning of the summer and then they quarreled and Nyoda sent him away. He was touring the country all by himself in a mood of great dejection and happened to see us in the dining-room at Toledo. He followed so he could be near her. His big goggles and the mustache he had grown during the summer were an effectual disguise. He had kept a respectful distance, afraid to make himself known, for fear Nyoda would order him off. So he had followed us and it was a merry chase we had led him, I must say. When the impudent young man had spoken to us in the hotel parlor at Wellsville he had promptly called him down for it and that had caused the uproar we had heard when we ran out to the garage. Later, he had led us out of the burning hotel to the back window where we made our escape. Then, while we were in the house dressing, he had gone to get the Glow-worm out of the threatened garage. He was driving it across the park to a place of safety when we had seen him and thought he was stealing the car. He wouldn't even take advantage of the great service he had rendered us in piloting us through the burning building to present himself to Nyoda. When we thought he was making off with Margery he was taking a girl to her home in the next town. It seemed that everything conspired to make the poor man appear the villain when he was in reality the hero. He thought he had lost us that night in the fog, but the next morning he turned around and there we were behind him. When Nyoda tried to overtake him, he fled. But he had followed us to Rochester and it had been he who had given us the address of the woman on Spring Street after Mrs. Moffat had turned us out. He had heard Nyoda arguing with Mrs. Moffat at the front door and thought it was about the price of the rooms; he did not know that we were in any such predicament as we were. He had found out that we intended going to Chicago and when we disappeared so suddenly from the town he thought we had gone there and had followed, but did not overtake us. Inside the city he had run into Light Fingered Sal and while charitably taking her to her home, as he supposed, she had relieved him of his watch and his money. He had notified the police and some time later had been summoned to the --th precinct station to recover his property. There he had seen Nyoda in the matrons' office. What happened between that time and the moment when Sahwah opened the door was never made public, but it was evidently highly satisfactory to him. There remains but one more tangled thread to straighten out. That concerns the trunks. We did not find out the truth until long after. Gladys's trunk had actually been put onto Mr. Hansen's car in Ft. Wayne, but he had lost it on the way and it was picked up by a man who went through Wellsville the night of the fire. In the excitement it was left in the garage, where it was found by the proprietor and sent us in answer to our description. The one which we had left in Wellsville was taken by the salesman of the Curline stuff and returned to Gladys's address several weeks later, rather battered on the outside, but still intact as to contents. Gladys was aghast when she thought of the trunk she had forcibly wrested from the man on the road. She left it there in the police station in the hope that the real owner would get it some day. That was the last we ever heard of it. Whether the man had actually stolen it, and who the initials GME of Cleveland referred to we never found out. The reason Gladys's second wire to us in Rochester was not received was that she had absent-mindedly written Rochester, N. Y., instead of Rochester, Ind. Well, as far as adventures are concerned, the tale of our trip is told. The rest was uneventful and the telling of it would be uninteresting, as it would consist mainly of descriptions of scenery and places, which the reader already knows by heart from other books. Sherry hinted strongly that a red car would be a great addition to our color scheme, but Nyoda firmly refused to let him come with us. She had enough to look after when she had us, she insisted, without trying to keep him out of mischief. Besides, ours was a strictly family party and he was not one of the family--yet. So he meekly continued his journey to Denver as originally planned, while we went south to Louisville. Then once more we followed "along the road that leads the way," the yellow road unwinding like a ribbon under our wheels, but this time we didn't build any Rain Jinx before we started. THE END. 
10688	----	Proofreaders The Camp Fire Girls At Camp Keewaydin Or, Down Paddles By Hildegard G. Frey CHAPTER I ON THE WAY "All aboard!" The hoarse voice of Captain MacLaren boomed out like a fog horn, waking a clatter of echoes among the tall cliffs on the opposite shore of the river, and sending the seventy-five girls on the dock all skurrying for the _Carribou's_ gangplank at once. "Hurry up, Hinpoha! We're getting left behind." Agony strained forward on the suitcase she was helping Hinpoha to carry down the hill and endeavored to catch up with the crowd, a proceeding which she soon acknowledged to be impossible, for Hinpoha, rendered breathless by the hasty scramble from the train, lagged farther behind with every step. "I--can't--go--any--faster!" she panted, and abruptly let go of her end of the suitcase to fan herself with her hand. "What's the use of rushing so, anyway?" she demanded plaintively. "They won't go off without us; they can see us coming down the hill. It wasn't _my_ fault that my camera got wedged under the seat and made us be the last ones off the train," she continued, "and I'm not going to run down this hill and go sprawling, like I did in the elevator yesterday. Are the other girls on already?" she asked, searching the crowd below with her eyes for a sight of the other Winnebagos. "Sahwah and Oh-Pshaw are on the boat already," replied Agony, "and Gladys and Migwan are just getting on. I don't see Katherine anywhere, however. Oh, yes," she exclaimed, "there she is down there in the crowd. What are they all laughing at, I wonder? Oh, look, Katherine's suitcase has come open, and all her things are spilled out on the dock. I thought it would be strange if she made the trip without some kind of a mishap. Oh, dear, did you ever see anyone so funny as Katherine?" "Well," observed Hinpoha in a tone of relief, "we don't have to hurry now. It'll take them at least ten minutes to get that suitcase shut again. I know, because I helped Katherine pack. I had to sit on it with all my might to close it." "_All Aboard_!" came the second warning roar from Captain MacLaren, accompanied by a deafening blast of the _Carribou's_ whistle. Agony picked up Hinpoha's suitcase in one hand and her own in the other, and with an urgent "Come on!" made a dash down the remainder of the hill and landed breathless at the gangplank of the waiting steamer just as the engine began to quiver into motion. Hinpoha was just behind her, and Katherine trod closely upon Hinpoha's heels, carrying her still unclosed suitcase out before her like a tray, to keep its contents from spilling out. Migwan was waiting for them at the head of the gangplank. "We've saved a place for you up in the bow," she said. "Hurry up, we're having _such_ a time holding it for you. The boat is simply _packed_." The four girls picked their way through a litter of suitcases, paddles, cameras, tennis rackets and musical instruments that covered every inch of deck space between the chairs, and joined the other Winnebagos in their place in the bow. Hinpoha sank down gratefully upon a deck chair that Oh-Pshaw had obligingly been holding for her and Agony disposed herself upon a pile of suitcases, from which vantage point she could get a good look at the crowd. The _Carribou_ had turned her nose about and was gliding smoothly upstream, following the random curvings of the lazy Onawanda as it wound through the low-lying, wooded hills of the Shenandawah country, singing a carefree wanderer's song as it flowed. It was a glorious, balmy day in late June, dazzlingly blue and white, sparklingly golden. It was the _Carribou's_ big day of the year, that last day of June. On all other days she made her run demurely from Lower Falls Station to Upper Falls, carrying freight and a handful of passengers on each trip; but every year on that last day of June freight and ordinary passengers stood aside, for the _Carribou_ was chartered to carry the girls of Camp Keewaydin to their summer hunting grounds. The Winnebagos looked around with interest at the girls who were to be their companions for the summer, all as yet total strangers to them. Girls of every shape and size, of every shade of complexion, of every age between sixteen and twenty. A number were apparently "old girls," who had been at Camp Keewaydin in former years; they flocked together in the bow right behind the Winnebagos, chattering animatedly, singing snatches of camp songs, and uttering conjectures in regard to such things as whether they would be in the Alley or the Avenue; and who was going to be councilor in All Saints this year. A number of these old girls were grouped in an adoring attitude around a pretty young woman who talked constantly in an animated tone, and at intervals strummed on a ukulele. Continual cries of "Pom-pom!" rose on the air from the circle surrounding her. It was "_Dear_ Pom-pom," "Pom-pom, you angel," "O _darling_ Pom-pom! Can't you fix it so that I can be in your tent this year?" and much more in the same strain. "Pom-pom is holding her court again this year, I see," said a biting voice just behind Agony. Agony maneuvered herself around on her perch and glanced down at the speaker. She was a decidedly plain girl with a thick nose and a wide mouth set in a grim line above an extraordinarily heavy chin. Her face was turned partly away as she spoke to the girl next to her, but Agony caught a glimpse of the sarcastic expression which informed her features, and a little chill of dislike went through her. Agony was extremely susceptible to first impressions of people. The girl addressed made an inaudible reply and the first girl continued in low but emphatic tones, "Well, you won't catch me fetching and carrying for her and playing the part of the adoring slave, I can tell you. I think it's perfectly silly, the way the girls all get a crush on her." There was a pause, and then the other girl asked, somewhat hastily, "Who do you suppose will get the Buffalo Robe this year?" "Oh, Mary Sylvester will, of course," came the reply. "She nearly got it last year. Now that Peggy Atterbury isn't coming back Mary'll be the most popular girl in camp without a doubt. Look at her over there, trying to be sweet to Pom-pom." "Isn't she stunning in that coral silk sweater?" murmured the other girl. "She has too much color to wear that shade of pink," returned the sarcastic one. Agony's eyes traveled over to the group surrounding Pom-pom and rested upon the girl who, next to Pom-pom herself, was the center of the group. She was very much like Agony herself, with intensely black hair, snow white forehead and richly red lips, though a little slighter in build and somewhat taller. A frank friendliness beamed from her clear dark eyes and her smile was warm and sincere. Agony felt drawn to her and jealous of her at the same time. _The most popular girl in camp_. That was the title Agony coveted with all her soul. To be prominent; to be popular, was Agony's chief aim in life; and to be pointed out in a crowd as _the_ most popular girl seemed the one thing in the world most desirable to her. She, too, would be prominent and popular, she resolved; she, too, would be pointed out in the crowd. The sarcastic voice again broke in upon her reverie. "Have you seen the hippopotamus over there in the bow? I should think a girl would be ashamed to get that stout." Agony glanced apprehensively at Hinpoha, who was staring straight out over the water, but whose crimson face betrayed only too plainly that she had heard the remark. The rest of the Winnebagos had undoubtedly heard it also, as well as a number of others rubbing elbows with them, for a sudden embarrassed silence fell over that corner of the boat and a dozen pairs of eyes glanced from Hinpoha to the speaker, who, not one whit abashed, continued to stare scornfully at the object of her ridicule. "Of all the bad manners!" said Agony to Sahwah in an indignant undertone, which, with the characteristic penetrating quality of Agony's voice, carried perfectly to the ears of the girl behind her. A light, satirical laugh was the reply. Agony turned to bestow a withering glance upon this rude creature, and met a pair of greenish tan eyes bent upon her with an expression of cool mockery. In the instant that their eyes met there sprang up between them one of those sudden antagonisms that are characteristic of very positive natures; the two hated each other cordially at first sight, before they had ever spoken a word to each other. Like fencers' swords their glances crossed and fell apart, and each girl turned her back pointedly upon the other. Broken threads of conversation were picked up by the group around them, shouts of laughter came from the group surrounding Pom-pom, who was reciting a funny poem, and the tense moment passed. The other Winnebagos forgot the incident and gave themselves over to enjoyment of the beautiful scene which was unrolling before their eyes as the _Carribou_ bore them further and further into the wilds; great dark stretches of woodland brooding in silence on the hillsides; an occasional glimpse of a far distant mountain peak wreathed in mist, and near by many a merry little stream romping down a hillside into the mother arms of the Onawanda. Gradually the shores had drawn close together until the travelers could look into the cool depths of the forests past which they were gliding, and could hear the calling of the wild birds in their leafy sanctuary. Just past a long stretch of woods which Hinpoha thought might be enchanted, because the trees stood so stiffly straight, the _Carribou_ rounded a bend, and there flashed into sight an irregular row of white tents scattered among the pines on a rise of ground some hundred or more feet back from the river. "There's camp," Sahwah tried to say to Hinpoha, but her voice was drowned in the shriek of ecstasy which rose from the old campers. Handkerchiefs waved wildly; paddles smote the deck with deafening thumps; cheer after cheer rolled up, accompanied by the loud tooting of the _Carribou's_ whistle. Captain MacLaren always joined in the racket of arrival as heartily as the girls themselves, taking delight in seeing how much noise he could coax from the throat of his steam siren. Amid the racket the little vessel nosed her way up alongside a wooden dock, and before she was fairly fast the younger members of last year's delegation had leapt over the rail and were scurrying up the path. The older ones followed more sedately, having stopped to pick up their luggage, and to greet the camp directors who stood on the dock with welcoming hands outstretched. Last of all came the new girls, looking about them inquiringly, and already beginning to fall in love with the place. CHAPTER II GETTING SETTLED Along the bluff overlooking the river, and half buried in the pine trees, stretched a long, low, rustic building, the pillars of whose wide piazza were made of tree trunks with the bark left on. A huge chimney built of cobblestones almost covered the one end. The great pines hovered over it protectingly; their branches caressing its roof as they waved gently to and fro in the light breeze. On the peak of one of its gables a little song sparrow, head tilted back and body a-tremble, trilled forth an ecstasy of song. "Isn't it be-yoo-tiful?" sighed Hinpoha, her artistic soul delighting in the lovely scene before her. "I wonder what that house is for?" "I don't know," replied Sahwah, equally enchanted. "There's another house behind it, farther up on the hill." This second house was much larger than the bungalow overhanging the water's edge; it, too, was built in rustic fashion, with tree-trunks for porch posts; it was long and rambling, and had an additional story at the back, where the hill sloped away. It was into this latter house that the crowd of girls was pouring, and the Winnebagos, following the others, found themselves in a large dining room, open on three sides to the veranda, and screened all around the open space. On the fourth side was an enormous fireplace built of stones like those they had seen in the chimney of the other house. Over its wide stone shelf were the words CAMP KEEWAYDIN traced in small, glistening blue pebbles in a cement panel. Although the day was hot, a small fire of paper and pine knots blazed on the hearth, crackling a cheery welcome to the newcomers as they entered. In the center of the room two long tables and a smaller one were set for dinner, and from the regions below came the appetizing odor of meat cooking, accompanied by the portentous clatter of an egg beater. There was apparently an attic loft above the dining-room, for next to the chimney a square opening showed in the raftered ceiling, with a ladder leading up through it, fastened against the wall below. Up this ladder a dozen or more of the younger girls scrambled as soon as they entered the room; laughing, shrieking, tumbling over each other in their haste; and after a moment of thumping and bouncing about, down they all came dancing, clad in middies and bloomers, and raced, whooping like Indians, down the path which led to the tents. "Are we supposed to get into our bloomers right away?" Oh-Pshaw whispered to Agony. "Ours are in the trunk, and it hasn't been brought up yet." "I don't believe we are," Agony returned, watching Mary Sylvester, who stood talking to Pom-pom in the doorway of the Camp Director's office. "None of the older girls are doing it; just the youngsters." Just then Mrs. Grayson, the Camp Director's wife, came out of the office and announced that dinner would be served immediately, after which the tent assignments would be made. The Winnebagos found themselves seated in a row down the side of one of the long tables, being served by a jolly-looking, muscular-armed councilor, who turned out to be the Camp Director's daughter, and who had her section of the table feeling at home in no time. "Seven of you from one city!" she remarked to the Winnebagos, when she had called the roll of "native heaths," as she put it. "That's one of the largest delegations we have here. You all look like star campers, too," she added, sizing them up shrewdly. "Seven stars!" she repeated, evidently pleased with her simile. "We'll have to call you the Pleiades. We already have the Nine Muses from New York, the Twelve Apostles from Boston, the Heavenly Twins from Chicago and the Three Graces from Minneapolis, beside the Lone Wolf from Labrador, the Kangaroo from Australia, and the Elephant's Child from India." "Oh, how delicious!" cried Sahwah delightedly. "Do you really mean that there are girls here from Australia and India?" Sahwah set down her water glass and gazed incredulously at Miss Judith. Miss Judith nodded over the pudding she was dishing up. "The Kangaroo and the Lone Wolf are councilors," she replied, "but the Elephant's Child is a girl, the daughter of a missionary to India. She goes to boarding school here in America in the winter time, and always spends her summers at our camp. That is she, sitting at the end of the other table, next to mother." The Winnebagos glanced with quick interest to see what the girl from India might be like, and somewhat to their surprise saw that she was no different from the others. They recognized her as one of the younger girls who had been hanging over Pom-pom on the boat. "Oh--she!" breathed Agony. "What is her name?" asked Hinpoha, feeling immensely drawn to the girl, not because she came from India, but because she was even stouter than herself. "Her name is Bengal Virden," replied Miss Judith. "Bengal?" repeated Sahwah. "What an odd name. I suppose she was born in Bengal?" "Yes, she was born there," replied Miss Judith. "She is a rather odd child," she continued, "but an all round good sport. Her mother died when she was small and she was brought up by her father until she was old enough to be sent to America, and since then she has divided her time between boarding schools and summer camps. She has a very affectionate nature, and gets tremendous crushes on the people she likes. Last summer it was Pom-pom, and she nearly wore her out with her adoration, although Pom-pom likes that sort of thing." "Who is Pom-pom?" asked Agony curiously. "I have heard her name mentioned so many times." "Pom-pom is our dancing teacher," replied Miss Judith. "She is the pretty councilor over there at the lower end of mother's table. All the girls get violent crushes on her," she continued, looking the Winnebagos over with a quizzical eye, as if to say that it would only be a short time before they, too, would be lying at Pom-pom's feet, another band of adoring slaves. Without knowing why, Agony suddenly felt unaccountably foolish under Miss Judith's keen glance, and taking her eyes from Pom-pom, she let them rove leisurely over the long line of girls at her own table. "Who is the girl sitting third from the end on this side?" she asked, indicating the heavy-jawed individual who had made the impolite remark on the boat about Hinpoha, and who had just now pushed back her pudding dish with an emphatic movement after tasting one spoonful, and had turned to her neighbor with a remark which made the one addressed glance uncomfortably toward the councilor who was serving that section. Miss Judith followed Agony's glance. "That," she replied in a non-committal tone, "is Jane Pratt. Will anyone have any more pudding?" The pudding was delicious--chocolate with custard sauce--and Miss Judith was immediately busy refilling a half dozen dishes all proffered her at once. Agony made a mental note that Miss Judith had made no comment whatever upon Jane Pratt, although she had evidently been in camp the year before, and she drew her own conclusions about Jane's popularity. "Who is Mary Sylvester?" Agony asked presently. "Mary Sylvester," repeated Miss Judith in a tone which caught the attention of all the Winnebagos, it was so full of affection. "Mary Sylvester is the salt of the earth," Miss Judith continued warmly. "She's the brightest, loveliest, most kind-hearted girl I've ever met, and I've met a good many. She can't help being popular; she's as jolly as she is pretty, and as unassuming as she is talented. For an all around good camper 'we will never see her equal, though we search the whole world through,' as the camp song runs." Agony looked over to where Mary Sylvester sat, the center of an animated group, and yearned with all her heart to be so prominent and so much noticed. "I heard someone on the boat say that she would probably get the Buffalo Robe this year; that she had almost gotten it last year," continued Agony. "What is the Buffalo Robe, please?" "The Buffalo Robe," replied Miss Judith, "is a large leather skin upon which the chief events of each camping season are painted in colors, and at the end of the summer it goes to the girl who is voted the most popular. She keeps it through the winter and returns it to us when camp opens the next year." "Oh-h," breathed Agony, mightily interested. "And who got it last year?" "Peggy Atterbury," said Miss Judith. "You'll hear all about her before very long. All the old girls are going to tie black ribbons on their tent poles tomorrow morning because she isn't coming back this year. She was another rare spirit like Mary Sylvester, only a bit more prominent, because she saved a girl from drowning one day." Agony's heart swelled with ambition and desire as she listened to Miss Judith telling about the Buffalo Robe. A single consuming desire burned in her soul--to win that Buffalo Robe. Nothing else mattered now; no other laurel she might possibly win held out any attraction; she must carry off the great honor. She would show Nyoda what a great quality of leadership she possessed; there would be no question of Nyoda's making her a Torch Bearer when she came home with the Buffalo Robe. Thus her imagination soared until she pictured herself laying the significant trophy at Nyoda's feet and heard Nyoda's words of congratulation. A sudden doubt assailed her in the midst of her dream. "Do new girls ever win the Buffalo Robe?" she asked in a voice which she tried hard to make sound disinterested. "Yes, certainly," replied Miss Judith. "Peggy Atterbury was a new girl last year, and the girl who won it the year before last was a new girl also." Her doubt thus removed, Agony returned to her pleasant day dream with greater longing than ever. The conversation at their table was interrupted by shouts from the next group. "Oh, Miss Judy, please, please, can't we live in the Alley?" Another group farther down the table took up the cry, and the room echoed with clamorous requests to live either "in the Alley" or "on the Avenue." The Elephant's Child came in at the end with a fervent plea: "Please, can't I be in Pom-pom's tent _this_ year?" "Tent lists are all made out," replied Miss Judith blandly. "You'll all find out in a few moments where you're to be." She sat calmly amid the buzz of excited speculation. "What do they mean by living 'in the Alley'?" asked Sahwah curiously. "There are two rows of tents," replied Miss Judith. "The first one is called the Avenue and the second one the Alley. This end of camp, where the bungalows are, is known as the Heights, and the other end the Flats. There is always a great rivalry in camp between the dwellers in the Alley and the dwellers on the Avenue, and the two compete for the championship in sports." "Oh, how jolly!" cried Sahwah eagerly. "Where are we to be?" she continued, filled with a sudden burning desire to live in the Alley. "You'll know soon," said Miss Judith, with another one of her quizzical smiles, and with that the Winnebagos had to be content. In a few moments dinner was finished and Mrs. Grayson rose and read the tent assignments. The tents all had names, it appeared; there was Bedlam and Avernus, Jabberwocky, Hornets, Nevermore, Gibraltar, Tamaracks, Fairview, Woodpeckers, Ravens, All Saints, Aloha, and a number of others which the Winnebagos could not remember at one hearing. Three girls and one councilor were assigned to each tent. Sahwah and Agony and Hinpoha heard themselves called to go to Gitchee-Gummee; Gladys and Migwan were put with Bengal Virden, the Elephant's Child from India, into a tent called Ponemah; while Katherine and Oh-Pshaw were assigned, without any tentmate, to "Bedlam." The Winnebagos smiled involuntarily when this last assignment was read, knowing how well Katherine's erratic nature befitted the name of the place. Gitchee-Gummee, Sahwah found to her delight, was the tent nearest the woods; next to it, but on the other side of a small gully, spanned by a rustic bridge, came Aloha, Pom-pom's tent; on the other side of Aloha stood Ponemah, in the shadow of twin pines of immense height; while Bedlam was farther along in the same row, just beyond Avernus. Avernus, the Winnebagos noticed to their amusement, was a tent pitched in a deep hollow, the approach to which was a rocky passage down a steep hillside, strikingly suggestive of the classical entrance way to the nether regions. Only the ridgepole of Avernus was visible from the level upon which Bedlam stood, all the rest of it being hidden by the high rocks which surround it. Bedlam, on the other hand, was built on a height, and commanded a view of nearly all the other tents, being itself a conspicuous object in the landscape. To their secret joy, the Winnebagos saw that their tents were all in the back row, in the Alley. Agony, especially, was exultant, since she saw that Mary Sylvester was also in the Alley. Mary was in Aloha, Pom-pom's tent, right next door, and Agony had a feeling that wherever Mary Sylvester was, there would be the center of things, and being right next door might have its advantages. "We're going to have Miss Judith for a councilor," remarked Sahwah joyfully, as she dumped her armful of blankets down on one of the beds--the one on the side toward the woods. "I wonder which bed she would like," said Hinpoha, standing irresolutely in the center of the floor with her armful of bedding. "Here she comes now," announced Agony. "Let's wait and ask her." "Well, she wouldn't want _this_ one anyway," remarked Sahwah, as she straightened the mattress on her bed preparatory to spreading the sheets, "it sags in the middle like everything. I didn't take the best one if I did take first choice"--a fact which was apparent to all. Bedlam's councilor, who had been announced as Miss Armstrong, from Australia, had already staked her claim when Katherine and Oh-Pshaw arrived, although she herself was nowhere in sight. One of the beds was made up and covered with a blanket of such dazzling gorgeousness that the two girls were almost blinded, and after one look turned their eyes outdoors for relief. All colors of the rainbow ran riot in that blanket, each one trying to outdo the others in brilliancy and intensity, until the effect was a veritable Vesuvius eruption of infernal splendors. "Think of having to live with _that_!" exclaimed Oh-Pshaw tragically. "My eyesight will be ruined in one day. Imagine the effect after I get out my pink and gray one." "And my lavender one!" added Katherine. "We won't ever dare roll up the sides of our tent," continued Oh-Pshaw. "We'll look like a beacon fire, up here on this hill. Our tent is visible from the whole camp." "Cheer up," said Katherine philosophically, "maybe there are others just as bad. Anyway, let's not act as if we minded; it might make Miss Armstrong feel badly. She probably thinks it's handsome, or she wouldn't have it. Coming from Australia that way, she may have quite savage tastes." "I wonder what she'll be like," ruminated Oh-Pshaw, standing on one foot to tie the sneaker she had just substituted for her high traveling shoe. As if in answer to her wondering, a clear, far-carrying call came to the ears of both girls at that moment. "Coo-_ee_! Coo-_ee_! Coo-_ee_!" "What is that?" asked Oh-Pshaw, pausing in her shoe lacing with one foot poised airily in space. The call was repeated just outside their tent door, and then trailed off into silence. "Is that someone calling to us?" asked Katherine, hurriedly pulling her middy on over her head and throwing back the tent flap. No one was in sight outside. "Must have been for someone else," she reported, looking right and left along the pathway. "There's nobody out here." She came back into the tent and began arranging her small possessions on the shelf which swung overhead. "How I'm ever going to keep all my things on one-third of this shelf is more--" she began, but her speech ended in a startled gasp, for the floor of the tent suddenly heaved up in the center, sending bottles, brushes and boxes tumbling in all directions. The board which had thus heaved up so miraculously continued to rise at one end, and underneath it a pair of long, lean, powerful-looking arms came into view, followed by a head and a pair of shoulders. Katherine and Oh-Pshaw sat petrified at the apparition. "Did I scare you, girls?" asked a deep, strong voice, and the apparition looked gravely from one to the other. It was a dark-skinned face, bronzed by wind and weather to a coppery, Indian-like tinge, and the hair which framed it was coarse and black. Only the head and shoulders of the apparition were visible beside the arms, the rest being concealed in the depths underneath the tent, but the breadth of those shoulders indicated clearly what might be expected in the way of a body. After a moment of roving back and forth between the two girls, the dark eyes under the heavy eyebrows fastened themselves upon Katherine with a mournful intensity of gaze that held her spellbound, speechless. After a full moment's scrutiny the dark eyes dropped, and the apparition, using her arms as levers, raised herself to the level of the floor and stood up. She was taller even than they had expected from the breadth of her shoulders; in fact, she seemed taller than the tent itself. Katherine, who up until that moment had considered herself tall, felt like a pigmy beside her, or, as she expressed it, "like Carver Hill suddenly set down beside one of the Alps." Never had she seen such a monumental young woman; such suggestion of strength and vigor contained in a feminine frame. Oh-Pshaw looked timidly at the human Colossus standing in the middle of the tent, and inquired meekly, "Are you Miss Armstrong? Are you our Councilor?" "I am," replied the newcomer gravely, replacing the board in the floor with a nonchalance which conveyed the impression that coming up through floors was her usual manner of entering places. "Why did you come in that way?" burst out Katherine, unable to contain her curiosity any longer. "Oh, I just happened to be under the tent," replied Miss Armstrong, speaking in a drawling voice with a marked English accent, "looking for the broom, when I spied that loose board and thought I'd come in that way. It was less trouble than coming out and going around to the steps." "Less trouble," echoed Katherine. "I should think it would have been more trouble raising that heavy board with my suitcase standing on it." "Was your suitcase on it?" inquired Miss Armstrong casually. "I didn't notice." "Didn't notice!" repeated Katherine in astonishment. "It weighs thirty pounds." "I weigh two hundred and thirty," returned Miss Armstrong conversationally. "You do!" exclaimed Katherine in amazement. "You certainly don't look it." Indeed, it seemed incredible that Miss Armstrong, tall as she was, could possibly weigh so much, for she looked lean and gaunt as a wolf hound. "You must be awfully strong, to have raised that board," Katherine continued, squinting at the muscular brown arms, which seemed solid as iron. For answer Miss Armstrong took a step forward, picked Katherine up as if she had been a feather, threw her over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes, held her there for a moment head downward, and then swung her up and set her lightly on the hanging shelf, while Oh-Pshaw looked on round-eyed and open-mouthed with astonishment. Just then a shadow appeared in the doorway, and Katherine looked down to see a shrinking little figure with pipestem legs standing on the top step. "Hello!" Katherine called gaily, from her airy perch. "Are you our neighbor from Avernus? Do you want anything?" she added, for the girl was swallowing nervously, and seemed to be on the verge of making a request. "Will somebody please show me how to make a bed?" faltered the visitor in a thin, piping voice. "It isn't made, and I don't know how to do it." "Daggers and dirks!" exploded Katherine, nearly falling off the shelf under the stress of her emotion. "What's the matter with the rest of the folks in Avernus--can't they make beds either?" asked Miss Armstrong, surveying the wisp of a girl in the doorway with an intent, solemn gaze that sent her into a tremble of embarrassment. "My 'tenty' hasn't come yet," she faltered in reply. "Who's your councilor?" "I don't know; she isn't there." The voice broke on the last words, and the blue eyes overflowed with tears. Katherine leaped from the shelf to the bed and down to the floor. "I'll come over and help you make your bed," she said kindly. "All right," said Miss Armstrong, nodding gravely. "You go over with her and I'll find out who's councilor in Avernus and send her around." To herself she added, when the other two were out of earshot, "Baby's away from it's mother for the first time, and it's homesick." "Poor thing," said Oh-Pshaw, who had overheard Miss Armstrong's remark. "She'll get over it," replied Miss Armstrong prophetically. If Miss Armstrong was a novelty to the tenants of Bedlam, the councilor in Ponemah also seemed an odd character to the three girls she was to chaperon--only she was a much less agreeable surprise. She was a stout, fussy woman of about forty with thick eye-glasses which pinched the corners of her eyes into a strained expression. She greeted the girls briefly when they presented themselves to her, and in the next breath began giving orders about the arrangement of the tent. The beds must stand thus and so; the washstand must be on the other side from where it was; the mirror must stay on this side. And she must have half of the swinging shelf for her own; she could not possibly do with less; the others could get along as best they might with what was left. "We're supposed to divide the shelf up equally," announced Bengal Virden, who had begun to look upon Miss Peckham--that was her name--with extreme disapproval from the moment of their introduction. Bengal was a girl whose every feeling was written plainly upon her face; she could not mask her emotions under an inscrutable countenance. Her dislike of Miss Peckham was so evident that Migwan and Gladys had expected an outbreak before this; but Bengal had merely stood scowling while the beds were being moved about. With the episode of the swinging shelf, however, she flared into open defiance. "We're all to have an equal share of the shelf," she repeated. "Nonsense," replied Miss Peckham in an emphatic tone. "I'm a councilor and I need more space." Bengal promptly burst into tears. "I want to be in Pom-pom's tent!" she wailed, and fled from the scene, to throw herself upon Pom-pom in the next tent and pour out her tale of woe. Migwan and Gladys looked at each other rather soberly as they went out to fill their water pitcher. "What a strange person to have as councilor," ventured Gladys. "I thought councilors at camps were always as sweet as they could be. Miss Peckham looks as though she could be horrid without half trying." "Maybe it's just her way, though," replied Migwan good temperedly. "She may be very nice inside after we get to know her. She's probably never been a councilor before, and thinks she must show her authority." "Authority!" cried Gladys. "But we're not babies; we're grown up. I'm afraid she's not going to be a very agreeable proctor." "Oh, well," replied Migwan gently, "let's make the best of her and have a good time anyway. We mustn't let her spoil our fun for us. We'll probably find something to like in her before long." "I wish I had your angelic disposition," sighed Gladys, "but I just can't like people when they rub me the wrong way, and Miss Peckham does that to me." "There's going to be trouble with the Elephant's Child," remarked Migwan soberly. "She has already taken a strong dislike to Miss Peckham, and she is still childish enough to show it." "Yes, I'm afraid there will be trouble between Bengal and Miss Peckham," echoed Gladys, "and we'll be constantly called upon to make peace. It's a role I'm not anxious for." "Let's not worry about it beforehand," said Migwan, charmed into a blissful attitude of mind toward the whole world by the sheer beauty of the scene that unrolled before her. The river, tinged by the long rays of the late afternoon sun, gleamed like a river of living gold, blinding her eyes and setting her to dreaming of magic seas and far countries. She stood very still for many minutes, lost in golden fancies, until Gladys took her gently by the arm. "Come, Migwan, are you going to day-dream here forever? There is the spring we are looking for, just at the end of that little path." Migwan came slowly out of her reverie and followed Gladys down the hill to the spring. "It's all so beautiful," she sighed in ecstasy, turning to look back once more at the shimmering water, "it just makes me _ache_. It makes everything unworthy in me want to crawl away and lose itself, while everything good in me wants to sing. Don't you feel that way about it, too?" "Something like that," replied Gladys softly. "When Nature is so lovely, it makes me want to be lovely, too, to match. I don't see how anyone could ever be angry here, or selfish, or mean. It's just like being made over, with all the bad left out." "It does seem that way," replied Migwan. "Here is the spring!" cried both girls in unison, as they reached the end of the path and came upon a deep, rocky basin, filled with crystal clear water that gushed out from the rock above their heads, trickling down through ferns to be caught and held in the pool below, so still and shining that it reflected the faces of the two girls like a mirror. "Oh-h!" breathed Migwan in rapture, sinking down among the ferns and lilies that bordered the spring and dabbling her fingers in the limpid water, "I feel just like a wood-nymph, or a naiad, or whatever those folks were that lived by the springs and fountains in the Greek mythology." Withdrawing her fingers from the water and clasping her hands loosely around her knees, she began to recite idly: "Dian white-armed has given me this cool shrine, Deep in the bosom of a wood of pine; The silver sparkling showers That hive me in, the flowers That prink my fountain's brim, are hers and mine; And when the days are mild and fair, And grass is springing, buds are blowing, Sweet it is, 'mid waters flowing, Here to sit and know no care, 'Mid the waters flowing, flowing, flowing, Combing my yellow, yellow hair." "That poem must have been written about this very place," she added, dreamily gazing into the shadowy depths of the pool beside her. "Who wrote it?" inquired Gladys. "I've forgotten," replied Migwan. "I learned it once in Literature, a long time ago." Both girls were silent, gazing meditatively into the pool, like _ gazing into a future-revealing crystal, each absorbed in her own day dreams. They were startled by the sound of a clear, musical piping, coming apparently from the tangle of bushes behind them. Now faint, now louder, it swelled and died away on the breeze, now fairly startling in its joyousness, now plaintive as the wind sighing among the reeds in some lonely spot after nightfall; alluring, thrilling, mocking by turns; elusive as the strains of fairy pipers; utterly ravishing in its sweetness. Migwan and Gladys lifted their heads and looked at each other in wonder. "Pipes of Pan!" exclaimed Migwan, and both girls glanced around, half expecting to see the graceful form of a faun gliding toward them among the trees. Nothing was to be seen, but the piping went on, merrily as before, rising, falling, swelling, dying away in the distance, breaking out again at near hand. "Oh, what _is_ it?" cried Gladys. "Is it a bird?" "It can't be a bird," replied Migwan, "it's a _tune--sort_ of a tune. No, I wouldn't exactly call it a tune, either, but it's different from a bird call. It sounds like pipes--fairy pipes--Pipes of Pan. Oh-h-h! Just _listen_! What _can_ it be?" The clear tones had leaped a full octave, and with a mingled sound of pipes and flutes went trilling deliriously on a high note until the listeners held their breath with delight. Then abruptly the piping stopped, ending in a queer, unfinished way that tantalized their ears for many minutes afterward, and held them motionless, spellbound, waiting for the strain to be resumed. They listened in vain; the mysterious piper called no more. Soon afterward a bugle pealed forth, sounding the mess call, and coming to earth with a start, the two girls raced back to Ponemah with their water pitcher and then hastened on into the dining room, where the campers, now all clad in regulation blue bloomers and white middies, were already assembled. CHAPTER III THE GREAT MYSTERY SOUND After supper the camp was summoned to the smaller bungalow for first assembly and Sing-Out. Over the wide entrance doorway of this picturesque building among the trees was painted in large ornamental letters: MATEKA THE HOUSE OF JOYOUS LEARNING This house, Dr. Grayson explained, was the place where all the craft work was to be done. The light from the lamps fell upon beautifully decorated board walls; wood-blocked curtains, quaint rustic benches and seats made from logs with the bark left on; flower-holders fashioned of birch bark; candlesticks of hammered brass, silver and copper; book covers of beaded leather; vases and bowls of glazed clay. At one end of the long room stood a piano; at the other end was the huge cobblestone fireplace whose chimney the Winnebagos had noticed from the outside; in it a fire was laid ready for lighting. The seventy-five girls filed in and seated themselves on the floor, looking expectantly at Dr. Grayson, who stood before the fireplace. He was an imposing figure as he stood there, a man over six feet tall, with a great head of white hair like a lion's mane, which, emphasizing the ruddy complexion and clear blue eyes, contrived to make him look youthful instead of old. In a beautiful speech, full of both wisdom and humor, he explained the ideals of camp life, and heartily welcomed the group before him into the family circle of Camp Keewaydin. He spoke of the girls who in past years had stood out from the others on account of their superior camp spirit, and led up to the subject of the Buffalo Robe, which at the end of the season would be awarded to the one who should be voted by her fellow campers as the most popular girl. A solemn hush fell over the assembly as he spoke, and all eyes were fastened upon the Buffalo Robe, hanging over the fireplace. Agony's heart gave a leap at the sight of the beautiful trophy, and then sank as she saw innumerable eyes turn to rest upon Mary Sylvester, sitting on a low stool at Dr. Grayson's feet, gazing up at him with a look of worship in her expressive eyes. When he had finished speaking of the Buffalo Robe Dr. Grayson announced that the first fire of the season was to be lighted in the House of Joyous Learning to dedicate it to this year's group of campers, and kneeling down on the hearth, he touched off the faggots laid ready in the fireplace, and the flames, leaping and snapping, rose up the chimney, sending a brilliant glow over the room, and causing the most homesick youngster to brighten up and feel immensely cheered. The fire lighted, and the House of Joyous Learning dedicated to its present occupants, Dr. Grayson proceeded to introduce the camp leaders and councilors. Mrs. Grayson came first, as Camp Mother and Chief Councilor. She was a large woman, and seemed capable of mothering the whole world as she sat before the hearth, beaming down upon the girls clustered around her on the floor, and there was already a note of genuine affection in the voices of the new girls as they joined in the cheer which the old girls started in honor of the Camp Mother. The cheer was not yet finished when there was a sound of footsteps on the porch outside and a new girl stood in the doorway. She carried a blanket over one arm and held a small traveling bag in her hand. Her face was flushed with exertion and her chest heaved as she stood there looking inquiringly about the room with merry eyes that seemed to be delighted with everything they looked upon. Her face was round; her little button mouth was round; the comical stub of a nose which perched above it gave the effect of being round, too, while the deep dimple that indented her chin was very, _very_ round. Two still deeper dimples lurked in her cheeks, each one a silent chuckle, and the freckles that clustered thickly over her features all seemed to twinkle with a separate and individual hilarity. An involuntary smile spread over the faces inside the bungalow as they looked at the newcomer, and one of the younger girls laughed aloud. That was the signal for a general laugh, and for a moment the room rang, and the strange girl in the doorway joined in heartily, and Dr. Grayson laughed, too, and everybody felt "wound up" and hilarious. Mrs. Grayson left her chair by the hearth and made her way through the group of girls on the floor to the newcomer, holding out her hand in welcome. "You must be Jean Lawrence," she said, drawing the girl into the room. "You were to arrive by automobile at Green's Landing this noon, were you not, and come across the river in the mail boat? I have been wondering why you did not arrive on that boat." "Our automobile broke down on that road that runs through the long woods beyond Green's Landing," replied Jean, "and when father found it could not be fixed on the road he decided to go back to the last town we had passed through and spend the night there; so I had to walk to Green's Landing. It was nearly nine miles and it took me all afternoon to get there. The mail boat had, of course, gone long ago, but a nice old grandpa man brought me over in a row boat." "You walked nine miles to Green's Landing!" exclaimed Mrs. Grayson in astonishment. "But, my dear, why didn't you wait and let your father drive you down in the morning?" "Oh, I wouldn't miss a single night in camp for anything in the world!" replied Jean. "I would have walked if it had been _twenty_-nine miles. I nearly died of impatience before I got here, as it was!" Mrs. Grayson beamed on the enthusiastic camper; the old girls sang a lusty cheer to the new girl who was such a good sport; and, twinkling and beaming in all directions, Jean sat down on the floor with the others to hear the camp councilors introduced. Dr. Grayson began by quoting humorously from the Proverbs: "Where no council is, the people fall, but in a multitude of councilors there is safety." One by one he called the councilors up and introduced them, beginning with his daughter Judith, who was to be gymnastic director at the camp. Miss Judy got up and made a bow, and then prepared to sit down again, but her father would not let her off so easily. He demanded a demonstration of her profession for the benefit of the campers. Miss Judy promptly lined all the other councilors up and put them through a series of ridiculous exercises, such as "Tongues forward thrust!" "Hand on pocket place!" "Handkerchief take!" "Noses blow!"--performance which was greeted with riotous applause by the campers. Miss Armstrong was called up next and introduced as "our little friend from Australia, the swimming teacher, who, on account of her diminutive size goes by the nickname of Tiny." Tiny was made to give her native Australian bush call of "Coo-ee! Coo-ee!" and was then told to rescue a drowning person in pantomime, which she did so realistically that the campers sat in shivering fascination. Tiny, still grave and unsmiling, sat down amid shouts for encore, and refused to repeat her performance, pretending to be overcome with bashfulness. Dr. Grayson then rose and said that since Tiny was too modest to appear in public herself, he would bring out her most cherished possession to respond to the encore, and held up the gaudy blanket that Katherine and Oh-Pshaw had already made merry over in the tent, explaining that Tiny always chose quiet, dull colors to match her retiring nature. With a teasing twinkle in his eyes he handed Tiny her blanket and then passed on to the next victim. This was Pom-pom, the dancing teacher, who was obliged to do a dance on the piano stool to illustrate her art. Pom-pom received a perfect ovation, especially from the younger girls, and was called out half a dozen times. "Oh, the sweet thing! The darling!" gushed Bengal Virden, going into a perfect ecstasy on the floor beside Gladys. "Don't you just _adore_ her?" "She's very pretty," replied Gladys sincerely. "Pretty!" returned Bengal scornfully. "She's the most beautiful person on earth! Oh, I love her so, I don't know what to _do_!" Gladys smiled indulgently at Bengal's gush, and turned away to see Jane Pratt's dull, unpleasant eyes gazing contemptuously upon Pom-pom's performance, and heard her whisper to her neighbor, "She's too stiff-legged to be really graceful." The Lone Wolf from Labrador, summoned to stand up and show herself next, was a long, lean, mournful-looking young woman who, when introduced, explained in a lugubrious voice that she had no talents like the rest of the councilors and didn't know enough to be a teacher of anything; but she was very good and pious, and had been brought to camp solely for her moral effect upon the other councilors. For a moment the camp girls looked at the Lone Wolf in silence, not knowing what to make of her; then Sahwah noticed that Mrs. Grayson was biting her lips, while her eyes twinkled; Dr. Grayson was looking at the girls with a quizzical expression on his face; Miss Judy had her face buried in her handkerchief. Sahwah looked back at the Lone Wolf, standing there with her hands folded angelically and her eyes fixed solemnly upon the ceiling, and she suddenly snorted out with laughter. Then everyone caught on and laughed, too, but the Lone Wolf never smiled; she stood looking at them with an infinitely sad, pained expression that almost convinced them that she had been in earnest. The Lone Wolf, it appeared, was to be Tent Inspector, and when that announcement was made, the laughter of the old girls turned to groans of pretended aversion, which increased to a mighty chorus when Dr. Grayson added that her eye had never been known to miss a single detail of disorder in a tent. Thus councilor after councilor was introduced in a humorous speech by Dr. Grayson, and made to do her particular stunt, or was rallied about her pet hobby. The two Arts and Crafts teachers were given lumps of clay and a can of house paint and ordered to produce a statue and a landscape respectively; the Sing Leader had to play "Darling, I Am Growing Old" on a pitch pipe, and all the plain "tent councilors" were called upon for a "few remarks." All were cheered lustily, and all gave strong evidence of future popularity except Miss Peckham, who drew only a very scattered and perfunctory applause. Gladys and Migwan, who glanced at each other as Miss Peckham stepped forward, were surprised to hear that she was Dr. Grayson's cousin. "That accounts for her being here," Gladys whispered, and Migwan whispered in return, "We'll just have to make the best of her." Bengal glowered at Miss Peckham and made no pretense of applauding her, and Migwan saw her whispering to the group around her, and saw Bengal's expression of dislike swiftly reflected on the faces of her listeners. Thus, before Miss Peckham was fairly introduced, her unpopularity was already sealed. It takes very little to make a reputation at camp. Estimates are formed very swiftly, and great attachments and antipathies are formed at first sight. Young girls seem to scent, by some mysterious intuition, who is really in sympathy with them, and who is only pretending to be, and bestow or withhold their affections accordingly. In the code of the camp girl classifications are very simple; a camper is either a "peach" or a "prune." All the other councilors were "peaches"; that was the instantaneous verdict of the Keewaydin Campers during the introductions; Miss Peckham, regardless of the fact that she was Dr. Grayson's cousin, was a "prune." The last councilor to be introduced was a handsome, white-haired woman named Miss Amesbury, who was introduced as the patron saint of the camp, the designer of the beautiful Mateka, the House of Joyous Learning. Miss Amesbury was neither an instructor nor a tent councilor; she had just come to be a friend and helper to the whole camp, and lived on the second story balcony of Mateka. Word had traveled around among the girls that she was a famous author, and a ripple of expectation agitated the ranks of the campers as she rose in answer to Dr. Grayson's summons. Migwan gazed upon her in mingled awe and veneration. A famous author--one who had realized the ambition that was also her cherished own! She almost stopped breathing in her emotion. "Isn't she lovely?" breathed Hinpoha to Agony, her eye taking in the details of Miss Amesbury's camping suit, which, instead of being made of serge or khaki, like those of the other councilors, was of heavy Japanese silk, with a soft, flowered tie. Smiling a smile which included every girl in the room, she cordially invited them all to come and visit her balcony and share the beautiful view which she had of the river and the gorge. Then she added a few humorous comments upon camp life, and sat down amid tumultuous applause. Then Dr. Grayson asked her if she would play for the singing, and she rose graciously and took her place at the piano. The Sing leader stood up on a bench and directed with a wooden spoon from the craft table, and the first Sing-Out began. For half an hour the mingled voices were lifted in glee and round, in part song and ballad, until the roof rang. The new girls, spelling out the words in the song books by the rather pale lamplight, came out strongly in some parts and wobbly in others, producing some tone effects which caused the old girls to double up with merriment, but the new girls showed their good sportsmanship by singing on lustily no matter how many mistakes they made, a fact which caused Dr. Grayson to beam approvingly upon them. In the midst of a particularly hilarious song the bugle suddenly blew for going to bed, and the old girls, still singing, began to drift out of the house and make for the tents in groups of twos and threes, with their arms thrown around each other's shoulders. The new girls followed, some feeling shy and a bit homesick this first night away from home; others already perfectly at home, their arms around a new friend made in the short time since their arrival. One such was Jean Lawrence, who, upon being informed that she was to be "tenty" to Katherine and Oh-Pshaw in Bedlam, expressed herself as being unutterably delighted with her tent mates and walked off with them chattering as easily as though she had known them all her life. There was more or less confusion this first night before everyone got settled, for many of the girls had never camped before and were unskilled in the art of undressing rapidly in the close quarters of a tent, and "Taps" sounded before a number were even undressed. The Lone Wolf was lenient this first night, however, and did not insist upon prompt lights out, an act of grace which added greatly to her popularity. Sahwah's bed sagged somewhat in the middle and she was not able to adjust herself to its curves very well; consequently she did not fall asleep soon. Camp quieted down; the last rustle and whisper died away; silence enfolded the tents around. Sahwah, lying wide awake in the darkness, her senses alert, heard the sound of footsteps running at full speed along the top of the bluff and across the bare rocks at the edge. Here the footsteps seemed to come to a pause, and an instant later there came a sound like a loud splash in the water below. Filled both with curiosity and apprehension, Sahwah leaped from bed and raced for the edge of the bluff, where she stood peering down at the river. No unusual ripple appeared on the placid surface of the river; as far as she could see it lay calm and peaceful in the moonlight. A footstep behind her startled her, and she turned to see Miss Judy coming toward her from the tent. "What's the matter?" called Miss Judy, when she was within a few yards of Sahwah. "It sounded as though someone jumped off the cliff," replied Sahwah. "I heard footsteps along the edge of the bluff, and then a splash, and I ran out to see what was going on, but I can't see anything." To Sahwah's surprise, Miss Judith laughed aloud. "Oh," she said, "did you hear it?" "What was it?" asked Sahwah, curiously. "That," replied Miss Judy, "is what we call the Great Mystery Sound. We hear it off and on, but no one has ever been able to explain what causes it. Our 'diving ghost,' we call it. Father wore himself to a frazzle the first year we were here, trying to find out what it was. He used to sit up nights and watch, but although he often heard it he never could see anything that could produce the sound. Some people about here have told us that that sound has been heard for years and they say that there is an old legend connected with it to the effect that many years ago an Indian girl, pursued by an unwelcome suitor, jumped off this bluff and drowned herself to escape him, and that ever since that occurrence this strange sound has been noticeable. Of course, the people who tell the legend say that the ghost of the persecuted maiden haunts the scene of the tragedy at intervals and repeats the performance. Whatever it is, we have never been able to account for the sound naturally, and always refer to it as the Great Mystery Sound." "What a strange thing!" exclaimed Sahwah in wonder. "Those footsteps certainly sounded real; and as for that splash! It actually made my flesh creep. I had a panicky feeling that one of the new girls had wandered too near the edge of the bluff and had fallen into the water." "It used to have that effect upon us at first, too," replied Miss Judy. "We would all come racing down here with our hearts in our mouths, expecting we knew not what. It took a long time before we could believe it was a delusion. "And now, come back to bed, or you'll be taking cold, standing out here in your nightgown." Still looking back at the river and half expecting to see some agitation in its surface, Sahwah followed Miss Judy back to Gitchee-Gummee and returned to bed. CHAPTER IV THE ALLEY INITIATION Folk-dancing hour had just drawn to a close, and the long bugle for swimming sounded through camp. The sets of eight which had been drawn up on the tennis court in the formation of "If All the World Were Paper," broke and scattered as before a whirlwind as the girls raced for their tents to get into bathing suits. Sahwah, as might be expected, was first down on the dock, but close at her heels was another girl whom she recognized as living in one of the Avenue tents. This girl, while broader and heavier than Sahwah, moved with the same easy grace that characterized Sahwah's movements, and like Sahwah, she seemed consumed with impatience to get into the water. "Oh, I wish Miss Armstrong would hurry, hurry, hurry!" she exclaimed, jigging up and down on the dock. "I just can't wait until I get in." "Neither can I," replied Sahwah, scanning the path down the hillside for a sight of the swimming director. "Do you live in the Avenue or the Alley?" asked the girl beside her. "In the Alley," replied Sahwah. "Which tent?" "Gitchee-Gummee. Which one are you in?" "Jabberwocky." "That's way up near the bungalow, isn't it?" "Yes, where are you?" "The very last tent in the Alley, that one there, buried in the trees." "Oh, how lovely! You're right near the path to the river, aren't you? I wish I were a little nearer this end. It would save time getting to the water." "But you're so near the bungalow that you only have to go a step when the breakfast bugle blows. You have the advantage there," replied Sahwah. "We down in Gitchee-Gummee have to run for all we're worth to get there before you're all assembled. We have hard work getting dressed in time. We put on our ties while we're running down the path, as it is." The other girl laughed, showing a row of very white, even teeth. "Did you see that girl who came running into the dining-room this morning with her middy halfway over her head?" Sahwah laughed, too, at the recollection. "That was Bengal Virden, the one they call the Elephant's Child," she replied. "She lives in Ponemah, with some friends of mine. She had loitered with her dressing and didn't have her middy on when the breakfast bugle blew, so she decided to put it on en route. But while she was pulling it on over her head she got stuck fast in it with her arms straight up in the air and had to come in that way and get somebody to pull her through. I never saw anything so funny," she finished. "Neither did I," replied the other. They looked at each other and laughed heartily at the remembrance of the ludicrous episode. All this while Sahwah was trying to recollect her companion's name, but was unable to do so. It was impossible to remember which girls had answered to which names at the general roll call on that first night in Mateka. Just then the other said, "I don't believe I recall your name--I'm very stupid about remembering things." "That's just what I was going to say to you!" exclaimed Sahwah, with a merry laugh. "It's impossible to remember so many new names at once. I think we all ought to be labeled for the first week or so. I'm Sarah Ann Brewster, only they call me Sahwah." "What a queer nickname! It's very interesting. Is it a contraction of Sarah Ann?" "No, it's my Camp Fire name." "Oh, are you a Camp Fire girl?" "Yes." "How splendid! I've always wished I could be one. What does the name mean?" "Sunfish!" replied Sahwah. "The sun part means that I like sunshine and the fish part means that I like the water." "Oh-h!" replied the other with an interested face. Then she began to introduce herself. "I haven't any nice symbolic name like yours," she said, "but mine is sort of queer, too." "What is it?" asked Sahwah. "Undine." "Undine!" repeated Sahwah. "How lovely! I've always been perfectly crazy about Undine since I got the book on my tenth birthday. Undine was fond of water, like I was. What's the rest of your name?" "Girelle," replied Undine. "Do you live in the east or in the west?" asked Sahwah. "You don't speak like the Easterners, and yet you don't speak like us Westerners, either. What part of the country are you from?" "No part at all," answered Undine. "My home is in Honolulu." "Not really?" said Sahwah in astonishment. "Really," replied Undine, smiling at Sahwah's look of surprise. "I was born in Hawaii, and I have lived there most of my life." "Oh," said Sahwah, "I thought only Hawaiians lived in Hawaii--I didn't know anyone else was ever _born_ there." "Lots of white people are born there," replied Undine, politely checking the smile that wreathed her lips at Sahwah's ingenuous remark. "But," she added, "most of the people in the States seem to think no one lives in Hawaii but natives, and that they wear wreaths of flowers around their necks all the time and do nothing but play on ukuleles." Sahwah laughed and made up her mind that she was going to like Undine very much. "I suppose you swim?" she asked, presently. Undine nodded emphatically. "It's the thing I like to do best of anything in the world. Do you like it? Oh, yes, of course you do. You call yourself the Sunfish on that account." Sahwah affirmed her love for the deep, and thrilled a little at discovering an enthusiasm to match hers in this girl from Honolulu. The rest of the Winnebagos, although good swimmers, did not possess in an equal degree Sahwah's inborn passion for the water. Sahwah and Undine both felt the call of the river as it flowed past the dock; to each of them it beckoned with an irresistible invitation, until they could hardly restrain themselves from leaping off the boards into the cool, glassy depths below. "Here comes Miss Armstrong!" shouted somebody at the other end of the dock, as the big Australian came into view down the path, and there was a scramble for the diving tower. The swimming place at Camp Keewaydin was divided into three parts. A shallow cove at the left of the dock, where the curve of the river formed a tiny bay, was the sporting ground of the Minnows, the girls who could not swim at all; the Perch, or those who could swim a little, but were not yet sure of themselves, were assigned to the other side of the dock, where the water was slightly deeper, but where they were protected by the dock from the full force of the current; while the Sharks, the expert swimmers, were given the freedom of the river beyond the end of the pier. The diving tower was on the end of the pier and belonged exclusively to the Sharks; it was fifteen feet high, and had seven different diving boards placed at various heights. Besides the diving tower, there was a floating dock anchored out in midstream, having a springboard at either end. There was also a low diving board at the side of the pier for the Perch to practice on. Miss Armstrong came down on the dock in a bright red bathing suit which shone brilliantly among the darker suits of the girls. She rapidly separated the Minnows from the other fish, and set them to learning their first strokes under the direction of one of the other councilors. Then she lined the remaining girls up for the test which would determine who were Sharks and who were Perch. The test consisted of a dive from any one of the diving boards of the tower and a demonstration of four standard strokes, ending up with a swim across the river and back. About a dozen dropped out at the mere reading of the test and accepted their rating as Perch without a trial; as many more failed either to execute their dives properly or to give satisfaction in their swimming strokes. Sahwah, burning with impatience to show her skill, climbed nimbly up to the very top of the tower and went off the highest springboard in a neat back dive that drew applause from the watchers, including Miss Armstrong. She also passed the rest of the test with a perfect rating. "You're the biggest Shark so far," remarked Miss Armstrong, as Sahwah clambered up on the dock after her swim across the river, during which she had almost outdistanced the boat which accompanied her over and back. Sahwah smiled modestly as one of the old campers started a cheer for her, and turned to watch Undine Girelle, who was mounting the diving tower. When Undine also went off the highest springboard backward, and in addition turned a complete somersault before she touched the water, Sahwah realized that she had met her match, if not her master. Heretofore, Sahwah's swimming prowess had been unrivalled in whatever group she found herself, and it was a matter of course with the Winnebagos that Sahwah should carry off all honors in aquatics. Now they had to admit that in Undine Girelle Sahwah had a formidable rival and would have to look sharply to her laurels. "Isn't she wonderful?" came in exclamations from all around, as Undine sported in the water like a dolphin. "But then," someone added, "she's used to bathing in the surf in Hawaii. No wonder." There were about fifteen put in the Shark class in the first try-out, of whom Sahwah and Undine were acknowledged to be the best. Hinpoha and Gladys and Migwan also qualified as Sharks; Katherine went voluntarily into the Perch class, and Agony failed to pass her diving test, although she accomplished her distance swim and the demonstration of the strokes. Agony felt somewhat humiliated at having to go into the second class; she would much rather have been in the more conspicuous Shark group. Sahwah had already made a reputation for herself; Hinpoha drew admiring attention when she let her glorious red curls down her back to dry them in the sun; but she herself had so far made no special impression upon the camp. Why hadn't she distinguished herself like Sahwah, or Undine Girelle, Agony thought enviously. Others were already fast on their way to becoming prominent, but so far she was still going unnoticed. Her spirit chafed within her at her obscurity. Oh-Pshaw, alas, was only a Minnow. The fear of water which had lurked in her ever since the accident in her early childhood had kept her from any attempt to learn to swim. It was only since she had become a Winnebago and had once conquered her fear on that memorable night beside the Devil's Punch Bowl that she began to entertain the idea that some day she, too, might be at home in the water like the others. It was still a decided ordeal for her to go in; to feel the water flowing over her feet and to hear it splash against the piles of the dock and gurgle over the stones along the shore; but she resolutely steeled her nerves against the sound and the feel of the water, forcing back the terror that gripped her like an icy hand, and courageously tried to follow the director's instructions to put her face down under the surface. It was no use; she could not quite bring herself to do it; the moment the water struck her chin wild panic seized her and she would straighten up with a choking cry. She looked with envy at the other novices around her who fearlessly threw themselves into the water face downward, learning "Dead Man's Float" inside of ten minutes. She would never be able to do _that_, she reflected sorrowfully, as she climbed up on the dock before the period was half over, utterly worn out and discouraged by her repeated failures to bring her head under water. Beside her on the dock sat a thin wisp of a girl whose bathing suit was not even wet. "Didn't you go in?" asked Oh-Pshaw. "No," replied the girl in a high, piping voice, and Oh-Pshaw recognized her as the dweller in Avernus who had come over that first day and asked them how to make her bed. Carmen Chadwick, they had found out her name was. "I'm afraid of the water," continued Carmen. "Mamma never let me go in at home. She doesn't think it's quite ladylike for girls to swim." Oh-Pshaw smiled in spite of herself. "Oh, I don't think it makes girls unladylike to learn how to swim," she defended. "It's considered to be a fine exercise; about the best there is to develop all the muscles." "Oh!" said Carmen primly. "That's what mamma doesn't like, to have my muscles all lumpy and developed. She wants to keep me soft and curved." Oh-Pshaw stifled a shriek with difficulty, and turning aside to hide her twinkling eyes she caught sight of the Lone Wolf standing on the dock not far away, gazing mournfully into the Minnow pond. "What do you think of _her_?" asked Oh-Pshaw hastily, steering the conversation away from muscles and kindred unladylike topics. "She's my Councy," replied Carmen. "Your what?" "My Councy--my Councilor. I'm frightened to death of her." "Why, what does she do?" asked Oh-Pshaw in consternation. "She doesn't do anything, in particular," replied Carmen. "She just stares at me solemn as an owl and every little while she puts her head down on her bed under the pillow. Do you know," she continued, sinking her voice to a whisper, "I believe there is something the matter with her mind." "Really!" said Oh-Pshaw, her voice shaking ever so slightly. "She doesn't seem to realize what she is saying, at all," said Carmen. "Do you remember when Dr. Grayson introduced her he said she was real good and pious, but she isn't a bit pious. She didn't bring any Bible with her and she didn't say any prayers before she went to bed." "Maybe she said them to herself after she was in bed," remarked Oh-Pshaw, when she could control her voice again. "Lots of people do, you know." "I don't believe she did," replied Carmen in a tone of conviction. "I watched her. She made shadow animals with her fingers on the tent wall in the moonlight the minute she got into bed, and she kept it up until she went to sleep." Out of the corner of her eye Oh-Pshaw saw the Lone Wolf moving toward them, and hastily changed the subject. "Why did you put your bathing suit on when you didn't have any intention of going into the water?" she asked, seizing upon the first thing that came into her mind. "It looks so well on me," replied Carmen. "Don't you think it does?" "Y-yes, it d-does," admitted Oh-Pshaw, her teeth suddenly beginning to chatter, and she realized that she was sitting out too long in her wet bathing suit. "I g-guess I'll g-go up and get dressed," she finished, between the shivers that shook her like a reed. The Lone Wolf came up to her and taking her own sweater off wrapped it around her and hustled her off toward her tent. Just then the cry of "All out!" sounded on the dock and the swimmers came flocking out of the water with many an exclamation of regret that the time was up. "Oh, please, Tiny, may I do this one dive?" coaxed Bengal from one of the boards on the tower. "I'm all in a position to do it--see?" "Time's up," replied Tiny inexorably, and Bengal reluctantly relinquished her dive and climbed down from the tower. "Next test for Sharks a week from today!" called Tiny in her megaphone voice to the Perches, as she mounted the diving tower in preparation for her own initial plunge. The swimming instructors had their own swimming time after the girls were out of the water. Gladys and Migwan were dripping their way back to Ponemah, one on either side of Bengal Virden, who was entertaining them with tales of former years at camp, when they were startled to see Miss Peckham standing on top of a high rock wildly waving them back. "Don't go near the tent!" she shrieked. "Why not?" called Migwan in alarm, as the three girls stood still in the path, the water which was dripping out of their bathing suits collecting in a puddle around their feet. "There's a snake underneath the tent, a great big snake," answered Miss Peckham in terrified tones. "Well, what of it?" demanded Bengal coolly. "I've seen lots of snakes. I'm not afraid of them. Come on, let's get a forked stick, and let's kill it." She stooped to wring out the water which had collected in the bottom of her bathing suit and then started forward toward Ponemah. Miss Peckham, high on her rock, raised a great outcry. "Stay where you are!" she commanded. "Don't you go near that tent." Bengal kept on going, looking about her for a forked stick. "Bengal _Virden_!" screamed Miss Peckham, in such a tone of terror that Bengal involuntarily stood still in her tracks, dropping the stick she was in the act of picking up. "It's a deadly poisonous snake," gasped Miss Peckham, beginning to get breathless from fright, "a monstrous black one with red rings on it. I saw it crawling among the leaves. It reared up and menaced me with its wicked head. Don't you stir another step!" she commanded as Bengal seemed on the point of going on. "What's the matter?" asked a voice behind them, and there was Miss Judy, just coming out of her tent with her wet bathing suit in her hand. "There's a terrible poisonous snake under our tent," replied Miss Peckham. "I was just coming out of the door after my nap when I saw it gliding underneath. It's down there now, under the bushes." "How queer!" replied Miss Judy, looking with concern at her wildly excited cousin. "We've never had large snakes around here. What color did you say it was?" "It had broad, alternate rings of red and black," replied Miss Peckham, with the air of one quoting from an authority, "the distinguishing marks of the coral snake, one of the seventeen poisonous reptiles out of the one hundred and eleven species of snakes found in the United States." "A coral snake!" gasped Miss Judy, in real alarm, while the other three, taking fright from the tone of her voice, began to back down the path. Other dwellers in the Alley came along to see what the commotion was about and were warned back in an important tone by Miss Peckham. The timid ones took to their heels and fled to the other end of camp, while the more courageous hung about as near as they dared come and stared fascinated at the miniature jungle of ferns and bushes that grew under Ponemah to a height of two or three feet. Sahwah, whose insatiable curiosity as usual got the better of her fears, climbed a tree quite close to Ponemah and peered down through the branches, all agog with desire to see the dread serpent show itself. "Come down from there--quick!" called someone in a nervously shaking voice. "Don't you know that snakes climb trees?" "Nonsense," retorted Sahwah. "Whoever heard of a snake climbing a tree?" An argument started below, several voices upholding each side, some maintaining emphatically that snakes did climb trees; others holding out quite as determinedly that they didn't. "Anyway, _this_ one might," concluded the one who had started the argument, in a triumphant tone. "What are we going to do?" someone asked Miss Judy. "I'll get father to come and shoot it," replied Miss Judy. Just then there came an excited shriek from Sahwah. "It's coming out! I see the bushes moving." The girls scattered in all directions; Miss Peckham, up on her rock, covered her ears with her hands, as though there was going to be an explosion. "Here it comes!" Sahwah, leaning low over her branch, nearly fell out of the tree in her excitement, as her eye caught the gleam of red and black among the bushes. Miss Judy scrambled up on the rock beside Miss Peckham. There was a violent agitation of the ferns and bushes underneath Ponemah, a sort of scrambling movement, accompanied by a muffled squeaking, and then a truly remarkable creature bounced into view--a creature whose body consisted of a long stocking, red and black in alternate stripes, in the toe of which some live animal frantically squeaked and struggled, leaping almost a foot from the ground in its efforts to escape from its prison, and dragging the gaudy striped length behind it through a series of thrillingly lifelike wriggles. "Hi!" called Sahwah with a great shout of laughter. "It's nothing but a stocking with something in it." In reaction from her former alarm Miss Judy laughed until she fell off the rock, and sat helplessly on the ground watching the frantic struggles of the creature in the stocking to free itself. Hearing the laughter, those who had fled at the first alarm came hastening back, and all promptly went into hysterics when they saw the stocking writhing on the ground, and all were equally as helpless as Miss Judy and Sahwah. "Only Tiny Armstrong's stocking!" gasped Miss Judy, wiping away her tears of merriment with her middy sleeve. "I told her they would cause a riot in camp!" Only Miss Peckham did not laugh; she looked crossly around at the desperately amused girls. "Oh, Miss Peckham," gurgled Bengal, "you said it reared up and menaced you with its great, wicked h-head! You said its hood was swelled up with ferocity and venom, and it hissed sibilantly at you." Bengal rolled over and over on the ground, shrieking with mirth. Miss Peckham, her face a dull red, moved off in the direction of the tent. Others came up, excitedly demanding to know what the joke was. "She thought it was a coral snake, and it was Tiny's stocking," giggled Bengal, going into a fresh spasm. "Well, what if I did?" remarked Miss Peckham, turning around and looking at her frigidly. "It's a mistake anybody could easily make, I'm sure." And she went stiffly up into the tent. Sahwah and Miss Judy had somewhat recovered their composure by this time, and having captured the wildly agitated stocking they released from it a half-grown chipmunk, who, beside himself with fright and bewilderment, dashed away into the woods like a flash. "How frightened he was, poor little fellow!" cried Migwan compassionately. "It wasn't any joke for _him_. He must have been nearly frantic in there. How do you suppose he ever got in?" "Walked in, or fell in, possibly," replied Miss Judy, "and then couldn't find his way out again. Tiny had those modest little stockings of hers hanging on the tent ropes this morning, and it was easy enough for a chipmunk to get in." Carrying the stocking between them, and followed by all the girls who had been standing around, Sahwah and Miss Judy started for Bedlam to tell Tiny about the panic her hosiery had caused, but halfway to Bedlam the trumpet sounded for dinner and the deputation broke up in a wild rush for the bungalow. Miss Peckham carefully avoided Miss Judy's eye all through dinner. When the Winnebagos sauntered back to their tents for rest hour they all found large, wafer-sealed envelopes lying in conspicuous places upon their respective tables. Sahwah pounced upon the one in Gitchee-Gummee and looked at it curiously. On it was written in large red letters: TO THE DWELLERS IN GITCHEE-GUMMEE IMPORTANT!!! "Whatever can this be?" she asked in mystified tones. Miss Judy was not in the tent. "Open it," commanded Agony. Sahwah slit the envelope with the knife that she always kept hanging at her belt, and pulled out a sheet of rough, brown paper, on which was drawn the picture of a girl bound fast to a tree by ropes that went round and round her body, while a band of Indians danced a savage war dance around her. Underneath was printed in the same large red letters as those which adorned the outside of the envelope: BE DOWN ON THE DOCK AT SUNDOWN WITHOUT FAIL PREPARED TO UNDERGO THE ORDEAL WHICH ALL DWELLERS IN THE ALLEY MUST SUFFER BEFORE BEING WELCOMED INTO THE INNER CIRCLE OF ALLEY SPIRITS. WARNING: MENTION NOT THIS SUMMONS TO A LIVING SOUL OR AWFUL WILL BE THE CONSEQUENCES. SIGNED: THE TERRIBLE TWELVE. P.S. BRING YOUR BATHING SUITS. "What on earth?" cried Hinpoha in bewilderment. "It's the Alley Initiation!" exclaimed Sahwah. "I heard someone asking when it was going to be. Mary Sylvester and Jo Severance and several more of the old girls were talking about it while they were in the water today. It seems that the girls who have lived in the Alley before always hold an initiation for the new girls before they let them in on their larks." "I wonder what they're going to do to us," mused Hinpoha. "That advice to bring your bathing suit sounds suspicious to me." "Do you suppose they're going to throw us into the river?" asked Agony. "Nonsense," replied Sahwah. "Half the new girls in the Alley can't swim. Dr. Grayson wouldn't allow it, anyway. He made a girl come out of the water during swimming hour this morning for trying to duck another girl. They'll just make us ridiculous, that's all." "Well, whatever they ask us to do, let's not make a fuss," said Hinpoha. "Here comes Miss Judy. Put that letter out of sight and act perfectly unconcerned." Sahwah whipped the envelope into her suitcase and flung herself down on her bed; the others followed her example; and when a moment later Miss Judy stepped into the tent and looked quizzically at the trio she found them apparently wrapped in placid slumber. Shortly before seven that evening, when the Avenue girls were dancing in the bungalow, Sahwah and Hinpoha and Agony quietly detached themselves from the group and slipped down to the dock to find Katherine and Oh-Pshaw and Jean Lawrence already down there, swinging their feet over the end of the pier and waiting for something to happen. Down the hillside other forms were stealing; Migwan, and Gladys, and Bengal Virden, followed by Tiny Armstrong, until practically all the inhabitants of the Alley were gathered upon the dock. Miss Judy was leaning over the edge of the pier untying the launch. The neophytes watched intently every move that the old girls made, and were somewhat reassured when they saw that they had brought their bathing suits, too. "Are all assembled?" asked Miss Judy, straightening up and looking over her shoulder inquiringly. "Not yet," answered Mary Sylvester, taking an inventory of girls present. "Who isn't here yet?" "Carmen Chadwick and the Lone Wolf. Oh, they're coming now, so is Miss Amesbury." Migwan felt a little flustered as Miss Amesbury came smiling into their midst. She didn't in the least mind being initiated, but she did rather hate to have Miss Amesbury see her made ridiculous. She would much rather not have her looking on. Carmen Chadwick looked quite pale and scared as she joined the group on the dock, and took hold of Katherine's arm as if to seek her protection. "All ready now?" asked Miss Judy. "Ay, ay, skipper," replied Tiny Armstrong. "Man the boat!" commanded Miss Judy. The girls got into the launch and Miss Judy started the engine. They rode a short distance up the river to the Whaleback, a small island shaped, as its name indicated, like a whale's back. It was quite flat, only slightly elevated above the surface of the water. On one side it had rather a wide beach covered with stones and littered with driftwood; behind this beach rose a dense growth of pines that extended down to the very edge of the water on the other side of the island. The initiation party disembarked upon the beach. A huge fire was laid ready and Miss Judy lit it, then she requested the new girls to sit down in a place which she designated at one side of it, while the old girls seated themselves in a row opposite. Sahwah took note that the new girls were in the full glare of the firelight, while the old ones sat in the shadow. Miss Judy opened the ceremonies. Stepping into the light, she addressed the neophytes. "Since the dwellers in the Alley live together in such intimate companionship it is necessary that all be properly introduced to each other, so that we shall never mistake our own. We shall now proceed with the introductions. As soon as a new girl or councilor recognizes herself in the pictures we shall proceed to draw, let her come forward and bow to the ground three times in acknowledgment, uttering the words, 'Behold, it is I! who else _could_ it be?'" She poked up the fire to a brighter blaze and then sat down beside Tiny Armstrong on the end of a log. As she seated herself Jo Severance rose and came forward demurely. Jo was an accomplished elocutionist, and a born mimic. Assuming a timid, shrinking demeanor, and speaking in a high, shrill voice, she piped, "Mother, may I go out to swim?" "Yes, my darling daughter, Put on your nice new bathing suit, But don't go near the water!" "Don't you think it's unladylike to have your muscles all hard and developed?" * * * * * Oh-Pshaw buried her face in her handkerchief with a convulsive giggle. The voice, the intonation, the expression, were Carmen Chadwick to a T. But how did the Alleys know about her attitude toward bathing? She had not told anyone. Then she recalled that the Lone Wolf had walked behind them on the pier that morning when Carmen had been talking to her. Had the Lone Wolf also heard them talking about her? Agony wondered in a sudden rush of embarrassment. There was no mistaking the first "portrait." All eyes were focused upon Carmen, and blushing and shrinking she went forward to make the required acknowledgment. "Beh-hold, it is I; w-who else could it be?" she faltered, and it sounded so irresistibly funny that the listeners went into spasms of mirth. Carmen crept back to her place and hid her face in Katherine's lap while Jo Severance passed on to the next "portrait." Climbing up an enormous tree stump, she flung out her arms and began to shriek wildly, waving back an imaginary group of girls. Then she proclaimed in important tones: "It had broad, alternating rings of black and red, the distinguishing marks of the coral snake, one of the seventeen poisonous reptiles out of the one hundred and eleven species of snakes found in the United States. It reared up and menaced me with its great, wicked--" The remainder of her speech was lost in the great roar of laughter that went up from old and new girls alike. Miss Peckham turned fiery red, and looked angrily from Jo Severance to Miss Judy, but there was no help for it; she had to go forward and claim the portrait. "Behold, it is I; who else _could_ it be?" she snapped, and the mirth broke out louder than before. The "who else _could_ it be?" was so like Miss Peckham. One by one the other candidates were shown their portraits, that is, as many as had displayed any conspicuous peculiarities. "O Pom-pom! O dear Pom-pom, O _darling_ Pom-pom!" gushed Jo, rolling her eyes in ecstasy, and Bengal Virden, laughing sheepishly, went forward. Miss Amesbury watched the performance with tears of merriment rolling down her cheeks. "I never saw anything so funny!" she exclaimed to Mary Sylvester. "That phrase, 'who else _could_ it be' is a perfect gem." Agony was somewhat disappointed that her portrait was not painted; it would have drawn her into more notice. So far she was only "among those present" at camp. None of the old girls had paid any attention to her. After all the portraits had been painted the rest of the girls were called upon to do individual stunts. Some sang, some made speeches, some danced, and the worse the performance the greater the applause from the initiators. One slender, dark-eyed girl with short hair whistled, with two fingers in her mouth. At the first note Migwan and Gladys started and clasped each other's hands. The mystery of the fairy piping they had heard in the woods that first afternoon was solved. The same clear, sweet notes came thrilling out between her fingers, alluring as the pipes of Pan. The whistler was a girl named Noel Carrington; she was one of the younger girls whom nobody had noticed particularly before. Her whistling brought wild applause which was perfectly sincere; her performance delighted the audience beyond measure. She was called back again and again until at last, quite out of breath, she begged for mercy, when she was allowed to retire on the condition that she would whistle some more as soon as she got her breath back. Noel's performance closed the stunts. When she had sat down Miss Judy rose and said that she guessed the Alley dwellers were pretty well acquainted with each other, and would now go for a swim in the moonlight. Soon all but Carmen Chadwick were splashing in the silvery water, playing hide and seek with the moonbeams on the ripples and feeling a thrill and a magic in the river which was never there in the daylight. After a glorious frolic they came out to stand around the fire and eat marshmallows until it was time to go back to camp. "Initiation wasn't so terrible after all," Carmen confided to Katherine in the launch. "Heaps of fun," replied Katherine, laughing reminiscently. "Isn't Miss Peckham a prune?" whispered Sybil's voice behind Katherine. "I'm glad she's not my councilor." "She's mine, worse luck," answered Bengal Virden's voice dolefully. "Too bad," whispered Sybil feelingly. The launch came up alongside the dock just as the first bugle was blowing, and the Alley, old girls arm in arm with the new, went straight up to bed. CHAPTER V ON THE ROAD FROM ATLANTIS "Would you like to come along?" Agony, sitting alone on the pier, idly watching the river as it flowed endlessly around its great curve, looked up to see Mary Sylvester standing beside her. It was just after quiet hour and the rest of the camp had gone on the regular Wednesday afternoon trip to the village to buy picture postcards and elastic and Kodak films and all the various small wares which girls in camp are in constant need of; and also to regale themselves on ice-cream cones and root beer, the latter a traditionally favorite refreshment of the Camp Keewaydin girls, being a special home product of Mrs. Bayne, who kept the "trading post." Agony had not joined the expedition this afternoon, because she needed nothing in the way of supplies, and for once had no craving for root beer, while she did want to finish a letter to her father that she had commenced during rest hour. But the hilarity of the others as they piled into the canoes to be towed up the river by the launch lured her down to the dock to see them off--Miss Judy standing at the wheel of the launch and Tiny Armstrong in the stern of the last canoe, as the head and tail of the procession respectively. Beside Miss Judy in the launch were all the Minnows, gazing longingly back at the ones who were allowed to tow in the canoes. Only those who had taken the swimming test might go into the canoes--towing or paddling or at any other time; this rule of the camp was as inviolable as the laws of the Medes and the Persians. And of those who could swim, only the Sharks might take out a canoe without a councilor, and this privilege was also denied the Sharks if they failed to demonstrate their ability to handle a canoe skilfully. Sahwah and Hinpoha were among the new girls who had qualified for the canoe privilege during the very first week; also Undine Girelle. The other Winnebagos had to content themselves thus far with the privilege of towing or paddling in a canoe that was in charge of a councilor or a qualified Water Witch; all except Oh-Pshaw, who had to ride in the launch. Agony looked at Oh-Pshaw standing beside Miss Judy at the wheel, laughing with her at some joke; at Sahwah and Undine sitting together in the canoe right behind the launch, leaning luxuriously back against their paddles, which they were using as back rests; heard Jean Lawrence's infectious laugh floating back on the breeze; and she began to regret that she had stayed at home. She found she was no longer in the mood to finish her letter; she lingered on the pier after the floating caravan had disappeared from view behind the trees on Whaleback. She looked up in surprise at the sound of Mary Sylvester's voice coming from behind her on the dock. "I thought you had gone to the village with the others," she said. "I was almost sure I saw you in the boat with Pom-pom." "No, I didn't go, you see," replied Mary. "I am going off on an expedition of my own this afternoon. The woman who took care of me as a child lives not far from here in a little village called Atlantis--classic name! Mother asked me to look her up, and Mrs. Grayson gave me permission to go over this afternoon. I'm going to row across the river to that landing place where we got out the other night, leave the boat in the bushes, and then follow the path through the woods. It's about six miles to Atlantis--would you care to walk that far? It would be twelve miles there and back, you know. I'm just ripe for a long hike today, it's so cool and clear, but it's not nearly so pleasant going alone as it would be to have someone along to talk to on the way. Wouldn't you like to come along and keep me company? I can easily get permission from Mrs. Grayson for you." Agony was a trifle daunted at the thought of walking twelve miles in one afternoon, but was so overwhelmed with secret gratification that the prominent Mary Sylvester had invited her that she never once thought of refusing. "I'd love to go," she exclaimed animatedly, jumping up with alacrity. "I was beginning to feel a wee bit bored sitting here doing nothing; I feel ripe for a long hike myself." "I'm so glad you do!" replied Mary Sylvester, with the utmost cordiality. "Come on with me until I tell Mrs. Grayson that you are coming with me." Mrs. Grayson readily gave her permission for Agony to go with Mary. There was very little that Mrs. Grayson would have refused Mary Sylvester, so high did this clear-eyed girl stand in the regard of all Camp directors, from the Doctor down. Mary was one of the few girls allowed to go away from camp without a councilor; in fact, she sometimes acted as councilor to the younger girls when a trip had to be made and no councilor was free. Mrs. Grayson would willingly have trusted any girl to Mary's care--or the whole camp, for that matter, should occasion arise, knowing that her good sense and judgment could be relied upon. So Agony, under Mary's wing, received the permission that otherwise would not have been given her. "Yes, it will be all right for you to go in your bloomers," said Mrs. Grayson, in answer to Agony's question on the subject. "Our girls always wear them to the villages about here; the people are accustomed to seeing them. That green bloomer suit of yours is very pretty, Agony," she added, "even prettier than our regulation blue ones." "I spilled syrup on my regular blue ones," replied Agony, "and had to wash them out this morning; that's why I'm wearing these green ones. Do you mind if I break up the camp color scheme for one day?" "Not at all, under the circumstances," replied Mrs. Grayson, with a smile. "If it's going to be a choice of green bloomers or none at all--" She waved the laughing girls away and returned to the knotty problem in accounts she had been working on when interrupted. "Isn't she lovely?" exclaimed Mary enthusiastically, as they came out of the bungalow and walked along the Alley path toward Gitchee-Gummee to get Agony's hat. "She has such a way of trusting us girls that we just couldn't disappoint her." "She is lovely," echoed Agony, as they went up the steps of Gitchee-Gummee. "I think I'll leave a note for the girls telling them I won't be back at supper time," said Agony, hastily pulling out her tablet. "They will be wondering what has become of me." It gave her no small thrill of pleasure to write that note and tuck it under Hinpoha's hairbrush on the table: "Gone on a long hike with Mary Sylvester; won't be back until bed time." How delightfully important and prominent that sounded! The others admired Mary, too, but none of them had been invited to go on a long hike with her. She, Agony, was being drawn into that intimate inner circle of the Alley dwellers to which she had hitherto aspired in vain. They were soon across the river, with the boat fastened in the bushes, and, leaving the shore, struck straight into the woods, following a path that curved and twisted, but carried them ever toward the north, in the direction where Atlantis lay. The way was cool and shady, the whiff of the pines invigorating, and the distance uncoiled rapidly beneath the feet of the two girls as they fared on with vigorous, springy footsteps along the pleasant way. Ferns and wild flowers bordered the path; there were brilliant cardinal flowers, pale forget-me-nots, slender blossomed blue vervain, cheerful red lilies. In places where the woods were so thick that the sun never penetrated, great logs lay about completely covered with moss, looking like sofas upholstered in green, while the round stones scattered about everywhere looked like hassocks and footstools which belonged to the same set as the green sofas. Once Mary stopped and crushed something under her foot, something white that grew up beside the path. "What was that?" asked Agony curiously. "Deadly amanita," replied Mary. "It's a toadstool--a poisonous one." "How can you tell a poisonous toadstool from a harmless one?" asked Agony. "They all look alike to me." "A poisonous one has a ring around the stem, and it grows up out of a 'poison cup,'" explained Mary. "See, here are some more." Agony drew back as Mary pointed out another clump of the pale spores, innocent enough looking in their resemblance to the edible mushroom, but base villians at heart; veritable Borgias of the woods. "Aren't you afraid to touch it?" asked Agony, as Mary tilted over a sickly looking head and indicated the identifying ring and the poison cup. "No danger," replied Mary. "They're only poisonous if you eat them." "You know a great deal about the woods, don't you?" Agony said respectfully. "I ought to," replied Mary. "I've camped in the woods for five summers. You can't help finding out a few things, you know, even if you're as stupid as I." "You're not stupid!" said Agony emphatically, glad of the opportunity to pay a compliment. "I'm the stupid one about things like that. I never could remember all those things you call woodcraft. I declare, I've forgotten already whether it's the poisonous ones that have the rings, or the other kind." Mary laughed and stood unconcernedly while a small snake ran over her foot. "It's a good thing Miss Peckham isn't here," she remarked. "Did you ever see anything so funny as that coral snake business of hers?" she added, laughing good naturedly. "Poor Miss Peckham won't be allowed to forget that episode all summer. It's too bad she resents it so. She could get no end of fun out of it if she could only see the funny side." "Yes, it's too bad," agreed Agony. "The more she resents it the more the girls will tease her about it." "I'm sorry for her," continued Mary. "She's never had any experience being a councilor and it's all new to her. She's never been teased before. She'll soon see that it happens to everybody else, too, and then she'll feel differently about it. Look at the way everybody makes fun of Tiny Armstrong's blanket, and her red bathing suit, and her gaudy stockings; but she never gets cross about it. Tiny's a wonder," she added enthusiastically. "Did you see her demonstrating the Australian Crawl yesterday in swimming hour? She has a stroke like the propeller of a boat. I never saw anything so powerful." "If Tiny ever assaulted anyone in earnest there wouldn't be anything left of them," said Agony. "She's a regular Amazon. They ought to call her Hypolita instead of Tiny." "And yet, she's just as gentle as she is powerful," replied Mary. "She wouldn't hurt a fly if she could help it. Neither would she do anything mean to anybody, or show partiality in the swimming tests. She's absolutely fair and square; that's why all the girls accept her decisions without a complaint, even when they're disappointed. Everybody says she is the best swimming teacher they've ever had here at camp. Once they had an instructor who had a special liking for a certain girl who couldn't manage to learn to swim, and because that girl was wild to go in a canoe on one of the trips the instructor pretended that she had given her an individual test on the afternoon before the trip, and told Mrs. Grayson the girl had passed it. The girl was allowed to go in a canoe and on the trip it upset and she was very nearly drowned before the others realized that she could not swim. Tiny isn't like that," she continued. "She would lose her best friend rather than tell a lie to get her a favor that she didn't deserve. I hate cheats!" she burst out vehemently, her fine eyes flashing. "If girls can't win honors fairly they ought to go without them." This random conversation upon one and another of the phases of camp life, illustrating as it did Mary's rigid code of honor, was destined to recur many times to Agony in the weeks that followed, with a poignant force that etched every one of Mary's speeches ineradicably upon her brain. Just now it was nothing more to her than small talk to which she replied in kind. They stopped after a bit to drink from a clear spring that bubbled up in the path, and sat down to rest awhile under a huge tree. Mary leaned her head back against the trunk and drawing a small book from her sweater pocket she opened it upon her knee. "What is the book?" asked Agony. "_The Desert Garden_, by Edwin Langham," replied Mary. "Oh, do you know _The Desert Garden_?" cried Agony in delighted wonder. "I've actually lived on that book for the last two years. I'm wild about Edwin Langham. I've read every word he's ever written. Have you read _The Silent Years_?" Mary nodded. "_The Lost Chord_? I think that's the most wonderful book I've ever read, that and _The Desert Garden._ If I could ever see and speak to Edwin Langham I should die from happiness. I've never felt that way about any other author. When I read his books I feel reverent somehow, as if I were in church, although there isn't a word of religion in them. The things he writes are so fine and true and noble; he must be that way himself. Do you remember that part about the bird in _The Desert Garden, _ the bird with the broken wing, that would never fly again, singing to the lame man who would never walk? And the flower that was so determined to blossom that it grew in the desert and bloomed there?" "Yes," answered Mary, "it was very beautiful." "It's the most beautiful thing that was ever written!" declared Agony enthusiastically. "It would be the greatest joy of my life to see the man who wrote those books." "Maybe you will, some day," said Mary, rising from her mossy seat and preparing to take the path again. It was not long after that that they came to the edge of the woods, and saw before them the scattered houses of the little village of Atlantis. Mary's old nurse was overjoyed to see her, and pressed the two girls to stay and eat big soft ginger cookies on the shady back porch, and quench their thirst with glasses of cool milk, while she inquired minutely after the health of Mary's "ma" and "pa." "Mrs. Simmons is the best old nurse that ever was," said Mary to Agony, as they took their way back to the woods an hour later. "I'm so glad to have had this opportunity of paying her a visit. I haven't seen her for nearly ten years. Wasn't she funny, though, when I told her that father might have to go to Japan in the interests of his firm? She thought there was nobody in Japan but heathens and missionaries." "Shall you go to Japan too, if your father goes?" asked Agony. "I most likely shall," replied Mary. "I finished my school this June and do not intend to go to college for another year anyway; so I might as well have the trip and the experience of living in a foreign country. Father would only have to remain there one year, or two at the most." "How soon are you going?" asked Agony, a little awed by Mary's casual tone as she spoke of the great journey. Evidently Mary had traveled much, for the prospect of going around the world did not seem to excite her in the least. They were sitting in Mrs. Simmons' little spring house when Mary told about the possibility of her going to Japan. This spring house stood at some distance from the house; down at the point where the lane ran off from the main road. It looked so utterly cool and inviting, with its vine covered walls, that with an exclamation of pleasure the two girls turned aside for one more drink before beginning the long walk through the woods. Seated upon the edge of the basin which held the water, Mary talked of Japan, and Agony wheeled around upon the narrow ledge to gaze at her in wonder and envy. "I wish _I_ could go to Japan!" she exclaimed vehemently, giving a vigorous kick with her foot to express her longing. The motion disturbed her balance and she careened over sidewise; Mary put out her hand to steady her, lost _her_ balance, and went with a splash into the basin. The water was not deep, but it was very, very wet, and Mary came out dripping. For a moment the two girls stood helpless with laughter; then Mary said: "I suppose I'll have to go back and get some dry things from Mrs. Simmons, but I wish I didn't; it will take us quite a while to go back, and it will delay us considerably. I promised Mrs. Grayson I'd be back in camp before dark, and we won't be able to make it if we go back to Mrs. Simmons's. I've a good mind to go on just as I am; it's so hot I can't possibly take cold." "I tell you what we can do," said Agony, getting a sudden inspiration. "We can divide these bloomers of mine in half. They're made on a foundation of thinner material that will do very well for me to wear home, and you can wear the green part. With your sweater on over them nobody will ever know whether you have on a middy or not. We can carry you wet suit on a pole through the woods and it'll be dry by the time we get home, and you won't have to lose any time by going back to Mrs. Simmons's." "Great idea!" said Mary, brightening. "Are you really willing to divide your bloomers? I'd be ever so much obliged." "It's no trouble," replied Agony. "All I have to do is cut the threads where the top is tacked on to the foundation. It's really two pairs of bloomers." She was already cutting the tacking threads with her pocket knife. Mary put on the green bloomers and Agony the brown foundation pair, and laughing over the mishap and the clever way of handling the problem, the two crossed the road and entered the woods. "What's that loud cheeping noise?" Agony asked almost as soon as they had entered into the deep shadow of the high pines. "Sounds like a bird in trouble," answered Mary, her practised ear recognizing the note of distress in the incessant twittering. A few steps farther they came upon a man sitting in a wheel chair under one of the tallest pines they had ever seen, a man whose right foot was so thickly wrapped in bandages that it was three times the size of the other one. He was peering intently up into the tree above him, and did not notice the approach of the two girls. Mary and Agony followed his gaze and saw, high up among the topmost swaying branches, a sight that thrilled them with pity and distress. Dangling by a string which was tangled about one of her feet, hung a mother robin, desperately struggling to get free, fluttering, fluttering, beating the air frantically with her wings and uttering piercing cries of anguish that drove the hearers almost to desperation. Nearby was her nest, and on the edge of it sat the mate, uttering cries as shrill with anguish as those of the helpless captive. "Oh, the poor, poor bird!" cried Mary, her eyes filling with tears of pity and grief. At the sound of her voice the man in the wheel chair lowered his eyes and became aware of the girls' presence. As he turned to look at them Mary caught in his eyes a look of infinite horror and pity at the plight of the wretched bird above him. That expression deepened Mary's emotion; the tears began to run down her cheeks. Agony stood beside her stricken and silent. "How did it happen?" Mary asked huskily, addressing the stranger unceremoniously. "I don't know exactly," replied the man. "I was sitting here reading when all of a sudden I heard the bird's shrill cry of distress and looked up to see her dangling there at the end of that string." "Can't we do something?" asked Mary, putting her hands over her ears to shut out the piercing cries. "She'll flutter herself to death before long." "I'm afraid she will," replied the man, "There doesn't seem to be any hope of her freeing herself." "She shan't flutter herself to death," said Mary, with sudden resolution. "I'm going to climb the tree and cut her loose." "That will be impossible," said the man. "She is up in the very top of the tree." "I'm going to try, anyway," replied Mary, with spirit. "Let me take your knife, will you please, Agony?" The lowest branches of the pine were far above her head, and in order to get a foothold in them Mary had to climb a neighboring tree and swing herself across. The ground seemed terrifying far away even from this lowest branch; but this was only the beginning. She resolutely refrained from looking down and kept on steadily, branch above branch, until she reached the one from which the robin hung. Then began the most perilous part of the undertaking. To reach the bird she must crawl out on this branch for a distance of at least six feet, there being no limb directly underneath for her to walk out on. Praying for a steady balance, she swung herself astride of the branch, and holding on tightly with her hands began hitching herself slowly outward. The bough bent sickeningly under her; Agony below shrieked and covered her eyes; then opened them again and continued to gaze in horrified fascination as inch by inch Mary neared the wildly fluttering bird, whose terror had increased a hundred-fold at the human presence so near it. There came an ominous cracking sound; Agony uttered another shriek and turned away; the next instant the shrill cries of the bird ceased; the man in the chair gave vent to a long drawn "Ah-h!" Agony looked up to see the exhausted bird fluttering to the ground beside her, a length of string still hanging to its foot, while Mary slowly and carefully worked her way back to the trunk of the tree. In a few minutes she slid to the ground and sat there, breathless and trembling, but triumphant. "I got it!" she panted. Then, turning to the man in the chair, she exclaimed, "There now, who said it was impossible?" The man applauded vigorously. "That was the bravest act I have ever seen performed," he said admiringly. "You're the right stuff, whoever you are, and I take my hat off to you." "Anybody would have done it," murmured Mary modestly, as she rose and prepared to depart. "How could you do it?" marveled Agony, as the two walked homeward through the woods. "Weren't you horribly scared?" "Yes, I was," admitted Mary frankly. "When I started to go out on that branch I was shaking so that I could hardly hold on. It seemed miles to the ground, and I got so dizzy I turned faint for a moment. But I tried to think of something else, and kept on going, and pretty soon I could reach the string to cut it." The boundless admiration with which Agony regarded Mary's act of bravery was gradually swallowed up in envy. Why hadn't she herself been the one to climb up and rescue that poor bird? She would give anything to have done such a spectacular thing. Deep in her heart, however, she knew she would never have had the courage to crawl out on that branch even if she had thought of it first. Silence fell upon the two girls as they walked along in the gradually failing light; all topics of conversation seemed to have been exhausted. Mary's clothes were dry before they were through the woods, and she put them on to save the trouble of carrying them, giving Agony back her green bloomers. "Thank you so much for letting me wear them," she said earnestly. "If it hadn't been for your doing that I wouldn't have been in time to save that robin. It was really that inspiration of yours that saved him, not my climbing the tree." Even in the hour of her triumph Mary was eager to give the credit to someone else, and Agony began to feel rather humble and small before such a generous spirit, even though her vanity strove to accept the measure of credit given as justly due. When they were crossing the river they saw Dr. Grayson standing on the dock, shading his eyes to look over the water. "There's the Doctor, looking for us!" exclaimed Mary. "It must be late and he's worried about us." She doubled her speed with the oars, hailing the Doctor across the water to reassure him. A few moments later the boat touched the dock. "Mary," said the Doctor, before she was fairly out, "a message has come from your father saying that he must sail for Japan one week from today and you must come home immediately. In order to catch the boat you will have to leave for San Francisco not later than the day after tomorrow. There is an early train for New York tomorrow morning from Green's Landing. I will take you down in the launch, for the river steamer will not get there in time. Be ready to leave camp at half past five tomorrow morning. You will have to pack tonight." Mary gasped and clutched Agony's hand convulsively. "I have--to--leave--camp!" she breathed faintly. "I'm--going--to--Japan!" CHAPTER VI A CAMP HEROINE Mary Sylvester was gone. Sung to and wept over by her friends and admirers, who had risen at dawn to see her off, she had departed with Dr. Grayson in the camp launch just as the sun was beginning to gild the ripples on the surface of the river. She left behind her many grief stricken hearts. "Camp won't be camp without Mary!" Bengal Virden had sobbed, trickling tearfully back to Ponemah with a long tress of black hair clutched tightly in her hand--a souvenir which she had begged from Mary at the moment of parting. Next to Pom-pom, Mary Sylvester was Bengal's greatest crush. "I'm going to put it under my pillow and sleep on it every night," Bengal had sniffed tearfully, displaying the tress to her tentmates. "What utter nonsense!" Miss Peckham had remarked with a contemptuous sniff. Miss Peckham considered the fuss they were making over Mary's departure perfectly ridiculous, and was decidely cross because Bengal had awakened her with her lamenting before the bugle blew. Migwan and Gladys, on the other hand, remembering their own early "crushes," managed not to smile at Bengal's sentimental foolishness about the lock of hair, and Gladys gravely gave her a hand-painted envelope to keep the precious tress in. Completely tired out by the long tramp of the day before, Agony did not waken in time to see Mary off, and when the second bugle finally brought her to consciousness she discovered that she had a severe headache and did not want any breakfast. Miss Judy promptly bore her off to the "Infirmary," a tent set off by itself away from the noises of camp, and left her there to stay quietly by herself. In the quiet atmosphere of the "Infirmary" she soon fell asleep again, to waken at times, listen to the singing of the birds in the woods, feel the breezes stealing caressingly through her hair, and then to drop back once more into blissful drowsiness which erased from her mind all memory of yesterday's visit to Atlantis, and of Mary Sylvester's wonderful rescue of the robin. As yet no word of Mary's heroism had reached the ears of the camp; she had departed without the mead of praise that was due her. Councilors and all felt depressed over Mary's untimely departure, especially Miss Judy, Tiny Armstrong and the Lone Wolf, with whom she had been particularly intimate, and with these three leading spirits cast down gloom was thick everywhere. Morning Sing went flat--the high tenors couldn't keep in tune without Mary to lead them, and nobody else could make the gestures for The Lone Fish Ball. It seemed strange, too, to see Dr. Grayson's chair empty, and to do without his jolly morning talk. Everyone who had gotten up early was full of yawns and out of sorts. "What's the matter with everybody?" asked Katherine of Jean Lawrence, as they cleaned up Bedlam for tent inspection. "Camp looks like a funeral." Jean's dimples were nowhere in evidence and her face looked unnaturally solemn as she bent over her bed to straighten the blankets. "It feels like one, too," replied Jean, still grave. "With Bengal crying all over the place and Miss Judy looking so cut up it's enough to dampen everybody's spirits." Talk lapsed between the two and each went on cleaning up her side of the tent. A moment later, however, Jean's dimples came back again when she came upon Katherine's toothbrush in one of her tennis shoes. That toothbrush had disappeared two days before and the tent had been turned upside down in a vain search for it. Katherine pounced upon the truant toilet article gleefully. "Look in your other shoe," she begged Jean, "and see if you can find my fountain pen. That's missing too." Jean obligingly shook out her shoe, but no pen came to light. "There's something dark in the bottom of the water pitcher," announced Oh-Pshaw, who was setting the toilet table to rights. "Maybe that's it." She bared her arm to the elbow and plunged it into the water, but withdrew it immediately with a shriek that caused Katherine and Jean to drop their bed-making in alarm. "What's the matter?" asked Katherine. "It's an animal, a horrid, dead animal!" Oh-Pshaw gasped shudderingly, backing precipitously away from the water pitcher. "It's furry, and soft, and--ugh! stiff!" "What is it?" demanded Katherine, peering curiously into the pitcher, in whose slightly turbid depths she could see a dark object lying. "Don't touch it!" begged Oh-Pshaw, as Katherine's hand went down into the water. "Nonsense," scoffed Katherine, "a dead creature can't hurt you. See, it's only a little mouse that fell into the pitcher and got drowned. Poor little mousy, it's a shame he had to meet such a sad fate when he came to visit us." "Katherine Adams, put that mouse away!" cried Oh-Pshaw, getting around behind the bed. "How can you bear to touch such a thing?" "Doesn't he look pathetic, with his little paws held out that way?" continued Katherine, unmoved by Oh-Pshaw's expression of terrified disgust. "I don't doubt but what he was the father of a large family--or maybe the mother--and there will be great sorrow in the nest out in the field when he doesn't come home to supper." "Throw it away!" commanded Oh-Pshaw. "Let's have a funeral," suggested Jean. "Here, we can lay him out in the lid of my writing paper box." "Grand idea," replied Katherine, carefully depositing the deceased on the floor beside her bed. A few minutes later the Lone Wolf, coming along to inspect the tent, found a black middy tie hanging from the tent post, surmounted by a wreath of field daisies, while inside the mouse was laid out in state in the lid of Jean's writing paper box, surrounded by flowers and leaves. Word of the tragedy that had taken place in Bedlam was all over camp in no time, and crowds came to gaze on the face of the departed one. A special edition of the camp paper was gotten out, with monstrous headlines, giving the details of the accident, and announcing the funeral for three o'clock. Dr. Grayson returned to camp early in the afternoon, bringing with him a professor friend whom he had invited to spend the week-end at camp. As the two men stepped from the launch to the landing a sound of wailing greeted their ears; long drawn out moans, heartbroken sobs, despairing shrieks, blood-curdling cries. "What can be the matter?" gasped the Doctor in consternation. He raced up the path to the bungalow and stood frozen to the spot by the sight that greeted his eyes. Down the Alley came a procession headed by a wheelbarrow filled with field daisies and wild red lilies, all arranged around a pasteboard box in the center; behind the wheelbarrow came two girls with black middy ties around their heads, carrying spades in their hands; behind them marched, two and two, all the girls who lived in the Alley, each with a black square over her face and all wailing and sobbing and shrieking at the top of their voices. The procession came to a halt in front of the bungalow porch and Katherine Adams detached herself from the ranks. Mounting a rock, she broke out into an impassioned funeral oration that put Mark Anthony's considerably in the shade. She was waving her hands in an extravagant gesture to accompany an especially eloquent passage, when she suddenly caught sight of Dr. Grayson standing watching the proceedings. The mourners saw her suddenly stand as if petrified, the gesture frozen in mid air, the word on her lips chopped off in the middle as with a knife. Following her startled glance the others also saw Dr. Grayson and the visitor. An indescribable sound rose from the funeral train; the transition noise of anguished wailing turning into uncontrollable laughter; then such a shout went up that the birds dozing in the trees overhead flew out in startled circles and went darting away with loud squawks of alarm. "Go on, go on," urged Dr. Grayson, with twinkling eyes, "don't let me interrupt the flow of eloquence." But Katherine, abashed and tongue-tied in his presence always, could not utter another word, and, blushing furiously, slid down off the rock and took refuge behind the daisy-covered bier. The procession, agitated by great waves of laughter, moved on toward the woods, where the mouse was duly interred with solemn ceremonies. "Will your father think I'm dreadfully silly?" Katherine inquired anxiously of Miss Judy later in the afternoon. "Not a bit," replied Miss Judy emphatically. "He thought that mouse funeral was the best impromptu stunt we've pulled off yet. That kind of thing was just what camp needed today. The novelty of it got everybody stirred up and made them hilarious. That funeral oration of yours was the funniest thing I ever heard. Miss Amesbury thought so too. She took it all down while you were delivering it." "Daggers and dirks!" exclaimed Katherine, more abashed than ever. "That made the first coup for the Alley," continued Miss Judy, exulting. "The Avenue is green with envy. They'll rack their brains now to get up something as clever." "Jane Pratt didn't think it was clever," replied Katherine, trying not to look proud at Miss Judy's compliment. "She said it was the silliest thing she had ever seen." "Oh,--Jane Pratt!" sniffed Miss Judy, with an expressive shrug of her shoulders. "Jane Pratt would have something sarcastic to say about an archangel. Don't you mind what Jane Pratt says." From Avernus to Gitchee-Gummee the Alley rang with praises of Katharine's cleverness. "What's the excitement?" asked Agony wonderingly as she returned to the bungalow in time for supper after resting quietly by herself all day. "The best thing the Alley ever did!" replied Bengal Virden enthusiastically, and recounted the details for Agony's benefit. At the same moment someone started a cheer for Katherine down at the other end of the table, and the response was actually deafening: You're the B-E-S-T, best, Of all the R-E-S-T, rest, O, I love you, I love you all the T-I-M-E, time! If you'll be M-I-N-E, mine, I'll be T-H-I-N-E, thine, O, I love you, I love you all the T-I-M-E, time! Agony cheered with the others, but a little stab of envy went through her breast, a longing to have a cheer thundered at her by the assembled campers, to become prominent, and looked at, and sought after. Sewah had "arrived," and now also Katherine, while she herself was still merely "among those present." Rather pensively she followed the Winnebagos into Mateka after supper for evening assembly, which had been called by Dr. Grayson. Usually there was no evening assembly; Morning Sing was the only time the whole camp came together in Mateka with the leaders, when all the announcements for the day were made. When there was something special to be announced, however, the bugle sometimes sounded another assembly call at sunset. "I wonder what the special announcement is tonight?" Hinpoha asked, coming up with Sewah and Agony. "I don't think it's an announcement at all," replied Sahwah. "I think the professor friend of Dr. Grayson's is going to make a speech. Miss Judy said he always did when he came to camp. He's a naturalist, or something like that." Agony wrinkled her forehead into a slight frown. "I hope he doesn't," she sighed. "My head still aches and I don't feel like listening to a speech. I'd rather go canoeing up the river, as we had first planned." She sat down in an inconspicuous corner where she could rest her head upon her drawn up knees, if she wished, without the professor's seeing her, and hoped that the speech would be a short one, and that there would still be time to go canoeing on the river after he had finished. The professor, however, seemed to have no intention of making a speech. He took a chair beside the fireplace and settled himself in it with the air of one who intended to remain there for some time. It was Dr. Grayson himself who stood up to talk. "I have called you together," he began, "to tell you about one of the finest actions that has ever been performed by a girl in this camp. I heard about it from the storekeeper at Green's Landing, who was told of it by a man who departed on one of the steamers this morning. This man, who was staying on a farm on the Atlantis Road, and who is suffering from blood-poison in his foot, was taken into the woods in a wheel chair yesterday afternoon and left by himself under a great pine tree at least a hundred feet high. In the topmost branches of this tree a mother robin became tangled up in a string which was caught in a twig, and she hung there by one foot, unable to free herself, fluttering herself to death. At this time two girls came through the path in the woods, took in the situation, and quick as thought one of them climbed the tree, swung herself out on the high branch, and cut the robin loose. "The man who witnessed the act did not find out the names of the two girls, but the one who climbed the tree wore a Camp Keewaydin hat and a dark green bloomer suit. The other was dressed in brown. I don't think there is anyone who fails to recognize the girl who has done this heroic thing. There is only one green bloomer suit here in camp. Mrs. Grayson tells me that she gave Agnes Wing permission to go to Atlantis with Mary Sylvester yesterday afternoon. Where is she? Agnes Wing, stand up." Agony stood up in her corner of the room, her lips opened to tell Dr. Grayson that it was Mary who happened to have on the green bloomer suit and had climbed the tree, but her words were drowned in a cheer that nearly raised the roof off the Craft House. Before she knew it Miss Judy and Tiny Armstrong had seized her, set her up on their shoulders, and were carrying her around the room, while the building fairly rocked with applause. Thrilled and intoxicated by the cheering, Agony began to listen to the voice of the tempter in her bosom. No one would ever know that it had not really been she who had done the brave deed; not a soul knew of her lending her suit to Mary because of the mishap in the springhouse. Mary Sylvester was gone; was on her way to Japan; she would never hear about it; and the only person who had witnessed the deed did not know their names; he had only remembered the green bloomer suit. The man himself was unknown, nobody at camp could ever ask him about the affair. He had gone from the neighborhood and would never come face to face with her and discover his mistake; the secret was safe in her heart. In one bound she could become the most popular girl in camp; gain the favor of the Doctor and the councilors--especially of Miss Amesbury, whom she was most desirous of impressing. The sight of Miss Amesbury leaning forward with shining eyes decided the question for her. The words trembling on her lips were choked back; she hung her head and looked the picture of modest embarrassment, the ideal heroine. Set down on the floor again by Tiny and Miss Judy, she hid her face on Miss Judy's shoulder and blushed at Dr. Grayson's long speech of praise, in which he spoke touchingly of the beauty of a nature which loved the wild dumb creatures of the woods and sought to protect them from harm; of the cool courage and splendid will power that had sent her out on the shaking branch when her very heart was in her mouth from fear; of the modesty which had kept her silent about the glorious act after she returned to camp. When he took both her hands in his and looked into her face with an expression of admiring regard in his fine, true eyes, she all but told the truth of the matter then and there; but cowardice held her silent and the moment passed. "Let's have a canoe procession in her honor!" called Miss Judy, and there was a rush for the dock. Agony was borne down in triumph upon the shoulders of Miss Judy and Tiny, with all the camp marching after, and was set down in the barge of honor, the first canoe behind the towing launch, while all the Alley drew straws for the privilege of riding with her. Still cheering Agony enthusiastically the procession started down the river in a wild, hilarious ride, and Agony thrilled with the joy of being the center of attraction. "I have arrived at last," she whispered triumphantly to herself as she went to bed that night, and lay awake a long time in the darkness, thinking of the cheers that had rocked the Craft House and of the flattering attention with which Miss Amesbury had regarded her all evening. CHAPTER VII THE BUSINESS OF BEING A HEROINE Agony awoke the next morning to find herself famous beyond her fondest dreams. Before she was dressed she saw two of the younger girls peeping into the tent for a glimpse of her; when she stood in line for flag raising she was conscious of eyes turned toward her from all directions while girls who had never noticed her before stopped to say good morning effusively, and seemed inclined to linger in her company; and at breakfast each table in turn sang a cheer for her. Jo Severance, who was one of the acknowledged camp leaders, and whose friendships were not lightly bestowed, ostensibly stopped and waited for Agony to catch up with her on the way over to Morning Sing and walked into Mateka with her arm around Agony's waist. "Will you be my sleeping partner for the first overnight trip that we take?" she asked cordially. "Certainly," Agony replied a little breathlessly, already well enough versed in camp customs to realize the extent of the tribute that was being paid her. At Camp Keewaydin a girl never asked anyone but her dearest friend to be her sleeping partner on an overnight trip, to creep into her poncho sleeping bag with her and share the intimate experience of a night on the ground, heads together on the same pillow, warm bodies touching each other in the crowded nest inside the blankets. And Jo Severance had chosen her to take the place of Mary Sylvester, Jo's own adored Mary, who was to have been Jo's partner on all occasions! Before Morning Sing was over Agony had received a dozen pressing invitations to share beds on that first camping trip, and the date of the trip was not even announced yet! And to all this fuss and favor Agony responded like a prism placed in the sunlight. She sparkled, she glowed, she radiated, she brought to the surface with a rush all the wit and charm and talent that lay in her being. She beamed upon everyone right and left; she threw herself with ardor and enthusiasm into every plan that was suggested; she had a dozen brilliant ideas in as many minutes; she seemed absolutely inspired. Her deep voice came out so strongly that she was able to carry the alto in the singing against the whole camp; she improvised delightful harmonies that put a thrill into the commonest tune. She got up of her own accord and performed the gestures to "The Lone Fish Ball" better even than Mary Sylvester had done them, and on the spur of the moment she worked out another set to accompany "The Bulldog and the Bullfrog" that brought down the house. It took only the stimulating influence of the limelight to bring out and intensify every talent she had ever possessed. It worked upon her like a drug, quickening her faculties, spurring her on to one brilliant performance after the other, while the camp looked upon her in wonder as one gifted by the gods. The same exalted mood possessed her during swimming hour, and she passed the test for Sharks with flying colors. Immediately afterward she completed the canoe test and joined that envied class who were allowed to take out a canoe on their own responsibility. A dozen new admirers flocked around her as she walked back to Gitchee-Gummee at the close of the Swimming hour, all begging to be allowed to sew up the tear in her bathing suit, or offering to lend her the prettiest of their bathing caps. What touched Agony most, however, was the pride which the Winnebagos took in her exploit. "We knew you would do something splendid sometime and bring honor to us," they told her exultingly, with shining faces. "I'm going to write Nyoda about it this minute," said Migwan, after she had finished her words of praise. "What's the mater, Agony, have you a headache again?" she finished. "No," replied Agony in a tone of forced carelessness. "I thought maybe you had," continued Migwan solicitously. "Your forehead was all puckered up." "The light is so bright on the river," murmured Agony, and walked thoughtfully away. Days passed in pleasant succession; Mary Sylvester's name gradually ceased to be heard on all sides from her mourning cronies, who at first accompanied every camp activity with a plaintive chorus of, "Remember the way Mary used to do this," or "Oh, I wish Mary were here to enjoy this," or "Mary had planned to do this the first chance she got," and so on. Life in camp was so packed full of enjoyment for those who remained behind that it was impossible to go on missing the departed one indefinitely. The first camping trip was a thing of the past. It had been a twenty-mile hike along the river to a curious group of rocks known as "Hercules' Library," from the resemblance which the granite blocks bore to shelves of books. Here, among these fantastic formations, the camp had spread its blankets and literally snored, if not actually upon, at least at the base of, the flint. When bedtime came Katherine had found herself without a sleeping partner, for she had forgotten to ask someone herself, and it just happened that no one had asked her. She was philosophically trying to make her bed up for a single, by doubling the poncho over lengthwise into a cocoon effect, when she heard a sniffle coming out of the bushes beside her. Investigating, she found Carmen Chadwick sitting disconsolately upon a very much wrinkled poncho, her chin in her hands, the picture of woe. "What's the matter, can't you make your bed?" asked Katherine, remembering Carmen's helplessness in that line upon a former occasion. "I haven't any partner!" answered Carmen, with another sniffle. "I had one, but she's run away from me." "Who was it?" asked Katherine. "Jane Pratt," replied Carmen. "I asked her a long time ago if I might sleep with her on the first trip, and she said, certainly I might, and she would bring along enough blankets for the two of us, and I wouldn't need to bother bringing any. So I didn't bring any blankets; but when I asked her just now where we were going to sleep, she said she hadn't the faintest notion where _I_ was going to sleep, but _she_ was going to sleep alone in the woods, away from the rest of us. She laughed at me, and said she never intended to bring along enough blankets for the two of us, and that I should have known better than to believe her. What shall I do?" she wailed, beginning to weep in earnest. Katherine gave vent to an exclamation that sent a nearby chipmunk scampering away in a panic. She looked around for Miss Judy, but Miss Judy was deep in the woods with the other councilors getting up a stunt to entertain the girls after supper. "Where's Jane Pratt?" asked Katherine. "I don't know," sniffled Carmen. "Didn't you bring any blankets at all?" "No." "Carmen, didn't it ever occur to you that Jane was making fun of you when she said she would bring blankets for two? Nobody ever does that, you know, they'd make too heavy a load to carry." Carmen shook her head, and gulped afresh. "No, I never thought of that. I wanted a sleeping partner so badly, and everyone I asked was already engaged, and when she said yes I was _so_ happy." "Of all the mean, contemptible tricks to play on a poor little creature like that!" Katherine exclaimed aloud. "What's the matter?" asked Agony, appearing beside her. Katherine told her. Agony's eyes flashed. "I'm going to find Jane Pratt," she said in the calm tone which always indicated smouldering anger, "and make her share her blankets with Carmen." Jane, who, with the practised eye of the old camper, had selected a smooth bit of ground thickly covered with pine needles and sloping gently upward toward the end for her head, and had arranged her two double blankets and her extra large sized poncho into an extremely comfortable bed for one, looked up from her labors to find Agony standing before her with flushed face and blazing eyes. "Jane Pratt," Agony began without preliminary, "did you promise to sleep with Carmen Chadwick, and lead her to think she did not need to bring any blankets along on this trip?" Jane returned Agony's gaze coolly, and gave a slight, disagreeable laugh. "Carmen's the biggest goose in camp," she said scornfully. "Anybody'd know I didn't mean--" "_Carmen_ didn't know you didn't mean it," Agony interrupted. "She thought you were sincere, and believed you, and now she's dreadfully hurt about it. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, hurting a poor little girl's feelings like that." "If anybody's green enough to come on an overnight trip without any blankets and actually think someone else is going to bring them for her--" "Well, as it happens, Carmen _was_ green enough, and that's just the point. She's never been away from home and because she's so desperately homesick she's having a hard time making friends. If one person treats her like this it'll be hard for her ever to believe what people tell her and it'll be harder for her to get acquainted than ever." Jane shrugged her shoulders. "What she believes or doesn't believe doesn't concern me." "Why, Jane Pratt!" Jane smiled amusedly at Agony's reproachful exclamation. "My dear," she said patronizingly, "I never sleep with anyone. There's no one I like well enough. I thought everyone in camp knew that." "Then why did you tell Carmen you would sleep with her?" "Because she's such a goose it was no end of fun taking her in." "Then you deliberately deceived her?" asked Agony witheringly. "Well, and what if I did?" retorted Jane. "You have absolutely no sense of honor," Agony remarked contemptuously. "Deceiving people is just as bad as lying, or cheating." Stung by Agony's tone, Jane flushed a little. "Well, what do you expect me to do about it?" she demanded. "What business is it of yours, anyway?" "You're going to let Carmen take one of your blankets," replied Agony. "I'll do no such thing," returned Jane flatly. "It's going to be cold here tonight and I'll need them both." "And what about Carmen?" "Bother Carmen! If she's such a goose to think that I meant what I said she deserves to be cold." "Why, Jane Pratt!" "Why don't you share your own blankets with her, if you're so concerned about her?" "I'm perfectly willing to, and so are the rest of the girls, but we're giving you the _opportunity_ to do it, to help right the mistake." "I suppose you've told all the girls in camp about it and will run and tell Mrs. Grayson to come and make me give up my blankets." "I'll do no such thing. If you aren't kind hearted enough yourself to want to make Carmen feel better it wouldn't mend matters any to have Mrs. Grayson make you do it. But I shall certainly let the girls know about it. I think they ought to know what an amiable disposition you have. I don't think you'll be bothered with any more overtures of friendship." Jane yawned. "For goodness' sake, are you going to preach all night? That voice of yours sets my nerves on edge. Take a blanket and present it to Carmen with my love--and let me alone." She stripped the top blanket from her bed and threw it at Agony's feet; then walked off, calling over her shoulder as she went, "Good bye, Miss Champion of simple camp infants. Most courageous, most honorable!" She did not see the sudden spasm that contorted Agony's face at the word "honorable." It suddenly came over Agony that she had no right to be calling other people cheats and liars and taking them to task about their sense of honor, she, who was enjoying honors that did not belong to her. The light of victory faded from her eyes; the angry flush died away on her cheek. Very quietly she stole back to Carmen and held the blanket out to her. "Jane's sorry she can't sleep with you, because she never sleeps well and is apt to disturb people, but she's willing to let you take one of her blankets," she said gently. "Oh, thank you!" said Carmen, much comforted. "I'm going to sleep with Katherine. With this blanket there'll be enough bedding to make a double. I'm glad I'm not going to sleep with Jane," she confided to Katherine. "I'm afraid of her. I would lots rather have had you for my partner from the beginning, but I was afraid to ask you because I was sure you were promised to somebody else." "Motto," said Katherine, laughing. "Faint heart never won lanky lady. Don't ever hesitate to ask me anything again. Come on, let's get this bed made up in a hurry. I see the councilors coming back. That means their show is going to commence." Of course, it was not long before Agony's little passage of arms with Jane Pratt in behalf of timid little Carmen was known all over camp, and Agony went up another point in popular favor as Jane Pratt went down. The councilors heard about it, too, for whatever Bengal Virden knew was promptly confided to Pom-pom. Miss Judy told it to Dr. Grayson, and he nodded his head approvingly. "It's no more than you would expect from the girl who rescued that robin," he said warmly. "The champion of all weaker creatures. Diplomatic, too. Tried to save Carmen's feelings in the matter by not telling her the exact spirit in which Jane gave up the blanket. A good leader; another Mary Sylvester." Then, turning to Mrs. Grayson, he asked plaintively: "Mother, _why_ do we have to be afflicted with Jane Pratt year after year? She's been a thorn in our flesh for the past three summers." "I have told you before," replied Mrs. Grayson resignedly, "that I only accept her because she is the daughter of my old friend Anne Dudley. I cannot offend Mrs. Pratt because I am under various obligations to her, so for the sake of her mother we must continue to be afflicted with Jane Pratt." Dr. Grayson heaved a long sigh, and muttered something about "the fell clutch of circumstance." "We seem rather plentifully saddled with 'obligations,'" he remarked a moment later. "Meaning?" inquired Mrs. Grayson. "Claudia Peckham," rejoined the Doctor. "Sweet Claudia Peckham: How she used to scrap with my little brothers when she came to visit us! She had a disposition like the bubonic plague when she was little, and by all the signs she doesn't seem to have mellowed any with age." "Doctor!" exclaimed Mrs. Grayson reprovingly. "Sad, but true," continued the Doctor, his eyes twinkling reminiscently. "When she came to visit us the cat used to hide her kittens under the porch, and the whole household went into a regular state of siege. By the way, how is she getting on? I've lived in fear of the explosion every minute. I never thought she'd last this long. Who has she in the tent with her?" "That brown haired madonna you think is so sweet, and the pretty, golden haired girl who is her intimate friend," replied Mrs. Grayson. "Those two, and--Bengal Virden." The Doctor gave vent to a long whistle. "Bengal Virden in the same tent with Claudia Peckham? And the tent is still standing?" "Bengal doesn't sleep in the tent," admitted Mrs. Grayson. "She has moved underneath it, into a couch hammock. She thinks I don't know it, but under the circumstances I shall not interfere. We have to keep Cousin Claudia _somewhere_, and as long as they'll put up with her in Ponemah I don't care how they manage it. She _would_ be a tent councilor." "How do the other two get along with her?" asked the Doctor, "the two that have not moved underneath, as yet?" "I don't know," replied Mrs. Grayson in a frankly puzzled tone. "They must be angels unaware, that's all I can say." CHAPTER VIII THE SHOE BEGINS TO PINCH "Tramp, tramp, tramp, the bugs are marching, Up and down the tents they go, Some are brown and some are black, But of each there is no lack, And the Daddy-long-legs they go marching too!" So sang Sahwah as she tidied up her tent after Morning Sing. It was war on bugs and spiders this morning; war to the knife, or rather, to the broom. Usually there was no time between Morning Sing and tent inspection to do more than give the place a swift tidying up; to sweep the floor and straighten up the beds and set the table in order. Bugs and spiders did not count against one in tent inspection, being looked upon as circumstances over which one had no control; hence no one ever bothered about them. But that morning Sahwah, lying awake waiting for the rising bugle to blow, saw a round-bellied, jolly-looking little bug crawling leisurely along the floor, dragging a tiny seed of grain with him, and looking for all the world like the father of a family bringing a loaf of bread home for breakfast. As she watched it traveling along a crack in the board floor, a very large, fierce-looking bug appeared on the scene, fell upon the smaller one, killed and half devoured it, and then made off triumphantly with the seed the other had been carrying. "No you don't!" shouted Sahwah aloud, waking Agony out of a sound sleep. "What's the matter?" yawned Agony. Sahwah laughed a little foolishly. "It was nothing; only a bug," she explained. "I'm sorry I wakened you, Agony. You see, I was watching a cute little bug carrying a seed across the floor, and a bigger bug came along and took it away from him. I won't stand for anything like that here in Gitchee-Gummee. We all play fair here, and nobody takes any plums that belong to someone else." She rose in her wrath, reached for her shoe, and made short work of the unethical despoiler. Agony made no comment. The words, _we all play fair here, and nobody takes any plums that belong to someone else_, pierced her bosom like barbed arrows. She lay so still that Sahwah thought she had dropped off to sleep again, and crept quietly back to bed so as not to disturb her a second time. Like the tiger, however, who, once having tasted blood, is consumed with the lust of killing, Sahwah, having squashed one bug, itched to do the same with all the others in the tent, and when tidying-up time came there began a ruthless campaign of extermination. Agony, having made her bed and swept out underneath it, departed abruptly from the scene. Somehow the sight of bugs being killed was upsetting to her just now. She wandered down toward the river, listening pensively to the sweet piping notes of Noel Sanderson's whistle, coming from somewhere along the shore; then she turned and walked toward Mateka, planning to put in some time working on the design for her paddle before Craft Hour began and the place became filled to overflowing with other designers, all wanting the design books and the rulers and compasses at once. As she passed under the balcony which was Miss Amesbury's sanctum, a cordial hail floated down from above. "Good morning, Agony, whither bound so early, and what means that portentous frown?" Agony looked up to see Miss Amesbury, wreathed in smiles, peering down over the rustic railing at her. Agony flushed with pleasure at the cordiality of the tone, and the use of her nickname. It was only the girls for which she had a special liking that Miss Amesbury ever addressed by a nickname, no matter how universally in use that nickname might be with the rest of the camp. Agony's blood tingled with a sense of triumph; her eyes sparkled and her face took on that look of being lighted up from within that characterized her in moments of great animation. "I was coming down to Mateka to put in some extra work on the design for my paddle," she replied, in her rich, vibrating voice, "and I was frowning because I was a little puzzled how I was going to work it out." "Industrious child!" replied Miss Amesbury. "Come up and visit me and I'll show you some good designs for paddles." The next half hour was so filled with delight for Agony that she did not know whether she was sleeping or waking. Sitting opposite her adored Miss Amesbury on a rustic bench covered with a bright Indian blanket and listening to the fascinating conversation of this much traveled, older woman, the voice of conscience grew fainter and nearly ceased tormenting Agony altogether, and she gave herself up wholly to the enjoyment of the moment. In answer to Miss Amesbury's questioning, she told of her home and school life; her great admiration for Edwin Langham; and about the Winnebagos and their good times; and Miss Amesbury laughed heartily at her tales and in turn related her own school-girl pranks and enthusiasm in a flattering confidential way. Agony rushed up to the Winnebagos after Craft Hour, radiant with pride and happiness. "Miss Amesbury invited me up to her balcony," she announced, trying hard to speak casually, "and she lent me one of her own books to read, and she helped me work out the design for my paddle. She's the most wonderful woman I've ever met. She wants me to come again often, she says, and she invited me to go walking with her in the woods this afternoon to get some balsam." "O Agony, how splendid!" cried Migwan, with a hint of wistfulness in her voice. Migwan did not envy Agony her sudden popularity with the campers one bit; that was her just due after the splendid deed she had performed; but where Miss Amesbury was concerned Migwan could not help feeling a few pangs of jealousy. She admired Miss Amesbury with all the passion that was in her, looking up to her as one of the nameless, insignificant stars of heaven might look up to the Evening Star; she prayed that Miss Amesbury might single her out for intimate friendship such as was enjoyed by Mary Sylvester and some of the other older girls. Migwan never breathed this desire to anyone, but if Miss Amesbury had only known it, a certain pair of soft brown eyes rested eagerly upon her all through Morning Sing, as she sat at the piano playing hymns and choruses, even as they were fixed upon her during meals and other assemblies. And now the thing that Migwan coveted so much had come to Agony, and Agony basked in the light of Miss Amesbury's twinkling smile and enjoyed all the privileges of friendship which Migwan would have given her right hand to possess. But, being Migwan, she bravely brushed aside her momentary feeling of envy, told herself sternly that if she was worth it Miss Amesbury would notice her sooner or later, and cheerfully lent Agony her best pencil to transfer the new paddle design with. "Supper on the water tonight!" announced Miss Judy, going the rounds late in the afternoon. "Everybody go down on the dock when the supper bugle blows, instead of coming into the dining room." There was a mad rush for canoe partners, and a hasty gathering together of guitars and mandolins, which would certainly be in demand for the evening sing-out which would follow supper. Agony, being in an exalted mood, had an inspiration, which she confided to Gladys in a whisper, and Gladys, nodding, moved off in the direction of the Bungalow and paid a visit to her trunk up in the loft, after which she and Agony disappeared into the woods. The river was bathed in living fire from the rays of the setting sun when the little fleet of boats pushed out from the shore and began circling around the floating dock where Miss Judy and Tiny Armstrong, with the help of three or four other councilors, were passing out plates of salad, sandwiches and cups of milk. Having received their supplies, the canoes backed away and went moving up or down the river as the paddlers desired, sometimes two or three canoes close together, sometimes one alone, but all, whether alone or in groups, filling the occupants of the launch with desperate envy. A dozen or more girls these were, still in the Minnow class, still denied the privilege of going out in a canoe because they had not yet passed the swimming test. Oh-Pshaw, alas, was still one of them. She looked wistfully at Agony, a Shark, in charge of a canoe with Hinpoha and Gladys and Jo Severance as companions, gliding alongside of Sahwah and Undine Cirelle on the one side and Katherine and Jean Lawrence on the other. She heard their voices floating across the water as they laughingly called to each other and sang snatches of songs aimed at Miss Judy and Tiny Armstrong on the floating dock; heard Tiny Armstrong remark to Miss Judy, "There's the best group of canoeists we've ever had in camp. Won't they make a showing on Regatta Day, though!" Oh-Pshaw longed with all her heart on floating supper nights to belong to that illustrious company and go gliding up and down the river like a swan instead of chugging around in the launch, sitting cramped up to make room for the supper supplies that covered the floor on the trip out, and baskets of used forks and spoons and cups on the trip back. It was not a brilliant company that went in the launch. Jacob, Dr. Grayson's helper about camp, ran the engine. Being desperately shy, he attended strictly to business, and never so much as glanced at the girls packed in behind him. Half a dozen of the younger camp girls, who never did anything but whisper together, carve stones for their favorite councilors, and giggle continually; three or four of the older girls who sat silent as clams for the most part, and never betrayed any particular enthusiasm, no matter what went on; Carmen Chadwick, who clung to Oh-Pshaw and squeaked with alarm every time the launch changed her course; and Miss Peckham, who from her seat in the stern kept shouting nervous admonitions at the unheeding Jacob; these constituted the company who were doomed to travel together on all excursions. Oh-Pshaw labored heroically to infuse a spark of life into the company; she wrote a really clever little song about "the Exclusive Crew of the Irish Stew," but she could not induce the exclusive crew to sing it, so her first poetic effort was love's labor lost. So she looked enviously upon the canoes and resolved more firmly than ever to overcome her fear of the water and learn to swim, and thus have done with the launch and its uninspiring company for all time. Migwan's eyes, as usual, went roving in search of Miss Amesbury, but tonight, to her sorrow, they did not find her anywhere in the canoes. "Where is Miss Amesbury?" she asked of Miss Judy, as her canoe came up alongside of the "lunch counter." "She didn't come out with us tonight," replied Miss Judy, tipping the milk can far over to pour out the last drop. "She wanted to do some writing, she said." Migwan sighed quietly and gave herself over to being agreeable to her canoe mates, but the occasion had lost its savor for her. Supper finished, the canoes began to drift westward toward the setting sun, following the broad streak of light that lay like a magic highway upon the water, while guitars and mandolins began to tinkle, and from all around clear girlish voices, blended together in exquisite harmony, took up song after song. "Oh, I could float along like this and sing forever!" breathed Hinpoha, picking out soft chords on her guitar, and looking dreamily at the evening star glowing like a jewelled lamp in the western sky. "So could I," replied Migwan, leaning back in the canoe with her hands clasped behind her head, and letting the light breeze ruffle the soft tendrils of hair around her temples. "It is going to be full moon tonight," she added. "See, there it is, rising above the treetops. How big and bright it is! Can it be possible that it is only a mass of dead chalk and not a ball of burnished silver? Gladys will enjoy that moon, she always loves it so when it is so big and round and bright. By the way, where _is_ Gladys? I saw her in a canoe not long ago, but I don't see her anywhere now." "I don't know where she is," replied Hinpoha, glancing idly around at the various craft and then letting her eyes rest upon the moon again. The little fleet had rounded an island and turned back upstream, now traveling in the silver moon-path, now gliding through velvety black shadows, and was approaching a long, low ledge of rock that jutted out into the water just beyond the big bend in the river. A sudden exclamation of "Ah-h!" drew everybody's attention to the rock, and there a wondrous spectacle presented itself--a white robed figure dancing in the moonlight as lighty as a bit of seafoam, her filmy draperies fluttering in the wind, her long yellow hair twined with lillies. "Who is it?" several voices cried in wonder, and the paddlers stopped spellbound with their paddles poised in air. "Gladys!" exclaimed Migwan. "I thought she was planning a surprise, she and Agony were whispering together this afternoon. Isn't she wonderful, though!" Migwan's voice rang with pride in her beloved friend's accomplishment. "Too bad Miss Amesbury isn't here to see it." The dancer on the rock dipped and swayed and whirled in a mad measure, finally disappearing into the shadow of a towering cliff, from whence she emerged a few moments later, once more in the canoe with Agony, and changed back from a water nymph into a Camp Keewaydin girl in middy and bloomers. "It was Agony's idea," she explained simply, in response to the storm of applause that greeted her reappearance among the girls. "She thought of it this afternoon when the word went around that we were going to have supper on the water." Then Agony came in for her share of the applause also, until the woods echoed to the sound of cheering. "Too bad Miss Amesbury had to miss it." Thus Agony echoed Migwan's earlier expression of regret as she walked down the Alley arm in arm with Migwan and Hinpoha after the first bugle. "She's been working up there on her balcony all evening, and didn't hear a bit of the singing. We were too far up the river." "Couldn't we sing a bit for her?" suggested Migwan. "Serenade her, I mean; just a few of us who are used to singing together?" "Good idea," replied Agony enthusiastically. "Get all the Winnebagos together and let's sing her some of our own songs, the ones we've practicsed so much together at home. You bring your mandolin, Migs, and tell Hinpoha to bring her guitar. Hurry, we'll have to do it fast to get back for lights out." Miss Amesbury, wearily finishing her evening's work, was suddenly greeted by a burst of song from beneath her balcony; a surpassing deep, rich alto, beautifully blended with a number of clear, pure sopranos, accompanied by mandolin and guitar. It was a song she had not heard in years, one which held a beautiful, tender association for her: "I would that my love could silently Flow in a single word--" A mist came over her eyes as she listened, and the gates of memory swung back on their golden hinges, revealing another scene, when she had listened to that song sung by a voice now long since hushed. She put her hand over her eyes as if in pain, then dropped it slowly into her lap and sat leaning back in her chair listening with hungry ears to the familiar strains. When the last note had echoed itself quite away she leaned over the balcony and called down softly, "Thanks, many thanks, girls. You do not know what a treat you have given me. Who are you? I know one of you must be Agony, I recognize her alto, but who are the rest of you? The Winnebagos? I might have guessed it. You are dear girls to think of me up here by myself and to put yourselves out to give me pleasure. Come and visit me in the daytime, every one of you. There goes the last bugle. Goodnight, girls. Thank you a thousand times!" The Winnebagos scurried off toward the Alley, in high spirits at the success of their little plan. Migwan actually trembled with joy. At last she had been invited up on Miss Amesbury's fascinating little balcony. True, the invitation had been a general one to all the Winnebagos, but nevertheless, it was a beginning. "Miss Amesbury must have been very tired tonight," she confided to Hinpoha. "Her voice actually shook when she thanked us for singing." "I noticed it, too," replied Hinpoha, beginning to pull her middy off over her head as she walked along. When Agony reached the door of Gitchee-Gummee she remembered that she had left her camp hat lying in the path below Mateka, where they had stood to serenade Miss Amesbury, and fearing that the wind, which was increasing in velocity, might blow it into the river before morning, she hastened back to rescue it. She moved quietly, for it was after lights out and she did not wish to disturb the camp. Miss Amesbury's lamp was extinguished and her balcony was shrouded in darkness by the shadow of the tall pine which grew against it. "She must be very tired," thought Agony, remembering Migwan's words, "and is already in bed." Agony felt carefully over the shadowy ground for her hat, found it and started back up the path. But the beauty of the moonlight on the river tempted her to loiter and dream along the bluff before returning to her tent. Enchanted by the magic scene beneath her, she stood still and gazed for many minutes at the gleaming river of water which seemed to her like pure molten silver. As she stood gazing, half lost in dreams, she saw a canoe shoot out from the opposite shore some distance up the river and come toward Keewaydin, keeping in the shadows along the shore. Just before it reached camp it drew in and discharged a passenger, which Agony could see was a girl. Then the canoe put off again, and as it crossed a moonlit place Agony saw that it was painted bright red, the color of the canoes belonging to the Boy's Camp located about a half mile down the river. Agony realized what the presence of that canoe meant. One of the girls of Keewaydin had been out canoeing on the sly with some boy from Camp Alamont--a thing forbidden in the Keewaydin code--and was being brought back in this surreptitious manner. Who could the girl be? Agony grimaced with disgust. She waited quietly there in the path where the girl, whoever she was, must pass in order to go up to her tent. In a few moments the girl came along and nearly stumbled over her in the darkness, crying out in alarm at the unexpected encounter. Agony's swiftly adjusted flashlight fell upon the heavy features and unpleasant eyes of Jane Pratt. "O Jane," cried Agony, "you haven't been over at that boys' camp, have you? You surely know it's forbidden--Dr. Grayson said so distinctly when he read the camp rules." "Well, what if I have?" Jane demanded in a tone of asperity. "Dr. Grayson makes a lot of rules that are too silly for words. I have a friend over at Camp Altamont that I've known for years and if I choose to go canoeing with him on such a gorgeous night instead of going to bed at nine o'clock like a baby it's nobody's business. By the way, what are _you_ doing here?" she demanded suspiciously. "Why aren't you in bed with the rest of the infants?" "I came out to get my hat," replied Agony simply. "Strange thing that your hat should get lost just in the spot where I happen to come ashore," remarked Jane sarcastically. "How long have you been spying upon my movements, Miss Virtue?" "I haven't been spying on you," declared Agony hotly. "I hadn't any idea you were out. To tell the truth, I never missed you this evening when we were on the river." "Well, I suppose you'll pull Mrs. Grayson out of her bed now to tell her the scandal about Jane Pratt," continued Jane bitingly, "and tomorrow morning at five o'clock there'll be another departure from camp." "O Jane!" cried Agony, in distress. "Will she really send you home?" "She really will," mocked Jane. "She sent a girl home last year who did the same thing." "O Jane, how dreadful that would be," said Agony. "And how sorry you would be to have me go--not," returned Jane derisively. "Jane," said Agony seriously, "if I promise not to tell Mrs. Grayson this time will you promise never to do this sort of thing again? It would be awful to be sent home from camp in disgrace. If you think it over you'll surely see what a much better time you'll have if you don't break rules--if you work and play honorably. Won't you please try?" The derisive tone deepened in Jane's voice as she answered, "No I will _not_. I'll make no such babyish promise--to you of all people--because I wouldn't keep it if I did make it." "Then," said Agony firmly, "I'll do just as we do in school with the honor system. I'll give you three days to tell Mrs. Grayson yourself, and if you haven't done it by the end of that time I'll tell her myself. What you are doing is a bad example for the younger girls, and Mrs. Grayson ought to know about it." Jane's only reply was a mocking laugh as she brushed past Agony and went in the direction of her tent. CHAPTER IX AN EXPLORING TRIP "Miss Amesbury wants us to go off on a canoe trip with her," announced Agony, rushing up to the Winnebagos after Craft Hour the next morning. "Wants who to go on a canoe trip with her?" demanded Sahwah in excitement. "Why, us, the Winnebagos," replied Agony. "Just us, and Jo Severance. She wants to take a canoe trip up the river, but she doesn't want to go with the whole camp when they go because there will be too much noise and excitement. She wants a quieter trip, but she doesn't want to go all alone, so she has asked Dr. Grayson if she may take us girls. He said she might. We're to start this afternoon, right after dinner, and be gone over night; maybe two nights." "O Agony!" breathed Migwan in ecstacy, falling upon Agony's neck and hugging her rapturously. "It's all due to you. If you hadn't done that splendid thing we wouldn't be half as popular as we are. We're sharing your glory with you." She smiled fondly into Agony's eyes and squeezed her hand heartily. "Good old Agony," she murmured. Agony smiled back mechanically and returned the squeeze with only a slight pressure. "Nonsense," she replied with emphasis. "It isn't on account of what--I--did at all that she has asked you. It's because you serenaded her the other evening. That was _your_ doing, Migwan." "But we wouldn't have ventured to serenade her if she hadn't been so friendly with you," replied Migwan, "so it amounts to the same thing in the end. That's the way it has always been with us Winnebagos, hasn't it? What one does always helps the rest of us. Sahwah's swimming has made us all famous; and so has Gladys's dancing and Katherine's speechifying." "And your writing," put in Hinpoha. "Don't forget that Indian legend of yours that brought the spotlight down upon us in our freshman year. That was really the making of us. No matter what one of us does, the others all share in the glory." A tiny shiver went down Agony's back. "And I suppose," she added casually, "if one of us were to disgrace herself the others would share the disgrace." "We certainly would," said Sahwah with conviction. Agony turned away with a dry feeling in her throat and walked soberly to her tent to prepare for the canoe trip. "Have you noticed that there is something queer about Agony lately?" Migwan remarked to Gladys as she laid out her poncho on the tent floor preparatory to rolling it. "I haven't noticed it," replied Gladys, getting out needle and thread to sew up a small rent in her bloomers. "What do you mean?" "Why, I can't explain it exactly," continued Migwan, pausing in the act of doubling back her blanket to fit the shape of the poncho, "but she's different, somehow. She sits and stares out over the river sometimes for half an hour at a stretch, and sometimes when you speak to her she gives you an answer that shows she hasn't heard what you said." "I _have_ noticed it, now that you speak of it," replied Gladys, straightening up from her mending job to give Migwan a hand with the poncho rolling. Then she added, "Maybe she's in love. Those are supposed to be the symptoms, aren't they?" "Gracious!" exclaimed Migwan in a startled tone. "Do you suppose that can be what's the matter with her. I hadn't thought of that." "It must be," said Gladys with a quaint air of wordly wisdom, and then the two girls proceeded to forget Agony in the labor of rolling the poncho up neatly and making it fast with a piece of rope tied in a square knot. When Agony reached Gitchee-Gummee on her errand of packing, there was Jo Severance waiting for her with a letter. "Letter from Mary Sylvester," she called gaily, waving it over her head. "It just came in the morning's mail and I haven't opened it yet. Thought I'd bring it down and let you read it with me." An icy hand seemed to clutch at Agony's heart, and she gazed at the little white linen paper envelope as though it might contain a bomb. Here was a danger she had not foreseen. Mary Sylvester, even though she had left camp, corresponded with her bosom friend, Jo Severance, and very naturally she might make some reference to the robin incident. Agony gazed in fascinated silence as Jo opened the envelope with a nail file in lieu of a paper cutter and spread out the pages. Little black specks began to float before her eyes and she leaned against the bed to steady herself for the blow which she felt in her prophetic soul was coming. Jo, in her eagerness to read the letter, noticed nothing out of the way in Agony's expression. Dropping down on the bed beside her she began to read aloud: "Dearest Jo: "When I think of you and all the other dear people I left behind me in camp it seems that I must fly right back to Keewaydin. It still seems a dream, my coming away so soon after arriving. I have done nothing but rush around since, getting my things together. We are in San Francisco now, and sail tonight." ... So the letter ran for several pages--descriptions of things she had seen on the trip west, and loving messages for her friends at Camp, and closing with a hasty "Goodbye, Jo dear." Not a word about the robin. The choking sensation in Agony's throat left her. Weak-kneed, she sank down on the bed and lay back on the pillow, closing her eyes wearily. Unnoticing, Jo departed to show the letter to the girls to whom Mary had sent messages. Agony lay very still, thinking. Even if Mary had not mentioned the robin incident in this letter, she might in a later one; the danger was never really over. And on the other hand, Jo Severance, dear Jo, who had become so fond of Agony in the last few weeks, would certainly tell Mary about the robin when she answered her letter. Jo had already written it to her mother and to several friends, she had told her. Jo never grew tired of talking about it, and displayed a touching pride in having Agony for an intimate friend. Yes, without doubt Jo would write it to Mary, and then Mary would write back and tell the truth. Agony grew hot and cold by turns as she lay there thinking of the certainty of exposure. What a blind fool she had been. If only she had told the story the minute she got home that day, instead of keeping it to herself, then the moment of temptation would never have come to her. If only Mary hadn't been called away just then! Could she still take the story back, she wondered, and tell it as it really had been? Her heart sank at the thought and her pride cried out against it. No, she could never stand the disgrace. But what if the truth were to leak out through Mary--that would be infinitely worse. Her thoughts went around in a torturing circle and brought her to no decision. Should she make a clean breast of it now and have nothing more to fear, or should she take a chance on Jo's never mentioning it to Mary? While she was debating the question back and forth in her mind Bengal Virden came running into the tent. Bengal was beginning to tag after Agony as she had formerly tagged after Mary Sylvester. Agony often caught the younger girl's eyes fastened upon her with an expression of worship that fairly embarrassed her. It was the first real crush that a younger girl had ever had on Agony, and although Agony laughed about it to her friends, she still derived no small amount of satisfaction from it, and had resolved to be a real influence for good to stout, fly-away Bengal. The girl came running in now with a leaf cup full of red, ripe raspberries in her hand, and laid it in Agony's lap. "I picked them all for you," she remarked, looking at Agony with an adoring gaze. "Oh, thank you," said Agony, sitting up and fingering the tempting gift. She selected a large ripe berry and put it into her mouth, giving an involuntary exclamation of pleasure at the fine, rich flavor of the fruit. This, she reflected, was the reward of popularity--the cream of all good things from the hands of her admirers. Could she give it up--could she bear to see their admiration turn to scorn? "And Agony," begged Bengal, "may I have a lock of your hair to keep?" The depths of adoration expressed in that request sent an odd thrill through Agony. She knew then that she could not bear it to have Bengal be disappointed in her; could not let her know that she was only posing as a heroine. The die was cast. She would take her chance on no one's ever finding it out. Right after dinner the little voyaging party pushed out from the dock and headed upstream; three canoes side by side with ponchos and provisions stowed away under the seats, and the Winnebago banner trailing from the stern of the "flagship," the one in which Miss Amesbury rode, with Sahwah and Migwan as paddlers. Migwan and Hinpoha had constructed the banner in record time that morning, giving up their swimming hour to finish it. No Winnebago expedition should ever start out without a banner flying; they would just as soon have gone without their shoes. Oh-Pshaw waved them a brave farewell from the dock, philosophically accepting the fact that she could not go in a canoe and making no fuss about it. Jo Severance, who had paddled up the river before, and knew its course thoroughly, acted as guide and pilot. For the first night's camping ground they were going to a place where Jo had camped on a former trip, a place which she enthusiastically described as "just made for four beds to be spread in." It had all the conveniences of home, she assured them; a nearby spring for drinking water and a good place to swim, and what more could anyone want! By common consent they paddled slowly at the outset, wisely refraining from exhausting their strength in the first mile or so, as is so apt to be the case with inexperienced paddlers. The Winnebagos had paddled together so often that it was unnecessary for them to count aloud to keep together; the six paddles flashed and dipped as one in time to some mysterious inner rhythm, sending the three canoes forward with a smooth, even motion, and keeping their noses almost in a straight line across the river. "How beautifully you pull together!" exclaimed Miss Amesbury in admiration, leaning back and watching the six brown arms rising and falling in unison. "We're used to pulling together," said Sahwah simply. The boys from Camp Altamont were at their swimming hour when they passed, and hailed them with great shouting, which they returned with a camp cheer and a salute with the paddles. The red canoes were drawn up in a line on the dock and Agony wondered which one it was that had made the stealthy voyage to Camp Keewaydin the night before. This brought back to her mind the subject of Jane Pratt, and she wondered if Jane had really taken her seriously when she had demanded that she confess her breaking of the camp rule; if Jane would really tell Mrs. Grayson herself, or force her to inform upon her. It came over her rather forcefully that she was not exactly in a position to be telling tales about other deceivers--that she was in their class herself. "Why so pensive?" inquired Miss Amesbury brightly, as Agony paddled along in silence, looking straight ahead of her and paying no attention to the gay conversation going on all about her. Agony collected herself and smiled brightly at Miss Amesbury. "I was just thinking," she replied composedly. "Did I look glum? I was wondering if I had put my toothbrush in my poncho, I forgot it on our last trip." Miss Amesbury laughed and said, "You funny child," and thought her more entertaining than ever. Up beyond Camp Altamont lay a number of small islands and beyond these the river began to bend and twist in numerous eccentric curves; the woods that bordered it grew denser, the banks swampy. Signs of human occupation disappeared; there were no more camps; no more cottages. Great willow trees grew close to the water's edge, five and six trunks coming out of a single root, the drooping branches sweeping the surface of the river. In places rotting logs lay half submerged in the water, looking oddly like alligators in the distance. Usually there would be a turtle sunning himself on the dry end of the log, who craned his neck inquisitively at them as they swept by, as if wondering what strange variety of fish they were. Hinpoha tried to catch one for a mascot, "because he would look so epic tied to the back of our canoe, swimming along behind us," but finally gave it up as a bad job, for none of the turtles seemed to share her enthusiasm over the idea, sinking out of sight at the first preliminaries of adoption. In places the banks, where they were not low and swampy, were perforated like honeycombs with holes some three inches in diameter. "Oh, what are they?" asked Agony in surprise. "All snake holes?" "Bank swallows," replied Sahwah. "They make their nests in the mud along river banks that way, until the banks are perfect honeycombs. I don't see how each one knows his own nest; they all look alike to me." "Maybe they're all numbered in bird language," remarked Miss Amesbury, in her delightfully humorous way. The scenery grew wilder and wilder as they glided forward and the talk gradually became hushed into a half awed contemplation of the wilderness which closed about them. "I feel as if I were on some great exploring expedition," exclaimed Sahwah. "Everything looks so new and undiscovered. I wish there was something left to discover," she continued plaintively. "It's so discouraging to think that there's nothing more for explorers to do in this country. What fun it must have been for La Salle and Pere Marquette and Lewis and Clark to find those big rivers that no white man had ever seen before, and go poking about in the wilderness. That was the great and only sport; everything else is tame and flat beside it. I'll never get done envying those early explorers; how I wish I could have been with them!" "But Sahwah, girls didn't go on long exploring journeys," Gladys interrupted quietly. "They couldn't have borne the hardships." "Couldn't they?" Sahwah flashed out quickly. "How about Sacajawea, I'd like to know?" "Goodness, who was she?" asked Gladys. "The Indian woman who went with Lewis and Clark on their expedition to the Columbia River," replied Sahwah with that tone of animation in her voice which was always present when she spoke of someone whom she admired greatly. "Her husband was the interpreter whom Lewis and Clark took along to talk to the Indians for them, and Sacajawea went with the expedition too, to act as guide, because she knew the Shoshone country. She traveled the whole five thousand miles with them and carried her baby on her back all the while. Lewis and Clark both said afterwards that if it hadn't been for her they wouldn't have been able to make the journey. When there wasn't any meat to eat she knew enough to dig in the prairie dogs' holes for the artichokes which they'd stored up for the winter; and she knew which herbs and berries were fit for food. And on one occasion she saved the most valuable part of the supplies they were carrying, when her stupid husband had managed to upset the boat they were being carried in. While he stood wringing his hands and calling on heaven for help she set to work fishing out the papers and instruments and medicines that had gone overboard, and without which the expedition could not have proceeded. She tramped for hundreds of miles, over hills and through valleys, finding the narrow trails that only the Indians knew, undergoing all the hardships that the men did and never complaining or growing discouraged. On the contrary, she cheered up the men when _they_ got discouraged. Now, do you say that a woman can't go exploring as well as a man?" Sahwah's eyes were sparkling, her cheeks glowed red under their coat of tan, and she was all excitement. The blood of the explorer flowed in her veins; her inheritance from hardy ancestors who had hewn their way through trackless forests to found a new home in the wilderness; and the very mention of exploring set her pulses to leaping wildly. Far back in Sahwah's ancestry there was a strain of Indian blood, which, although it had not been apparent in many of the descendents, had seemed to come into its own in this twentieth century daughter of the Brewsters. Not in looks especially, for Sahwah's hair was brown and not black, and fine and soft as silk, and her features were delicately modeled; yet there was something about her different from the other girls of her acquaintance, something elusive and puzzling, which, for a better name her intimates had called her "Laughing Water" expression. Then, too, there was her passionate love for the woods and for all wild creatures, and the almost uncanny way in which birds and chipmunks would come to her even though they fled in terror at the approach of the other Winnebagos. Was it any wonder that Robert Allison, seeing her for the first time, should have exclaimed involuntarily, "Minnehaha, Laughing Water"? Thus Sahwah was in her element paddling up this lonely river winding through unfamiliar forests, and in her vivid imagination she was Sacajawea, accompanying Lewis and Clark on their famous exploring expedition; and the gentle Onawanda turned into the mighty rolling Columbia, and the friendly pine woods with its border of willows became the trackless forest of the unknown northwest. Late in the afternoon Jo Severance suddenly cried out, "Here we are!" and called out to the paddlers to head the canoes toward the shore. Glad to stretch their limbs after the long afternoon of sitting in the canoes, the Winnebagos sprang out on to the rocks which lined the water's edge, and drew the boats up after them. The place was, as Jo had promised, seemingly made for them to camp in. High and dry above the stream, sheltered by great towering pine trees, covered with a thick carpet of pine needles, this little woodland chamber opened in the dense tangle of underbrush which everywhere else grew up between the trees in a heavy tangle. Down near the shore a clear little spring went tinkling down into the river. "Oh, what a cozy, cozy place!" exclaimed Migwan. "I never thought of being cozy in the woods before--it's always been so wide and airy. This is like your own bedroom, screened in this way with the bushes." "We'd better get the ponchos unrolled and the beds made up before we start supper," said Sahwah briskly, getting down to business immediately, as usual. The others agreed with alacrity, for they were ravenously hungry from the long paddle and anxious to get at supper as soon as possible. When they came to lay the ponchos down, however, there was something in the way. The whole narrow plot of smooth ground where they had expected to lay them was covered with evening primroses in full blossom, the fragile yellow blooms standing there so trustfully that they aroused the sympathy of the Winnebagos. "It's such a pity to crush them under the beds," said tender hearted Migwan. "I'm sure I couldn't sleep if I knew I was killing such brave little things." The other Winnebagos stood around with their ponchos in their arms, uncertain what to do, loath to be the death of these cheery little wild things, yet unable to see how they could help it. "Isn't there some other place where we can camp, Jo," asked Migwan, "and let these blossoms live? It seems such a pity to crush them." Miss Amesbury turned and looked at Migwan with a keen searching glance which caused her to drop her eyes in sudden embarrassment. Jo took up Migwan's suggestion readily, though disappointed that they were not to stay in her favorite place. "I think we can find another spot," she said, and moved toward the canoes. Tired and hungry, but perfectly willing to give up the desired spot to save the flowers, the Winnebagos launched out once more, and after paddling for half a mile found another camping ground equally desirable, though not as cozy as the first had been. There was more room here, and the ponchos were laid down without having to sacrifice any flowers. The sun had set prematurely behind a high bank of gray clouds during the last paddle up the river and there were no rosy sunset glows to reflect on the water and diffuse light into the woods, where a grey twilight had already fallen. There was enough driftwood along the shore to build the fires, and these were soon shining out cheerily through the gathering gloom, while an appetizing odor of coffee and frying bacon filled the air. The girls lingered long around the fire after supper listening to Miss Amesbury telling tales of her various travels until one by one the logs fell apart and glimmered out into blackness. "And now," said Miss Amesbury, "let's sing one good night song and then roll into bed. We want to be up early in the morning and continue our voyage. There's a heap of 'exploraging' for us to do." Some time during the night Sahwah was aroused by a gentle pattering noise on her rubber poncho. "It's raining!" she exclaimed to Hinpoha, her sleeping partner. Hinpoha stirred and murmured drowsily and immediately lay still again. "It's raining _hard_!" cried Sahwah, now wide awake. One by one the others began to realize what was happening, and burrowed down under their ponchos, only to emerge a few moments later half smothered. "Everybody lie still," called Sahwah, "and keep your blankets covered. Hinpoha and I will go out and bring up canoes for shelters." As she spoke she reached for her bathing suit, which was down under the poncho, and wriggled into it. Hinpoha, still half asleep, but mechanically obeying Sahwah's energetic directions, got into her bathing suit and wriggled out of the bed, drawing the poncho up over her pillow and blankets. The two sped down to the shore, where the canoes were drawn up on the rocks, and hastily turning one over sideways and packing all their provisions under it, they carried the other two back to the camping ground and inverted them over the head-ends of the beds, their ends propped up on stones, where, tilted back at an angle which shed the water off backward, they made an admirable shelter. Underneath these solid umbrellas the pillows of the girls were as dry as though indoors, and the ponchos protected the blankets. Let the rain come down as hard as it liked, these babes in the wood were snug and warm. As though accepting their challenge to get them wet, the drops came thicker and faster, until they pounded down in a perfect torrent, making a merry din on the canoes as they fell. "It sounds as if they were saying, 'We'll get you yet, we'll get you yet, we'll get you yet,'" exclaimed Migwan. Sahwah and Hinpoha, snugly rolled in once more, began to sing "How dry I am." The others took it up, and soon the woods rang with the taunting song of the Winnebagos to the Rain Bird, who replied with a heavier gush than ever. Thunder began to crash overhead, lightning flashed all about them, the great pines tossed and roared like the sea. But the Winnebagos, undismayed, made merry over the storm, and gradually dropped off to sleep again, lulled by the pattering of the raindrops. In the morning the rain was still falling, rather to their dismay, for they had expected that the storm would soon pass over. The thunder and lightning had ceased, the wind had subsided, and the rain had turned into a steady downpour that looked as if it meant to last all day. "We'll have to find or build a shelter," remarked Sahwah, thrusting her head, turtle like, from under the edge of the canoe and scanning the heavens with a calculating eye. "This is a regular three days' rain. Who wants to come with me and see if we can find a cave? I have an idea there must be one among the rocks on the hillside just farther on. Who wants to come with me?" "I'll come!" cried Hinpoha and Jo and Agony and Katherine all in a breath. Cramped from lying still so long, they welcomed the prospect of exercise, even in the early morning rain. Leaving Migwan and Gladys to keep Miss Amesbury company, the five set out into the streaming woods, and Katherine and Hinpoha and Sahwah came back half an hour later to report that they had found a cave and Jo and Agony had stayed there to build a fire. "Fire, that sounds good to me," remarked Gladys, shivering a little as she got into her damp bathing suit and drew her heavy sweater over it. Carrying the beds, still wrapped up in the ponchos, the little procession wound through the woods under the guidance of the returned scouts. The guides were not needed long, however, for soon a heart warming odor of frying bacon came to meet them, and with a world-old instinct each one followed her nose toward it. "Did anything ever smell so good?" exclaimed Hinpoha, breathing in the fragrant air in long drawn sniffs. "Those blessed angels!" was all Miss Amesbury could say. A moment later they stepped out of the wet woods into the cheeriest scene imaginable. In the side of a steep hill which rose not far from the river there opened a good sized cave, and just inside its doorway burned a bright fire, lighting up the interior with its ruddy glow. On a smaller fire beside it a pan of bacon was sizzling merrily, and over another hung a pot of steaming coffee. To the eyes of the wet, chilly campers, it was the most beautiful scene they had ever looked upon. They sprang to the large fire and toasted themselves in its grateful warmth while they held up their clothes to dry before putting them on. "Thoughtful people, to build us an extra fire," said Miss Amesbury, stretching out luxuriously on the blanket Migwan had spread for her. "We knew you'd want to warm up a bit," replied Agony, removing the coffee pot from the blaze and beginning to pour the steaming liquid into the cups. "How did you ever make a fire at all?" inquired Miss Amesbury. "Every bit of wood must be soaked through." "We dug down into a big pine stump," replied Agony, "or rather, Sahwah did, for I didn't know enough to, and got us some dry chips to start the fire with, and then we kept drying other pieces until they could burn. Once we got that big log started we were all right. It's as hot as a furnace." "What a difference fire does make!" said Miss Amesbury. "What dreary, dispirited people we'd be by this time if it were not for this cheering blaze. I'd be perfectly content to stay here all day if I had to." Miss Amesbury had ample opportunity to test the depth of her content, for the rain showed no sign of abating. Hour after hour it poured down steadily as though it had forgotten how to stop. A dense mist rose on the river which gradually spread through the woods until the trees loomed up like dim spectres standing in menacing attitudes before the door of their little rocky chamber. Warm and dry inside, the Winnebagos made the best of their unexpected situation and whiled away the hours with games, stories, and "improving conversation," as Jo Severance recounted later. "I've just invented a new game," announced Migwan, when the talk had run for some time on famous women of various times. "What is it?" asked Hinpoha, pausing with a half washed potato in her hand. Hinpoha and Gladys were putting the potatoes into the hot ashes to bake them for dinner. "Why, it's this," said Migwan. "Let each one of us in turn tell some incident that took place in the girlhood of a famous woman, the one we admire the most, and see if the others can guess who she is." "All right, you begin, Migwan," said Sahwah. "No, you begin, Sahwah. It's my game, so I'll be last." Sahwah sat chin in hand for a moment, and then she began: "I see a long, low house built of bark and branches, thickly covered with snow. It is one of the 'long houses', or winter quarters of the Algonquins, and none other than the Chief's own house. Inside is a council chamber and in it a pow-wow of chiefs is going on. The other half of the house, which is not used as a council chamber, is used as the living room by the family, and here a number of children are playing a lively game. In the midst of the racket the door opens and in comes one of the chief's runners. As he advances toward the council chamber a young girl comes whirling down the room turning handsprings. Her feet strike him full in the chest, and send him flat on his back on the floor. A great roar of laughter goes up from the braves and squaws sitting around the room, for the girl who has knocked the runner down is none other than the chief's own daughter. But the old chief says sadly, 'Why will you be such a tomboy, my child?'" "Tomboy, tomboy!" cry all the others, using the Algonquin word for that nickname. "Who is my girl, and what is her nickname?" "That's easy," laughed Migwan, "Who but Pocahontas?" "Was 'Pocahantas' just a nickname?" asked Hinpoha curiously. "Yes," replied Migwan. "'Pocahontas', or 'pocahuntas', is the Algonquin word for 'tomboy'. The real name of Powhatan's daughter was Ma-ta-oka, but she was known ever after the incident Sahwah just related as 'Pocahontas.'" "I never heard of that incident," said Hinpoha, "but I might have guessed that Sahwah would take Pocahontas for hers." "Now you, Agony," said Migwan. "I see a young girl," began Agony, "tending her flocks in the valley of the Meuse. She is sitting under a large beech, which the children of the village have named the 'Fairy Tree.' As she sits there her face takes on a rapt look; she sits very still, like one in a trance, for her eyes are looking upon a remarkable sight. She seems to see a shining figure standing before her; an angel with a flaming sword. She falls upon her knees and covers her face with her hands, and when she looks up again the vision is gone and only the tree is left, with the church beyond it." "Joan of Arc!" cried three or four voices at once. "O, _how_ I wish I were she!" finished Agony fervently. "What a life of excitement she must have led! Think of the stirring times she must have had in the army!" "I envy her all but the stake; I couldn't have borne that," said Sahwah. "Now you, Gladys." "I see a young English girl, fourteen years old, dressed in the costume of Tudor England, stealing out of Westminster Palace with the boy king of England, Edward the Sixth. Free from the tiresome lords and ladies-in-waiting who were always at their heels in the palace, they have a gorgeous time wandering about the streets of London until by chance they meet one of the royal household, and are hustled back to the palace in short order." "Poor Lady Jane Grey!" said Migwan. "I'm glad I wasn't in her shoes. I'm glad I'm not in any royalty's shoes. With all their pomp and splendor they never have half the fun we're having at this minute," she continued vehemently. "They never went off on a hike by themselves and slept on the ground with their heads under a canoe. It's lots nicer to be free, even if you _are_ a nobody." "I think so too," Sahwah agreed with her emphatically. "My girl," said Jo, in her turn, "was crowned queen at the age of nine months and betrothed to the King of France when she was five years old. That's all I know about her early days, except that she had four intimate friends all named Mary." "Mary, Queen of Scots," guessed Gladys, who was taking a history course in college. "Somehow I never could get up much sympathy for her; she seemed such a spineless sort of creature. I always preferred Queen Elizabeth, even if she did cut off Mary's head." "Every single one of the heroines so far has died a violent death," remarked Miss Amesbury. "Is that the only kind of women you admire?" "It seems so," replied Migwan, laughing. "We're a bloodthirsty lot. Go on, Katherine." Katherine dropped the log she was carrying upon the fire and kept her eye upon it as she spoke. "I see a brilliant assemblage, gathered in the palace of the Empress of Austria to hear a wonderful boy musician play on the piano. As the young lad, who is none other than the great Mozart, enters the room, he first approaches the Empress to make his bow to her. The polished floor is extremely slippery, and he slips and falls flat. The courtiers, who consider him very clumsy, do nothing but laugh at him, but the young daughter of the Empress runs forward, helps him to his feet and comforts him with soothing words." "I always did think that was the most charming anecdote ever related about Marie Antoinete," observed Migwan. "She must have been a very sweet and lovable young girl; it doesn't seem possible that she grew up to be the kind of woman she did." "Another one who lost her head!" remarked Miss Amesbury, laughing. "Aren't there going to be any who live to grow old? Let's see who Hinpoha's favorite heroine is." Hinpoha moved back a foot or so from the fire, which had blazed up to an uncomfortable heat at the addition of Katherine's log. "I see a Puritan maiden, seated at a spinning wheel," she commenced. "The door opens and a young man comes in. He apparently has something on his mind, and stands around first on one foot and then on the other, until the girl asks him what seems to be the trouble, whereupon he gravely informs her that a friend of his, a most worthy man indeed, who can write, and fight, and--ah, do several more things all at once, wants her for his wife. Then the girl smiles demurely at him, and says coyly--" "Why don't you speak for yourself, John?" shouted the other six girls, with one voice. "You don't need to ask Hinpoha who her favorite heroine is," said Migwan laughing. "Ever since I've known her she's read the story of Priscilla and John Alden at least once a week." "Well, you must admit that she _was_ pretty clever," said Hinpoha, blushing a little at the exposure of her fondness for love stories. "And sensible, too. She wasn't afraid of speaking up and helping her bashful lover along a little bit, instead of meekly accepting Standish's offer and then spending the rest of her life sighing because John Alden hadn't asked her." "That's right," chimed in Sahwah. "I admire a girl with spirit. If Lady Jane Gray had had a little more spirit she wouldn't have lost her head. I'll warrant Priscilla Mullins would have found a way out of it if she had been in the same scrape as Lady Jane. Now, your turn, Migwan." "I see a girl living in a bleak house on the edge of a wild, lonely moor," began Migwan. "All winter long the storms howl around the house like angry spirits of the air. To amuse themselves in these long winter evenings this girl and her sisters make up stories about the people that live on the moors and tell them to each other around the fire, or after they have crept into bed, and lie shivering under the blankets in the icy cold room. The stories that my girl made up were so fascinating that the others forgot the cold and the raw winds whistling about the house and listened spellbound until she had finished." "I know who that is," said Gladys, when Migwan paused. "Mig is forever raving about Charlotte Bronte." "The more I think about her the more wonderful she seems," said Migwan warmly. "How a girl brought up in such a dead, cheerless place as Haworth Churchyard, and knowing nothing at all about the world of people, could have written such a book as _Jane Eyre_, seems a miracle. She was a genius," she finished with an envious sigh. Miss Amesbury looked keenly at Migwan. "I think," she observed shrewdly, "that you like to write also. Is it not so?" Migwan blushed furiously and sat silent. To have this successful, widely known writer know her heart's ambition filled her with an agony of embarrassment. "Migwan does write, wonderful things," said Hinpoha loyally. "She's had things printed in papers and in the college magazine." Then she told about the Indian legend that had caused such a stir in college, whereupon Miss Amesbury laughed heartily, and patted Migwan on the head, and said she would very much like to see some of the things she had written. Migwan, thrilled and happy, but still very much embarrassed, shyly promised that she would let her see some of her work, and in the middle of her speech a potato blew up with a bang, showering them all with mealy fragments and hot ashes, and sending them flying away from the fire with startled shrieks. Since the potatoes were so very evidently done, the rest of the meal was hurriedly prepared, and eaten with keen appetites. During the clearing away process somebody discovered that the rain had stopped falling, a fact which they had all been too busy to notice before, and that the mist was being rapidly blown away by a strong northwest wind. When they woke in the morning, after sleeping in the cave around the fire, the sun was shining brightly into the entrance and the birds outside were singing joyously of a fair day to come. Overflowing with energy the late cave dwellers raced through the sweet smelling woods, indescribably fresh and fragrant after the cleansing, purifying rain, and launched the canoes upon a river Sparkling like a sheet of diamonds in the clear morning sunlight. How wonderfully new and bright the rain-washed earth looked everywhere, and how exhilarating the fresh rushing wind was to their senses, after the smoky, misty atmosphere of the cave! Exulting in their strength the Winnebagos bent low over their paddles, and the canoes leaped forward like hounds set free from the leash, and went racing along with the current, shooting past islands, whirling around bends, whisking through tiny rapids, wildly, deliriously, rejoicing in the thrill of the morning and the call of a world running over with joy. Soon they came to the place where they had first planned to camp, and there were the primroses, a-riot with bloom, nodding them a friendly greeting. "Aren't you glad we didn't stay here?" said Sahwah. "We'd have been soaked if we did, because we probably wouldn't have found the cave. The primroses saved the day for us by growing where we wanted to lay our beds." They sang a cheer to the primroses and swept on until they came to the place in the woods where the balsam grew. Dusk was falling when, with canoes piled high with the fragrant boughs, they rounded the great bend above Keewaydin and a few minutes later ran in alongside the Camp Keewaydin dock. "I feel as though I had been gone for weeks," said Migwan, as they climbed out of the canoes. "So do I," said Sahwah, dancing up and down on the dock to take the stiffness out of her muscles. "Doesn't it look civilized, though, after what we've just experienced? I wish," she continued longingly, "that I could live in the wilds all the time." "I don't," replied Migwan, patting the diving tower as if it were an old friend. "Camp is plenty wild enough for me." CHAPTER X TOPSY-TURVY DAY "Why, where _is_ camp?" asked Sahwah in perplexity, noticing that the whole place was dark and still. It was half past six, the usual after-supper frolic hour, when camp was wont to ring to the echo with fun and merriment of all kinds. Now no sound came from Mateka, nor from the bungalow, nor from any of the tents, no sound and no movement. Before their astonished eyes the camp lay like an enchanted city, changed in their absence from a place of racket and bustle and resounding laughter, to a silent ghost of its former lively self. "What's happened?" exclaimed the Winnebagos to each other. "Is everybody gone on a trip?" Mystified, they climbed up the hill, and at the top they found Miss Judy going from tent to tent with her flashlight, as if making the nightly rounds after lights out. "O Miss Judy," they called to her, "what's happened?" "Shh-h-h!" replied Miss Judy, holding up her hand for silence and coming toward them. "Everybody's in bed," she whispered when she was near enough for them to hear her." "In bed!" exclaimed the Winnebagos in astonishment. "At half past six in the evening? What for?" "It's Topsy-Turvy Day," replied Miss Judy, laughing at their amazed faces. "We're turning everything upside down tonight. Hurry and get into bed. The rising bugle will blow in half an hour." Giggling with amusement the Winnebagos sped to their tents, unrolled their ponchos, made up their beds in a hurry, undressed quickly and popped into bed. Not long afterward they heard the dipping of paddles and the monotonous "one, two, one two," of the boatswain as the crew of the Turtle started out for practice. The Turtle's regular practice hour was the half hour before rising bugle in the morning. Tired with her long paddle that day Hinpoha fell asleep as soon as she touched the pillow, and was much startled to hear the loud blast of a bugle in the midst of a delightful dream. "What's the matter?" she asked sleepily, sitting up and looking around her in bewilderment. "What are they blowing the bugle in the middle of the night for?" "They aren't blowing the bugle in the middle of the night," said Sahwah with a shriek of laughter at Hinpoha's puzzled face. "This is Topsy-Turvy Day, don't you remember? We're going to have our regular day's program at night time. It's ten minutes to seven, and that's the bugle for morning dip. Are you coming?" Sahwah was already inside her bathing suit, and Agony had hers half on. Hinpoha replied with an unintelligible sound, one-eighth grunt and seven-eights yawn, and rising tipsily from her bed she looked around for her bathing suit with eyes still half sealed by sleep. Sahwah helped her into the suit and seizing her hand led her down to the water, where half the camp, shaking with convulsive merriment at the absurdity of the thing, were scrupulously taking their "morning dip," with toothbrush drill and all the other regular morning ablutions. The rising bugle blew while they were still at it and they sped back to the tents to get dressed, making three times as much racket about this process as they ever did in the morning. Most of the tents had no lights, because ordinarily no one needed a light to undress by and so the lanterns which had been given out at the beginning of the season were scattered everywhere about camp as especial need for them had arisen upon various occasions. But getting dressed in the dark is harder than getting undressed, and most of the tents were in an uproar. "I can only find one stocking," wailed Oh-Pshaw, after vainly feeling around for several minutes. "Where's my flashlight, Katherine?" "I'm sorry, but I just dropped it into the water jar," replied Katherine, "and it won't work any more." Katherine herself was hopelessly involved in her bloomers, having put both feet through the same leg, and was lying flat on the floor trying to extricate herself. "Can I go with only one stocking on?" Oh-Pshaw persisted plaintively. "I haven't another pair here in the tent." "_I_ can't find my middy," Jean Lawrence was lamenting, paying no heed to Oh-Pshaw's troubles in regard to hosiery. Tiny Armstrong, reaching down behind her bed for some missing article of her costume, gave the bed such a shove that it went flying out of the tent carrying the rustic railing with it, and they heard it go bumping down the hillside. "Strike one!" called Tiny ruefully. "That's what comes of being so strong. I'll knock the tent down next." "Will somebody please tell me where my middy is?" Jean cried tragically. "I can't find it anywhere." "Will someone tell _me_ where the other leg of my bloomers is?" exclaimed Katherine. "I've shoved both feet through the same leg three times, now. There goes the breakfast bugle!" "Oh, where is my other stocking?" "Where is my middy?" "Who's gone south with my shoes?" The threefold wail floated down on the breeze as footsteps began to run down the Alley in the direction of the bungalow. A few minutes later the occupants of Bedlam slid as unobtrusively as possible into the lighted bungalow; Oh-Pshaw with her bloomers down around her ankles in a Turkish effect, to hide the fact that she had on only one stocking; Jean with her sweater buttoned tightly around her, Katherine with her red silk tie bound around one knee to gather up the fullness of her bloomer leg, for the elastic band had burst from the strain of accommodating two feet at once; and Tiny had one white sneaker and one red Pullman slipper on. Glancing around at the rest they saw many others in the same plight--middies on hindside before, odd shoes and stockings, sweaters instead of middies, and various other parodies on the regular camp uniform--and immediately they ceased to feel conspicuous. Taking their places around the table the campers proceeded to sing one of the morning greetings: "Good morning to you, Good morning to you, Good morning, dear comrades, Good morning to you!" "Did you have a good night's sleep?" was a question that made the rounds of the table, with many droll replies, as the cereal was being passed. Hilarity increased during the meal, as the absurdity of eating cereal and fruit and toast at eight o'clock in the evening overcame the girls one after the other, and the room rang with witty songs made up on the spur of the moment. At "Morning Sing" which followed breakfast, they solemnly sang "When Morning Gilds the Skies," "Awake, my soul, and with the sun," "Kathleen Mavourneen, the grey dawn is breaking," and other morning songs; the program for the day was read, and Dr. Grayson gave a fatherly lecture on the harmfulness of staying up after dark. Getting the tents ready for tent inspection without lights was a proceeding which defies description. Tiny Armstrong was still on the hillside searching for her runaway bed when the Lone Wolf reached Bedlam in her tour of inspection, and was given a large and black zero in consequence. She finally gave up the search and wandered into Mateka, where, with lanterns hanging above the long tables, Craft Hour was in full swing, the girls busily working at clay modeling, wood-blocking and paddle decorating, while the moon, round-eyed with astonishment, peeped through the doorway at the singular sight. Still more astonished, the same moon looked down on the tennis court an hour later, where a lively folk dance was going on to the music of a graphaphone; couples spinning around in wild figures, stepping on each other's feet and every now and then dropping down at the outer edge of the court and shrieking with laughter, while the dance continued faster and more furiously than before, till the sound of the bugle sent the dancers flying swiftly to their tents to wriggle into clammy, wet bathing suits that seemed in the dark to be an altogether different shape from what they were in the daylight. Standing on top of the diving tower when Tiny's cry of "All in!" rang out, Sahwah leaped down into the darkness and had a queer, thrilling moment in mid air when she wondered if she would ever strike the water, or would go on indefinitely falling through the blackness. Laughing, shouting, splashing, the campers sported in the water until all of a sudden a red canoe shot into their midst and the director of Camp Altamont, accompanied by two assistants, came in an advanced stage of breathlessness to find out what the matter was. They heard the noise and the splashing of water and thought some accident had occurred. "No accident, thanks, only Camp Keewaydin stealing a march on old Father Time and turning night into day," Dr. Grayson called from the dock, and amid shouts of laughter from all around the messengers paddled back to their camp to assure the wakened and excited boys that nothing had happened, and that it was only another wild inspiration of the people at Camp Keewaydin. At midnight, when the bugle blew for dinner, everyone was as hungry as at noon, and the kettle of cocoa and the trays of sandwiches were emptied in a jiffy. "Now what?" asked Dr. Grayson, looking around the table with twinkling eyes, when the last crumb and the last drop of cocoa had disappeared. "Rest hour," replied Mrs. Grayson emphatically. "Rest hour to last until morning. Blow the bugle, Judy." "Wasn't this the wildest evening we ever put in?" said Katherine, fishing her hairbrush out of the water pail. "Where's Tiny?" she asked, becoming aware that their Councilor was not in the tent, "Down on the hill looking for her bed." replied Oh-Pshaw. "Goodness, let's go down and help her," said Katherine, and Oh-Pshaw and Jean streamed after her down the path. They stumbled over the bed before they came to Tiny. It had turned over sidewise and fallen into a tiny ravine, and as she had gone straight down the hill searching for it she had missed it. Katherine stepped into the ravine, dragging the two others with her, and at the bottom they landed on top of the bed. Getting an iron cot up a steep hill is not the easiest thing in the world, and when they had it up at the top of the hill they all sat down on it and panted awhile before they could make it up. Then they discovered that the pillow was missing and Katherine obligingly went down the hill again to find it. "I shan't get up again for a week," she sighed wearily as she stretched between the sheets. "Neither will I," echoed Tiny. Jean and Oh-Pshaw did not echo. They were already asleep. Katherine had just sunk into a deep slumber when she started at the touch of a cold hand laid against her face. "What is it?" she cried out sharply. A face was bending over her, a pale little face framed in a lace boudoir cap. Katherine recognized Carmen Chadwick. "What's the matter?" she asked. "My Councy's awful sick, and none of the other girls will wake up and I don't know what to do," said Carmen in a scared voice. "What's the matter with her?" asked Katherine. "She ate too many blueberries, I guess; she's got an awful pain in her stomach, and chills." Katherine hugged her warm pillow. "Take the hot water bottle out of the washstand," she directed, without moving. "There--it's on the top shelf. There's hot water in the tank in the kitchen. And have you some Jamaica ginger? No? Take ours--it's the only bottle on the top shelf. Now you'll be all right." Katherine sank back into slumber. A few minutes more and she was awakened again by the same cold hand on her face. "What is it now?" "The Jamaica ginger," asked Carmen's thin voice in a bewildered tone, "what shall I do with it? Shall I put it in the hot water bottle?" Katherine's feet suddenly struck the floor together, and with an explosive exclamation under her breath she sped over to Avernus and took matters in hand herself. She had tucked Carmen into her own bed in Bedlam, and she spent the remainder of the night over in Avernus, taking care of the Lone Wolf, snatching a few moments' sleep in Carmen's bed now and then when her patient felt easier. It was broad daylight before she finally settled into uninterrupted slumber. CHAPTER XI EDWIN LANGHAM Camp was more or less demoralized the next day. Miss Judy overslept and did not blow the rising bugle until nearly noon, so dinner took the place of breakfast and swimming hour came in the middle of the afternoon instead of in the morning. After swimming hour Agony went up to Miss Amesbury's balcony to return a book she had borrowed. Miss Amesbury was not there, so Agony, as she often did when she found her friend out, sat down to wait for her, passing the time by looking at some sketches tying on the table. Turing these over, Agony came upon a letter thrust in between the drawing sheets, at the sight of which her heart began to flutter wildly. The address on the envelope was in Mary Sylvester's handwriting--there was no mistaking that firm, round hand; it was indelibly impressed upon Agony's mind from seeing it on that other occasion. In a panic she realized that the danger of being discovered was even greater than she had thought, since Mary also wrote to Miss Amesbury. Was it not possible that Mary had mentioned the robin incident in this letter? It now seemed to Agony that Miss Amesbury's manner had been different toward her in the last few days, on the trip. She seemed less friendly, less cordial. Several times Agony had looked up lately to find Miss Amesbury regarding her with a keen, grave scrutiny and a baffling expression on her face. To Agony's tortured fancy these instances became magnified out of all proportion, and the disquieting conviction seized her that Miss Amesbury knew the truth. The thought nearly drove her mad. It tormented her until she realized that there was only one way in which she could still the tumult raging in her bosom, and that was by finding out for certain if Mary had really told. With shaking fingers she slipped the letter out of the open envelope, and with cheeks aflame with shame at the thing she was doing, she deliberately read Miss Amesbury's letter. It was much like the one Mary had written to Jo Severance, full of clever descriptions of the places she was seeing, and it made no mention either of the robin or of her. With fingers shaking still more at the relief she felt, she put the letter back into the envelope and replaced it between the sketches. Then, trembling from head to foot at the reaction from her panic, she turned her back upon the table and sat up against the railing, holding her head in her hands and looking down at the fair sunlit river with eyes that saw it not. Miss Amesbury returned by and by and was so evidently pleased to see her that Agony concluded she must have been mistaken in fancying any coldness on her part during the last few days. "I've a letter from Mary Sylvester," Miss Amesbury said almost at once, "and because you are following so closely in Mary's footsteps I'm going to read it to you." She smiled brightly into Agony's sober face and paused to pat her on the shoulder before she fluttered over the pile of sketches to find the letter. Agony sat limply, listening to the words she had read a few minutes before, despising herself thoroughly and wishing with all her heart that she had never come to camp. Yet she forced herself to make appreciative comments on the interesting things in the letter and to utter sincere sounding exclamations of surprise at certain points. "I've something to tell you that will please you," said Miss Amesbury, after the letter had been put away. "What is it?" asked Agony, looking up inquiringly. "Someone you admire very much is going to visit Camp," replied Miss Amesbury. "Who?" Agony's eyes opened up very wide with surprise. "Edwin Langham. He has been camping not very far from here and he is going to run down on his way home and pay Dr. Grayson a flying visit. They are old friends." "Edwin Langham?" Agony gasped faintly, her head awhirl. It seemed past comprehension that this man whom she had worshipped as a divinity for so long was actually to materialize in the flesh--that the cherished desire of her life was coming true, that she was going to see and talk with him. "Goodness, don't look so excited, child," said Miss Amesbury, laughing. "He's only a man. A very rare and wonderful man, however," she added, "and it is a great privilege to know him." "When is he coming?" asked Agony in a whisper. "Tomorrow afternoon. He is going to stop off between boats and will be here only a short time." "Do you suppose he will speak to me?" asked Agony humbly. "I rather think he will," replied Miss Amesbury, smiling. "You see," she continued, taking Agony's hand in hers as she spoke, "it just happened that Edwin Langham was the man who sat under the tree that time you climbed up and rescued the robin. He was laid up with blood poisoning in his foot at the time and he had been wheeled into the woods from his camp that afternoon. His man had left him for a short time when you happened along. He was the man who told about the incident down at the store at Green's Landing, where Dr. Grayson heard about it later from the storekeeper. Dr. Grayson did not know at the time that it was his friend Edwin Langham who had witnessed the affair, but in the letter Dr. Grayson has just received from Mr. Langham he gives an enthusiastic account of it, and says he is coming to camp partly for the purpose of meeting the girl in the green bloomers who performed that splendid deed that day. So you see, my dear," Miss Amesbury concluded, "I think it is highly probable that you will have an opportunity to speak to your idolized Edwin Langham." For a moment things turned black before Agony's eyes. She rose unsteadily to her feet and crossed the balcony to the stairs. "I must be going, now," she murmured through dry lips. "Must you go so soon?" asked Miss Amesbury with a real regret in her voice that cut Agony to the heart. "Come again, come often," floated after her as she passed through the door. Agony sped away from camp and hid herself away in the woods, where she sank down at the foot of a great tree and hid her face in her hands. The thing she had desired, had longed for above all others, was now about to come to pass--and she had made it forever an impossibility. The cup of joy that Fate had decreed she was to taste she had dashed to the ground with her own hands. For she could not see Edwin Langham, could not let him see her. As long as he did not see her her secret was safe. He did not know her name, or Mary's, so he could not betray her in that way. Only, if he ever saw her he would know the difference right away, and then would come betrayal and disgrace. There was only one thing to do. She must hide away from him; and give up her opportunity of meeting and talking with him. It was the only way out of the predicament. When the steamer swung into view around the bend of the river the next afternoon Agony stole away into the thickest part of the woods and proceeded toward a place she had discovered some time before. It was a deep, extremely narrow ravine, so narrow indeed that it was merely a great crock in the earth, not more than six feet across at its widest. It was filled with a wild growth of elderberry bushes, which made it an excellent hiding place. She scrambled down into this pit and crouched under the bushes, completely hidden from view. Here she sat with her head bowed down on her knees, hearing the whistle of the steamer as it neared the dock, and the welcoming song of the girls as the distinguished passenger alighted. A little later it seemed to her that she heard voices calling her name. Yes, it was so, without a doubt. Tiny Armstrong's megaphone voice came echoing on the breeze. "A-go-ny! A-go-ny! Oh-h-h-h, A--go--ny!" * * * * * She clenched her hands in silent misery, and did not raise her head. Then the sound of a bark arrested her attention, coming from directly overhead, and she sat up in consternation. Micky, the bull pup belonging to the Camp, had discovered her hiding place and would undoubtedly give her away. "Go away, Micky!" she commanded in a low tone. At the sound of her voice Micky barked more loudly than ever, a joyous, welcoming bark. Having been much petted by Agony, Micky had grown very fond of her, and seeing her walk off into the woods today, he had followed after her, and now gave loud voice to his satisfaction at finding her. "Micky! Go away!" commanded Agony a second time, throwing a lump of dirt at him. Micky looked astonished as the dirt flew past his nose, but refused to retire. "Well, if you won't go away, come down in here, then," said Agony. "Here, Micky, Micky," she called coaxingly. Micky, clumsy puppy that he was, made a wild leap into the ravine and landed upon the sharp point of a jagged stump, cutting a jagged gash in his shoulder. How he did howl! Agony expected every minute that the whole camp would come running to the spot to find out what the matter was. But fortunately the wind was blowing from the direction of Camp and the sound was carried the other way. Agony worked frantically to get the wound bound up and the poor puppy soothed into silence. At last he lay still, with his head in her lap, licking her hand with his moppy red tongue every few seconds to tell her how grateful he was. Thus she sat until she heard the deep whistle of the returning steamer and the farewell song of the girls as they stood on the dock and waved goodbye to Edwin Langham. When she was sure that the boat must be out of sight she shoved Micky gently out of her lap and rose to climb out of her hiding place. Her feet were asleep from sitting so long in her cramped position and as she tried to get a foothold on the steep side of the ravine she slipped and fell headlong, striking her head on a stump and twisting her back. It was not until night that they found her, after her continued absence from camp had roused alarm, and searching parties had been made up to scour the woods. Tiny Armstrong, shouting her way through the woods, first heard a muffled bark and then a feeble answer to her call, coming from the direction of the ravine, and charging toward it like a fire engine she discovered the two under the elderberry bushes. Agony was lifted gently out and laid on the ground to await the coming of an improvised stretcher. "We hunted and hunted for you this afternoon," said Jo Severance, bending over her with an anxious face. "The poet, Edwin Langham, was here, and he wanted especially to see you, and was dreadfully disappointed when we couldn't find you. He left a book here for you." "Oh," groaned Agony, and those hearing her thought that she must be in great physical pain. "How did you happen to fall into that ravine?" asked Jo. Agony was becoming light headed from the blow on her temple, and she answered in disjointed phrases. "Didn't fall in--went down--purpose. Micky--fell in--hurt shoulder--I bandaged it--fell trying--to--get--out." Her voice trailed off weakly toward the end. "There, don't talk," said Dr. Grayson. "We understand all about it. The dog fell in and hurt himself and you went down after him and then fell in yourself. Being kind to dumb animals again. Noble little girl. We're proud of you." Agony heard it all as in a dream, but could summon no voice to speak. She was _so_ tired. After all, why not let them think that? It was the best way out. Otherwise they might wonder how she happened to be in the ravine--it would be hard for them to believe that she had fallen into it herself in broad daylight, and it might be embarrassing to answer questions. Let them believe that she had gone down after the dog. That settled the matter once for all. The stretcher arrived and she was carried to her tent, where Dr. Grayson made a thorough examination of her injuries. "Not serious," was his verdict, to everybody's immense relief. "Painful bump on the head, but no real damage done, and back strained a little, that's all." Once more Agony was the camp heroine, and her tent was crowded all day long with admirers. Miss Amesbury sat and read to her by the hour; the camp cook made up special dishes and sent them out on a tray trimmed with wild flowers; the camp orchestra serenaded her daily and nightly, and half a dozen clever camp poets made up songs in her honor. Fame comes easily in camps, and enthusiasm runs high while it lasts. Agony reflected, in a grimly humorous way, that in the matter of fame she had a sort of Midas touch; everything she did rebounded to her glory, now that the ball was once started rolling. And worst of all was the book that Edwin Langham had left for her, a beautiful copy of "The Desert Garden," bound in limp leather with gold edged leaves. Inside the cover was written in a flowing, beautiful hand: "To A.C.W., in memory of a certain day in the woods. From one who rejoices in a brave and noble deed. Sincerely, Edwin Langham." On the opposite page was written a quotation which Agony had been familiar with ever since she had become a Winnebago: "Love is the joy of service so deep that self is forgotten." She put the book away where she could not see it, but the words had burned themselves into her brain. "To A.C.W. From one who rejoices in a brave and noble deed." They mocked her in the dead of night, they taunted her in the light of day. But, like the boy with the fox gnawing at his vitals, Agony continued to smile and make herself agreeable, and no one ever suspected that her gayety was not genuine. CHAPTER XII THE STUNT'S THE THING "Where would a shipwreck look best, right by the dock, or farther up the shore?" Sahwah's forehead puckered up with the force of her reflection. "Oh, not right by the dock," said Jo Severance decidely. "That would be too modern and--commonplace. It's lots more epic to be dashed against a rocky cliff. All the shipwrecks in the books happen on stern and rockbound coasts and things like that." "It might be more epic for those who are looking on, but for the one that gets shipwrecked," Sahwah reminded her. "As long as I'm the one that get's wrecked I'm going to pick out a soft spot to get wrecked on." "Why not capsize some distance out in the water and swim ashore?" suggested Migwan. "Of course!" exclaimed Sahwah. "Why didn't we think of that before? Geese!" "This is the way we'll start, then," said Migwan, taking out her notebook and scribbling in it with a pencil. "Scene One. Sinbad the Sailor clinging to wreckage of vessel out in the water. He drifts ashore and lands in the kingdom of the Keewaydins." She paused and bit the end of her pencil, seeking inspiration. "Then, what will you do when you land, Sahwah?" "Oh, I'll just poke around a bit, and then discover the Keewaydins in their native wilds," replied Sahwah easily. "Then I'll go around with you while you go through the events of a day in camp. O, I think it's the grandest idea!" she interrupted herself in a burst of rapture. "We'll get the stunt prize as easy as pie. The Avenue will never be able to think up anything nearly as good. How did you ever manage to think of it, Migs?" "Why, it just came all by itself," replied Migwan modestly. Anyone who had ever spent a summer at Camp Keewaydin, passing at that moment, and hearing the conversation, would have known exactly what week of the year it was without consulting a calendar. It was the second week in August--the week of Camp Keewaydin's annual Stunt Night, when the Avenue and the Alley matched their talents in a contest to see which one could put on the best original stunt. Next to Regatta Day, when the two struggled for the final supremacy in aquatics, Stunt Night was the biggest event of the camping season. Rivalry was intense. It was a fair test of the talents of the girls themselves, for the councilors were not allowed to participate, nor to give the slightest aid or advice. The boys from Camp Altamont came over with their councilors, and together with the directors and councilors of Camp Keewaydin they voted on which stunt was the best. Originality counted most; finish in working out the details next. The Alley's stunt this year was a sketch entitled THE LAST VOYAGE OF SINBAD THE SAILOR, and was a burlesque on Camp life. The idea had come to Migwan in a flash of inspiration one night when Dr. Grayson was reading the Arabian Nights aloud before the fire in the bungalow. She communicated her idea to the rest of the Alley and they received it with whoops of joy. Now it lacked but three days until Stunt Night, and the Alleyites, over on Whaleback, where they would be safe from detection, were deep in the throes of rehearsing. Sahwah, of course, was picked for the role of the shipwrecked Sinbad, for she was the only one who could be depended upon to stage the shipweck in a thrilling manner. "What kind of a costume do I wear?" she inquired, when the location of the shipwreck itself had finally been settled. "What nationality was Sinbad, anyhow?" "He came from Bagdad," replied Sahwah brilliantly. "But where was Bagdad?" "In Syria," declared Oh-Pshaw. "Asia," promptly answered Gladys. "Turkey," said Katherine, somewhat doubtfully, and "Persia," said Agony in the same breath. Then they all looked at each other a little sheepishly. "The extent to which I don't know geography," remarked Sahwah, "is something appalling." "Well, if _we_ don't know what country Bagdad was in, it's pretty sure that none of the others will either," said Hinpoha brightly, "so it doesn't make much difference what kind of a costume you wear. Something Turkish is what you want, I suppose. A turban and some great big bloomers, you know the kind, with yards and yards of goods in them." "But you can't swim in such awfully full bloomers," Sahwah protested. "That's so, too," Hinpoha assented. "Well, get them as big as you _can_ swim in," said Migwan pacifically. "Who's going to make them?" Sahwah wanted to know. "We haven't much time." "Oh, just borrow Tiny Armstrong's regular ones," Migwan replied. "They'll look like Turkish bloomers on you." "Won't she suspect what we're going to do if I borrow them?" Sahwah demurred. "Nonsense! What could she suspect? She will know of course that you want them for the stunt, but she couldn't guess _what_ for." "We've got to have her other pair, too, for the person who is going to impersonate Tiny," Agony reminded Migwan. "So we do," replied Migwan, making a note in her book. "And her stockings, too, those red and black ones. We're going to do that snake business over again. Somebody will have to get these without Tiny's knowing it, or she'll suspect about the snake. Who's in her tent?" "We are," replied Katherine and Oh-Pshaw. "We'll manage to get them for you. Who's going to impersonate Tiny Armstrong?" Migwan squinted her eyes in a calculating manner and surveyed the girls grouped around her. "It'll have to be Katherine, I guess," she finally announced. "She's the biggest of us all. But even she isn't nearly as big as Tiny," she added regretfully. "Couldn't we put two of us together?" suggested Sahwah. "Carmen Chadwick is as light as a feather and she could get up on Katherin's shoulders as easy as not." "But we need Katherine to impersonate the Lone Wolf. She's the only one who can do it well," objected Migwan. "Somebody else will have to be the bottom half of Tiny. Hinpoha, you'll do for that part. Gladys, you'll be Pom-pom, of course. There, that's three councilors taken care of. As soon as your parts are assigned will you please step over to that side, girls. Then I can see what I have left. Now, who'll be Miss Peckham?" There was a silence, and all the eligibles looked at one another doubtfully. Nobody quite dared impersonate Miss Peckham--and nobody wanted to, for that matter. "Jo?" Migwan began hesitatingly. "You're such a good mimic--no--" she broke off decidely, "you have to be Dr. Grayson, of course, because you can play men's parts so beautifully." She looked from one to the other inquiringly. Her eye fell upon Bengal Virden. "Bengal, dear--" Bengal looked up with a jerk and a grimace of distaste. "I wouldn't be Pecky for a thousand dollars," she declared flatly. "I hate her, I tell you." Then something seemed to occur to her, and a mischievous twinkle came into her eyes. "Oh, I'll be her," she exclaimed, throwing grammar to the winds in her eagerness. "Please let me. I want to be, I want to be." "All right," said Migwan relievedly, putting the entry down in her notebook and proceeding with the assignment of parts. But Agony, having seen the mischievous gleam that came into Bengal's eyes when she so suddenly changed her mind about impersonating Miss Peckham, wondered as to its meaning. She called Bengal to come aside with her, and Bengal, enraptured at being noticed by her divinity, trotted after her like a delighted Newfoundland puppy, bestowing clumsy caresses upon her as they proceeded. "Oh, I've got the best joke on Pecky!" she gurgled, before Agony had had a chance to broach the subject herself. "Yes?" said Agony. "Did you know," confided Bengal, with a fresh burst of giggles, "that Pecky shaves?" Then, as Agony gave a little incredulous exclamation, she hastened on. "Really she does, her whole chin, with a razor, every morning. I found it out a couple of days ago. I guess she'd have a regular beard if she didn't. You've noticed how kind of hairy her chin is, haven't you? I found a little safety razor among her things one day--" "Bengal! You weren't rummaging among her things, were you?" "No, of course not. But once when we were all up in the bungalow she found that she'd forgotten her watch, and sent me back to get it out of her bathrobe pocket, and there was a little safety razor in where the watch was. I didn't think anything about it then, but after that I noticed that she always went off by herself in the woods. While the rest of us went for morning dip. Yesterday I followed her and saw what she did. She shaved her chin with that safety razor. Oh, won't it be great fun when I do that in the stunt? Won't she be hopping mad, though!" Bengal hopped up and down and chortled with anticipatory glee. "Bengal!" said Agony firmly, "don't you _dare_ do anything like that? Don't you know that it's terribly bad taste to make fun of people's personal blemishes?" "But she deserves it," Bengal persisted, still chuckling. "She's such a prune." "That has nothing whatever to do with the matter," Agony replied sternly. "Do you want to ruin our stunt for us? That's what will happen if you do anything as ill-bred as that. It would take away every chance we have of winning the prize." "Well, if _you_ say I shouldn't do it I won't," said Bengal rather sulkily. "But wouldn't it have been the best joke!" she added regretfully. "Bengal," Agony continued, realizing that even if Bengal could be suppressed as far as the stunt went, she would still have plenty of opportunity for making life miserable for Miss Peckham now that she had learned her embarrassing secret, "you won't mention this to any of the other girls, will you? You see, it must be very embarrassing for Miss Peckham to have to do that, and naturally she would feel highly uncomfortable if the camp found it out. You see, you found it out by accident; she didn't tell you of her own free will, so you have no right to tell it any further. A girl with a nice sense of honor would never think of telling anything she found out in that way, when she knew it would cause embarrassment if told. So you'll give me your promise, won't you, Bengal dear, that you will never mention this matter to anybody around camp?" Bengal flushed and looked down, maintaining an obstinate silence. "Please, won't you, Bengal dear?" coaxed Agony in her most irresistible manner. "Will you do it for me if you won't do it for Miss Peckham?" Bengal could not hold out against the coaxing of her adored one, but she still hesitated, bargaining her promise for a reward. "If you'll let me wear your ring for the rest of the summer, and come and kiss me goodnight every night after I'm in bed--" "All right," Agony agreed hastily, with a sigh of resignation for this departure from her fixed principles regarding the lending of jewelry and about promiscuous demonstrations of affection, but peace in camp was worth the price. Bengal claimed the ring at once, and then, after pawing Agony over like a bear cub, said a little shamefacedly, "I wish I were as good as you are. You're so honorable. How do you get such a 'nice sense of honor' as you have? I think I'd like to have one." "Such a nice sense of honor as you have!" Agony jerked up as though she had been jabbed with a red hot needle. "Such a nice sense of honor as you have!" The words lingered in her ears like a mocking echo. The smile faded from her lips; her arm stiffened and dropped from Bengal's shoulder. The frank admiration in the younger girl's eyes cut her to the quick. With a haggard look she turned away from Bengal and wandered away to the other part of the island, away from the girls. Just now she could not bear to hear their gay, carefree voices. What would she not give, she thought to herself, to have nothing on her mind. She even envied rabbit-brained little Carmen Chadwick, who, if she had nothing in her head, had nothing on her conscience either. "Who am I to talk of a 'nice sense of honor' to Bengal Virden?" she thought miserably. "I'm a whole lot worse than she. She's only a mischievous child, and doesn't know any better, but I do. I'm no better than Jane Pratt, either, even though I told Mrs. Grayson about her going out at night with boys from Camp Altamont." This matter of Jane Pratt had tormented Agony without ceasing. True to her contemptuous attitude toward Agony's plea that she break bonds no more, she had refused to tell Mrs. Grayson about her nocturnal canoe rides and thus had forced Agony to make good her threat and tell Mrs. Grayson herself. She had hoped and prayed that Jane would take the better course and confess her own wrong doing, but Jane did nothing of the kind, and there was only one course open to Agony. It was the rule of the camp that anyone seeing another breaking the rules must first give the offender the opportunity to confess, and if that failed must report the matter herself to the Doctor or Mrs. Grayson. So Agony was obliged to tell Mrs. Grayson that Jane was breaking the rules by slipping out nights and setting a bad example to the younger girls if any of them knew about it. The matter caused more of a stir than Agony had expected, and much more than she had wished for. Dr. Grayson prided himself upon the high standard of conduct which was maintained at his camp, and he knew that the mothers of his girls gave their daughters into his keeping with implicit faith that they would meet with no harmful influences while they were at Camp Keewaydin. If a rumor should ever get about that the girls from his camp went out in canoes after hours Keewaydin's reputation would suffer considerably. Dr. Grayson was outraged and thoroughly angry. He decided at once that Jane should be sent home in disgrace. That very day, however, Mrs. Grayson had received a letter saying that Jane's mother was quite ill in a sanatarium and that all upsetting news was being carefully kept away from her. She particularly desired that Jane should not come home, as there was no place for her to stay, and she was so much better taken care of in camp than she would be in a large city with no one to look after her. It was this letter that brought about a three-hour conference between the Doctor and Mrs. Grayson. Dr. Grayson was firm about sending Jane home in disgrace; Mrs. Grayson, filled with concern about her well loved friend, could not bear to risk upsetting her at this critical time by turning loose her unruly daughter. In the end Mrs. Grayson won her point, and Jane was allowed to stay in camp, but she was deprived of all canoe privileges for the remainder of the summer and forbidden to go on any of the trips with the camp. She was taken away from the easy-going, sound-sleeping councilor whose chaperonage she had succeeded in eluding, and placed in a tent with Mrs. Grayson herself. Dr. Grayson called the whole camp together in council and explained the matter to the girls, dwelling upon the dishonorableness of breaking rules, and when he finished his talk there was small danger that even the smallest rule would be broken again during the summer. The sight of Jane Pratt called out in public to be censured was not one to be soon forgotten. Agony was commended by the Doctor for her firm stand in the matter, and praised because she did not take the easier course of remaining silent about it and running the risk of letting the reputation of the camp suffer. Since then Jane, though somewhat subdued, had treated Agony with such marked animosity of manner that Agony hardly dared look at her. Added to her natural embarrassment at having been the in-former--a role which no one ever really enjoys--was the matter which lay like lead on Agony's own conscience and which tortured her out of all proportion to its real significance. "Pretender!" the whole world seemed to shriek at her wherever she went. Thus, although Agony apparently was throwing herself heart and soul into the preparations for Stunt Night, her mind was not on it half of the time and at times she was hardly conscious of the bustle and excitement around her. These last three days the camp were as a house divided against itself, as far as the Avenue and the Alley were concerned. Such a gathering of groups into corners, such whispering and giggling, such sudden scattering at the approach of one from the other side! Sahwah spent two whole afternoons over on the far side of Whaleback, rehearsing her shipwreck, while the rest of the Alleyites worked up their parts on shore, trying to imitate the voices and characteristics of the various councilors. All went fairly well except the combination Tiny Armstrong. Carmen Chadwick, on top of Hinpoha, and draped up in Tiny's clothes, made a truly imposing figure that drew involuntary applause from the rest of the cast, but when Tiny spoke, the weak, piping voice that issued from the gigantic figure promptly threw them all into hysterics. The real Tiny's voice was as deep and resonant as a fog horn. "That'll never do!" gasped Migwan through her tears of merriment. "That doesn't sound any more like Tiny than a chipping sparrow sounds like a lion. We'll have to get somebody with a deeper voice for the upper half of Tiny." "But there isn't anybody else as light as Carmen," Hinpoha protested, "and I can't carry anybody that's any heavier." Migwan wrinkled her brows and considered the matter. "Oh, leave it the way it is," proposed Jo Severance. "They'll never notice a little thing like that." "Yes, they will too," Gladys declared. "Anyway, you can't hear what Carmen says, and we want the folks to hear Tiny's speech, because it's so funny." "But what are we going to do about it?" asked Migwan in perplexity. "I know," said Katherine, rising to the occasion, as usual, "let the other half of Tiny do the talking. Hinpoha can make her voice quite deep and loud. It doesn't make any difference which half of Tiny talks, as long as the people hear it." "Just the thing!" exclaimed Migwan delightedly. "Katherine, that head of yours will make your fortune yet. All right, Hinpoha, you speak Tiny's lines." Hinpoha complied, and the effect of her voice coming apparently from beneath Tiny's ribs, while Tiny's mouth up above remained closed, was a great deal funnier than the first way. "Never mind," said Migwan firmly, while the rest wept with laughter on each other's shoulders, "it sounds more like Tiny than the other way. You might stand with your back turned while you talk if Sinbad can't keep his face straight when he looks at you. You'd all better practice keeping your faces straight though. Katherine, you won't forget to get that gaudy blanket off the Lone Wolf's bed, will you?" Migwan, her classic forehead streaked with perspiration and red color from the notebook in her hands, directed the rehearsal of her production all through the hot afternoon, until the lengthening shadows on the island warned them that is was time to get back to camp and prepare for the real performance. The stunts were to begin at six-thirty, and would be held in the open space in front of Mateka, overlooking the river. The Avenue's stunt was to go on first, as the long end had fallen to them in the drawing of the cuts. There was a great scurrying around after props after the Alleyites came back from the Island after that last rehearsal. Migwan, checking up her list, was constantly coming upon things that had been forgotten. "Did somebody get Tiny Armstrong's red striped stockings?" she asked anxiously. Nobody had remembered to get them. Katherine departed forthwith in quest of the necessary hosiery and found one of the stockings hanging out on the tent rope. The other was not in evidence. She was about to depart quietly without going into the tent, for one stocking was all that she needed, when a toothbrush suddenly whizzed past her ear, coming from the tent door. Laughing, she turned and went into the tent, first hastily concealing Tony's stocking in the front of her middy. The flinger of the toothbrush turned out to be Tiny herself, who was sitting up in bed with her nightgown on. "What's the matter, Tiny?" Katherine asked solicitously. "Are you sick? Aren't you going to get up to see the Stunts?" "Get up!" shouted Tiny wrathfully. "I _can't_ get up--I haven't any clothes." "No clothes?" murmured Katherine in a puzzled tone. "Everything's gone," continued Tiny plaintively, "bloomers, middies, shoes, stockings, hat, everything. Somebody has taken and hidden them for a joke, I suppose. I went to sleep here this afternoon, and when I woke up everything was gone." Katherine suddenly grew very non-committal, although she wanted to shriek with laughter. Oh-Pshaw, who had been sent after a suit of Tiny's that afternoon, had apparently made a pretty thorough job of it. "Somebody must be playing a joke on you," Katherine remarked tranquilly, although she was conscious of the lump that Tiny's one remaining stocking made under her middy. "Never mind. Tiny, I'll go out and borrow some things for you to wear." "But there's nothing of anybody's here that I can get into," mourned Tiny. "I'm four sizes bigger than the biggest of you. You'll have to find out who's hidden my things and bring them back." Katherine was touched by Tiny's predicament, but the stunt had first claim on her. She came back presently with Tiny's bathing suit, which she had hanging on a nearby tree, and a long raincoat of Dr. Grayson's, together with his tennis shoes. She even had to beg a pair of his socks from Mrs. Grayson, for all of Tiny's that had not been borrowed were away at the laundry. And in that collection of clothes Tiny had to go and sit in the Judges' box at the Stunts, but her good nature was not ruffled one whit on account of it. Katherine was still getting Tiny into her improvised wardrobe when a loud hubbub proclaimed the arrival of the boys from Camp Altamont, and at the same time the bugle sounded the assembly call for the girls. The Alleyites, bursting with impatience for the time of their own stunt to arrive, settled themselves in their places to watch the Avenue stunt. The bugle sounded again, and the chairman of the Avenue stunt stood up. "Our stunt tonight," she announced, "tells a hitherto unpublished one of Gulliver's Travels, namely, his voyage to the Land of the Keewaydins." The Alley sat up with one convulsive jerk. "Gulliver's Travels!" That sounded nearly like their own idea. Then the stunt proceeded, beginning with Gulliver wrecked on the shore of the Land of the Keewaydins. Undine Girelle was Gulliver, and her shipwreck was trully a thrilling one. She finally landed, spent with swimming, on the shore, and was taken in hand by the friendly Keewaydins, who proceeded to show him their customs. The Alley gradually turned to stone as they saw practically the very same things they were planning to do, being performed before their eyes by the Avenue. There was Miss Peckham and the stocking-snake (that explained to Katherine why she had only been able to find one of Tiny's red and black stockings); there was Tiny herself, and made out of two girls, just as they were going to do it! There was Dr. Grayson, there were all the other councilors; there was a burlesque on camp life almost exactly as they had planned to do it! The boys and the councilors applauded wildly, but the Alleyites, too surprised and taken back to be appreciative, merely looked at each other in mute consternation. "Somebody gave away our secret!" was the first indignant thought that flashed into the minds of the Alleyites, but the utter astonishment of the Avenue when the Alley said that their stunt was practically the same, soon convinced them that the whole thing was a mere co-incidence. "It's a wonder I didn't suspect anything when I found that all of Tiny's clothes were gone," said Katherine. "That should have told me that someone else was impersonating her." The Alley at first declined to put on their stunt, since it was so nearly the same as the other, but the audience refused to let them off, insisting that they had come to see two stunts, and they were going to see two, even if they _were_ alike. "We can still judge which is the best," said Dr. Grayson. "In fact, it is an unusual opportunity. Usually the stunts are so different that it is hard to tell which is the better, but having two performances on the same subject gives a rare chance to consider the fine points." So the Alley went ahead with their stunt just as if nothing out of the way had occurred, and the judges applauded them just as wildly as they had the others. In the end, the honors had to be evenly divided between the two, for the judges declared that one was just as good as the other and it was impossible to decide between them. "And we were so dead sure that the Avenue would never be able to think up anything nearly as clever as ours," remarked Sahwah ruefully, as she prepared for bed that night. "I'm beginning to come to the conclusion," replied Hinpoha with a sleepy yawn, "that it isn't safe to be too sure of anything. You never can tell from the outside of people what they are likely to have inside of them." "No, you can't" echoed Agony soberly. CHAPTER XIII THEIR NATIVE WILDS Miss Judy's hat was more or less a barometer of the state of her emotions. Worn far back on her head with its brim turned up, it indicated that she was at peace with all the world and upon pleasure bent; tipped over one ear, it denoted intense preoccupation with business affairs; pulled low over her eyes, it was a sign of extreme vexation. This morning the hat was pulled so far down over her face that only the tip of her chin was visible. Katherine, stopping to help her run a canoe up on the bank after swimming hour, noticed the unnecessary vehemence of her movements, and asked mildly as to the cause. Miss Judy replied with a single explosive exclamation of "Monty!" "Monty!" Katherine echoed inquringly. "What's that?" "You're right, it _is_ a 'what'," replied Miss Judy emphatically, "although it usually goes down in the catalog as a 'who.' It's my cousin, Egmont Satter-white," she continued in explanation. "He's coming to pay us a visit at camp." "Yes," said Katherine. "What is he like?" "Like?" repeated Miss Judy derisively. "He's like the cock who thought the sun didn't get up until he crowed--so conceited; only he goes still farther. He doesn't see what need there is for the sun at all while he is there to shed his light. He's the only child of his adoring mother, and she's cultivated him like a rare floral specimen; private tutors and all that sort of thing. Now he's learned everything there is to know, and he's ready to write a book. He regards his fellow creatures as quaint and curious specimens, 'rather diverting for one to observe, don't you know,' but not at all important. I suppose he's going to put a chapter in his book about girls, because he wrote to father and announced that he was going to run up for a week or so and observe us in our native wilds--that was the delicate way he put it. He'll probably set down everything he sees in a notebook and then go home and solemnly write his chapter, wise as Solomon." "What a bore!" sighed Katherine. "I hate to be stared at, and 'observed' for somebody else's benefit." "Monty's a pest!" Miss Judy exploded wrathfully. "I don't see why father ever told him he could come. He's under no obligations to him--we're only third cousins, and Monty considers us far, far beneath him at best. But you know how father is--hospitality with a capital H. So we're doomed to a visitation from Monty." "When is he coming?" asked Katherine, smiling at Miss Judy's lugubrious tone. "The day after tomorrow," replied Miss Judy. "The Thursday afternoon boat has the honor of bringing him." "'O better that her shattered hulk should sink beneath the wave,' eh?" remarked Katherine sympathetically. "Katherine," said Miss Judy feelingly, "_vous et moi_ we speak the same language, _n'est-ce pas_?" "We do," agreed Katherine laughingly. That evening when all the campers were gathered around the fire in the bungalow, listening to Dr. Grayson reading "The Crock of Gold" to the pattering accompaniment of the raindrops on the roof, Miss Judy went into the camp office to answer the telephone, and came out with a look of half-humorous exasperation on her face. "What is it?" asked Dr. Grayson, pausing in his reading. "It's Cousin Monty," announced Miss Judy. He's at Emmet's Landing, two stops down the river. He decided to come to camp a day earlier than he had written. He got off the boat at Emmet's Landing to sketch an 'exquisite' bit of scenery that he spied there. Now he's marooned at Emmet's Landing and can't get a boat to bring him to camp. He decided to stay there all night, and found a room, but the bed didn't look comfortable. He wants us to come and get him." "At this time of night!" Dr. Grayson exclaimed involuntarily. He recovered himself instantly. "Ah yes, certainly, of course. I'll go and get him. Tell him I'll come for him." "But it's raining pitchforks," demurred Miss Judy. "Ah well, never mind, I'll go anyhow," said her father composedly. "I'll go with you," declared Miss Judy firmly. "I'll run the launch." As she passed by Katherine on her way out of the bungalow she flashed her a meaning look, which Katherine answered with a sympathetic grimace. In the morning when camp assembled for breakfast there was Cousin Egmont sitting beside Dr. Grayson at the table, notebook in hand, looking about him in a loftily curious way. He was a small, slightly built youth, sallow of complexion and insignificant of feature, with pale hair brushed up into an exaggerated pompadour, and a neat little moustache. In contrast to Dr. Grayson's heroic proportions he looked like a Vest Pocket Edition alongside of an Unabridged. "Nice little camp you have here, Uncle, very," he drawled, peering languidly through his huge spectacles at the shining river and the far off rolling hills beyond. "Nothing like the camps I've seen in Switzerland, though. For real camps you want to go to Switzerland, Uncle. A chap I know goes there every summer. Of course, for a girl's camp this does very well, very. Pretty fair looking lot of girls you have, Uncle. All from picked families, eh? Require references and all that sort of thing?" Dr. Grayson made a deprecatory gesture with his hand and looked uneasily around the table, to see if Egmont's remarks were being overheard. But Mrs. Grayson sat on the other side of Egmont, and the seat next to the Doctor was vacant, so there was really no one within hearing distance except the Lone Wolf, who sat opposite to Mrs. Grayson, and she was deeply engrossed in conversation with the girl on the other side of her. Monty prattled on. "You see, Uncle, I wouldn't have come up here to observe if I thought they were not from the best families. Anybody I'd care to write about--you understand, Uncle." "Yes, I understand," replied Dr. Grayson quizzically. "Have you taken any notes yet?" he continued. "Nothing yet," Monty admitted, "but I mean to begin immediately after breakfast. I mean to flit unobtrusively about Camp, Uncle, and watch the young ladies when they do not suspect I am around, taking down their innocent girlish conversation among themselves. So much more natural that way, Uncle, very!" Dr. Grayson hurriedly took a huge mouthful of water, and then choked on it in a very natural manner, and Miss Judy's coming in with the mail bag at that moment caused a welcome diversion. "Ah, good morning, Cousin Judith," drawled Monty. "I see you didn't get up as early as the rest of us. Perhaps the fatigue of last night--" "I've been down the river for the mail," replied Miss Judy shortly. Then she turned her back on him and spoke to her father. "The weather is settled for this week. That rainstorm last night cleared things up beautifully. We ought to take the canoe trip, the one up to the Falls." "That's so," agreed Dr. Grayson. "How soon can you arrange to go?" "Tomorrow," replied Miss Judy. "Ah, a canoe trip," cried Monty brightly. "I ought to get quantities of notes from that." Miss Judy eyed him for a moment with an unfathomable expression on her face, then turned away and began to talk to the Lone Wolf. All during Morning Sing Monty sat in a corner and took notes with a silver pencil in an embossed leather notebook, staring now at this girl, now at that, until she turned fiery red and fidgeted. After Morning Sing he established himself on a rocky ledge just below Bedlam, where, hidden by the bushes, he sat ready to take down the innocent conversation of the young ladies among themselves as they made their tents ready for tent inspection. Katherine and Oh-Pshaw were in the midst of tidying up when the Lone Wolf dropped in to return a flashlight she had borrowed the night before. She strolled over to the railing at the back of the tent and peered over it. A gleam came into her eye as she noticed that one of the bushes just below the tent on the slope toward the river was waving slightly in an opposite direction from the way in which the wind was blowing. Stepping back into the tent she stopped beside Bedlam's water pail, newly filled for tent inspection. "Your water looks sort of--er--muddy," she remarked artfully. "Hadn't you better throw it out and get some fresh? Here, I'll do it for you. I'm not busy." She picked up the brimming pail and emptied it over the back railing, right over the spot where she had seen the bush waving. Immediately there came a curious sound out of the bush--half gasp and half yell, and out sprang Monty, dripping like a rat, and fled down the path toward the bungalow, without ever looking around. "Why, he was down there _listening_," Katherine exclaimed in disgust. "Oh, how funny it was," she remarked to the Lone Wolf, "that you happened to come in and dump that pail of water over the railing just at that time." "It certainty was," the Lone Wolf acquiesced gravely, as she departed with the pail in the direction of the spring. Cousin Monty flitted unobtrusively to his tent, got on dry garments, fished another notebook out of his bag, and set out once more in quest of local color. He wandered down to Mateka, where Craft Hour was in progress. A pottery craze had struck camp, and the long tables were filled with girls rolling and patting lumps of plastic clay into vases, jars, bowls, plates and other vessels. Cousin Monty strolled up and down, contemplating the really creditable creation of the girls with a condescending patronage that made them feel like small children in the kindergarten. He gave the art director numerous directions as to how she might improve her method of teaching, and benevolently pointed out to a number of the girls how the things they were making were all wrong. Finally he came and stood by Hinpoha, who was putting the finishing touches on the decoration of a rose jar, an exquisite thing, with a raised design in rose petals. Hinpoha was smoothing out the flat background of her design when Monty paused beside her. "You're not holding your instrument right." he remarked patronizingly. "Let me show you how." He took the instrument from Hinpoha's unwilling hand, and turning it wrong way up, proceeded to scrape back and forth. At the third stroke it went too far, and gouged out a deep scratch right through the design, clear across the whole side of the vase. "Ah, a little scratch," he remarked airily. "Ah, sorry, really, very. But it can soon be remedied. A little dob of clay, now." "Let me fix it myself," said Hinpoha firmly, with difficulty keeping her exasperation under the surface, and without more ado seized her mutilated treasure from his hands. "Ah, yes, of course," murmured Monty, and wandered on to the next table. By the time the day was over Cousin Monty was about as popular as a hornet. "How long is he going to stay?" the girls asked each other in comical dismay. "A week? Oh, my gracious, how can we ever stand him around here a week?" "Is he going along with us on the canoe trip?" Katherine asked Miss Judy as she helped her check over supplies for the expedition. "He is that," replied Miss Judy. "He's going along to pester us just as he has been doing--probably worse, because he's had a night to think up a whole lot more fool questions to ask than he could think of yesterday." And it was even so. Monty, notebook in hand, insisted upon knowing the why and wherefore of every move each one of the girls made until they began to flee at his approach. "Why are you tying up your ponchos that way? That isn't the way. Now if you will just let me show you--" "Why you are putting that stout girl"--indicating Bengal--"in the stern of the canoe? You want the weight up front--that's the newest way." "Now Uncle, just let me show you a trick or two about stowing away those supplies. You're not in the least scientific about it." Thus he buzzed about, inquisitive and officious. Katherine and Miss Judy looked into each other's eyes and exchanged exasperated glances. Then Katherine's eye took on a peculiar expression, the one which always registered the birth of an idea. At dinner, which came just before the expedition started, she was late--a good twenty minutes. She tranquilly ate what was left for her and was extremely polite to Counsin Monty, answering his continuous questions about the coming trip with great amiability, even enthusiasm. Miss Judy looked at her curiously. The expedition started. Monty, who had Miss Peckham in the canoe with him--she being the only one who would ride with him--insisted upon going at the head of the procession. "I'll paddle so much faster than the rest of you," he said airly, "that I'll want room to go ahead. I don't want to be held back by the rest of you when I shall want to put on a slight spurt now and then. That is the way I like to go, now fast, now slowly, as inclination dictates, without having to keep my pace down to that of others. I will start first, Uncle, and lead the line." "All right," replied Dr. Grayson a trifle wearily. "You may lead the line." The various canoes had been assigned before, so there was no confusion in starting. The smallest of the canoes had been given to Monty because there would be only two in it. Conscious that he was decidedly ornamental in his speckless white flannels and silk shirt he helped Miss Peckham into the boat with exaggerated gallantry, all the while watching out of the corner of his eye to see if Pom-pom was looking at him. He had been trying desperately to flirt with her ever since his arrival, and had begged her to go with him in the canoe on the trip, all in vain. Nevertheless, he was still buzzing around her and playing to the audience of her eyes. By fair means or foul he meant to get the privilege of having her with him on the return trip. Miss Peckham, newly graduated into the canoe privilege, was nervous and fussy, and handled her paddle as gingerly as if it were a gun. "Ah, let me do all the paddling," he insisted, knowing that Pom-pom, in a nearby canoe, could hear him. "I could not think of allowing you to exert yourself. It is the man's place, you know. You really mustn't think of it." Miss Peckham laid down her paddle with a sigh of relief, and Monty, with a graceful gesture, untied the canoe and pushed it out from the dock. Behind him the line of boats were all waiting to start. "Here we go!" he shouted loudly, as he dipped his paddle. In a moment all the canoes were in motion. Monty, at the head, seemed to find the paddling more difficult than he had expected. He dipped his paddle with great vigor and vim, but the canoe only went forward a few inches at each stroke. One by one the canoes began to pass him, their occupants casting amusing glances at him as he perspired over his paddle. He redoubled his efforts, he strained every sinew, and the canoe did go a little faster, but not nearly as fast as the others were going. "What's the matter, Monty, is your load too heavy for you?" called out Miss Judy. "Not at all," replied Monty doggedly. "I'm a little out of form, I guess. This arm--I strained it last spring--seems to have gone lame all of a sudden." "Would you like to get in a canoe with some of the girls?" asked Dr. Grayson solicitously. "I would _not_," replied Monty somewhat peevishly. "Please let me alone, Uncle, I'll be all right in a minute. Don't any of you bother about me, I'll follow you at my leisure. When I get used to paddling again I'll very soon overtake you even if you have a good start." The rest of the canoes swept by, and Monty and Miss Peckham soon found themselves alone on the river. "Hadn't I better help you paddle?" asked Miss Peckham anxiously. She was beginning to distrust the powers of her ferryman. "No, no, no," insisted Monty, stung to the quick by the concern in her voice. "I can do it very well alone, I tell you." He kept at it doggedly for another half hour, stubbornly refusing to accept any help, until the canoe came _to_ a dead stop. No amount of paddling would budge it an inch; it was apparently anchored. Puzzled, Monty peered into the river to find the cause of the stoppage. The water was deep, but there were many snags and obstructions under the surface. Something was holding him, that was plain, but what it was he could not find out, nor could he get loose from it. The water was too deep to wade ashore, and there was nothing to do but sit there and try to get loose by means of the paddle, a proceeding which soon proved fruitless. In some mysterious way they were anchored out in mid stream at a lonely place in the river where no one would be likely to see them for a long time. The others were out of sight long ago, having obeyed Monty's injunction to let him alone. Monty, in his usual airy way, tried to make the best of the situation and draw attention away from his evident inability to cope with the situation. "Ah, pleasant it is to sit out here and bask in the warm sunshine," he murmured in dulcet tones. "The view is exquisite here, _n'est-ce pas_? I could sit here all day and look at that mountain in the distance. It reminds me somewhat of the Alps, don't you know." Miss Peckham gazed unhappily at the mountain, which was merely a blur in the distance. "Do you think we'll have to sit here all night?" she asked anxiously. Monty exerted himself to divert her. "How does it come that I have never met you before, Miss Peckham? Really, I didn't know that Uncle Clement had such delightful relations. Can it be that you are really his cousin? It hardly seems possible that you are old enough. Sitting there with the breeze toying with you hair that way you look like a young girl, no older than Judith herself." Now this was quite a large dose to swallow, but Miss Peckham swallowed it, and much delighted with the gallant youth, so much more appreciative of her than the others at camp, she sat listening attentively to his prattle of what he had seen and done, keeping her hat off the while to let her hair ripple in the breeze the way he said he liked it, regardless of the fact that the sun was rather hot. In something over an hour a pair of rowboats came along filled with youngsters who thought it great sport to rescue the pair in the marooned canoe, and who promptly discovered the cause of the trouble. It was an iron kettle full of stones, fastened to the bottom of the canoe with a long wire, which had wedged itself in among the branches of a submerged tree in the river and anchored the canoe firmly. "Somebody's played a trick on us!" exclaimed Miss Peckham wrathfully. "Somebody at camp deliberately fastened that kettle of stones to the bottom of the canoe to make it hard for you to paddle. That's just what you might have expected from those girls. They're playing tricks all the time. They have no respect for anyone." Monty turned a dull red when he saw that kettle full of stones, and he, too, sputtered with indignation. "Low brow trick," he exclaimed loftily, but he felt quite the reverse of lofty. "This must be Cousin Judith's doing," he continued angrily, remembering the subtle antagonism that had sprung up between his cousin and himself. His dignity was too much hurt to allow him to follow the rest of the party now. Disgusted, he turned back in the direction of camp. By the time he arrived he began to feel that he did not want to stay long enough to see the enjoyment of his cousin over his discomfiture. He announced his intention of leaving that very night, paddling down the river to the next landing, and boarding the evening boat. Miss Peckham suddenly made up her mind, too. "I'm going with you." she declared. "I'm not going to stay here and be insulted any longer. It'll serve them right to do without my services as councilor for the rest of the summer. I'll just leave a note for Mrs. Grayson and slip out quietly with you." When the expedition returned the following day both Pecky and Monty were gone. Bengal raised such a shout of joy when she heard of the departure of her despised councilor that her tent mates were obliged to restrain her transports for the look of the thing, but they, too, were somewhat relieved to be rid of her. The reason of the double departure remained a mystery in camp until the very end, but there were a select few that always winked solemnly at one another whenever Dr. Grayson wondered what had become of his largest camping kettle. CHAPTER XIV REGATTA DAY The long anticipated, the much practiced for Regatta Day had dawned, bringing with it crowds of visitors to Camp. It was Camp Keewaydin's great day, when the Avenue and the Alley struggled for supremacy in aquatics. The program consisted of contests in swimming and diving, canoe upsetting and righting, demonstrations of rescue work, stunts and small canoe races, and ended up with a race between the two war canoes. Visitors came from all the summer resorts around, and many of the girls' parents and friends came to see their daughters perform. The dock and the diving platform were gay with flags; the tents had been tidied up to wax-like neatness and decorated with wild flowers until they looked like so many royal bowers; in Mateka an exhibition of Craft Work was laid out on the long tables--pottery and silver work and weaving and decorating. Hinpoha's rose jar, done with infinite pains and patience after its unfortunate meeting with Cousin Egmont, held the place of honor in the centre of the pottery table, and her silver candlesticks, done in an exquisite design of dogwood blossoms, was the most conspicuous piece on the jewelry table. "Hinpoha'll get the Craft Work prize, without any doubt," said Migwan to Agony as they stood helping to arrange the articles in the Craft Work exhibit. "She's a real artist. The rest of us are just dabblers. It's queer, though, I admire that little plain pottery bowl I made myself more than I do Hinpoha's wonderful rose jar. I suppose it's because I made it all myself; it's like my own child. There's a thrill about doing things yourself that makes you hold your head higher even if other people don't think it's anything very wonderful. Don't you feel that way, Agony?" "I suppose so," murmured Agony, rather absently, her animation falling away from her in an instant, and a weary look creeping into her eyes. "That's the way you must feel all the time since you did that splendid thing," continued Migwan warmly. "No matter where you are, or how hard a thing you're up against, you have only to think, 'I was equal to a great emergency once; I did the brave and splendid thing when the time came,' and then you'll be equal to it again. O, how wonderful it must be to know that when the time comes you won't be a coward! O Agony, we're all so proud of you!" cried Migwan, interrupting herself to give Agony an adoring hug. "All the Winnebagos will be braver and better because you did that, Agony. They'll be ashamed to be any less than you are." "It wasn't anything much that--I did," Agony protested in a flat voice. Migwan, busy straightening out the rows of bracelets and rings, did not notice the hunted expression in Agony's face, and soon the bugle sounded, calling all the girls together on the dock. Only those who have ever taken part in Regatta Day will get the real thrill when reading an account of it in cold print--the thrill which comes from seeing dozens of motor boats filled with spectators lined up on the river, and crowds standing on the shore; the sun shining in dazzling splendor on the ripples; the flags snapping in the breeze, the starters with their pistols standing out on the end of the dock, the canoes rocking alongside, straining at their ropes as if impatient to be off in the races; the crews, in their new uniforms, standing nervously around their captains, getting their last instructions and examining their paddles for any possible cracks; the councilors rushing around preparing the props for the stunts they were directing; and over all a universal atmosphere of suspense, of tenseness, of excitement. The Alleys wore bright red bathing caps, the Avenues blue; otherwise they wore the regulation Camp bathing suits, all alike. First on the program came the demonstrations--canoe tipping, rescuing a drowning person, resuscitation. Sahwah won the canoe tipping contest, getting her canoe righted in one minute less time than it took Undine Girelle, so the first score went to the Alley. The Avenue had a speedy revenge, however, for Undine took first honors in the diving exhibition which followed immediately after. Even the Winnebagos, disappointed as they were that Sahwah had not won out, admitted that Undine's performance was unequalled, and joined heartily in the cheers that greeted the announcement of her winning. In the smaller contests the Avenue and the Alley were pretty well matched, and at the end of the swimming and small canoe races the score was tied between them. This left the war canoe race, which counted ten points, to decide the championship. A round of applause greeted the two crews as they marched out on the dock to the music of the Camp band and took their places in the war canoes. Sahwah was Captain of the Dolphins, the Alley crew; Undine commanded the Avenue Turtles. Agony was stern paddler of the Dolphin, the most important position next to the Captain. Prominence had come to her in many ways since she had become the camp heroine; positions of trust and honor fell to her thick and fast without her making any special efforts to get them. If nothing succeeds like success it is equally true that nothing brings honor like honor already achieved. To her who hath shall be given. Besides Sahwah and Agony the Dolphin crew consisted of Hinpoha, Migwan, Gladys, Katherine, Jo Severance, Jean Lawrence, Bengal Virden, Oh-Pshaw, and two girls from Aloha, Edith Anderson and Jerry Mortimer, a crew picked after severe tests which eliminated all but the most expert paddlers. That the Winnebagos had all passed the test was a matter of considerable pride to them, and also to Nyoda, to whom they had promptly written the good news. "I am not surprised, though," she had written in return. "I am never surprised at anything my girls accomplish. I always expect you to do things--and you do them." Quickly the two Captains brought their canoes out to the starting line and sat waiting for the shot from the starter's pistol. The command "Paddles Up!" had been given, and twenty-four broad yellow blades were poised stiffly in air, ready for the plunge into the shining water below. A hush fell upon the watching crowd; the silence was so intense that the song of a bird on the roof of Mateka could be plainly heard. A smile came to Sahwah's lips as she heard the joyous thrill of the bird. An omen of victory, she said to herself. Then the pistol cracked. Almost simultaneously with its report came her clear command, "Down paddles!" Twelve paddles dipped as one and the Dolphin shot forward a good five feet on the very first stroke. The race was on. The course was from the dock to Whaleback Island, around the Island and back to the starting point. Until the Island was reached the canoes kept practically abreast, now one forging a few inches ahead, now the other, but always evening up the difference before long. As the pull toward Whaleback was downstream both crews made magnificent speed with apparently little effort. The real struggle lay in rounding the Island and making the return pull upstream. The Dolphin had the inside track, a fact which at first caused her crew to exult, because of the shorter turn, but they soon found that the advantage gained in this way was practically offset by the force of the current close to the Island, which made it difficult for the boat to keep in her course. It took all of Agony's skill as stern paddler to swing the Dolphin around and keep her out of the current. The two canoes were still abreast when they recovered from the turn and started back upstream. As they rounded the large pile of rocks which formed a bodyguard around Whaleback, the current caught the Dolphin and gave her a half turn back toward the Island. Agony bore quickly down on her paddle to offset the pull of the current; it struck an unexpected rock underneath the surface and twisted itself out of her hands. In a moment the current had caught it and whirled it out of reach. Only an instant did Agony waste looking after it in consternation. "Give me your paddle," she said quickly to Bengal Virden, who sat in front of her, and took it out of her hand without ceremony. The Dolphin righted herself without any further trouble and came out into the straight upstream course only a little behind the Turtle. Then the real race began. In a few moments the Turtle had forged ahead, and it soon became apparent that the Dolphin, carrying one member of the crew who was not paddling, could not hope to keep up. "Bengal," megaphoned Sahwah, taking in the situation at a glance, "you'll have to get out. You're dead weight. Jump and swim back to the island. The water isn't deep here." Bengal refused. "I want to stay in the race." Sahwah gave a disgusted snort into the megaphone. Agony cast herself into the breach and made use of Bengal's crush on her for the sake of the Alley cause. "If you do it, Bengal, I'll come and sleep with you all the rest of the time we're in camp." Bengal rose to the bait. "I'll do it for you," she said adoringly, and promptly jumped out of the canoe and swam back the short distance to the Island where she was soon picked up by one of the visiting launches and carried to the sidelines. Relieved of Bengal's weight, which had been considerable, the Dolphin quickly recovered herself and caught up with the Turtle; then slowly worked into the lead. She did not lose the lead again, but came under the line a good three feet ahead of the Turtle. The long anticipated struggle was over and the Alley was the victor. The rest of the Alley rushed down upon the dock and dragged the victorious crew up out of the Dolphin as she came up alongside of the dock, and lifting them to their shoulders carried them to shore in a triumphal procession, with waving banners, and ear splitting cheers, and songs which excess of emotion rendered slightly off key. Bengal was brought over and given a separate ovation for having so nobly sacrificed herself for the cause of the Alley; Agony also came in for a great deal of extra cheering because she had acted so promptly when she lost her paddle, and Sahwah--well, Sahwah was the Captain, and when did the Captain of a victorious crew ever suffer neglect from the side he represented? Until Taps sounded that night the Alley celebrated its victory, and the last thing they did for joy was to carry all the beds out of the tents and set them in one long row in the Alley, and when Miss Judy went the last rounds there they lay, all linked together arm in arm, smiling one long smile which reached from one end of the Alley to the other. CHAPTER XV THE BUFFALO ROBE "Sunset and evening star, And one clear call for me!" The familiar lines slipped softly from Miss Amesbury's lips as she leaned luxuriously against the canoe cushions, watching the vivid glows of the sunset. It was the hour after supper, when the Camp girls were free to do as they pleased, and Agony and Miss Amesbury had come out for a quiet paddle on the river. The excitement of Regatta Day had subsided, and Camp was jogging peacefully toward its close. Only a few more days and then the _Carribou_ would come and take away the merry, frolicking campers, and the Alley and the Avenue alike would know desolation. All over there were signs that told summer was drawing to a close. The fields were gay with goldenrod and wild asters, the swamp maples had begun to flame in the woods, and there was a crisp tang in the air that sent the blood racing in the veins like a draught of strong, new wine. All these things, as well as the westward shifting of the summer constellations, which a month before had reigned supreme on the meridian, told that the summer was drawing to an end. Never had the friends at Camp seemed so jolly and dear as in this last week when the days together were numbered, and every sunrise brought them one degree nearer the parting. Everyone was filled with the desire to make the most of these last few days; there was a frantic scramble to do the things that had been talked of all summer, but which had been crowded out by other things, and especially there was a busy taking of pictures of favorite councilors and best friends. Pom-pom, Miss Judy, Tiny Armstrong and the Lone Wolf could be seen at almost any hour of the day "looking pleasant" while some girl snapped their pictures. "If anyone else asks me to pose for a picture today I shall explode!" declared Tiny Armstrong at last. "I've stood in the sun until I'm burned to a cinder, and I've 'looked pleasant' until my face aches. I'm going on a strike!" Agony found herself possessed in these last days of an ever increasing desire to be with Miss Amesbury, to hear her talk and watch the expressions play over her beautiful, mobile face. For this brilliant and accomplished woman Agony had conceived an admiration which stirred the very depths of her intense, passionate nature. To be famous and fascinating like Miss Amesbury, this was the secret ambition that filled her restless soul. To be near her now, to have her all to herself in a canoe in this most beautiful hour of the day, thrilled Agony to the verge of intoxication. Her voice trembled when she spoke, her hand shook as she dipped the paddle. The wide flaming fire of the sunset toned down to a tawny orange; then faded into a pale primrose; the big, bright evening star appeared in the west. From all the woods around came the goodnight twitter of the birds. "Sunset and evening star--" repeated Agony softly, echoing the words Miss Amesbury had spoken a few moments before. "Oh," she declared, "sunset is the most perfect time of the day for me. I feel just bewitched. I could do anything just at sunset; all my dreams seem about to come true." And drifting there in the rosy afterglow they talked of dreams and hopes, and ambitions, and Agony laid her soul bare to the older woman. She spoke of the things she planned to do, the career of social service she had laid out for herself, and of the influence for good she would be in the world--all of this to take place in the golden sometime when she would be grown up and out of school. Miss Amesbury heard her through with a quiet smile. Agony looked up, encountered her gaze and stopped speaking. "Don't you think I can?" she asked quickly. "It is possible," replied Miss Amesbury tranquilly. "Everything is possible. 'We are all architects of fate;' you must have heard that line quoted before. Everyone carries his future in his own hands; fate has really nothing to do with it. Whatever kind of bud we are, such a flower we will be. We cannot make ourselves; all we can do is blossom. This Other Person that you see in your golden dreams is after all only you, changed from the You that you are now into the You that you hope to be. If we are little, stunted buds we cannot be big, glorious blossoms. The Future is only a great many Nows added up. It is the things you are doing now that will make your future glorious or abject. To be a noble woman you must have been a noble girl. You are setting your face now in the direction in which you are going to travel. Every worthy action you perform now will open the way for more worthy actions in the future, and the same is true of unworthy ones." Agony sat very still. "It is the thing we stand for ourselves that makes us an influence for evil or good," continued Miss Amesbury, "not the thing that we preach. That is why so much of the so-called 'uplift work' in the world has no effect upon the persons we are trying to uplift--we try to give them something which we do not possess ourselves. We cannot give something which we don't possess, don't ever forget that, dear child. Be sure that your own torch is burning brightly before you attempt to light someone else's with it. "You know, Agony, that after Jesus went away out of the Temple at the age of twelve years we do not hear of him again until he was a grown man of thirty. What took place in those years we will never know exactly; but in those Silent Years He prepared Himself for His glorious destiny. He must have conquered Self, day by day, until He was master over all his moods and desires, to be able to influence others so profoundly. He must have developed a sympathetic understanding of His friends and playfellows, to know so intimately the troubles of all the multitudes which he afterwards met. These are _your_ Silent Years, Agony. What you make of them will determine your future." * * * * * "Why, where is everybody?" Agony asked wonderingly as they drew their canoe up on the dock and went up the hill path. Nobody was in sight, but a subdued sound of cheering and laughter came from the direction of Mateka. "Oh, I forgot," cried Agony. "There _is_ something tonight in Mateka, a meeting. Dr. Grayson announced it this noon at dinner, but I forgot all about it and hurried through supper tonight so I could come out on the river with you. I wonder what it was about. Come on, let's go up, maybe we can get there before it's over." They were just going up the steps of Mateka when half a dozen girls rushed out of the door and fell upon Agony. "Where on earth have you been? We've been hunting all over camp for you. You're elected most popular camper! You've won the Buffalo Robe! Oh, Agony, you've won the Buffalo Robe!" It was Oh-Pshaw who was speaking, and she cast herself on her twin's neck and kissed her rapturously. Agony stood very still on the steps, looking in a dazed sort of way from one to the other of the faces around her. "Oh, Agony, don't you understand? You've won the Buffalo Robe!" Oh-Pshaw repeated laughingly. "We had the election tonight. You won by a big majority. It's all on account of the robin. Nobody else had done anything nearly so splendid. Oh, but I'm proud to be your twin sister!" Then all the rest came out of Mateka and surrounded Agony, telling her how glad they were she had won the Buffalo Robe, and they ended up by taking her on their shoulders into Mateka and setting her down before the Robe where it hung on the wall. It would be formally presented to her at the farewell banquet two nights later. "We're going to paint a robin on it as a record of your brave deed," said Migwan. "Hinpoha is working on the design right now." Agony's emotions were tumultous as she stood there in Mateka before the Buffalo Robe with the girls singing cheer after cheer to her. First triumph flooded her whole being, and delight and satisfaction that she had won the biggest honor in Camp took complete possession of her. The most popular girl in camp! The desire of her heart, born on that first, far off day at camp, had been realized. The precious trophy was hers to take home, to exhibit to Nyoda. She was the center of all eyes; her name was on every lip. Then, in the midst of her triumph the leaden weight began to press down on her spirits, pulling her back to realization. Her smile faded, her lips trembled, her voice was so husky that she could hardly speak. "It's--so--hot--in--here," she panted. "Let me go out where it's cool." And all unsuspecting they led her out and bore her to her tent in triumph. CHAPTER XVI THE TORCH KINDLES Even the Winnebagos wondered slightly at the extremely quiet way in which Agony received the great honor that had been bestowed upon her. She did not expand as usual under the influence of the limelight until she fairly radiated light. She hummed no gay songs, she played no pranks on her friends; she did not outdo herself in work and play as she used to in the days of yore when she was the observed of all observers. Silent and pensive she wandered about Camp the next day and seemed rather to be shunning the gay groups in Mateka and on the beach. Most of the girls believed that Agony's silence proceeded from the genuine humility of the truly great when singled out for honor, and admired her all the more for her sober, pensive air. She found herself overwhelmed with requests to stand for her picture, and the younger girls thronged her tent, begging for locks of hair to take home as keepsakes. Agony escaped from them as best she could without offending them. She sedulously avoided Mateka, for there sat Hinpoha busily painting robins on the place cards for the banquet which was to take place the following night. This banquet was given each year as a wind-up to the camp activities, with the winner of the Buffalo Robe in the place of honor at the head of the table. Agony felt weak every time she thought of that banquet. Why had she not the courage to confess the deception to Dr. Grayson, and give up the Buffalo Robe, she thought miserably. No, she could never do that. The terrific pride which was Agony's very life and soul would not let her humble herself. The pain it would give Dr. Grayson, the astonishment and disappointment of the Winnebagos, the coldness of the beloved councilors--and Jane Pratt! How could she ever humble herself before Jane Pratt and witness Jane's keen relish of her downfall? She could hear Jane's spiteful laughter, her malicious remarks, her unrestrained rejoicing over the situation. And Miss Amesbury! No, she could never let Miss Amesbury know what a cheat she was. No, no, the thing had gone too far, she must see it through now. Better to endure the gnawings of conscience than give herself away now. And Nyoda--Nyoda who had praised her so sincerely, and Slim and the Captain, who thought it was a "bully stunt"--could she let them know that it was all a lie? She shrank back shuddering from the notion. No, she must go on. No one would ever find it out now. Other people had received honors which they hadn't earned; the world was full of them; thus she tried to soothe her conscience. But she averted her eyes every time she passed the Buffalo Robe hanging over the fireplace in Mateka. Slumber came hard to her that night, and when she finally did drop off it was to dream that the Buffalo Robe was being presented to her, but just as she put out her hand to take it Mary Sylvester appeared on the scene and called out loudly, "She doesn't deserve it!" and then all the girls pointed to her in scorn and repeated, "She doesn't deserve it!" "She doesn't deserve it!" until she ran away and hid herself in the woods. So vivid was the dream that she wakened, trembling in ever limb, and burrowed into the pillow to shut out the sight of those dreadful pointing fingers, which still seemed to be before her eyes. Once awake she could not go back to sleep. She looked enviously across the tent at Hinpoha, who lay calm and peaceful in the moonlight, a faint smile parting her lips. She had nothing on her mind to keep her awake. Sahwah, too, was wrapped in profound slumber, her brow serene and untroubled; she had no uncomfortable secret to disturb her rest. How she envied them! She envied Oh-Pshaw, who had taken the swimming test that day after a whole summer of trying to learn to swim, and was so proud of herself that she seemed to have grown an inch in height. There was no flaw in her happiness; she had won her honor fairly. Then, as Agony lay there, her favorite heroines of history and fiction seemed to rise up and repudiate her--Robert Louis Stevenson, with whom she had formed an imaginary comradeship; there he stood looking at her scornfully and coldly; Joan of Arc, her especial heroine; she turned away in disgust; so all the others; one by one they reproached her. Agony tossed for a long while and then rose, slipped on her bathrobe and shoes and stockings and wandered about for awhile, finally sitting down on a rustic bench on the veranda of Mateka, where she could look out on the river and the wide sky. Even the beauty of the night seemed to mock her. The big, bright stars, which used to twinkle in such a friendly fashion, now gleamed coldly at her; the light breeze rustling in the leaves was like so many spiteful whispers telling her secret. She had plucked a red lily that grew outside her tent door as she came out, and sat twirling it in her fingers. In an incredibly short time it whithered and let its petals droop. Agony gazed at it superstitiously. An old nurse had once told her that a flower would wither in the hand of a person who had told a lie. The idle tale came back to her now. Was it perhaps true after all? Did she have a withering touch now? The things Miss Amesbury had said to her at sunset on the river the day before came back with startling force. "We carry our destiny in our own hands. We are what we make ourselves. Whatever kind of bud we are, just such a flower we will be. You are setting your face now in the direction in which you are going to travel. To be a noble woman you must have been a noble girl. The Future is only a great many Nows added up. Every worthy action you perform now will make it easier to perform another one later on, and every unworthy one will do the same thing. If your lamp is dim you can't light the way for others...." Agony looked at herself pitilessly and shuddered. Was this the road she was going to travel; was this the direction in which she had set her face? Cheat, deceiver, that was what she was. The winds whispered it; the river babbled it; the very stars seemed to twinkle it. Agony closed her eyes, and put her hands over her ears to shut out the little insinuating sounds; and in the silence her very heart beats throbbed it, rhythmically, pitilessly. * * * * * In the hour before dawn Miss Amesbury sat up in bed, under the impression that someone had called her name. Yes, there was someone on her balcony; in the dim light she could make out a drooping figure beside her bed. "Miss Amesbury," faltered a low, but familiar voice. "Why Agony, child!" exclaimed Miss Amesbury, now well awake and recognizing her visitor. "What is the matter? Are you sick?" "Yes," replied Agony quietly, "sick of deceiving people." And there, in the dim light, she told her whole story, the story of vaulting ambition and timely temptation, of action in haste and repentance at weary leisure. "So that was it," Miss Amesbury exclaimed involuntarily, as Agony finished. "It seemed to me that you had something on your mind; it puzzled me a great deal. How you must have suffered in conscience, poor child!" She put out her hand and drew Agony down on the bed, laying cool fingers on her hot forehead. Agony, entirely taken aback by Miss Amesbury's sympathetic attitude, for she had expected nothing but scorn and contempt, broke down and began to weep wildly. Miss Amesbury let her cry for awhile for she knew that the overburdened heart and strained nerves must find relief first of all. After awhile she began to speak soothing words, and gradually Agony's tempestuous sobs ceased and she grew calm. Then the two talked together for a long while, of the dangers of ambition, the seeking for personal glory at whatever cost. When the rising sun began to redden the ripples on the river Agony's heart once more knew peace, and she lay sleeping quietly, worn out, but tranquil in conscience. She had at last found the courage to make her decision; she would tell the Camp at Morning Sing the true story of the robin, and decline the honor of the Buffalo Robe. Agony's torch, dim and smoky for so long, at last was burning bright and high. * * * * * It was over. Agony sat on the deck of the _Carribou_ beside Miss Amesbury. Camp had vanished from sight several minutes before behind an abrupt bend in the river, and was now only a memory. Agony sat pensive, her mind going back over the events of the day. It had been harder than she thought--to stand up in Mateka, and looking into the faces about her, tell the story of her deceit, but she had done it without flinching. Of course it had created a sensation. There was a painful silence, then several audible gasps of astonishment, and nervous giggles from the younger girls, and above these the scornful, unpleasant laugh of Jane Pratt. But Agony was strangely serene. Being prepared for almost any demonstration of scorn she was surprised that it was no worse. Now that the weight of deceit was off her conscience and the haunting fear of discovery put at an end the relief was so great that nothing else mattered. She bore it all tranquilly--Dr. Grayson's fatherly advice on the evils of ambition; the snubs of certain girls; Oh-Pshaw's sympathetic tears; Jo Severance's unforgettable look of unbelieving astonishment; Bengal Virden's prompt transferring of her affections to Sahwah; the loving loyalty of the Winnebagos, who said never a word of reproach. And now it was all over, and she was going away with Miss Amesbury to spend a week with her in her home, going away the day before Camp closed. Miss Amesbury, loving friend that she was, realized that it was well both for Agony and for the rest of the girls that she should not be present at that farewell banquet where she was to have been presented with the Buffalo Robe, and had borne her away as soon as possible. And now once more it was sunset, and the evening star was shining in the west, and it seemed to Agony that it had never seemed so fair and friendly before. Agony's face was pensive, but her heart was light, for now at last she knew that she was not a coward, and that "when the time came she would be able to do the brave and splendid thing." 
45657	----	generously made available by the Google Books Library Project (http://books.google.com) Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 45657-h.htm or 45657-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/45657/45657-h/45657-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/45657/45657-h.zip) Images of the original pages are available through the Google Books Library Project. See http://www.google.com/books?id=hCUXAAAAYAAJ THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS AMID THE SNOWS by MARGARET VANDERCOOK Author of "The Ranch Girls" Series, "The Red Cross Girls" Series, etc. Illustrated Philadelphia The John C. Winston Co. Publishers Copyright, 1913, by The John C. Winston Company CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. The Winter Manitou 7 II. "Sunrise Cabin" 22 III. "A Rose of the World" 38 IV. "The Reason o' It" 50 V. Mollie's Suggestion 61 VI. A Black Sheep 69 VII. Turning the Tables 81 VIII. Possibilities 98 IX. Christmas Eve at the Cabin 110 X. Esther's Old Home 123 XI. Gifts 129 XII. The Camp Fire Play 137 XIII. An Indian Love Song 149 XIV. Mollie's Confidant 156 XV. A Boomerang 168 XVI. The Apology 183 XVII. General News 190 XVIII. Donna and Her Don 202 XIX. Memories 212 XX. The Explanation 223 XXI. Misfortune 234 XXII. Saying Farewell to the Cabin 242 XXIII. Future Plans 253 ILLUSTRATIONS "Ach Gnädiges Fräuleins, It Ist Not Possible" _Frontispiece_ PAGE "Turn That Box Over to Me" 85 The Song Had a Plaintive Cadence 152 "Do As I Tell You, Princess, Please" 218 The Camp Fire Girls Amid the Snows CHAPTER I The Winter Manitou The snow was falling in heavy slashing sheets, and a December snowstorm in the New Hampshire hills means something more serious than a storm in city streets or even an equal downfall upon more level meadows and plains. Yet on this winter afternoon, about an hour before twilight and along the base of a hill where a rough road wandered between tall cedar and pine trees and low bushes and shrubs, there sounded continually above the snow's silencing two voices, sometimes laughing, occasionally singing a brief line or so, but more often talking. Accompanying them always was a steady jingling of bells. "We simply can't get there to-night, Princess," one of the voices protested, still with a questioning note as though hardly believing in its own assertion. "We simply can't do anything else, my child" the other answered teasingly. "Have you ever thought how much harder it is to travel backward in this world than forward, otherwise I suppose we should have had eyes placed in the back of our heads and our feet would have turned around the other way? Don't be frightened, there really isn't the least danger." Then there was a sudden swish of a whip cutting the cold air and with a fresh tinkling of bells the shaggy pony plunged ahead. Five minutes afterwards with an instinctive stiffening of his forelegs he started sliding slowly down a steep embankment, where the road apparently ended, dragging his load behind him and only stopping on finally reaching the low ground and finding his sleigh had overturned. For a while the unusual stillness was oppressive. But a little later there followed a movement and then an unsteady voice calling, "Steady, Fire Star," as a tall girl in a gray hood and coat covered all over with snow came crawling forth from the uppermost side of the sleigh and immediately began pulling at it with trembling hands. "Princess, Princess, please speak or move! Oh, it is all my fault. I should never have let you attempt it; I am the older and even----" A little smothered sound and a slight disturbance under an immense fur rug interrupted her: "I can't speak, Esther, until I get some of this snow out of my mouth and I can't move until this grocery store is lifted off me. I'm--I'm the under side of things; there are ten pounds of sugar and a sack of flour and all the week's camping supplies between me and the gay world." A break in the cheerful tones ended these words and there was no further stirring, but Esther Clark failed to notice this, as she first lifted the rug which had almost covered up Betty Ashton and then helped her to sit upright, looking more of a Snow Princess than even the weather justified. For all about her there were small mounds of sugar and flour white as the snow itself and dissolving like dew. While Betty's seal cap and coat were encrusted in ice and the snow hung from her brows and lashes, indeed her face, usually so brilliantly colored, was now almost as pale. Esther was again tugging at the overturned sleigh trying to set it upright, the pony waiting motionless except for turning his head as if with the suggestion that matters be hurried along. "I could manage a great deal better, Betty, if you would help me," Esther protested a little indignantly. "I know the girls at Sunrise cabin are getting dreadfully worried over our being so late in arriving at home." Betty shivered. "I am getting a bit worried myself," she agreed, "and I might as well confess to you, Esther, that I haven't the faintest idea where we are, nor how far from the village or our camp. This snow has completely mixed me up; and I haven't sprained my ankle, of course, or broken it or done anything _quite_ so silly, but my foot does hurt most awfully and I know I never can stand up on it again and--and--if I wasn't a Camp Fire girl about to be made a Torch Bearer I'd like to weep and weep until I melted away into a beautiful iceberg." And then in spite of her brave fooling Betty did blink and choke, but only for an instant, for the sight of her companion's face made her smile again. "The runner of our sleigh has snapped in two," Esther next announced in accents of despair after having partially dragged the sleigh upright, although one runner still remained imbedded several inches deeper than the other in the drift of snow which had caused their disaster. Betty held up both hands. "I believe it never rains but it pours," she said a little mockingly; "but what about the snow? I am sorry I was so obstinate, dear. It is nice to be sorry when the deed is done, isn't it? I suppose I should never have attempted driving back to Sunrise Hill on such an evening, but then we did need our groceries so terribly in camp and I was afraid nobody would bring them to-morrow. And, well, as I have gotten you into this scrape I must get you out of it." So by clinging with both hands to Esther, Betty Ashton, by sheer force of will, did manage to rise on the one sound foot and then putting the injured one on the ground she stood wavering for a second. "I'm thinking, Esther, so please don't interrupt me for a moment," she gasped as soon as she found breath. "I can't but feel that this is our first real emergency since we started our camp fire in the woods this winter. If we only are able to get out of it successfully, why--why, won't Polly be envious?" Betty Ashton was so plainly talking at the present instant to gain time that the older girl did not pay the slightest attention to her; instead, she was thinking herself. Of course she or Betty could mount their pony and ride off somewhere to look for help, but then Esther had no fancy for being left alone in a snow-storm in a part of the country which she did not know in its present aspect and certainly under the circumstances she had no intention of leaving Betty to the same fate. Imagination, however, was never one of Esther Clark's strong points, although fortunately for them both now and in later years it was always a gift of the other girl's. "Better let me sit down again," Betty suggested, letting go of her clasp on her friend; "and will you unhitch Fire Star and lead her here to me. Somehow I think it best for us to manage to get back on the road and find some sort of shelter up there under the trees until the worst of this storm is past." With Betty to think and Esther to accomplish, things usually moved swiftly. So five minutes later, half leading and half being led by the pony, Esther climbed the embankment on foot with Betty riding and clinging with both arms about Fire Star's neck. Under a pine tree partly protected from the wind and snow by scrub pines growing only a few feet away, the girls found a temporary refuge. There they remained sheltered by the fur rug which Esther brought back on her second trip. The pony safely covered over with his own blanket stood hitched under another tree a short distance away. Nevertheless, half an hour of waiting found the two girls shivering uncomfortably under their rug and losing courage with every passing moment, for the storm had not abated in the least and Betty was really suffering agonies with her foot, although she had removed her shoe, bathed her ankle in snow and bound it up in her own and Esther's pocket handkerchiefs. "Esther," she said rather irritably, after a fresh paroxysm of pain had left her almost exhausted, "don't you think that, as we have been Camp Fire girls living in the woods for the past six months, even though conditions do seem trying, we ought to _do_ something and not just sit here in this limp fashion and be snowed under?" Esther nodded, but made no sort of suggestion. She was so cold and worried about Betty that she hadn't an idea in her mind save the haunting fear that if they continued long in their present situation they might actually be turned into icebergs. However, Betty promptly gave her a pinch that was realistic enough to be felt in spite of all her frozenness. "Wake up, Esther, dear, and if you are really so cold, child, just warm yourself by your nose, it certainly is red enough. Now as you girls have always said I dearly loved to boss, please, won't you let me be general of this expedition and you do what I say since I am too lame to help?" Again Esther nodded. She generally had done whatever Betty Ashton had asked of her since the day of her coming to the great Ashton homestead in Woodford a little more than half a year before. But as Betty outlined her plan Esther grew interested and in half a moment jumping up began stamping her feet and swinging her arms to get the warmth and vigor back into her body. "Why, Betty Ashton, of course we can manage even to stay here in the woods all night and not have such a horrid time! It won't be so difficult, I'll have things fixed in the least little while." A short time afterwards and Esther had brought up from their broken sleigh a portion of the precious grocery supplies which she and Betty had driven into Woodford early that afternoon to obtain--a can of coffee, crackers, a side of bacon and, most welcome of all, a bundle of kindling tied as neatly together as toothpicks. For several weeks of having to gather wood out of doors, oftentimes in the snow and rain, and then drying it under cover, had made an occasional supply of kindling from the shops in town extremely grateful to the camp fire makers. Fortunately, Betty had filled the last remaining space in their sleigh with kindling wood before starting back to camp. And in Esther's several absences she had been diligently preparing a place for a fire, first by scooping away the snow with her hands and then by scraping it with a three-pronged stick which she had found nearby. However, a fire in the snow was not easy to start even by a Camp Fire girl, so that fifteen minutes must have passed and an entire box of matches been consumed before the paper collected from about their packages had persuaded even the kindling to light. And then by infinite patience and coaxing, wet pine twigs and cones were added to the fire until finally the larger logs, discovered under the surrounding trees, also blazed into heat and light. And while Betty was cherishing the fire, Esther managed to make a partial canopy over their heads with brushwood. There are but few things in this world though that do not take a longer time to accomplish than we at first expect and require a longer patience. So that when the two girls had finally arranged their temporary winter shelter, the twilight had come down and both of them were extremely weary. Nevertheless, the most wonderful coffee was made with melted snow in the tin can, bacon sliced and fried with the knife no Camp Fire girl fails to carry and the crackers toasted into a smoky but delicious brown. And then when supper was over Betty crept close to Esther under their rug resting her head on her shoulder. "No one knows where we are to-night, Esther, so no one will worry. The girls will think we stayed in town on account of the storm and our friends in the village that we are now safe back in Sunrise cabin. So do let us make the best of things," she whispered. "To-night, at least, we are real Camp Fire girls from necessity and not choice, and I believe I can better understand why our ancestors once used to worship the fire as the symbol of home. Then, too, I am glad we chose the pine trees for our refuge. I wonder if you know this legend? When Mary was in flight to Egypt to save our Lord from Herod, she stopped beneath a pine tree and rested there safe from her enemies in a green chamber filled with its balsamy fragrance, the tree proving its love for the Christ Child by lowering its limbs when Herod's soldiers passed by. And then when the Baby raised its hand to bless the tree, it so marked it that when the pine cone is cut lengthwise it shows the form of a hand--the hand of Christ." With the telling of her story Betty's voice was sinking lower and lower, and as her cheeks were now so flushed with her nearness to the fire and with fever from the pain in her foot, Esther hoped she might soon fall asleep. So she made no reply, but instead began singing the "Good-Night Song" of the Camp Fire girls which has been set to the beautiful old melody "Drink to Me Only with Thine Eyes." And though she began very softly, meaning her song to reach only Betty's ears, by and by forgetting herself in the pleasure her music always brought her, she let her voice increase in power, until the final notes could have been heard some distance through the woods and even a little way up the hill which stood like a solid white wall before them. The snow had stopped falling and the wind had died down, but the coldness and the stillness were therefore the more profound. "The sun is sinking in the west, The evening shadows fall; Across the silence of the lake We hear the loon's low call. So let us, too, the silence keep, And softly steal away, To rest and sleep until the morn Brings forth another day." "Betty, Betty!" Instead of allowing her friend to sleep Esther began shaking her nervously only a few moments after the closing of her song. And Betty started suddenly, giving a little cry of pain and surprise, for evidently she had been dreaming and found it hard to come back to so strange a reality. Here she and Esther were alone in the winter woods not many miles from shelter and yet unable to find it, while she had been dreaming of herself as a poor half-frozen waif somewhere out in a city street listening to strains of music, which were not of Esther's song but of some instrument. The girl rubbed her eyes and laughed. "Dear me, Esther, it's too cold to sleep, isn't it? Let us put some more wood on our fire and stay awake and talk. I think the Winter Manitou, Peboan, must have been visiting me with the wind playing the strings of his harp, for I have just dreamed I was listening to music." "You didn't dream it; I wasn't asleep and I heard it also. There, listen!" The two girls caught hold of one another's hands and silently they stared ahead of them through the opening in their curious, Esquimaux-like tent. Could anything be more improbable and yet without doubt the notes of a violin could be heard approaching nearer and nearer. Transfixed with surprise and pleasure Esther kept still but Betty, who in spite of her whims was a really practical person, shook her head in a somewhat annoyed fashion. "It is perfectly absurd you know, Esther, for any human being to be strolling through the New Hampshire woods on a winter's night playing the violin. We are not in Germany or the Alps or in a story book. But if it really is a person and not the Spirit of Winter, as I still believe, why he might as well help us out of our difficulty. I don't feel so romantic as I did an hour or so ago." At this instant a dim figure did appear around a turn in the road where the girls had previously met disaster and putting her cold fingers to her lips Betty cried "Halloo, Halloo," in as loud a voice as possible and at the same time seizing one of their burning logs she waved it as a signal of distress. CHAPTER II "Sunrise Cabin" "Ach, gnädige Fräuleins, it ist not possible." "No, I know it isn't," Betty returned with her most demure expression, although there were little sparks of light at the back of her gray-blue eyes. She rose stiffly from the ground with Esther's assistance and stood leaning on her arm, while both girls without trying to hide their astonishment surveyed a middle aged, shabbily dressed German with his violin case under one arm and his violin under the other. "I haf been visiting the Orphan Asylum in this neighborhood where I haf friends," he explained. "I am in Woodford only a few days now and after supper when the storm is over I start back to town. Then I thought I heard some one singing, calling, perhaps it is you?" He looked only at Betty, since in the semi-darkness with the fire as a background it was difficult to distinguish but one object at a time and that only by concentrated attention. But as she shook her head he turned toward Esther. "When I hear the singing I play my violin, thinking if some one was lost in these hills I may find them." But Esther was not thinking of her discoverer, only of what he had said. "Do you mean we are really not far from the Country Orphan Asylum?" she asked incredulously. "And actually I have gotten lost in a neighborhood where I have spent most of my life! It is the snow that has made things seem so strange and different!" Turning to Betty she forgot for a moment the presence of the stranger. "I'll find my way to the asylum right off and bring some one here to mend our sleigh and give poor little Fire Star something to eat. I don't believe we are more than two miles from Sunrise Camp." However, Betty was by this time attempting to make their situation clearer to the newcomer. She pointed toward their sleigh at the bottom of the gully and their pony under the tree and told him of camp fires and grocery supplies to be carried to Sunrise cabin, until out of the chaos these facts at least became clear to his mind--the girls had lost their way in the storm and because of Betty's injured ankle and the broken vehicle, had been unable to make their way home. At about the same hour of this same evening, two other young women were walking slowly up and down in front of a log house in a clearing near the base of a hill, with their arms intertwined about each other's shoulder. Outside the closed front door of the house a lighted lantern swung. From the inside other lights shone through the windows, while every now and then a face appeared and a finger beckoned toward the sentinels outside. Nevertheless, they continued their unbroken marching, only stopping now and then to stare out across the snow-covered landscape. "They simply have not tried to attempt it, Polly; it is foolish for you to be so worried," one of the voices said. But her companion, whose long black hair was hanging loose to her waist and who wore a long red cape and a red woolen cap giving her a curiously fantastic appearance, only shook her head decisively. "You can't know the Princess as well as I do, Rose, or you would never believe she would give up having her own way. She went into town when the rest of us thought it unwise and she will come back, frozen, starved, goodness only knows what, still come back she will. Poor Esther is but wax in her hands. I wonder if anything happens to break the Princess' will whatever will become of her?" The other girl sighed and her friend gazed at her sympathetically but a little curiously. "Betty will bear disappointment just as the rest of the world does," she answered, "filling her life with what she can have. But I do wish she and Esther would come back to camp now, or at least send us some word. The storm has been over for several hours and none of us will be able to sleep to-night on account of the uncertainty." With one of her characteristic movements Polly O'Neill now moved swiftly away from the speaker. "I am going to ring our emergency bell if you are willing, Rose," she announced. "Oh, I know we Camp Fire girls hate to appeal to outsiders for aid, but it's got to be done for once, for I simply can't stand this suspense about Betty and Esther any longer." Then without waiting for an answer, she ran toward the back yard of the cabin and an instant later the loud clanging of a bell startled the peace and quiet of the country night, but only for a moment, because before the second pull at the bell rope Polly felt her arm being held fast. "Don't ring again, Polly, or at least not yet," her companion insisted, "for I am almost sure I can see a dark object coming this way along our road and there's a chance of its being Betty and Esther." Ten minutes later the front door of the Sunrise cabin was suddenly burst open and out into the snow piled half a dozen other girls in as many varieties of heavy blanket wrappers. The music of Fire Star's sleigh bells had reached their ears several moments before the arrival of the wayfarers. However, very soon afterwards, following a suggestion of Sylvia Wharton's, Betty Ashton was borne into the cabin, four of the girls carrying her on a light canvas cot. This they set down before their big fire glowing in the center of the living room of the Sunrise cabin--Sunrise cabin which had not existed even in the dreams of the Sunrise Camp Fire girls until one afternoon in September not four months ago. Esther, with Mollie O'Neill's arm about her, walked into the cabin on foot, since she was only stiff with fatigue and cold. However, on throwing herself back in a big arm chair and allowing her shoes to be changed by Mollie for slippers, she seemed more affected, by their adventure than Betty. For Betty, in Princess fashion, with Polly, Sylvia and Nan, and the girl whom Polly had called Rose, all kneeling devotedly at her feet, was talking cheerfully. "He was just the most impossible, ridiculous looking person you ever could imagine, with red hair and glasses and dreadfully shabby clothes, the kind of a man in a German band to whom you would throw pennies out the window, but he declared that he had once lived here in Woodford for a short time years ago and had come back on some business or other. Oh, Esther, don't look at me so disapprovingly; I am saying nothing against him really. I am sure it was I who invited him to come out to our cabin and play for us girls. He looked so poor I thought I might be able to pay him then and I couldn't quite offer him anything for helping Esther mend the sleigh and then seeing us part of the way home. Home! Oh, isn't our beloved Sunrise cabin the most delightful and original home a group of Camp Fire girls ever possessed!" And Betty's eyes clouded with tears, partly from pain and weariness but more from joy at her return, as she looked from the faces gathered about hers in the neighborhood of the great fireplace and then saw all their glances follow hers with equal ardor throughout the length of their great living room. For if ever Betty Ashton had proved her right to her friend Polly's definition of her as a "Fairy Princess," it was when through her desire and largely through her money, Sunrise cabin rose on the very ground covered by the white tents of the Sunrise Camp Fire girls only the summer before. The cabin was built of pine logs from the woods at the foot of Sunrise Hill and the entire front of forty-five feet formed a single great room. The end nearer the kitchen the girls used as their dining room, while the rest of the room was music room, study, reception and every other kind of a room. And, except for the piano which Betty had brought from her own blue room at home and a few chairs, every other article of furniture and almost every ornament had been made by the Sunrise Camp Fire girls themselves. On either side the high mantel there were low book shelves and a music rack stood by the piano filled with the songs of the Camp Fire. Polly, Nan and Sylvia had manufactured a dining room table which was considered an extraordinary achievement although the design was really very simple. Four wide pine boards about ten feet in length formed the top and the legs were of heavy beams crossed under it at the center and at either end. The furniture of the living room was stained a Flemish brown to match the walls and floor done in the same color. On the floor were rag rugs of almost oriental beauty made by the girls and dyed into seven craft colors. On the walls hung pieces of homemade tapestry, leather skins embossed with Camp Fire emblems, and flowers so pressed and mounted as to give the effect of nature. Then on the mantelpiece were two hammered brass candlesticks and a great brass bowl filled with holly and cedar from the surrounding wood. On odd tables and shelves were Indian baskets woven by the girls and used for every convenient purpose from holding stockings waiting to be darned to treasuring the Sunrise Camp Record Book which now had twenty-five written and illustrated pages setting forth the history of Sunrise Camp since its infancy. But Eleanor Meade had given the living room its really unique distinction. Having once read a description of a famous Indian snow tepi, she had painted on the ceiling toward the northern end of the room seven stars which were to represent the north from whence the winter blizzards blew and on the southern side a red disc for the sun. The artist had pleaded long to be permitted to make the rest of the ceiling a bright blue with outlines of rolling prairie on the walls beneath, but this was greater realism in Indian ideals of art than the other girls were able to endure. Yet notwithstanding so much artistic decoration, Science also had her place in the Sunrise cabin living room. For Sylvia Wharton had established a cupboard in an inconspicuous corner where she kept a collection of first aid supplies: gauze for bandaging, medicated cotton, peroxide, lime water and sweet oil, arnica, and half a dozen or more simple remedies useful in emergencies. True to her surprising announcement at the close of their summer camp Sylvia, without wasting time, and in her own quiet and apparently dull fashion, had already set about preparing herself for her future work as a trained nurse by persuading her father to let her have first aid lessons from a young doctor in Woodford. So now it was stupid little Sylvia (although the Camp Fire girls were no longer so convinced of her stupidity) who took real charge of caring for Betty's foot, going back and forth to her cupboard and doing whatever she thought necessary without asking or heeding any one else's advice. Nevertheless, her work must have been successful, because in less than an hour after their return Betty, Esther and all the other girls were in dreamland in the two bedrooms which, besides the kitchen, completed Sunrise cabin. So soundly were they sleeping that it was only Polly O'Neill who was suddenly aroused by an unexpected knocking at their front door. It was nearly midnight and Polly shivered, not so much with fear as with apprehension. What could have happened to bring a human being to their cabin at such an hour? Instantly she thought of her mother still in Ireland, of Mr. and Mrs. Ashton traveling in Europe for Mr. Ashton's health. Slipping on her dressing gown Polly touched the figure in the bed near hers. "Rose," she whispered, so quietly as not to disturb any one else. "There is some one knocking. I am going to the door, so be awake if anything happens." Then without delaying she slipped into the next room. Crossing the floor in her slippers Polly made no noise and picking up the lantern which was always kept burning at night in the cabin, without any warning of her approach she suddenly pulled open the door. The figure waiting outside started. "I--you," he began breathlessly and then stopped because Polly O'Neill's cheeks had turned as crimson as her dressing gown and her Irish blue eyes were sending forth electric sparks of anger. "Billy Webster," she gasped, "I didn't dream that anything in the world could have made you do so ungentlemanly a thing as to disturb us in this fashion at such an hour of the night. Of course I have never liked you very much or thought you had really good manners, but I didn't believe----" "Stop, will you, and let me explain," the young man returned, now fully as angry as Polly and in a voice to justify her final accusation. Then he turned courteously toward the young woman who had entered the room soon after Polly. "I'm terribly sorry, Miss Dyer," he continued, "I must have made some stupid mistake, but some little time ago I thought I heard the sound of your alarm bell. It rang only once, so I waited for a little while expecting to hear it again and then I was rather a long time in getting to you through the woods on account of the heavy snow. It is awfully rough on you to have been awakened at such an hour because of my stupidity." But Rose Dyer, who was a good deal older than Polly, put out both hands and drew the young man, rather against his will, inside the living room. "Please come in and get warm and dry, you know our Camp Fire is never allowed to go out, and please do not apologize for your kindness in coming to our aid." She lighted the candles, giving Polly a chance to make her own confession. Though looking only a girl herself she was in reality the new guardian of the Sunrise Camp Fire girls. Polly, however, did not seem to be enthusiastic over her opportunity to announce that she had been responsible for the alarm bell which had brought their visitor forth on such an arduous tramp. Billy Webster was of course their nearest neighbor, as his father owned most of the land in their vicinity, still the farm house itself was a considerable distance away. And to make matters worse the young man was too deeply offended by Polly's reception of him to give even a glance in her direction. Polly coughed several times and then opened her mouth to speak, but Billy was staring into the fire poking at the logs with his wet boot. Rose had disappeared toward the kitchen to get their visitor something to eat as a small expression of their gratitude. Unexpectedly the young man felt some one pulling at the back of his coat and turning found himself again facing Polly, whose cheeks were quite as red as they had been at the time of his arrival, but whose eyes were shining until their color seemed to change as frequently as a wind swept sky. "Mr. William Daniel Webster," she began in a small crushed voice, "there are certain persons in this world who seem preordained to put me always in the wrong. You are one of them! I rang that bell because I thought my beloved Betty and Esther were lost in the storm, but they weren't, and then I forgot all about having rung it. So now I am overcome with embarrassment and shame and regret and any other humiliating emotion you would like to have me feel. But really, Billy," and here Polly extended her thin hand, which always had a curious warmth and intensity in keeping with her temperament, "can't you see how hard it is to like a person who is always making one eat humble pie?" Billy took the proffered hand and shook it with a forgiving strength that made the girl wince though nothing in her manner betrayed it. "Oh, cut that out, Miss Polly O'Neill," he commanded in the confused manner that Polly's teasing usually induced in him. "It's a whole lot rottener to be apologized to than it is to have to apologize, and it is utterly unnecessary this evening because, though, of course, I didn't know you had rung the alarm bell, I did know if there was trouble at Sunrise cabin you were sure to be in it." And, as Polly accepted this assertion with entire amiability, ten minutes afterward she and their chaperon were both offering their visitor hot chocolate and biscuits to fortify him for the journey home. In order to make him feel entirely comfortable Polly also devoured an equal amount of the refreshments, not because she was given to self-sacrifice but because uneasiness about her friends had made her forget to eat her supper. CHAPTER III "A Rose of the World" However much of a fairy Princess Betty Ashton's friends may have considered her, Sunrise cabin had not arisen like "Aladdin's Wonderful Palace" in a single night, although six months would seem a short enough time in which to see one's dream come true. Particularly a dream which in the beginning had appeared to have no chance of ever becoming a reality. For in the first place "The Lady of the Hills," Miss McMurtry, on that very afternoon when coming across the fields to the Camp Fire she had there been told of the plan for keeping the Sunrise Camp Fire club together for the winter, had not approved the idea. The country would certainly be too cold and too lonely for the girls and the getting back and forth from the cabin to school too difficult. Fathers and mothers could never be persuaded to approve and, moreover, there would be no guardian, since Miss McMurtry could not attend to her work at the High School and also look after a permanent winter camp fire. In a measure of course even the greatest enthusiasts for the new idea had known that there might be just these same difficulties to be overcome. Yet in conference they had decided to meet the obstacles one by one and in turn by following the old axiom of not climbing fences before coming to them. So as the money for building the cabin was a first necessity Betty Ashton had written at once to her brother Dick. Sylvia Wharton had seen her father, who had in September returned to Woodford, and Polly and Mollie had sent off appealing letters to Ireland asking for their mother's approval and whatever small sum of money they might be allowed to contribute. Indeed each Sunrise Camp girl had met the demands of the situation in the best way she knew how. But really, although help and interest developed in various directions, once the business of building the cabin had been fairly started, it was from Richard Ashton that the first real aid and encouragement came. For Dick was a student in the modern school of medical science which believes in fresh air, exercise and congenial work as a cure for most ills instead of the old-time methods of pills and poultices, and having seen the benefit of a summer camp upon twelve girls he had faith enough for the winter experiment. Besides this plan had appeared to him as a solution for certain personal problems which had been worrying him for a number of weeks. His father and mother were not returning to America this fall as they had expected, since Mr. Ashton's health required a milder climate than New Hampshire. It had seemed almost impossible for Dick to give up the graduating year of his study of medicine in Dartmouth in order to come home to Woodford to look after his sister and her friend, Esther Clark, who rather, through force of circumstances, appeared now to be Betty's permanent companion. So an offering from Dick Ashton with Betty's fifty dollars, which had been returned to her by Polly O'Neill, had actually laid the foundation of Sunrise Cabin, although every single member of the club gave something big or little so that the house might belong alike to them all. As Esther and Nan Graham had no money of their own and Edith Norton very little and no parents able to help, the three girls added their portions by doing work for their friends in the village which they had learned in their summer camp fire. At last they were able to stock the new kitchen with almost a complete set of new kitchen utensils, the summer ones having suffered from continuous outdoor use. Of course all the summer club members could not share the winter housekeeping scheme, but that did not affect their interest nor desire to help. Meg and "Little Brother" to everybody's despair had to return home, since with John leaving for college, that same fall, their professor father could not live or keep house without them. But then they were to be allowed to come out to the cabin each Friday for week ends, and Edith Norton, whose work in the millinery store made living in town imperative, was to take her Sunday rests in camp. Of the summer Sunrise Camp Fire girls, only Juliet and Beatrice Field had really to say serious farewells when returning to their school in Philadelphia, but they departed with at least the consoling thought that they were to come back to the cabin for their Christmas holidays. So that there remained only seven of the original girls pledged to give this experiment of winter housekeeping as a Camp Fire club a real test. And as they worked, pleaded and waited, one by one each difficulty had been overcome until now there remained but one--the necessity for finding a new guardian able to give all of her time to living at Sunrise cabin and to working with the girls. One evening toward the early part of November after the cabin had been completed, Betty Ashton had called a meeting at her home for the final discussion of this serious problem. As there were no outsiders present, before mentioning the subject the girls had arranged themselves in their accustomed Camp Fire attitudes, in a kind of semi-circle about the great drawing room fire, in order to talk more freely. For the past week each girl had been asked to search diligently for a suitable guardian. Yet when Betty looked hopefully about at the faces of her friends without speaking she sighed, shading her gray eyes with her hand. Only by an effort of will could she keep her tears from falling--not a line of success showed in a single countenance. Mollie O'Neill, understanding equally well, made no such effort at self-control. Placing her head on her sister's shoulder she frankly gave way to tears, while Polly stared moodily into the fire with Sylvia Wharton's square hand clutching hers despairingly. Esther and Eleanor frowned. Nan Graham, who had more at stake than the other girls, not trusting herself, jumped up and running across to a far corner of the big room flung herself face downward on a sofa. So there was a most unusual silence in the Sunrise Camp Fire circle and yet when a light knock sounded on the door no one said "Come in." An instant later, however, the knock was repeated, but this time, not waiting for an answer, the door opened and a figure walked slowly toward the center of the floor. It was a lovely figure, nevertheless, there was scarcely a person in Woodford whom the girls at this moment desired less to see. Certainly there was no one who had been more bitterly opposed to the whole Camp Fire idea and particularly to Betty Ashton's having a part in it. "I don't know whether you allow an outsider to come into one of your meetings," the intruder began, dropping into a near-by chair. From her place on the sofa Nan Graham lifted her head. She alone of the little company did not know their visitor's name. She saw a young woman of about twenty-six or seven with light golden brown hair and eyes with the same yellow lights in them, dressed in a lovely crepe evening gown with a bunch of roses at her belt and a scarf thrown over her shoulders. Nan's eyes glowed with a momentary forgetfulness, having long cherished just such an ideal and never before seen it realized. But Betty only shook her head, answering with little enthusiasm: "Oh, it doesn't matter this evening, Rose, you may stay if you like, though we don't generally have strangers at our meetings." And then, though she usually had good manners, Betty fell to studying the dancing lights in the fire without making any further effort at conversation. She had no desire to be rude, but it was trying to have Rose Dyer, her mother's intimate friend, the one older girl, held up as a model for her to follow, who had done her best to prejudice Mrs. Ashton against the Camp Fire plan the summer before, come into their midst at an hour when their very existence as a club seemed to be in peril. For a few moments Miss Dyer waited without trying to speak again. Although Polly and Esther were both endeavoring to make themselves agreeable, the atmosphere of the drawing room continued distinctly unfriendly. "I--I am afraid I am in the way although you were kind enough not to say so," Rose suggested, finding it difficult to explain what had inspired her visit with so many faces turned away from hers. "I think I had best go; I only came to ask you a great favor and now----" She was getting up quietly, when Betty with a sudden realization of her duties as a hostess made a little rush toward her and taking both the older girl's hands drew her into the center of their circle. "Please forgive our bad manners and do stay, Rose," she pleaded. "We really have no business to attend to to-night and perhaps company may cheer us up." But although Rose, without the least regard for her lovely gown, had immediately dropped down on the floor in regular Camp Fire fashion, apparently she had not heard what Betty had suggested, for straightway her expression became quite as serious as any one else's. "You may not care for what I am going to say and you must promise to be truthful if you don't," Rose began, as timidly as though she were not ten years older than any other girl in the room, "but I have been hearing for the past two months that you were looking for a Camp Fire guardian to spend the winter with you and I have been wondering----" Here pulling the flowers from her belt she let her gaze rest upon them. "I have been wondering if you would care to have me?" The silence was then more conspicuous than before and Rose flushed hotly. "I am sure you are very kind," Polly began in a perfectly unfamiliar tone of voice and manner since she too had known Rose all her life. "We appreciate your kindness very much," Eleanor added, fearing that Polly was about to break down. But Betty Ashton dropped her chin into her hands in her familiar fashion and stared directly at their visitor. "My dear Rose, whatever has happened to you?" she demanded. "Why it's too absurd! You know you don't care for anything but parties and dancing and having a good time. You simply haven't any idea of what it means to be a Camp Fire guardian; why it is difficult enough when you have only to preside at weekly Camp Fire meetings and to watch over the girls in between, but when it comes to living with us and teaching us as Miss McMurtry did last summer----" Betty bit her lips. She did not wish to be discourteous and yet the vision of the fashionably dressed girl before her fulfilling the requirements of their life together in the woods was too much for her sense of humor. Then suddenly, to Betty's embarrassment and the surprise of everyone else, Miss Dyer's eyes filled with tears. "Please don't, Betty," she said a little huskily. "You know, dear, one can get rather tired of hearing one's self described as an absolute good-for-nothing. Oh, I know I was opposed to your Camp Fire club last summer, but I have watched you more carefully than you dream and have entirely changed my mind. I am not asking you to let me come into your club to help you. I am afraid I am selfish, I can't explain it to you now, but I want to help myself. Of course I am not wise enough to be your guardian, but I have been talking to Miss McMurtry and she has promised to help me and it is only because you don't seem able to find anyone else that I dare offer myself." At this moment Nan Graham, whom Rose had not seen before, tumbled unexpectedly off her sofa. It was because of her eagerness to reach the other girls. They, at a quick signal from one to the other, had arisen, and now, forming a circle, danced slowly about their new guardian chanting the sacred law of the Camp Fire. CHAPTER IV "The Reason o' It" "Rose," Betty Ashton called at about ten o'clock the next morning. Betty was sitting alone before the living room fire, the other girls having gone into town to school several hours before. Books and papers and writing materials were piled on a table before her and evidently she had been working on some abstruse problem in mathematics, for several sheets of legal cap paper were covered with figures. "Rose," she called again, and so plaintively this second time that the new guardian of the Sunrise Camp Fire girls hurried in from the kitchen. A gingham apron covered her from head to foot, a large mixing spoon was in one hand and a becoming splash of flour on one cheek. "What is it, dear?" she inquired anxiously. "Does your foot hurt worse than it did? I ought to have come in to you right away, but Mammy and I have been making enough loaves of bread to feed a regiment and I have been turning some odds and ends of the dough into Camp Fire emblems to have for tea--rings and bracelets and crossed logs. I am afraid I am still dreadfully frivolous!" And Rose flushed, for in spite of Betty's own problem she was smiling at her. This the Rose who had come to her first Camp Fire Council only a month before in a Paris frock, probably never having cooked a meal for any one in her life! However, Betty answered loyally. "You are quite wonderful, Rose, and only the other day Donna said you were giving to our Camp Fire life what with all her knowledge she had somehow failed to give it--the real intimate family feeling. I suppose I oughtn't to have interrupted you. No, it isn't my foot, it is only that I have gotten myself into a new difficulty and I want to ask you what you think I had best do?" And with a worried frown Betty again studied the closely written figures which must have represented some still unsolved problem, for she continued staring at them, turning the sheets over and over. Finally, before speaking, she drew an open letter from her pocket, carefully re-reading several lines. "I suppose it isn't worth while my mentioning, Rose, that none of us do anything at present but think, dream and plan for our Camp Fire Christmas entertainment," she said with a half sigh and smile, "and you know packages have been coming to me until the attic is most full of them. I have just been charging things as I bought them and until to-day I haven't paid much attention to what they cost. But yesterday I received such a strange letter from mother. She writes that father is a little better and I am not to worry and she hopes we may have a happy Christmas. However, she can't send me any more money for the holidays beyond my usual allowance. Father has had some business losses lately, and not being able to look after things himself, they are not going quite right. Isn't it odd, for you see I have already explained to her that we were going to have unusually heavy expenses this Christmas and please to let me have money instead of a present? Yet she says she can't send me _anything_. Poor mother, she apologizes humbly instead of telling me that I am an extravagant wretch, but just the same it is the first time in my life I haven't had all the money I needed to spend at Christmas and now I don't see how I am ever going to pay for all the things I have bought. I don't think I have any right to be a Camp Fire girl if I am in debt, and I am--miles!" Instead of answering immediately Rose turned away her face to conceal a look of concern at Betty's news which she did not wish the young girl to see. Other persons in Woodford were beginning to speculate upon a possible change in the Ashton fortune. Certain enterprises in which Mr. Ashton had been concerned had been known to fail, but then no one understood to what extent he had been interested. "Can't you give up some of the things, dear," Rose suggested gently, knowing that Betty had never been called upon to do any such thing before in her life, but to her surprise she now saw that her companion's expression had entirely changed. "What a goose I am!" Betty laughed cheerfully. "Of course I can write to old Dick for the money. I don't usually like to ask him, for he is such a conscientious person, so unlike reckless me, and will probably scold, but then he will give me the money just the same. I wonder if anything ever happened to make Dick more serious than other young men? He isn't a bit like Frank Wharton or other wealthy fellows who do nothing but spend money and have a good time. He seems just devoted to studying medicine, and sometimes he has said such strange things to mother as though there might be some special reason why he wanted so much to help people." And feeling that her own dilemma was now comfortably settled, Betty fell to puzzling over the older problem which she had always kept more or less at the back of her mind. But, curiously enough, Rose Dyer shook her head discouragingly. "I wouldn't try that method of getting the money, Betty, if I were you," she replied thoughtfully. "I suppose it hasn't occurred to you that if your mother and father are not able to give you extra money, and you know Dick always makes them put you first, why he is probably not having any extra money either. And since his whole heart is set on going to Germany next year to continue his work why he is probably saving all that he can now so as not to be an additional expense." Rose was several years older than Dick, but they had known one another ever since she came as a young girl to New Hampshire from her home in Georgia, bringing her colored mammy with her. For Rose's parents had died and she had lived with an old uncle until a few years before when he had gone, leaving her his heiress. Now Rose's pretty home in Woodford was closed for the winter and her chaperon living in Florida while she spent her time trying to learn to be a worthy guardian for the Camp Fire girls. Perhaps she really had heard more of Dick Ashton's early life than his sister Betty and had a special reason for her interest in him, however she said nothing of it. "I wonder if I couldn't lend you the money. I am not rich as you are, but perhaps I have----" And here Betty shook her head decisively. "I couldn't borrow the money of anybody, one way of owing it would be as bad as another. I simply have got to find a way." She stopped suddenly because the sound of some one driving up to the cabin surprised her, and then, to her greater surprise, her guardian, after a hurried glance out of the window, dropped her mixing-spoon with a clatter and positively ran out of the room. Betty stared. She could only see rather a shabby, old-fashioned buggy standing near the Totem pole in front of their cabin, and a young man hitching his horse to it. Almost forgetting her bandaged ankle, the girl hobbled over to the door, but when she had opened it gave an involuntary cry of pain and the next instant found herself being lifted and carried back to her chair. "You must not try to walk until you are sure things are all right with you," a strange voice said severely. Then, in answer to Betty's look of amazement, he took off his hat and bowed gravely. She found herself staring at a tall, slender man of about thirty, in carefully brushed clothes, which nevertheless had an old-fashioned, country appearance, and with a face at once so handsome and so stern that he looked as if he might have stepped out of an old frame which had held the portrait of one of the early Puritan fathers. "I am the doctor Sylvia Wharton is studying with, Miss Ashton," he explained. "You don't know me but I know very well who you are. I have only been living in this part of the country for the past two years, trying to build up a practice among the farming people, so that when Sylvia stopped by and asked me to come and see you I telephoned at once to your physician in town, but finding him out I thought it might be best----" The young man hesitated and flushed. He was morbidly sensitive and conscientious, and knowing Mr. Ashton's prominence would not for the world have made an effort to gain Betty as a patient. However, Betty was by this time suffering so much that she gave a little cry of relief. "Sylvia has much more sense than any of us," she returned gratefully. "I assured everybody I wasn't suffering in the least this morning and now--well, I suppose I shouldn't have walked over to the door." The young doctor had knelt on the floor and was gently removing the bandage from the swollen ankle. "Sylvia has done very well," he declared. "The first aid idea is one of the best things I know about you Camp Fire girls, and Sylvia is trying to make me a convert, but surely you are not here alone. Miss Dyer is your chaperon or guardian, I am not entirely sure what you call her." "Why, yes, Rose is here. I can't understand why she does not come in," Betty returned, feeling rather aggrieved and surprised at Rose's neglect of her. But at this instant, hearing the bedroom door open, both the girl and the young man turned and Betty just managed to control a quick exclamation. For, to her amazement, for the first time since coming to the cabin, Rose had discarded her Camp Fire costume and was again fashionably dressed in a soft brown silk entirely inappropriate to her work and to the cabin. If Betty had thought young Dr. Barton's face stern on first seeing him it was as nothing to his expression now. He bowed formally, but as his manner showed he had known Rose before, Betty closed her eyes. The pain in her foot was increasing each instant now that Sylvia's dressing had been removed. When she opened them again she found Rose kneeling on the floor by Dr. Barton, entirely forgetful of her gown and listening quietly to his curt orders. Then during the next fifteen minutes Rose Dyer had her first experience as a trained nurse, wondering all the time she was at work how she could possibly be so stupid and so awkward. For she splashed hot water on her gown and hand, tripped over her long skirt, and was so nervous when Betty showed any signs of pain that the tears blinded her brown eyes and her hands trembled. She might have broken down except that Dr. Barton so plainly expected her to do what she was told, and because of a wrathful figure that stood immovable in the doorway. It was "Mammy," dressed in a stiff purple calico gown with a white handkerchief tied about her head. Mammy was past seventy and no longer able to do much work, but she had never left her "little Rose" in the twenty-seven year of her life and never would so long as she lived. Not able to help a great deal, she was still able to give the Sunrise Camp Fire club a great deal of advice, and then she was also a kind of additional guardian since Rose could not have been left alone at the cabin all morning with the girls in town at school. "I ain't never had much use for Yankee gentlemen," she mumbled to herself, plainly expecting the little audience to hear. "Whar I cum from the gentlemen was always waitin' on the ladies, not askin' them to tote and fetch, same as if they was poo' white trash." CHAPTER V Mollie's Suggestion The trouble with Betty Ashton's foot was only a sprained ankle but it kept her confined for several days and gave her plenty of time for reflection. She must of course pay her debts, for she could not make up her mind to send back the things she had ordered (self-denial and Betty had very slight acquaintance with one another), and besides the disappointment would not be hers alone but all of the Sunrise Camp Fire girls. For the truth is that Betty and Polly together had written a Camp Fire play setting forth some of the ideals of their organization and they wished to give the entertainment during Christmas week in the most beautiful possible fashion. Of course in the beginning they had assured Miss McMurtry, who was still a kind of advisory guardian, and Miss Dyer, that everything would be very simple and inexpensive, but naturally their ambitions grew with each passing day, and with scenery and costumes to be bought, besides the gifts and decorations for the Camp Fire tree, Betty found herself very much involved. As usual she was bearing the greater share of the expenses and then, though no one outside the Camp Fire club except Dick Ashton knew of it, Betty had been giving a part of her allowance each week so that Esther Clark might have singing lessons with the best possible teacher in Woodford. Not that the relation between Betty and Esther had seriously changed. The older girl still felt toward Betty the same adoring and self-sacrificing devotion, still considered her the most beautiful and charming person in the world and that her careless generosity lifted her above every one else, while, though to do Betty Ashton credit, she was entirely unconscious of it, her attitude toward Esther was just the least little bit condescending. Esther was so plain and awkward and particularly she lacked the birth and breeding Betty considered so essential, but then she was fond of her and did want Esther to have her chance--this chance she felt must lie in the cultivation of her beautiful voice. So that when Betty, unable to make up her mind what had best be done, determined to consult with the girls, it was to her old friends, Mollie and Polly O'Neill, that she turned rather than to Esther. She had been unusually quiet one evening, although insisting that her ankle was entirely well. Suddenly, however, she plead fatigue and with a little gesture, which both girls understood as a signal, asked that Mollie and Polly come and help her get ready for bed. When Betty was finally undressed, she sat bolt upright in her cot with her cheeks flushed and her gray eyes shining. So unusually pretty did she appear that Polly, who never ceased to admire her, even when she happened to be angry, set a silver paper crown upon her head. The crown was a part of their Christmas stage property and not intended for Betty, but now Polly stood a few feet away and clasped her hands together from sheer admiration, while Mollie, who was usually undemonstrative, leaned over and kissed her friend's cheek before settling herself at the foot of the bed. "You certainly are lovely, Princess, and so is Mollie for that matter," Polly exclaimed, generously seating herself opposite her sister. Betty happened to be wearing a heavy blue silk dressing jacket over her gown and her auburn hair hung in two heavy braids, one over each shoulder. Her forehead was low and she had delicate level brows. But just now Betty flushed scarlet and frowned, for whatever her other faults she was not vain. "Please don't call me Princess, Polly, dear," she urged, taking off her paper crown and surveying it rather ruefully, "because I am in truth only a paper princess to-night. You have told me a hundred times, Polly, child, that you thought I ought to know the sensation of being poor like other people, that I needed it for my education. Well, I do at last, for I have bought a lot of things for Christmas that I can't pay for, as mother writes she can't let me have any extra money." Betty's expression, however, was not half so serious as that of her two friends as she made this confession. For the girls had also heard the rumor which had troubled Rose Dyer in regard to Mr. Ashton's possible change of fortune, and knew that Betty did not in the least understand the gravity of her mother's refusal. Polly positively shivered. Betty poor! It was impossible to imagine! Yet what, after all, did the supposed loss of a few thousand dollars mean to a man of Mr. Ashton's wealth. Polly patted Betty's hand sympathetically. "Debt is the most horrible thing in the world, isn't it? I haven't forgotten how I felt when I was in your debt last summer, Betty, and took such a horrid way to get out of it." "Maybe you had better send back what you have bought," suggested the more practical Mollie, making the same suggestion as their guardian. But at this Betty and Polly glanced at one another despairingly. "Give up making their Camp Fire play a success?" For this is what it would mean should Betty have to send back her purchases! "How much do you owe, dear?" Polly next inquired in a crushed voice. And at this Betty drew the same sheets of complex figures out from under her pillow. "It is a hundred and fifty dollars, I can't make it any less," she confessed. "That sounds pretty dreadful doesn't it, when you have not a single cent to pay with, though I never thought one hundred and fifty dollars so very much before. Of course I could save something out of my allowance every month, but not very much, and father would not like me to ask people to wait." "Can't you give up something besides the Christmas present from your mother which you were _not_ going to have?" Mollie inquired so seriously and with such a horrified expression over the amount of her friend's indebtedness, and such an entire disregard for the Irishness of her speech, that both the other girls laughed in spite of their worry. Mollie's pretty face showed no answering smiles in return, nor did she take the least interest in the reason for their laughter. For it was not her way to be interrupted by their perfectly idle merriment. "But haven't you, Betty?" she repeated. And Betty leaned her chin on her hands. "I have my piano," she replied slowly, "but I can't sell that because then Esther would have no chance to practice, and we could never half enjoy our Camp Fire songs without." Both the other girls shook their heads. Giving up the piano _was_ out of the question. For a moment longer there was silence and then Betty's cheeks flushed again. "I have got some things I suppose I can part with, though I rather hate to," she confessed. "I don't know whether mother and father would like it, but then they would not like my being in debt. In a safety box in the bank in town I have some jewelry I never wear because mother thinks it too handsome for a girl of my age. Father and Dick have given it to me at different times. I suppose somebody would tell me how to dispose of at least a part of it." And although both Polly and Mollie at first strenuously objected to Betty's suggestion, it was finally decided that Betty and Polly should drive into Woodford on the following Saturday morning without saying anything to any one else and bring the safety box back with them. Then they could talk the matter over and find out what Betty could dispose of with the least regret. Her ankle was now well enough for her to make the trip in their sleigh without difficulty. CHAPTER VI A Black Sheep The one month in the winter camp had made more change in Nan Graham than the entire preceding summer, and the influence exerted by Rose Dyer in so short a time greater than all Miss McMurtry's conscientious efforts, so does one character often affect another, so by a strange law of nature do extremes meet. Unconsciously Nan had always cherished just such an ideal as Rose represented. This uncouth young girl, untrained in even the simple things of life, with her curious mixed parentage of an Italian peasant mother and a ne'er-do-well father, who nevertheless was of good old New England stock, wished to be like the lovely southern girl who had nearly every grace and charm and had had every possible social advantage. Yet in spite of the contrast Nan did wish to be like her and though even to herself there seemed little chance of her succeeding, did try to mold herself after Rose's pattern. The other girls quickly noted her attempts to soften her coarse voice, to give up the use of the ugly expressions that had so annoyed them and even to wear her clothes and to fix her thick black hair in a soft coil at the back of her neck as their guardian did. But fortunately they were kind enough not to laugh nor even to let Nan know that they were watching her. The girl had a certain beauty of her own with her dark coloring and sometimes sullen, sometimes eager, face. Her figure, however, was short and square, indeed she showed no trace of her New England blood and bore no resemblance to graceful Rose. However, as the days went by Nan was growing to be more like the other Camp Fire girls in her manner and behavior, and was probably learning more than any one of them, since she had had fewer opportunities before. Miss Dyer could hardly help suspecting Nan's devotion, for although she was still faithful to Polly as her first friend in the club, always she was at Rose's side ready to do anything she wished, and always accepting her suggestions in the best spirit. It was therefore the new Camp Fire guardian who was responsible for Nan's not separating herself from her family as the young girl would like to have done during this time of her effort at self-improvement. For Rose knew that the whole effort of the Camp Fire organization was to make the girls more useful, to give better and happier service to the people they loved. Therefore, because of Rose's advice and after a long talk with her in which Nan explained the conditions of her own home, it was decided that the young girl should spend every Saturday with her mother helping her with the work of the home and the care of the children, and trying to make practical the lessons she was learning in the Camp Fire. These days at home were not easy ones, and the girls were accustomed to seeing Nan come back at night tired and cross or at least dispirited. Her mother had no interest in her efforts. She was opposed to her oldest daughter's living away from home if she were earning no money, and had no desire to have her house disturbed by Nan's vigorous weekly efforts at cleaning. Indeed, except for Nan's father, she would never have been permitted to live at the cabin, where her share of the expenses were now being paid by Rose Dyer. He, however, had a kind of sympathy with the girl's efforts, and a slowly awakening sense that his daughter had the right to wish to be a lady. Though he might not actually help her, at least no one should stand in her way. So at his command Nan had been allowed this winter with the girls at the cabin and was also to do what she liked without interference when she returned home on Saturdays. Personally he liked the smell of soap and water which her visits left about his shack and greatly enjoyed the homemade bread and the weekly pumpkin pie which was always cooked especially for him. But Nan's most serious opposition came not from her idle but fairly good-natured mother but from her older brother Antonio, or Anthony as he preferred to be called. Having been given the Italian name he was less Italian than any other member of the family. Indeed, he was a good-looking American boy with hazel eyes and a fair skin and, except for his curly dark hair and a certain unconscious grace, not different in appearance from other American boys. Yet he shared the family weaknesses and had refused to go to school for the past two years. Indeed, he would not work at anything for a sufficiently long enough time to make it count, so that probably because he was a boy, and a fairly capable one if he had been more ambitious, his present reputation was now the worst in the family. He appeared also to resent Nan's new friendships and new efforts with the greatest possible bitterness. On the Saturday morning when Polly and Betty started driving toward town on their errand, about a quarter of a mile from the cabin they came unexpectedly upon Nan. She was trudging steadfastly along with a bundle of clothing which Rose had given her for the younger children under her arm, looking resolute and yet none too cheerful. Before catching up with her the two girls sighed and then smiled at one another. They had wanted this drive together without any one else and had waited until Saturday morning so that Betty's pony, Fire Star, would be free for her use and they could have the small sleigh, which had been well mended since the accident. Fire Star and a pony belonging to Sylvia Wharton had made the trips back and forth to school each day and a return journey was too much for them except for some special emergency. Both the girls had particularly wanted to discuss certain features of their Camp Fire play without interruption, but now the sight of Nan's faithful figure awoke their sympathy. "For goodness' sake, squeeze into the middle along with us, Nan," Betty invited. "How selfish you must have thought Polly and me this morning when we were planning right before you to drive into town and never said a word about taking you as far as your home. The fact is we both had something so important on our minds, or at least the thing seems important to me, so that really we forgot about you." The girls then said nothing of their errand while they were driving along the road, where the snow was now beaten down into a hard, firm crust. But when they had set Nan down in front of the ram-shackle hut at the edge of the village which served as her home, Betty leaned out remarking confidentially: "I am sorry we can't come back for you, Nan, but I am to get my box of jewelry from the bank and take it to our cabin so that I feel we ought to get back as soon as we can." There was no point in Betty's making this confession at this special time and Polly disapproved of it. They had taken no one into their confidence except Mollie, and, of course, their guardian. However, since Nan had been falsely suspected of stealing her money, Betty had never failed of showing her faith in her. And Nan understood this as she stood for several moments watching the pony and sleigh out of sight and hearing. Polly was wearing a crimson felt hat with a small black quill in it and a long red coat, and Betty, a seal-skin cap with a knot of her favorite blue velvet on one side and a fur coat. Nan could not help feeling the contrast between their lives and hers as she stepped later into their crowded and untidy kitchen. Nevertheless their friendship helped her to bear the fact that her brother Anthony, whom she loved best in her family, would not even speak to her. Indeed the thought of the Camp Fire club sustained her through the long and specially trying day. A slight flurry of snow fell during the morning, so that the four younger children would not go out of doors but kept getting under Nan's feet while she tried to clean. Her mother objected to each thing she did and Anthony loafing in a corner smoking cigarettes tried his best to make her lose her temper. At lunch Mr. Graham, who usually came home then and made things easier for Nan, did not return, so that by the time the dishes were washed the girl had given up the attempt to do any further cleaning and turned to her usual Saturday baking. This was usually more appreciated by her family. Because of a possible failure if she were too much interrupted, Mrs. Graham then removed the younger children to another room, leaving Nan alone with her brother. He did not torment her any further at first, but seeing that he was unusually moody and out of sorts his sister turned to him. "What is it, Tony?" she inquired good-naturedly, ignoring what had passed between them. The boy shrugged his shoulders. "Wasn't good enough to be elected a Boy Scout," he sneered, "seems like the fellows around here said they didn't like my record and wanted their camps kept up to the mark. Course I don't care anything about joining but they might have given a fellow a chance. Give a man a black name--I say, Nan," he broke off suddenly, "couldn't you lend me some money, say five dollars or so?" Nan stared at him in surprise. Anthony must know that she hadn't a cent in the world to call her own and that she was having her expenses paid by Miss Dyer at the cabin. Of course she meant some day to repay Rose, Betty and Polly for all they had done for her but it might take a number of years. "Couldn't you borrow the money from some of your rich friends?" he demanded, irritated and ashamed at his sister's silence. And then, unexpectedly, seeming to feel a better impulse, he came closer to the table where Nan was now mixing her pie crust and watched her quietly for a few moments. In a measure he realized his own right to be a gentleman, and resented the fact that they were everywhere looked down upon, and that Nan's efforts to better herself had to be made outside her own family. "There ain't no use your trying to make something of yourself, Nan," he said more kindly than he had spoken before during the day. "This Camp Fire business don't mean anything _real_. These girls maybe are letting you live with them and treating you fairly well but once you're grown up, maybe they'll say 'Howdy do' to you on the street, but they won't ever ask you into their houses or be your friends. I bet they didn't want you driving into town and being seen on the street with them to-day. I was watching and saw them set you down at your own door pretty prompt." "It wasn't because they were ashamed of me," Nan defended promptly, and yet although she knew that what she had said was true she could not help feeling both sore and ashamed. For the other Camp Fire girls really had the right to feel differently toward her when her own family would do nothing to make themselves respected and when she found it so hard to struggle with so much against her. For an instant Nan felt as if she might have to give up. But only for an instant, for she raised her flushed face and her brother saw the tears standing in her large dark eyes. "The girls would have been perfectly willing to take me into the village," she explained more quietly, "only they knew I had to work at home and they were going in on an important errand to get some money or jewelry of Betty's from the bank before it closed. They wanted to get back to the cabin before dark or else Betty said they would have stopped by and taken me home with them." The moment after these words passed Nan's lips she regretted them, not because she believed any possible harm could come of them but because she remembered that Betty and Polly had both told her no one else had been told of their intention and she did not wish to be the one to betray their confidence. "Please don't tell anybody what I have just said?" she begged beseechingly, but already her brother was lounging away as though he had grown tired of the confinement of the kitchen and apparently had not even heard her. But when Nan repeated her request he returned. "Oh, certainly I won't tell, Nan. Who on earth would I mention such a silly thing to anyway? It seems to me you Sunrise Camp Fire girls think every little thing you do and say of importance to all the world." CHAPTER VII Turning the Tables When Anthony Graham left his home and started walking slowly through the woods he had absolutely no definite intention of any kind in his mind. He was bored and a little ashamed of harassing his sister. For if Anthony had confessed the truth to himself down in his heart he was really both glad and proud of what Nan was trying to do and had felt secretly more ashamed of himself since she began her efforts. For the boy had a better mind than his sister and had more inheritances from his father's family. His idleness and weakness came more from his unfortunate environment and from the fact that nothing had as yet awakened any ambition or better feeling in him. He had not told Nan what he wanted with the money asked of her, but for the past ten days had been thinking that if only he could get away somewhere out of Woodford, where no one knew anything of him or his family, and have a fair start, why he too might amount to something in the future so that Nan need not be shamed by him. He walked for half a mile or so and then sitting down on a log began to whittle. There wasn't any use trying to clear out without money to buy food and he did not wish to remain anywhere in the immediate neighborhood. It had occurred to Anthony in the past week that he might work and earn sufficient money for his escape, but having applied at three or four places and been refused, his old shiftlessness and lack of will power laid fresh hold on him so that he gave up the effort. Now, as he sat at his usual occupation of killing time, he tried to banish all thought and all desire. He intended waiting until it was time to walk back to the Sunrise cabin with Nan and then go into the village and find his equally idle friends. Suddenly Polly's laugh sounded and then Betty's, as though in response to something her companion had said. The girls were driving along the road toward home and a little farther on would come within a dozen yards of the spot where Anthony was seated, concealed from view of the road by the grouping of trees. The boy started, at first with surprise. The winter woods had seemed so quiet and so lonely, not even a teamster had passed in all the time of his musing. And then a curiosity seized hold on him to see his sister's much talked of friends without being seen by them. Of course he had probably passed both Betty and Polly on the streets of Woodford a good many times and that morning had caught a distant glimpse of them from the window, but he did not know one girl from the other, and from his sister's description he might now be able to tell. Betty was the beautiful one, and Polly, well Nan no more than other people had ever been able to decide whether Polly was beautiful or whether she was so fascinating that you had to think so while she was talking to you. When she was quiet her face was apt to be pale and a little too thin. Anthony found a hiding place behind a tree bordering the road, until the sound of the sleigh bells came nearer and nearer, and Fire Star made her appearance. Then an impulse stronger and more dangerous than curiosity swept over him. For the first time since leaving his sister in the kitchen he remembered Nan's information. The two girls would be carrying back to their cabin a box containing Betty's jewelry. How easy to frighten them and make them surrender the box. Then he could get away from this neighborhood he hated and have a chance at a new life. He would do the girls no harm and only take enough money to cover his actual needs. The rest Betty could have back again. Anthony did not believe that either Betty or Polly knew him on sight. Nevertheless, though he had little time for reflection, with a quick movement he pulled his ragged cap down well over his forehead and eyes, turned up his coat collar and stooping picked up from the ground a heavy stick which was almost a log in size. An instant later Fire Star's bridle was seized with an ugly jerk and the pony brought to a standstill. As Betty was driving, the tin box was being held in Polly's lap so that the highwayman's first words were addressed to her. "Turn over that box to me," he demanded, trying to make his voice sound older and more threatening than usual. However, both girls were so entirely overcome by amazement at the unexpected appearance of a robber in their peaceful New Hampshire woods, that for a moment they could only stare. The next instant Polly with a quick flare of her Irish temper, leaned over and seizing hold of Betty's almost toy whip, slashed it in the face of the intruder. "Get out of the way," she cried angrily. "I am sure you can't know what you are doing." But almost in the same instant the whip was torn out of her hand and dropped on the ground. When Betty attempted to rush Fire Star forward the pony's bridle was caught the second time. "If you don't do what I say I'll break your pony's back with this stick," the boy muttered, and at this Betty winced, making no further effort to drive on. Fire Star had been her pony since she was a small girl and the stick the young fellow held was large enough to do her serious hurt, also his manner was sufficiently ugly to indicate that he meant what he said. Polly was by this time so angry that she could scarcely think, but, fortunately, Betty, after the first moment of surprise and natural fear, had held herself well in hand. Now she looked so steadfastly at the figure at her pony's head that the young man turned his face away. "You are Nan Graham's brother," Betty remarked quietly, "and I hope poor Nan may never hear what you are trying to do. You may not believe I have ever seen you before, but I have. Then as we have told only Nan the reason for our errand to town only she could have told you. I am quite sure though that she did not mean to betray us." Betty said this so loyally and in such an unafraid, yet accusing voice, that Anthony Graham wished himself ten thousand miles from the place where he stood and as many leagues from the deed he was doing. However, since he had already disgraced both his sister and himself there was all the more reason why he should go through with this cowardly business and get himself away if he possibly could. "No matter who I am, you will hand that box over just the same and be quick about it," he commanded with another threatening wave of his stick. "We will do no such thing but will have you arrested as a thief," Polly announced defiantly, wishing with all her heart, in spite of her Camp Fire training, that the despised Billy Webster might appear at this moment driving one of his father's wagons either to or away from town. At other times she might look down upon Billy for having only a farmer's ideals, just now, however, the splendid strength that his outdoor life must have given him would have been peculiarly desirable. However, to Polly's surprise and chagrin, Betty, whom she had always considered braver than herself, showed signs of weakening. "I will give you the key to my box if you will let me have some papers that are inside it which can be of no value to you." Betty said this with a nervous laugh, her face suddenly turning pale when it had formerly been flushed. Then she set her lips to keep them from trembling. Without waiting for an answer she afterwards leaned forward and began searching under the carriage rug on the bottom of her sleigh for the purse bag in which Polly remembered the key to have been concealed. Anthony might at this instant have seized the tin box from Polly and been off with it before Betty could have driven Fire Star on. But he was willing enough to have the key to Betty's box and even to leave her papers behind some tree if she so much desired them. He had never meant to take all her foolish trinkets which were of no value to any one except a girl. So for a brief moment Anthony did not look toward either Betty or Polly but kept his eyes fastened on the pony's head. In that same moment, hearing a sudden whirr through the air, before he was able to move the boy found himself securely caught by a rope and his arms drawn tight to his sides so that his stick dropped with a clatter on the frozen ground. While Betty Ashton with another rapid movement wound the other end of her rope about the cross bar of her sleigh catching it with a clove hitch and then, with a little gasp of astonishment at her own prowess, dropped back into her seat, only faintly hearing Polly's cry of delighted amazement. Not for nothing had Betty Ashton been learning to acquire honors in camp craft for the past six months, practicing different kinds of knot tying with the other girls in friendly rivalry hour after hour. In the bottom of her sleigh along with the purse bag which really did contain her key, Betty had remembered that they had fifty feet of new clothes line being taken back to the cabin. In the moment of fumbling under the rug she had quickly tied the much practiced slip noose and then had thrown it with better skill than she could ever repeat. Polly gave a characteristic laugh to relieve the tension of the situation. "We have caught the enemy and he is ours now, Betty, dear, but whatever are we going to do with him?" But Betty had gathered up her reins and was quietly urging Fire Star ahead. So there was nothing for their prisoner to do but to run along by the side of the sleigh. By superior strength the young man could have jerked away from Betty's and Polly's hold, but not from the sleigh itself. Now the more he pulled on the clothes line the tighter it bound him. Besides it was difficult to do even this when all his strength was required keeping up with the pony's rapid gait. "I have often wondered how it would feel to be a conqueror driving through the streets of Rome with one's prisoners lashed to their chariot wheels and this is deliciously like it," Polly sighed before her companion had once spoken, enjoying with all her vivid imagination the retribution that had overtaken the evildoer. But Betty's expression was strangely grave and every now and then she kept glancing aside at the figure running along beside them. For, except for a first oath and a few violent threats, the young man seemed to own himself beaten and had since said nothing. There was a horrible droop instead to his head and shoulders, and indeed to his whole figure, and he looked so ashamed that it made Betty sick to look at him, Polly did not seem to have noticed but Betty felt that she had never seen just such an expression before. "Polly," she whispered softly, "do you think we ought to drive up to the cabin taking this fellow with us like this? Of course we can turn around and go back to town and even drive up to the jail with him but that is just as bad. After all, he is poor little Nan's brother, and if we do the child can never hold up her head again! I keep imagining how I should feel if I were to be taken prisoner and carried before a lot of strange boys to act as my judges." Then Betty shuddered as though her vision were real, but Polly only laughed so scornfully that the boy, overhearing her, cringed. "It is an absurd supposition, Betty, and I can't well imagine your putting yourself in this dreadful fellow's place. You can hardly expect me to conceive of you, even in these advanced female days, suddenly stopping a number of young men and demanding their pocketbooks." Notwithstanding Betty appeared deaf to her beloved Polly's teasing, for instead of answering she slowed her pony down. "Don't you think we owe anything to Nan as a member of our Camp Fire circle?" she asked. "It seems to me that allegiance is one of the first things boys learn and it is because we girls don't feel it toward one another that women have the harder time." Instantly Polly sobered. "That is true, Princess," she agreed, "and I am desperately sorry for Nan and would spare her if we could, but do you think it right to let an intended thief go free? Besides, if we do cut him loose how do we know he will not seize your box away from us?" "Because I should drive up almost to the Webster farm, where we could be heard if we called for help before letting him go. And anyhow even if we don't let him go free I should like to talk to him." Polly shook her head. "Don't try reformation at the eleventh hour, I don't believe in it," she declared. Notwithstanding this Betty drove on until within hailing distance of the Webster farm house and then, without asking further advice from Polly, calmly brought her pony to a standstill. The young fellow made no effort to come nearer the sleigh or even to tear himself away, but kept gazing in astonishment at Betty as she dismounted and walked fearlessly up to him. "What made you want to take my jewelry, Anthony?" she inquired. "I know your name because I have heard Nan speak so often of you. I wonder if you have ever tried to steal anything before?" She said this apparently to herself since the boy did not seem inclined to answer. And then Betty shook her lovely head softly. "I wonder what it feels like to want to steal?" she questioned. "It must be some very dreadful reason that tempts one. You see I have never been poor myself or known what it was to want terribly anything I could not have." And then very swiftly and without allowing time for Polly to stop her, Betty drew out her Camp Fire knife and cut the rope that bound the young fellow's arms to his sides. "I don't know whether it is right or wrong for me to do this," she confessed, "but for Nan's sake I cannot bear to hold you a prisoner." Then both to her surprise and Polly's, Anthony made no movement and at the same instant the girls to their embarrassment saw that he was crying. Not weeping like some girls to whom tears come easily, but shaken by dry painful sobs, as though his shame and self-abasement were too great to be borne. "It was for Nan's sake that I wanted to get away," he confessed finally, pulling himself together by a tremendous effort. "I thought maybe if I could get a chance like she is having, somewhere away from here where no one knew me, that I might be able to do something for myself. It was nearly killing me thinking I had ruined everything for her." "So you were intending to steal in order to begin leading a better life," Betty repeated thoughtfully, and the young man flashed an angry look at her. But she was not trying to be sarcastic and the expression on her face at that moment he never afterwards forgot. "I should hate you to stop trying to make things right for yourself and Nan because you began the wrong way," she continued after a little thoughtful pause. Then with a blush and an humble look very characteristic of Betty when wishing to be allowed to do another person a favor, she picked up her purse bag from the bottom of the sleigh and slipping her hand in it drew out a crumpled bill. "Won't you let me lend you the money for your chance?" she asked, as though speaking to a friend and utterly ignoring the ugly scene that had just passed. "I haven't much money with me, so you must not mind. You can pay it back to me when you get to the new place and have good luck." And then, before the dazed boy had time to understand what she was trying to do, Betty had thrust ten dollars into his partially clenched hand and jumping back into her sleigh had driven rapidly away. Fire Star was rather bored with so much unnecessary delay on his journey home and wanted to get back to shelter. A little later Billy Webster, who had been cutting down trees in a portion of his father's woods, took off his fur cap to wave to the girls just as Polly in her dramatic fashion dropped down on one knee in their sleigh attempting to kiss Betty's hand. "Betty dear, if ever I saw you do a Princess-like act in a Princess-like fashion it was when you gave that abominable boy that money," she said admiringly. "It is my opinion that either he is absolutely no good or else he will reform from this moment and be your faithful knight to the end of the chapter." But Betty only smiled a little uncertainly. "Perhaps it wasn't honest of me, Polly, to be giving away money when I owe so much to other people." And then, touching the tin box in her friend's lap, she said half joking and half serious, "but since I am having to give up my kingdom I am glad to be able to help some one else to come into theirs." CHAPTER VIII Possibilities "'Rose of the World,' my fate is to be decided on this coming Christmas night." Polly O'Neill made this surprising statement on the same evening following the adventure that had befallen her and Betty earlier in the afternoon. The seven girls were sitting in a crescent upon sofa pillows before their living-room fire with Rose on a low stool in the center. Although it was now nearly bedtime no mention had been made of the cause of the two girls' trip into town nor of their unusual experience. Nan had come home uncommonly tired and silent, and ever since supper time had been curled up on the floor using her pillow as a kind of bed and almost half asleep. But at Polly's extravagant words she sat up and looked at her curiously and so did all the other girls except Betty, who only smiled sympathetically, nodding her head reassuringly at Mollie, who seemed a little puzzled and a little annoyed. "I don't see why it is going to be your fate that is to be decided any more than Betty's or any of the rest of us, Polly." Mollie answered before their guardian could speak. "Just because you are going to have the chief part in our play when the rest of us just have less important parts." But Polly, who was in one of her wildest moods to-night, flung her arms unexpectedly about her sister, almost overturning her by her ardor. "You don't know what you are talking about, Mollie Mavourneen, because you haven't heard my news, since I only learned it to-day in town. It can't affect Betty or you or any of the other girls as it does me, because you haven't been yearning ever since you were born to go on the stage as I have until the very thought of the footlights and the smell of the theater makes me hungry and dizzy and frightened and so happy!" "You haven't been in the theater a dozen times in your life, Polly O'Neill," Mollie returned, looking even more serious than before remembering her mother's opposition and her own to Polly's theatrical ambition, "and you know nothing in the world about what the life means." "Well, I will know pretty soon, Mollie. You see I am sixteen now, almost seventeen. I will be through school in another year--and then--why if I have any talent mother must be persuaded to let me study and see what I can do. And thereby hangs my tale!" Two vivid spots of color were burning on Polly's high cheek bones, her eyes were shining as though she saw only the joys of the career she hoped to choose for herself and none of its hardships, and she had to hold her thin nervous hands tight together to try to control her excitement. "Don't tell, please, Betty, I am waiting to get more breath," Polly pleaded, and Betty nodded reassuringly. Not for worlds would she have stolen this particular clap of thunder from her friend, and it was rather a habit with Polly not to be able to breathe very deeply when she was much agitated. "When Betty and I drove into town this morning," she said in the next instant, "you know we stopped by Miss Adams' to go over our Christmas rehearsals with her." (Miss Adams was the teacher of elocution at the Woodford High School and greatly interested in Polly.) "Well, when we had finished and she had told Betty of half a dozen mistakes she was making and me of something less than a hundred, she said slowly but with a kind of peculiar expression all the time, 'Girls, I wonder if you will be willing for me to bring a guest to your Christmas Camp Fire play?' Betty answered, 'Yes' very politely, though you know we have asked more people already than we will ever have room for, but as I was mumbling over some lines of a speech I didn't say anything. Then Miss Adams looked straight at me and said slowly just like this: 'I am very glad indeed, Polly, for your sake, You remember that I have often spoken to you of a cousin of mine (we were like sisters when we were little girls) who is now one of the most famous, if not the very most famous, actress in this country. We write each other constantly and several times I have spoken to her about you. This very morning I had a letter from her saying she was tired and as she was to have a week's holiday at Christmas might she come down and spend it with me if I would promise not to let anybody know who she was nor make her see any company.' My heart had been pounding just like this," Polly continued, making an uneven, quick movement with her hand, "but when Miss Adams ended in this cruel fashion it must have stopped, because I remember I couldn't speak and felt myself turn pale. And then my beloved Betty saved me! She answered in just a little bit frightened voice. 'But you think, Miss Adams, that you may be able to persuade your cousin to come to our play, if we don't talk about it or let other people worry her, and then she can tell whether Polly has any real talent for the stage or whether we think so just because she wishes us to.'" At the end of this long speech Polly may have lost her breath. Anyhow, she became frightened and stopped talking, staring instead into the open fire. "It will be a great trial for the rest of us to have the great Miss Margaret Adams watching us act our poor little Camp Fire play," Betty continued, "but I am sure we must all be glad to have her for Polly's sake." After this there was silence for a moment, so that the noise of the old clock ticking above the mantel could be distinctly heard. Then the new guardian shook her head. "I am sorry, Polly, but I am afraid that having Miss Adams talk to you about your future, whether she encourages you or not, will not be right without your mother's consent." Rose knew Mrs. O'Neill very well and understood how she dreaded the life of the stage for Polly's emotional and none too well-balanced temperament. Polly's fashion of living on her nerves rather than on any reserve of physical strength would be a serious drawback. For a moment the older woman wished that she might be able to accede to this Christmas experiment and that the great actress might be wise enough to recognize Polly's unfitness for acting and persuade her to dismiss the entire idea from her mind. "Of course I will have to get mother's consent," Polly agreed more quietly than any one had expected, "but I think when I write and tell her exactly how I feel she will do as I ask." It was now ten o'clock and Nan Graham rose first to make ready for bed. She was followed by Eleanor and Sylvia, as it was already an hour past their usual week-day bedtime, but Betty laid her hand quietly on Rose's arm. "Please don't go to your room yet," she whispered, "I have something I want to talk to you about. It won't matter if only Polly and Mollie stay with us." She glanced expectantly at Esther, supposing of course that she would retire with the other girls, but instead Esther was sitting with her big, awkward hands clasped before her and such an utterly miserable expression on her plain face that Betty forgot her own problem and intended sacrifice. "What on earth is the matter with you, Esther Clark?" she demanded a little indignantly. "Half an hour ago you looked as you usually do, and I am sure I have heard no one since say anything to hurt your feelings. Why, please, should you now look as if you had lost your last friend on earth?" Esther laughed nervously. "Please don't be angry, Betty, or Miss Dyer, or Polly, and don't think I mean to be hateful or unaccommodating, but really I don't think I can sing on the evening of our Christmas entertainment. I have been trying to make up my mind to tell you for days and days, that I know I shall simply break down and disgrace us all." "And since you heard that we were to have a famous woman as a member of our audience you are more sure than ever that you won't be able to sing?" Polly questioned. Esther nodded silently, while Polly's eyes gazed past her as though they were trying to solve some puzzle. "It is odd, isn't it," she continued, speaking to all or to none of the little company. "Here I am with just a slight talent for acting, and perhaps not even that, dreaming and longing to have this Miss Adams' criticism, even though I may break down when the time comes, and here is Esther with a really great gift liking to hide her light under a bushel. Oh me, oh my, and it's a queer world, isn't it?" "Yes, but Esther isn't going to hide her light this time, it's too silly of her," Betty rejoined. "She has that perfectly wonderful song that Dick got for her last summer and has been practicing it for months. Besides we have asked our funny old German, who rescued us in the storm, to play Esther's accompaniment on his violin. He has practiced with her in town and is enraptured. Says Esther sings like a 'liebe angel.'" Esther rose slowly to her feet. "Of course if you really wish me to, Betty, with all you have done for me----" But Betty gave her an affectionate push toward the bedroom door. "Oh, go to bed, Esther, what I have done for you has nothing to do with your singing and certainly gives me no right to try to run you. It is only that I don't mean you to take a back seat all your life if I can possibly shove you forward." At any other time Esther might have felt wounded at Betty's so evidently wishing to get rid of her and have her older friends stay behind (for Esther had that rather trying sensitiveness that belongs to some shy people and makes them difficult), but with Christmas near at hand secrets were too much a part of Camp Fire life to be regarded seriously, so that Esther straightway left the O'Neill girls, Betty and Rose, to themselves. Then Betty went immediately over to a closet and brought out the locked tin box. As she opened it she explained her plan to Rose, who said nothing at first, merely leaning a little curiously over one of Betty's shoulders watching her take out her pretty ornaments, while Mollie and Polly stood guard on the other side. Betty of course had the usual discarded childish trinkets--a string of amber beads, pins and a small ring--but these she put hastily aside as of no value, and then with a little sigh of admiration and regret drew forth a really beautiful possession, a sapphire necklace with tiny diamonds set between the blue stones, which Betty loved and had chosen for her special jewel. "I expect this is worth the amount of my debt," Betty suggested huskily. Her father had given her the necklace the last summer they were in Europe together. But Rose Dyer shook her head decisively. "Not that, Betty; indeed I have not yet made up my mind whether you ought to be allowed to part with any of your jewelry, at least before you ask your brother Dick." Next the girls considered Betty's blue enamel watch which her brother had given her on her last birthday and a small diamond ring. She had just about decided that she preferred to part with the ring when Polly exclaimed thoughtlessly, "Are those the papers you were so unwilling to give up this afternoon, Princess?" At this Betty nodded, frowning slightly. They had decided not to make any mention of the afternoon's experience in order that Nan should never hear about it. "There is some mystery or other about these papers," she explained, picking up a large envelope with an official seal on the outside. "Father asked me to take good care of this envelope all my life and never to open it unless there was some very special cause. As he never told me what the reason should be I suppose I will keep it sealed forever." Then Betty with a little cry of delight dropped the envelope inside the box picking up another paper instead, which had a gold seal and two strings of blue ribbon pasted upon it. "What a forgetful person I am!" she exclaimed in a relieved voice. "Why here is a two hundred dollar bond which honestly belongs to me, since once upon a time I actually saved the money for a whole year to buy it. It will pay all I owe without any bother." And Betty tucking her precious box under her arm, straightway the little company made ready for bed. CHAPTER IX Christmas Eve at the Cabin "I am so sorry, I never dreamed things would turn out like this," said Sylvia Wharton awkwardly, trying to control a suggestion of tears. She was standing in the center of the Sunrise cabin living room with one hand clasping Rose Dyer's skirt and the other holding on to Polly. However, if she had had half a dozen hands she would like to have grasped as many girls, for her hour of reckoning had come. Instead, her eyes mutely implored Mollie and Betty who happened to be hurrying by at the same moment and had been arrested by the apologetic and frightened note so unusual in Sylvia's voice. And this note had to be very much emphasized at the present time to have any one pay the least attention to it, since there were enough Christmas preparations now going on in the Camp Fire living room to have sufficed a small village. On a raised platform, which occupied about a third of their entire floor space, Miss Martha McMurtry was rehearsing the two Field girls, Juliet and Beatrice, who had only arrived the night before, in the parts they were to play in the Christmas entertainment the following night. While Meg, holding "Little Brother" tight by the belt, was trying to persuade him to await more patiently his time for instruction. Toward the front of this stage, John, Billy Webster and Dick Ashton were struggling to adjust a curtain made of heavy khaki. It had a central design, the crossed logs and a splendid aspiring fire, the well-known Camp Fire emblem, painted by Eleanor Meade, who was at this moment making suggestions to the curtain raisers from the top of a step-ladder. Nan Graham and Edith Norton ran about the room meanwhile, carrying holly wreaths, bunches of mistletoe and garlands of cedar, that several of their Boy Scout friends were helping festoon along the walls. Indeed, every girl in the Sunrise Camp Fire was represented except Esther. She had gone over to the old orphan asylum where she had lived as a child, for a final rehearsal of her song with the German Herr Professor, who was staying with the superintendent of the asylum. For what reason he was there no one knew except that he must have intended getting music pupils in the village later on. However, in the midst of the prevailing noise the little group about Sylvia had remained silent, for their guardian's face was flushing strangely, her yellow-brown eyes darkening and for the first time since she came into the Sunrise Club it was possible to see how Rose Dyer felt when she was truly angry. Although her voice never lost its softness there was a severity in it that the girls felt to be rather worse than Miss McMurtry's in her moods of disapproval. "Do you mean, Sylvia," Rose asked, "that you and Dr. Barton have arranged to have a young girl whom none of us know brought to our cabin to be taken care of all winter, without consulting me or even mentioning the subject to a single one of the girls? And that this child, who has been so ill she will require a great deal of care, is actually to arrive this afternoon? It seems to me that not only have you broken every principle of our Camp Fire life but you have been lacking in the very simplest courtesy." Never in her life would Sylvia Wharton be able to explain herself or her motives properly in words. She was one of the often misunderstood people to whom expression comes with difficulty. Now her plain face was nearly purple with embarrassment. "I didn't mean to be rude; yes, I know it looks horrid and impossible of me, but you see I meant to explain and to ask permission, only I didn't dream that she would arrive for another week, and I was just waiting until our festivities would be over and you would be better able to be interested." She looked rather desperately at Betty, Polly and Mollie before going on, but they appeared almost as overwhelmed as their guardian. "You see, Betty, it was something you said a while ago that made me think of it first," she continued. "You said to Miss Dyer one evening that you thought we Sunrise Camp Fire girls were getting rather selfish, that we were not letting strangers into our club or doing anything for outside people. So I thought as Christmas was coming I would like to help somebody. Perhaps we all would! So when Dr. Barton told me about a poor little girl (she is only thirteen, I think) who was ill, probably dying, and if only she could have an outdoor life such as we girls are living she might get well, why, I told him I thought we would like to have her in our camp." Sylvia stopped because her words had given out, but she could hardly have chosen a wiser moment, for Mollie, whose gentleness and good judgment everybody respected, was beginning to understand. "I think Sylvia is trying to show the Christmas spirit of doing good to the people who need it and letting us help," she whispered, coming closer to their guardian and slipping an arm about her waist. "Perhaps our Christmas preparations have been a little bit too much for ourselves. Of course Sylvia ought to have asked permission, Rose, and of course the little girl is not to stay if you don't want her, but she didn't expect her for another week and--and please don't be angry on Christmas eve." This was exactly what poor Sylvia would like to have said without knowing how; however it did not matter who spoke, as Rose was plainly softening. "But it is Dr. Barton's part I don't understand, Sylvia; he is older, a great deal older, than you, he must have understood that you had not the right to make such a proposition without consulting me or any one," Rose declared thoughtfully. "He did," Sylvia now answered more confidently, feeling the atmosphere a bit more friendly. "He said at the beginning that the idea was quite impossible, that Miss Dyer would never be willing to undertake a responsibility of such a character, that he was surprised she had stayed with our Camp Fire club so long. It was only when I promised to try and save you all the trouble possible that he consented, Miss Dyer. You see Abbie is the daughter of a landlady Dr. Barton once had when he was a student in Boston, and so he is much interested in her, only he is too poor to pay her board and hasn't anybody to look after her at his little place; and you mustn't think it is just goodness on my part, wanting this girl at our cabin. You see I do care about learning to look after sick people more than anything else and I do want to know if our way of living really helps." "So Dr. Barton thought I would not wish to help in the care of a sick child, that I was only playing at being a real Camp Fire guardian," Rose Dyer repeated slowly and then, without adding another word, somehow she seemed to drift away. However, there were a dozen voices calling for her advice and aid at this same instant, which may have explained her failure to let Sylvia and the other girls know her possible decision. The three older friends exchanged looks and then Polly patted the crestfallen Sylvia on the shoulder. "Never mind, dear, some of us possess all the virtues except the trifling one of tact. If your little girl comes we can't very well turn her out on Christmas eve, so you had better say nothing more until Rose has thought things over and we have had a meeting of our Council Fire." Then the girls hurried off to what was about the busiest day in their careers, with little further thought of Sylvia's protégé; Polly to a quiet rehearsal with her elocution teacher of her part in the Christmas play, Mollie and Betty to assist with the final details of certain costumes, and Sylvia, who was never of a great deal of service in frivolities, to apply her scientific interest toward helping with the cooking. However, by six o'clock all the Sunrise Camp Fire friends and assistants had gone back to the village and by seven supper was over and cleared away so that the girls might have a quiet evening and go early to bed in order to be rested for the next day. Esther had only gotten home a few minutes before tea time, but in the excitement no one had missed her, nor did she seem much more tired than the rest of the girls from the strain of her last rehearsal. Nevertheless, Miss McMurtry, who had always a special affection for Esther, did see that she was even paler than usual and persuaded her to sit close to her when the girls grouped themselves about their great Christmas eve fire for an hour of Christmas story telling before separating for the night. And it was while their old guardian held everybody's attention that Rose managed to slip quietly away. She was not a child, she was not even a young girl any longer, and yet she went straight to the refuge of her babyhood--to Mammy--who had a tiny room of her own just off the kitchen. To-night there was a younger colored girl in the kitchen who had come out from Woodford to help over Christmas day, but as Rose passed their pantry she saw that Mammy had forgotten her seventy years and intended giving the New England girls a taste of an old-fashioned Southern Christmas. For along with the beautiful pies and doughnuts, which the Camp Fire girls had made, there were great dishes of sugar-powdered crullers, a black cake as big as a cart wheel and half a dozen deliciously fried chickens to vie with the turkey which had not yet been cooked. Down on a stool at the old colored woman's feet Rose let Mammy brush out her yellow-brown hair as she had done ever since she could remember. She was tired to-night; she had done more work in the past month than in all the years of her life and she loved it and was very happy and was only hoping to grow more capable and more worthy every day. Yet it was hard to have a narrow-minded New England doctor who had been a friend of her uncle's criticizing her to one of her own girls and failing to show faith in her or her work. Just because he was a recluse and spent his time in looking after the sick poor was no reason for being so severe and puritanical in his judgments. Rose was not listening to Mammy's low crooning else her ears would not have been the first to catch the sound of a horse and buggy approaching their cabin door. If the girls had forgotten the prospect of a newcomer to their Camp Fire circle their guardian had not, so now, hastily tucking up her hair without waiting for a wrap, Rose hurried out into the darkness. It was a cold clear night with many stars, but it was hardly necessary for her actually to behold the shabby buggy before recognizing it. However, the young doctor did not at first see her, for he stopped and hitched his horse and then lifted out what appeared to be a soft bundle of rugs. "Don't be frightened, dear," he whispered in a voice of unusual gentleness. "She--they will be very kind to you, I am sure, even if they can't keep you very long. I am sorry I didn't understand that things weren't exactly settled and that we made such a mistake about the time, but--why, Rose, Miss Dyer," he corrected himself hastily, "it is good of you to come out to meet us, I am sorry to be putting this additional burden upon you." And then his manner changed to a doctor's severity. "Please go into the house at once, you haven't any wrap and on such a cold night as this! Really I don't see how you are able to look after girls when you don't look after yourself." But Mammy appeared at this moment wrapping her charge in a long rose-colored broadcloth cape, and Rose's manner was unexpectedly humble. "I wouldn't have forgotten if it had been one of my girls," she apologized, and then more coldly, "Won't you come into the house?" She had so far caught but an indefinite glimpse of the young girl in Dr. Barton's charge and was steeling her heart against her until she had had time to think of whether it was best for the other Camp Fire girls to bring this sick child into their midst. For she did look such a baby standing there in the snow with an old-fashioned knitted blue woolen hood on her head, such as little girls had not worn for almost twenty years. And then, suddenly, the girl began to cry quite helplessly and pitifully, so that Rose forgot every other consideration and put her arms about her as you would comfort a baby, drawing her toward the cabin and into the kitchen that she might be warmed and comforted by Mammy before being presented to a dozen strange older girls all at once. The young doctor did not follow them, indeed Rose had not invited him in again. But a few moments later she must have remembered his existence, for she came out for the second time into the cold. Dr. Barton extended his hand, but apparently Rose did not see it, for she kept her own arms by her sides, saying in somewhat the same manner she had used earlier in the day to Sylvia: "I am sorry, Dr. Barton, you do not think I can be interested in the care of a sick little girl, and that you feel me unworthy to be a Camp Fire guardian. I know that I haven't all the knowledge and character that is necessary, but I am learning, and----" Rose would not listen to the young man's explanation or apology, for with a quick good-night she turned and left him endeavoring to say something to her which evidently she did not care to hear. CHAPTER X Esther's Old Home However, of all the Sunrise Camp Fire club it was Esther Clark who actually had the strangest Christmas eve experience. Betty had rather opposed her going over to the orphan asylum for a last rehearsal of her song with Herr Crippen. It was not really necessary, for Esther knew her song as well as she ever would be able to learn it and could only fail in her singing of it on Christmas night should her audience happen to frighten her voice away. Nevertheless, Esther had a kind of sentiment in seeing her old friends at the asylum on Christmas eve, since this was the first year that she could remember when her Christmas had not been spent with them, and there would be no opportunity for visiting the next day. For some reason or other, which Esther had never had satisfactorily explained to her, she had been kept longer at the orphan asylum than any of the other children. Indeed she was sixteen, almost seventeen, in the spring before when Mrs. Ashton had persuaded the superintendent to let her try the experiment of having Esther as her daughter Betty's companion. Ordinarily the children were sent away to live and work in other people's homes when they were thirteen or fourteen; many of them were adopted by the farmers in the surrounding neighborhood when they were almost babies, so that Esther naturally felt her obligation to be the deeper. Notwithstanding she was not thinking a great deal about her former lonely life at the asylum, nor even of the queer German violinist's interest in her voice, as she drove Fire Star over the now familiar road. Both her mind and heart were heavy with the news Dick Ashton had been able to whisper to her in a few hurried moments when they had been alone in the cabin that morning soon after Dick's arrival. Mr. Ashton had lost not merely a small sum of money which might cause him temporary inconvenience, as Betty imagined. He had had such serious losses that Dick's mother had written begging him and Betty to cut down their living expenses as closely as possible. And some one had to tell Betty. Dick was not a coward; in making his confidence he simply wondered if Esther would not be able to console his sister afterwards and to explain conditions to her better than he could, because Betty never had seemed able to understand any question of money matters however much she seemed to try. The actual facts he himself would tell her as soon as the holiday season had passed. There was one way in which Betty could save money, Esther decided. She should no longer pay for her singing lessons. Indeed she would ask the German violinist that morning if there were not some way by which she could help him, by playing his accompaniments, perhaps, if he succeeded in getting up a violin class in Woodford. Anyhow she would earn the money for her own lessons in some way, for, unselfish as Esther was, her music lessons meant too much to her, were too important to her future, even to think of giving them up altogether. The professor was waiting for her in the big, bare, ugly parlor of the asylum which, however, possessed the glory of a not utterly impossible piano. Nevertheless, Esther only waved her hand to him as she passed the door on the way to her older friends. She was thinking that he looked older, poorer and homelier than ever with his red hair, his spectacled, pale blue eyes and his worn clothes. He had a little sprig of holly in his buttonhole, in a determined German effort to be a part of the prevailing Christmas cheerfulness. Then, half an hour later, Esther sang her song straight through without hesitation or a single mistake to the elderly German's way of thinking. For when she had finished he looked at her speechless for a moment, and then taking off his spectacles wiped away a kind of mist from his glasses. "Ach, my dear young Fräulein, you haf the great thing I hoped for through all my youth and then gave up when the years found me--an almost big violinist--das Talent! Was ist es in English, genius, nicht wahr?" And then, with Esther blushing until the burning in her throat and cheeks was almost painful, and twisting her big hands together in the ungainly fashion Betty had almost broken her of, he went on, seemingly unconscious of her presence. "I am that thing you call a failure, but I used to dream I might haf a child who some day would go farther than I was able and then when I had to gif up this also--Ach, Himmel!" To Esther's great embarrassment Herr Crippen then began sobbing in a most un-American fashion. "It was my own fault. I should never haf gone away, I----" But whatever else he may have poured forth in his present state of emotion was heard only by the four walls of the room, for Esther, in utter consternation, slipped out, hurrying toward the small study in the rear of the house where she knew she would find her old friend, the superintendent, at work. She told him rather shyly of her unceremonious leave taking, asking him to make her apologies to Herr Crippen and to beg him to come early to their Christmas entertainment the next night. Then, when she had put out her hand for farewell, quite unexpectedly the superintendent asked her to sit down again, saying that he would like to tell her Herr Crippen's story and the reason he had come into their neighborhood, since possibly she might be able to assist him. Afterwards for more than an hour Esther listened to a most surprising narrative and later on drove back to Sunrise cabin puzzled, thoughtful and just the least shade frightened and unhappy. However, she made up her mind not to let anything trouble her until after their wonderful Christmas had passed. CHAPTER XI Gifts "Oh come, all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant; Oh come ye, oh come ye to Bethlehem; Come and behold Him born the King of angels; Oh come, let us adore Him, Oh come, let us adore Him, Oh come, let us adore Him, Christ the Lord." Esther sang the first few lines of the beautiful Christmas hymn in a low voice but with gathering strength until when she had reached the refrain Sunrise cabin was filled with melody. She had awakened before any one else on this Christmas morning and after thinking over more quietly the events of yesterday, had slipped into her clothes and then stolen into the living room hoping that her hymn might be the first sound that her friends should hear. It was a perfect winter day. From the window Esther could see the snow-crowned peak of Sunrise Hill from which the dawn colors were now slowly fading and beyond a long line of the crystal hills. Wherever the Sunrise Camp Fire girls should go in after years, to whatever places their destinies should call them, the scene surrounding their camp could never be forgotten, nor could there be found many places in the world more beautiful. Of course Esther had until now seen nothing beyond the New Hampshire hills and so this morning, with a little only half-defined fear tugging at her heart, she gazed at the landscape until the eternal peace of the mountains rested and soothed her. Then, turning away, she went first to building up their great log fire until its flames roared up the chimney and then to the singing of her song. By and by, with a blue dressing gown wrapped about her, Betty came into the room, and stood resting an elbow on the piano. Polly and Mollie followed, and soon after Meg and Eleanor with Miss McMurtry between them, until finally every member of the Sunrise club had gathered in the room, including the little probation girl who entered last holding tight to Rose's hand. She looked like a pale little Christmas angel with her big blue eyes set in a colorless face and her soft rings of light yellow hair, which had been cut close on account of recent fever, curling like a fringe about her high forehead. When Esther came to the last verse of her hymn, there were many other voices to join in with hers, and somehow all their eyes turned instinctively toward the great pine tree which stood undecorated upon the farthest corner of their stage with the great silver star overhead. "Yea, Lord, we greet Thee, born this happy morning; Jesu, to Thee be glory given; Word of the Father, now in flesh appearing; Oh come, let us adore Him, Oh come, let us adore Him, Oh come, let us adore Him, Christ the Lord." There was an instant's hush after this and then a surprising amount of noise. Surely Esther's idea had been a very lovely one, for there was little Christmas peace and quiet at the cabin for the rest of the wonderful and eventful day. Some weeks before the girls had decided that there would be no present giving among themselves except the merest trifles, since all their money and energy must be spent in making a success of their Camp Fire play, but this did not forbid the receiving of gifts from the outside. So before breakfast was over offerings began to arrive, some of them for individual girls but more for the camp. Mr. and Mrs. Webster sent from the farm a great roasted goose stuffed with chestnuts, a baked ham and two immense mince pies, while Billy Webster, who drove over to bring the gifts, shyly tucked into Mollie's hands a bouquet of pink geraniums and lemon verbena from his mother's little indoor garden. To Polly, with a perfectly serious expression, he presented a bunch of thistles grown on the mountains that fall and made very brilliant and effective by having their centers dyed scarlet and being tied with a bright red ribbon. They were beautiful enough to have been bestowed on any one and would be an ornament for the cabin living room all winter, and yet Polly, though she was far too clever to betray herself, could not but wonder if there were not a double meaning attached to Billy's gift. Dick Ashton gave no individual presents, not even one to Betty, but to the club he gave a reading lamp so brilliant that half a dozen girls might do their studying around it at night. If it were placed on the piano Esther might be able to read her most intricate music without difficulty. Then there were other more valuable gifts, Mr. Wharton, Sylvia's father, who had unexpectedly gone to Europe for a few weeks, left a check to supply the winter's coal bill, while Mrs. O'Neill from over in Ireland sent a set of kitchen aprons, which she had made during that winter, for each member of the Sunrise club including Mammy. There was a mysterious communication received by Betty Ashton, however, of which she did not speak to any one, not even to Polly. She was not at all sure from whom it came, but naturally there was but one person whom she could suspect. The post-mark was a near-by town, and it was a common looking gift--just a card with the picture of a ladder rising in the air, apparently by its own volition, and very slowly ascending it the figure of a young man. Yet the words written below were of far finer significance than the picture and Betty really wondered how they had ever made their appeal. "And men may rise on stepping-stones of their dead selves to higher things." At four o'clock, when the girls were resting for an hour before getting ready for the evening's entertainment, convinced that there was nothing more to come for any one of them, there appeared at the cabin door certainly the most unlooked-for gift. Rose happened for the moment to be alone in the living room, having firmly ordered the girls off to their bedrooms to lie down while she attended to some final arrangements, such as finding space for a few more chairs for their audience than had been sent out from town an hour before. So the sounds outside did not at first attract her attention, though they were most unusual. But suddenly, when a large form apparently flung itself against the door and there followed a low muffled cry, Rose, without a thought of Christmas, ran hastily to the rescue. Fortunately she was not nervous, else she might have been frightened when an unexpected object leapt up to her shoulders and a warm wet tongue caressed her cheek. Straightway her cry of surprise and admiration brought half a dozen girls to her side, who had found sleep at so critical a time quite out of the question. Imagine their surprise at finding their new guardian being embraced by a cream and brown and gold St. Bernard dog, already a tremendous fellow and yet still in his puppyhood. Polly, who was ever a lover of dogs, got down on her knees before him. "Whose ever can he be and how has he found his way to our cabin?" she cried, but before her question was ended Polly herself discovered a small envelope attached to the dog's collar and tearing it off hastily presented it to Rose with an eastern salaam, as she happened to be already seated on the floor. "From an unknown admirer, Rose? Isn't this like a story book?" Betty commented with an unnecessary expression of demureness, for she had noticed an evident though faint blush touching their guardian's cheeks. But Rose answered with a dignity that somehow made Betty feel ashamed of herself. "No, Betty, the dog is for our club if you girls wish to keep him. Dr. Barton writes that he feels we are too much alone in these woods in the winter and that if we will forgive his solicitude he has sent us a third Camp Fire guardian." And Rose slipped the stiff little note she had just received inside her pocket, realizing that it was as near an apology as the severe young doctor could bring himself to make. CHAPTER XII The Camp Fire Play By eight o'clock on Christmas evening every seat in the Sunrise cabin living room was filled except two, and toward these the eyes of every girl hidden behind the khaki curtain turned questioningly for the last fifteen minutes before their Camp Fire play was to commence. However then, to Polly's despair, their last hope died away--the great lady and the great actress in one--would not form a part of their Woodford audience, even her own Miss Adams had likewise failed her. Nevertheless their entertainment was to begin promptly (on this Miss McMurtry and Miss Dyer had both insisted), since punctuality was so seldom a feature of amateur plays they wished thus to show one of the superior results of the Camp Fire training. A Camp Fire Morality Play: These words were printed on the Christmas programs and it was an old time morality play such as we have seen and read in "Everyman" that Polly and Betty had attempted to write, assisted of course by both their guardians and with suggestions from every girl in the Sunrise club. Whether they were successful in keeping close to the old model was not so much their ideal as the desire to show both by words and tableaux the aims and the influence of the Camp Fire organization, and what women have given to the world since the primitive time when human life centered about the camp-fire. At a quarter past eight the curtain arose slowly, showing the stage in semi-darkness and representing a scene in a primeval forest. In the corner is the bare pine tree, the ground is strewn with twigs, fir cones and needles, and there within the instant the figure of a woman enters. It is Polly! And because of her great disappointment there is a tragic droop to her shoulders, a pathetic expression in her great wide-open Irish blue eyes. She had hoped so much from Miss Adams' promise and now--well, she must not forget her part, she must try to do her best for her friends' sakes. Polly is dressed in a short skirt with a fox's skin fastened from one shoulder to her belt, there are sandals on her feet and her straight black hair is hanging about her shoulders. Unhappy, she gropes her way about the stage shivering and finding nothing to do, no place in which to rest herself. It is December, the month of the long moon, and the night promises to be bitterly cold. In another moment there is heard from the outside the crying of a child and next "Little Brother," very proud of his rabbit coat and cap, runs forward throwing his arms about the woman's knees and evidently begging for warmth and shelter. Still in pantomime the mother mournfully shakes her head, and with this Eleanor Meade appears representing a primitive man and carrying a brace of freshly killed game over her shoulder. This he presents to the child and the woman, but both of them shake their heads and a moment later the man drops despairingly down on the frozen ground burying his face in his hands, the child hiding between his parents for warmth. However the woman does not cover her face and by and by, picking up two dry twigs from the ground, she begins in an idle fashion to rub them together. Suddenly there is a tiny spark of light and then darkness. It was a wise selection on the part of the Sunrise club girls to have chosen Polly O'Neill to represent the mother of all the Camp Fire women, for though she had when needful the Irish gift of expression, she had also a face so vivid and so emotional that to Polly's own chagrin it was seldom possible for her to hide from other people what was going on in her mind. Now, however, this characteristic was of excellent service, for there was not a member of her little audience who did not in this instant guess the inspiration that had just been born in the woman. In a seat toward the back of the living room, in as inconspicuous a spot as possible, a fragile looking woman, an unknown member of the small Woodford audience, turned suddenly to the companion beside her, nodding her head quickly. She had a plain, yet remarkably youthful looking face illumined by a pair of wonderful gray eyes with an indescribably wistful and yet understanding expression. And from now on she watched the girl on the stage more attentively. Rising quietly, Polly seemed almost to be holding her breath. Then with eager fingers she can be seen searching along the ground until by and by she has gathered together a few twigs, and now kneeling before them appears to be uttering a silent prayer. A moment later and she picks up her former sticks, again repeating the rubbing of them together. For a while Polly seemed to be unsuccessful in making them ignite, so that in the background and well out of sight the other Camp Fire girls hold their breath with a kind of sick horror, fearing that she is going to fail here and so make a fiasco of the entire scene. But the little waiting has only made the final result more dramatic. There is a tiny flare of light, and then bending over her pile of twigs the woman lights the first Camp Fire. She guards it with her hands until there is a crackle and many spurts of yellow flame and the instant after is across the stage shaking the man by the shoulder and drawing the child toward the blaze. Together then they heap on more fuel until a really splendid fire is a-light. (And for fear any one may think that this fire in the middle of the wooden platform would probably have put an end to Sunrise cabin it must be explained that a sheet of iron had been fastened on the floor that the fire might be built with entire safety.) Like a flame herself the woman then flies from one home duty to the other, making a bed of pine branches for the child near the fire, appearing to roast the game for her husband. Far better by her actions than by any possible words Polly told her story, until the curtain at last goes down on the beginning of the first home with the woman as its genius and inspiration. But before the curtain has finally descended, for a moment Polly's attention, as though drawn by an invisible magnet, centered upon the face of a stranger in the back of the living room beyond the more familiar ranks of her friends; and with a quick intake of her breath and a feeling of thankfulness that her first trial is over and that she is not obliged to speak, the young girl recognizes the famous actress. She is glad then that she had not known of her presence sooner and also that her first appearance before her has been made in pantomime, for she guesses it to be a surer test of dramatic ability than any recitation an untrained girl might be able to repeat. If she had the necessary temperament somehow in the scene just past it must have revealed itself. But now an intermission of twenty minutes passes and the second act represents a scene wholly different from the first, for now the stage is intended to present as nearly as possible the picture of an ideal home. It was difficult to portray, of course, but then the bigger things must always be trusted to the imagination, for this home was not intended to suggest merely a single home but a kind of universal and representative one. There were beautiful pictures in it and soft rugs and many books and windows everywhere, supposedly letting in all the possible sunlight, while over in the corner the solitary pine tree still stood, but now covered with many white candles, although none of them were yet a-light. Then the door opens and the first spirit of the home enters. This is Esther Clark wearing a kind of blue tunic with a silver band about her unloosened red hair. With swift steps and busy fingers she moves about, bringing a bunch of winter roses to a table, putting fresh logs on the fire, drawing chairs nearer to the inspiring blaze, which is now no longer a primitive camp fire but a great, hospitable open hearth. Then Esther goes to the front of the stage and waits there for a moment in silence before beginning her speech, and there are but few persons watching her who have yet guessed what spirit she is illustrating. Esther is awkward and not handsome; nevertheless, because she has a clear and beautiful speaking as well as singing voice she had been chosen for this particular part. Now she is plainly heard throughout the room. "I am Work, the great Mother Spirit of the earth. I have borne many children with a fairer fame, Service, who is my daughter with a gentler name." And here Nan Graham in a yellow costume with her black hair flowing over her shoulders and her dark eyes shining walks forward and takes her place at one end of the stage just a little back of the speaker, followed by Eleanor Meade in a white robe with a wreath of laurel on her head and a scroll in her hand, who is seen by the audience as Esther continues: "Knowledge, who needs no word of mine to prove her worth, Beauty that shall not fade, surely it lives through me In music, books and art, a noble trinity." Then Betty Ashton, whom there is no difficulty in recognizing as the spirit of Beauty, approaches the front of the stage in a dress of some soft silvery material with three stars in her hair and stands beside Eleanor. "And Health and Happiness, would they deny their birth? Then let them seek it in some nobler form than mine, The quest is everlasting but the choice is thine." Sylvia and Beatrice Field then advance together and take their places in the center of the group, Sylvia as Health dressed in the green of the open fields and Beatrice in deep rose color. "Trustworthiness and Sympathy dwell by my hearth With Purity; we are the graces of the home. And yet there is one other fairer still to come Whose handmaids are these spirits named above; To her alone I yield my gracious place, The inspiration of the home--the world--is Love!" While Esther has been finishing her verse, Juliet Field has come forth to portray the spirit of Trustworthiness in a dress of deep violet, carrying a sheath of purple lilies. Meg, with her charming face so full of humor and tenderness, is the embodiment of Sympathy, and Edith Norton as Purity has her long fair hair falling almost down to her knees and wears a dress of the palest green--like Undine when she first comes forth from the sea. And now a crescent has slowly formed about the figure of Esther who is a little in advance of the other girls, but now as she speaks the final word--Love--she steps quietly backward and Mollie O'Neill as the spirit of Love occupies the center of the stage. She has never looked half so lovely in her life as she does to-night. Her gown is of pale pink, she has a wreath of roses in her black hair, her usually too grave expression is illumined by a smile born partly of fear and the rest of pride, which has nothing to do with her own appearance, but is a kind of shadowy pleasure in the beauty and the significance of the tableau surrounding her. From his place behind the curtain Billy Webster wonders how he was ever able even at the beginning of their acquaintance to confuse the twin sisters. Polly in all her existence has never looked so pretty as this and probably never will, and then Billy comes to his senses in a hurry, realizing that it is now his duty to assist in letting the curtain drop on this second scene in the Camp Fire allegory. In the last act the Christmas tree is all a-blaze with pure white candles and silver tinsel and above it is suspended a great silver star, while the girls in their many colored costumes are seen dancing before it. Then at the close of the dance Polly again enters. She is to recite the epilogue, to make plainer the ideals of the Camp Fire. But some change has come over her since the first scene, her color is entirely gone, her eyes are rimmed and, worst of all, she feels that a deadly weight is settling on her chest and that her voice is nowhere to be found. She is having an attack of stage fright, but Polly does not yet know it by that name. The truth is that she has grown desperately tired, the strain and excitement of waiting after the long day's pleasure with the very foolish thought that her fate is probably to be decided by one person's judgment of her abilities has proved too much for her. She tries pulling herself together, she sees many eyes turned up toward her, with one face shining a little farther off like a star. Polly opens her mouth to speak, but there is a great darkness about her, the world is slowly slipping away. She puts out both arms with a pathetic appeal for silence and patience and then suddenly some one is holding her up and the other girls are forming a rainbow circle about her so that she is safely hidden from view. For in a flash Betty Ashton has guessed at Polly's faintness, has signaled her companions and then reached her first, so that the curtain finally fell on perhaps the prettiest scene of all. CHAPTER XIII An Indian Love Song Although Polly O'Neill could never afterwards be persuaded that her failure had not marred the Camp Fire play, nevertheless there were many members of the audience who never realized that anything had gone wrong, so promptly had the other girls acted and so swiftly had the curtain been rung down. And then, within a remarkably short space of time, Esther had reappeared to close the entertainment with her song. The stage had been left as it was in the final act, the piano was already there, and almost immediately the accompanist, Esther's music teacher in the village, seated herself before it. The only delay was of a few minutes, caused by the fact that Esther had insisted on wearing her ordinary clothes. A week before, therefore, Betty had had made for her a simple white dress and this Miss McMurtry very quickly helped her into, braiding her red hair into a kind of crown about her head. Her toilet was of course made in a great hurry, but then Esther was so convinced of her own homeliness that she cared very little except to look neatly and appropriately dressed. Herr Crippen and Esther then walked out on the platform together, the man leading the girl with one hand and carrying his violin with the other, and it was curious the similarity in their coloring. Very little of the Indian idea had the girls thus far brought into their Christmas Camp Fire entertainment, but now Esther's song was to bring with it this suggestion, although it had been chosen chiefly because of its beauty and suitability to Esther's voice. It was, however, a wonderful Indian love song, which Dick had found quite by accident the summer before for his sister's friend. Esther was also dreadfully nervous and frightened at the beginning of her song, but fortunately for her she was thinking more of the music itself than of the effect she was to produce. Nevertheless, it was with sensations of disappointment that the friends, who cared most for her singing, listened to the first verse of her song. Dick Ashton, who had found himself a seat in the back of the room, when he was no longer needed to assist with the management of the curtain, moved impatiently several times, thinking that Betty had probably been making unnecessary sacrifices to cultivate her friend's voice and that they had all probably been mistaken in the degree of Esther's talent. However, Dick changed his mind so soon that he never afterwards remembered this first thought, but sat spellbound with delight, feeling every nerve in his body thrill and quiver with the pathos and loveliness of a voice that was so clear, so true and so sympathetic that not a single member of Esther's audience failed to respond to its beauty. The song had a kind of plaintive cadence and had been arranged either for a tenor or soprano. "Fades the star of morning, west winds gently blow, Soft the pine trees murmur, soft the waters flow. Lift thine eyes, my maiden, to the hill-tops nigh, Night and gloom will vanish when the pale stars die. Lift thine eyes, my maiden, hear thy lover's cry. "From my tent I wander seeking only thee, As the day from darkness comes for stream and tree. Lift thine eyes, my maiden, to the hill-top nigh; Lo! the dawn is breaking, rosy beams the sky. Lift thine eyes, my maiden, hear thy lover's cry. "Lonely is our valley, though the month is May, Come and be my moonlight, I will be thy day. Lift thine eyes, my maiden, oh, behold me nigh; Now the sun is rising, now the shadows fly. Lift thine eyes, my maiden, hear thy lover's cry." Hearing the applause which broke out like a storm at the close of Esther's singing, Betty managed to get away from Polly and to find Esther shivering in the kitchen which opened just off their stage and had been used for the entrance way that evening. But no power or persuasion could have induced Esther to go back upon the stage, not even when Herr Crippen added his entreaties, nor when Dick slipped out into the cold and came around through the back door to congratulate her. If Esther had pleased Betty and Dick and Miss McMurtry, really she cared very little for any one else's criticism. Nevertheless, later that evening, when the company was enjoying a kind of informal reception, she could not refuse to be introduced to the celebrated Miss Margaret Adams, who sent one of the girls especially for her. Esther was awkward and tongue-tied and nervous as usual when the great lady congratulated her, very different from Polly, who when she had recovered from her faintness had come immediately out into the living room and gone straight up to Miss Adams and taken her hand. "If I wasn't so used to failing at most of the important moments of my life, I think I couldn't bear to live after to-night," she said with characteristic Polly exaggeration. Then, with one of the sudden smiles that so transformed her face and made her fascinating both to strangers and friends she added: "But, after all, I have seen _you_ and I am talking to you now, and as that is the most wonderful thing that has ever happened to me, I am going to try and not care about anything else." Then the older woman pressed Polly's hot hand in both of hers, looking keenly into the girl's expressive face. Only she knew how much Polly did care about her failure and also that her suffering had not yet fully begun, because until the excitement of the evening was well over the girl would not fully realize all that she at least believed this failure meant. "Come and see me for half an hour to-morrow, I can judge nothing by to-night. And do please remember, child, that one person's judgment in this world fortunately does not count for much at best. I want to have a little talk with you just because my cousin, whom I love very dearly, has told me so much about you." "And because," Polly added with her lips trembling, "because you are sorry for me. But I don't care so much why you want me, I only know I want to come more than anything in the world." Of course at the close of the Camp Fire play it was then impossible for Miss Adams to escape recognition, so she was evidently tired on her way back home from the cabin and therefore did little talking. However, after the cousins had undressed for the night she called softly into the next room: "My dear Mary, I think your Polly is charming, but I am afraid your little girl has the dream and the temperament and that the other plainer girl has the talent. But, then, who can tell when they are both so young?" CHAPTER XIV Mollie's Confidant Of her visit to Miss Adams, Polly never afterwards spoke, except to Betty and her sister Mollie, asking that they tell Rose Dyer that it was right that she as their guardian should know and promising to write her mother; however, several of the other Camp Fire girls believed that they saw a slight change in Polly dating from her visit. Afterwards she never seemed to give up, at least without some struggle, to her old, utterly unreasonable changes of mood. To Betty and Mollie, however, Polly confessed that, although Miss Adams had been kind beyond her wildest dreams, she had not said that she had seen any evidences of genius or even of marked ability in her interrupted dramatic efforts; although she had suggested that only the most remarkable people the world has ever known have betrayed exceptional gifts at the age of sixteen, that most people only achieve success by endless patience, faith and work and by what sometimes looks at first like failure. She had then told Polly something of her own early struggle, but this Polly of course did not reveal even to her sister and dearest friend. However, to Mollie's relief, she did announce that she meant to spend the next two years in doing everything she could for her health by obeying every single Camp Fire rule, that she meant to learn more self-control, to study harder and also to memorize all the plays and poems that she possibly could. For at the close of her graduation at the High School the wonderful Miss Adams had asked that Polly write her and then if her mother was willing, if Polly was well and of the same desire, she would see that she had an opportunity for the kind of study she would then need should she adopt the stage for her profession. For the truth is that though the great actress had not been particularly impressed by Polly's acting she had discovered two things about her, one that she had the expressive face with quick mobile features and the graceful carriage more to be desired on the stage than either beauty or stateliness and, moreover, like most other people, she had taken a decided fancy to the girl herself. For a few weeks following Polly's famous interview her sister Mollie found herself and Polly farther apart in sympathy than they had ever been before in their lives. Under nearly all other circumstances Mollie had always allowed herself to be influenced by her twin sister's wishes; Polly had always seemed to want things so much harder than other people that she and her mother had usually been willing enough to give in, but now on this question of Polly's going upon the stage after she had finished her education Mollie made up her mind to stand firm in her opposition at every possible opportunity, even if her mother should give in to Polly's persuasion. It was utterly impossible for Mollie O'Neill to understand her twin sister's restlessness and ambition. How could she ever wish to leave her home and mother, to leave _her_, to follow after such a will-o'-the-wisp? It was in vain that Polly explained that it was no lack of affection on her part, that she surely loved her own people as much as they could love her, but that she felt she must see more of the world, live a wider life than Woodford could give her. Mollie was always obdurate. There was only one way by which Polly could silence her twin and that was to inquire if Mollie meant always to stay at home, to remain an old maid? And when Mollie most indignantly denied any such suggestion, Polly would then ask how if she loved them could she make up her mind to go away from home on account of a strange man, and if a career wasn't as good as a husband, until Mollie became too indignant and unhappy for argument and usually by making no further replies carried off the honors of war. If only Mollie could have had another girl to unbosom herself to, but there was no one; Polly had asked her not to discuss her affairs with any one of the Camp Fire girls except Betty Ashton, and Betty openly sympathized with Polly. Having no gifts herself she used to say that all she could do would be to live in the successes of Polly and Esther; although Polly used always to assure her in return that a Princess was above the possession of small abilities like ordinary mortals, and Esther that she never expected to have any success beyond learning to sing well enough to make her own living and perhaps some day to have a position in a Woodford church choir. So Mollie for the month succeeding Christmas kept most of her worry to herself, and to the entire Sunrise Camp Fire club's surprise and consternation grew quite unlike her usually sweet-tempered, happy self. Sometimes she used to insist upon taking the daily exercise prescribed by the Camp Fire rules entirely alone, if she were allowed, in order that she might think up some possible way of influencing Polly to give up her wholly foolish ambition. Since Polly felt that she must do something toward supporting her mother and herself, she should try to learn to be a teacher like Miss McMurtry or Miss Mary Adams. One Saturday afternoon, being particularly low in her mind because Rose Dyer had thought Polly not very well and had suggested that she stay at home and take her walk outside the cabin with the newest Camp Fire girl, Mollie had deliberately stolen off while her friends were getting ready for a hard tramp through the woods. She did not care at the time that their guardian might object to her going off alone. She almost hoped that something might happen to her to make Polly feel uneasy. Since Polly was always making her perfectly miserable why she might as well experience the sensation occasionally herself. So, knowing that the other girls were to strike out through the pine woods, find the road and walk over toward the asylum to escort Esther home (who was now having a weekly music lesson with Herr Crippen), Mollie first walked back of the cabin and then found the road through the Webster farm. She didn't walk very far however. It was perfectly ridiculous of her of course to anticipate trouble, and yet somehow she felt that she and Polly were never going to be just the same that they had been in the past to one another, in some way they would be separated. Suddenly Mollie felt a wave of homesickness, of longing for her mother such as she had not felt since the first few weeks after Mrs. O'Neill's sailing for Ireland the spring before. So quite unmindful of consequences Mollie dropped down on the stump of a tree, deliberately giving herself up to the enjoyment of tears. It was so utterly impossible ever to cry at the cabin. Some one was always about seeing you and besides all the other Camp Fire girls Mollie solemnly believed to have outgrown the foolish weakness of crying, it was so utterly in contradiction to all their training. The tears, however, must have been extremely near the surface, since they dried so instantly, and Mollie jumped to her feet indignantly when a hard ball of snow went whizzing past her ear, almost striking her. A moment later she heard footsteps coming up behind her. "Hope you won't mind my appearing to pay off old scores in this way; I really had no idea of hitting you, but I had to attract your attention in some fashion, so you wouldn't run away from me," said a voice Mollie immediately recognized and a moment later Billy Webster appeared by her side. "Would any one in the world except Miss Polly O'Neill seat herself calmly on a stump in the midst of the winter woods with nothing but snow and ice all about her as if she were in the lap of spring?" he asked. And then, when Mollie made no answer and catching just a side glance at her downcast face, he puckered his lips as though intending to whistle, but better manners prevailing said as sympathetically as he could: "Dear me, Miss Polly, you look as though you were desperately unhappy over something or other. What is it that is troubling you this time?" Mollie was wearing a long brown coat exactly like Polly's red one and her brown tam-o'-shanter she had pulled down as low as possible over her face because of the cold January wind, but now she turned with some indignation toward her companion. "I am not Polly," she announced with a good deal of vexation (the twin sisters never liked being taken for one another). "I am sorry, but I suppose Polly hasn't a monopoly of all the trouble in this world. Or at least she very often passes it on to other people." Instantly Billy's fur cap was off, showing his heavy hair, which was browner than during the months of exposure to the summer sun, but although his face was also less tanned, his eyes were as blue and as full of humor as ever. "It is I who am sorry and glad too, Miss Mollie," he answered as gallantly as possible. "It seems to be my fate everlastingly to put my foot in it with both you and your sister. I could have sworn not long ago that I would never again mistake you for one another and here I am at it again. But you will forgive me this time. You see you don't look quite like yourself to-day; you are so much paler and kind of uncertain looking--and cross. But now I beg the other Miss O'Neill's pardon," and Billy laughed, not so much as though he cared a great deal about having made fun of Polly, but more in order to cheer up Mollie. "Better not let Polly hear you say that," she returned, smiling a little. "You know, like the tiger in 'Little Black Sambo,' she would have to eat you up. But Polly is really a great deal better tempered than I am and sweeter than anything nowadays; ask anybody in camp. It is I who am the cross one. And it is all because I am so unhappy." And then, to Mollie's own surprise and Billy's decided embarrassment, she began crying a great deal harder than before. There was nothing a fellow could do but just to stand there and watch her for a moment and then Billy had a feeble inspiration. He tucked her arm through his comfortingly. "Come, it is getting dark, these days are so dreadfully short. Let me walk on back to the cabin with you." And on the way Mollie discovered herself unexpectedly confiding everything that troubled her about her sister to this comparatively unknown boy friend. Although the Camp Fire girls had seen more of Billy Webster than any one else because of their living so near his father's farm. For the first few minutes Mollie felt she might regret her outburst, but not for long, for to her satisfaction and indeed to her very real consolation, Billy felt exactly as she did about Polly. It was utterly absurd for Polly to talk about going away from Woodford even to study for the stage; she was not strong enough; the life was a perfectly abominable one for a lady, but for a delicate high-strung girl like Polly O'Neill it was worse than absurd; it was wicked! Mollie should write for her mother to come home to prevent Polly's getting the idea more firmly fixed in her mind. Later on it might be more difficult to influence her. Billy Webster fairly spluttered with indignation. His mother was a perfect farmer's wife, devoted to her husband, to her son and a younger daughter, and to the life and work of her farm and very naturally Billy's mother was his ideal. He liked the two O'Neill girls very much, had known of their struggle to get along and of their mother's efforts to give them an education, and believed, like Mollie, that it was ungrateful of Polly to wish to leave her home so soon as she was grown up. Besides he did not like to see Mollie so worried! What a strangely difficult person Polly was! There were times when he felt that he almost hated her and then again she was rather fascinating. "I have got about half as much influence with your sister as that totem pole," he announced, when he had brought Mollie almost back to the Sunrise cabin, "but if there is anything I can ever do to help you make her change her mind, why count on me up to the limit. Don't you think the best thing would be somehow to joke the whole idea out of her? She is just the kind of a person to be more influenced by joking than any real opposition." Mollie bowed her head in entire agreement. "Yes, but what kind of a joke could we ever think up that could have anything to do with Polly's wishing to be an actress and meaning to study several years from now?" she inquired doubtfully. And to do Billy Webster credit he did look considerably confused. "Well, I can't say right off," he confessed, laughing a little at himself, "but if you and I think things over for a week or so, perhaps an inspiration may come to one or the other of us. And in the meantime," he added this rather hastily, "I wouldn't mention to your sister that you have spoken of her plans to me. It is all right though, for I shall never breathe what you have told me to any one." CHAPTER XV A Boomerang Two weeks later Polly received a note at the cabin asking that she come into Woodford on the following Friday afternoon for an interview with a friend of Miss Margaret Adams, who happened by chance to be in Woodford for a few days and wanted an opportunity for talking with her about her future. For whatever resulted from this interview Polly had herself chiefly to blame. She most certainly should never have replied to a note signed by a name which was unfamiliar without consulting the guardian of the Sunrise club. But Polly knew perfectly well that Rose would never have permitted her to have any such conference. She knew also that their guardian and her mother's friend was almost as much opposed as her sister Mollie to her ambition and considered that she was behaving most unwisely in letting her mind dwell on a possibility which in any case was very indefinite and far away. Indeed, Rose had had a quiet talk with Polly asking her not to discuss the subject of the stage with the other girls and to try and give her own energy and attention solely to their Camp Fire work. Polly had agreed and was apparently keeping her promise, since she felt so assured that the Camp Fire ideals must help every woman in whatever work she undertook later in life. Nevertheless, when the first temptation came Polly fell. One night she spent in indecision, wondering why Miss Margaret Adams had not written to her about her friend or why Miss Adams, their elocution teacher, had said nothing. These questions, however, Polly finally answered satisfactorily to herself, since it is usually easy to find answers that accord with one's own desires. By morning she had made up her mind that she would go and see the stranger and have a talk with him, since no harm could come of one small visit. The appointment was to take place at the home of Meg, whose Professor father was one of the most prominent men in the village and Polly was told to bring a chaperon, so from the standpoint of propriety she was committing no offence. She had not seen Meg for a week and so could ask her no questions, and as Betty was the only person who could be relied upon in the emergency, to Betty she confided the whole situation, not in the least asking her advice, since this was not the way with Mistress Polly, but begging Betty to be present with her during the call. If Betty demurred at first, suggesting Miss Dyer, Miss McMurtry, Miss Mary Adams, as more suitable chaperons, she did finally agree. So early on Friday afternoon the two girls started into town in their best clothes, saying that they were going in on an errand. Betty was driving Fire Star and Polly carrying a volume of "Romeo and Juliet" and "Palgrave's Golden Treasury." The note had suggested that since Miss Margaret Adams had had no opportunity to hear Miss O'Neill recite, the writer would be interested to know what she could do. Polly was cold with nervous excitement all the way into town. She was not in the least sure whether she did not dread the coming interview more than anything that had ever happened to her in her life and she also had very uncomfortable twinges of conscience, since this venture of hers had no grown-up sanction. There had been no time as yet to write her mother about it and she had not confided in Mollie, who once had known all her secrets. Indeed, had she not even felt glad that Mollie had decided not to return to the cabin after school that day but to remain in town with a friend, so that no uncomfortable family questions could be raised. By special request Betty was invited not to talk on the journey in, so that Polly could have the opportunity for repeating to herself the poems she had made up her mind to recite and go once more over Juliet's famous lament. The hall at the Professor's was unusually dark when Meg herself, to the girls' delight, opened the front door. Polly was by this time in too agitated a condition to stop for asking questions, but although Betty was not, Meg did not seem willing to answer them. Instead she kept shaking her head and pointing mysteriously toward their drawing room door. "The stranger was already in there, yes, her father knew him, Polly must not mind that the visitor had his wife with him, she was also an actress upon whose judgment he placed the greatest reliance, but the girls were not to do more than bow to her, as it bored her to meet people." If the hall was dark the drawing room was even darker, but then before joining the Camp Fire club Meg had been a proverbially poor housekeeper, so she probably had neglected to open the drawing room shutters and, as it was a dark February afternoon, the light that came through the slats was not sufficient. Betty felt most distinctly that she was not going to enjoy the approaching interview, that there was already something odd and uncomfortable about it, but she had no opportunity for confiding her views and Polly was not in a critical humor. As for the darkness Polly was decidedly grateful for it. If she had to get up and recite before Meg and Betty and the two strangers it would be far easier to be in the half shadow than to have their critical glances full upon her. This drawing room recitation before so small an audience did not appeal to Polly anyhow, certainly it held none of the glamour of the stage, the music, the footlights, the feeling that you were no longer your real self but a performer in some other drama in some different world. Betty sat down at once in a far corner, as she saw no notice was to be taken of her, but Polly felt herself having her hand shaken coldly by a tall, broad-shouldered, middle-aged man wearing glasses, with an iron gray, pointed beard and iron gray hair pulled low down over his forehead. He seemed, however, not to have the least desire for conversation, for waving Polly toward the center of the room, he at once asked her to show what she could do, without introducing his wife nor making the least satisfactory explanation of his own presence in Woodford, his acquaintance with Miss Margaret Adams, nor his right to have solicited this meeting with Polly. However, none of these points weighed upon the girl's mind at the time. The man looked just as she expected an actor-manager might look, and as for his wife, she could see nothing of her but a figure dressed in a long traveling coat and wearing a hat and heavy veil, who had not even deigned to glance in her direction. "What--what shall I begin with?" Polly inquired anxiously. "Miss Adams, our teacher of elocution at the High School, says that young girls should try simple recitations, that it is absurd for us to attempt to reveal the great emotions such as one finds in Shakespeare's plays, or Ibsen's or Maeterlinck's, that we must wait until we know something more of life for them. I did not feel sure what you would think about it, but I know some English poems, very famous and very beautiful, perhaps you would like me to begin with one of them?" There was a slight hesitation in Polly's voice because personally she found the simple poems much more difficult than the big ones and her taste did not incline toward Whitcomb Riley, or Eugene Field, toward any of the simple character work, which would have been the best possible training for her at the present time. But the critic fortunately agreeing with Polly's point of view shook his head gravely over her suggestion of English verses. "No," he said a little pompously, it must be confessed, "try the most difficult thing you know and even if you do not make an entire success of it I will be better able to judge what you can do." The man spoke in a hoarse, strained voice which to Betty's ears sounded forced and peculiar. "Would you--would you think it very foolish if I tried Juliet's speech before she takes the poison?" Polly then asked timidly. "I know I can't do it very well, it is one of the greatest speeches in the whole world of acting, but perhaps for that very reason I like to attempt it." Polly had thrown off her red coat and hat in the hall, but she was wearing her best frock, a simple cashmere made in a single piece, with a crushed velvet belt of a darker shade and a collar and cuffs of real Irish lace which her mother had sent as a Christmas gift from Ireland. Her hair was very dark and her coloring vivid, so perhaps she did not look so utterly unlike the Italian Juliet, whom it is difficult for us to believe was only fourteen at the time of her tragic love story. "Farewell,--and God knows when we shall meet again," Polly began in a far less melodramatic fashion than one might have expected; indeed, Betty thought her voice exquisitely pathetic and appealing and even Meg, who had not the slightest sympathy with Polly's dramatic aspirations, was subtly impressed. "I have a faint cold fear thrills through my veins, That almost freezes up the heat of life. I'll call them back again to comfort me.-- Nurse!--What should she do here? My dismal scene I needs must act alone. Come, phial. What if this mixture do not work at all, Shall I be married, then, to-morrow morning? No, no;--this shall forbid it:--lie thou there--" And here Polly is being carried away by the thrill of her own performance. Almost she believes she beholds a slight suggestion of admiration in the blue eyes of the critic who most assuredly is watching her efforts with a great deal of interest. Unhappily, however, in her preparation for this great occasion, Polly has forgotten the necessary stage equipment and now at this instant remembers that Juliet requires a dagger to make this moment properly realistic. The girl is in a delicious state of excitement. For the time being actually she is feeling herself the terrified and yet superbly courageous Juliet, and there on the parlor table, as though by direct inspiration, is reposing a steel paper cutter of the Professor's. With a quick movement of her hand Polly seizes the desired dagger, but also she seizes something else along with it, for the table cover comes off at the same instant, almost overwhelming Juliet in a rain of papers, ornaments and books. Polly feels as though she would faint with chagrin and mortification, so suddenly and so uncomfortably is she brought back to the hard realities. "I am so dreadfully sorry," she starts to say, but before she has finished, her attention is arrested by the behavior of the mysterious veiled lady. She had given a hysterical giggle, first one, then another, as though she were never going to be able to stop. Meg's face is also crimson with the effort to control her laughter, although she is looking nervously, almost imploringly, toward her strange visitor. The solitary man in the room has simply turned his back upon the whole situation and is gazing steadfastly at the closed windows. Polly thinks perhaps she is losing her senses, for there had been something familiar in that excited laughter which is now turning almost into a sob, and yet of course the idea was ridiculous. Polly then turned entreatingly toward Betty Ashton as her one sure rock of salvation in a vanishing world, and Betty never forgot the expression in her friend's eyes, the look of wounded dignity, of disappointed affection, of almost resentful disbelief. For in Betty's returning glance she found a confirmation of her worst fears. The truth of the matter was that Betty had been suspicious of the little group of spectators of her friend's recitation almost as soon as Polly began her speech. She was not under the pressure of so much excitement and had time and opportunity to look about and examine people and things more closely. The woman in the long cloak--evidently her clothes were of the ready-made variety, for they certainly did not fit. Also she seemed very slender for a full grown woman, and in spite of her intention to remain unobserved was curiously nervous. And the man? He was trying to keep his face in the shadow, but from Betty's point of observation a ray of afternoon sunlight fell directly across his face. The line where his beard began was extremely distinct and his cheeks above it brown and boyish. Besides, though he did wear glasses, his eyes showed fear, amusement and Polly was right in a way, for they did show a certain amount of admiration, although they were certainly never the eyes of a censorious dramatic critic. For several moments Betty had been longing to interrupt Polly's speech-making but had not known exactly how, and indeed had hardly dared. Perhaps if she could get Polly away before she ever found things out it would be best. Polly's temper was never very good, and this would hurt her in all the ways in which she was most sensitive. The girl's face was white as chalk as she now ceased gazing at Betty and walked quietly across the room toward the supposedly strange woman who had risen at her approach and was trembling violently. "It is a joke, Polly, don't be angry; we thought if you could just see how silly play acting seemed to other people you would give it up," the voice shook a little. For Polly was ominously pale and quiet as she gently untied the veil and lifted off the stranger's hat. "So you wanted to see how much of a fool you could make of me, didn't you, Mollie? Well, you have succeeded splendidly, dear; I can't imagine how you could have had any greater success!" And Polly shut her lips tight together and clenched her hands. If only Betty and Meg and Mollie knew how furiously, suffocatingly angry she was they would probably be afraid to have anything to do with her. But Meg was approaching her with her usually happy face somewhat clouded. "I am afraid you must think pretty poorly of us all, Polly, really it just looked funny to us at first, we only meant to tease you. But now, while I am willing to confess, it does seem rather hateful of us and I want to apologize to you for my part in this whole proceeding." Still Polly made no answer, only when Mollie rather timidly put her arms about her saying: "Please do, Polly dear, forgive us and don't take the whole thing so seriously, you are fond enough of a joke yourself," she quietly pushed Mollie aside and turned toward Betty. "Please take me home then, Betty, for I am afraid I have furnished all the amusement this afternoon that I feel equal to." But when Betty's arms went about her, Polly trembled so violently that she had to hide her head on her friend's shoulder and just for an instant a choked sob shook her. Both girls, however, were moving toward the closed drawing room door, but before they could leave the room a tall form barred their way. "You can't go until I have spoken to you," Billy Webster said almost rudely in his determination to be obeyed. He had taken off his beard, wig and glasses and his face showed almost as white as Polly's. But Polly looked directly at him with eyes that apparently did not see him. "I never wish to have to speak to you again so long as I live, Mr. Webster," she said quietly, "And you can be quite happy, because whatever old scores you may think you owe me, you have paid me back this afternoon with interest." CHAPTER XVI The Apology "But--but I didn't do it in that spirit in the least, Miss Polly," the young man pleaded, still refusing to let the girls pass him unless they actually forced their way. "It was all a joke, a horribly poor one, I agree with Miss Meg. But it began by accident and then grew until none of us realized how foolish and worse than that it was. Oh, if you only knew what it is like to feel like a cad and to hate yourself through and through and yet to know that whatever you do you can never change things! We never dreamed you would take it all so seriously or be so completely deceived. We thought you would see through us pretty soon and then scold for a while and afterwards laugh along with the rest of us." "But Polly's ambition is not a joke to her," Betty returned, seeing that Polly either couldn't or wouldn't speak. "She takes it as seriously as you can take the most serious ambition of your life. And to come here and do her best in order that all of you might make fun of her, really it is so cruel and in such bad taste I don't feel I can like any of you for a long time, not even Meg and Mollie." Betty's gray eyes were so full of high-bred reproach, her face betrayed such a spiritual distaste that, if Billy Webster could have felt more humbled, which was quite impossible, he would have at this moment. "But I was not making fun, at least not after Miss Polly began her recitation," he returned. "I thought it quite remarkable and I would have given a very great deal if that accident had not happened so that I might have heard her straight through. I confess I don't approve of well-bred girls even thinking of going on the stage, and I do sincerely hope Miss Polly will give up the idea before she is much older, but if it's a question of talent, well, I don't think there can be much doubt of her having talent enough." Billy said this so earnestly and with such evident sincerity that at any other time it might have slightly appeased Polly. Now, however, her feelings were too badly wounded for any outside balm. Mollie was crying, so that she could hardly do or say anything, but Meg walked quietly up to Billy Webster, taking him by the sleeve. "Let the girls go now, Billy, please. It is not the time to detain them. Perhaps when Polly has thought things over a little she will realize we did not intend to wound her so deeply and will remember that she has probably made mistakes with people sometimes herself. I expect Mollie had better stay all night with me so that she won't have to discuss this question any more to-night." And at this Polly and Betty both looking a little relieved retired into the hall, where they found their coats and hats and put them on with Meg's assistance, saying good-bye to her politely enough as they started toward home. It was not necessary, however, for Polly to have to ask Betty not to talk to her on their way to the cabin, for Betty's gift of sympathy and understanding was one of her surest charms. She even explained to Rose and the other girls on their arrival that Polly had developed a headache on the trip back from town and asked to be left alone for the rest of the evening to sleep it off. However, when supper was over, by Polly's request, she asked that Rose would give her a few quiet moments and in those moments she made her friend's and her own confessions. Rose was not quite so angry, or so wholly on Polly's side, as Betty believed she should be. For in the first place Miss Dyer was vexed with the two girls for not having told her of their intentions and suggested that their interview having developed into a joke was perhaps the best way out of it. It was rather an unkind joke, but then Polly took herself far too seriously and in her heart of hearts Rose hoped the young lady might learn a useful lesson through her uncomfortable experience. And in a measure Rose's wish was gratified, for Polly did not soon recover from her hurt and shame and did not refer again either to Miss Adams or her own future ambition. Apparently, so far as any one knew, she had given up all thought of it, for she settled down more seriously to the work of the Camp Fire, gaining each month additional honors, and was also working to acquire a prize at school. Of course she had to forgive Mollie her part in her discomfiture; Mollie was so truly repentant once she discovered how deep was her sister's hurt and Polly with all her faults was not one to cherish anger. Then by and by she also made up with Meg, though it was a good many years before she had exactly the same intimate feeling with her as she had with the other Camp Fire girls. In future years it was always Mollie and Meg who were particularly intimate. But there was one person whom Polly could not bring herself to pardon. For the rest of that winter she never again spoke to Billy Webster. He and Mollie remained good friends and sometimes with another girl used to take walks together, so that Polly saw him now and then at the cabin and oftentimes when she was walking or driving through his father's woods. However, though he never failed to raise his hat to her, she always behaved as though he were made of thin air and so impossible for her to behold. However, Polly had not given up her ambition in spite of her altered behavior. Nevertheless, the shock to her pride had, though she did not herself realize it, been extremely good for her, making her realize how silly her pretensions must seem to other people. And so through this, and by watching Esther Clark go quietly ahead with her music, working steadily without asking either for reward or admiration, she learned several valuable lessons. Besides, Polly was so truly happy in the thought that her beloved mother was to return home early in the spring. Mrs. O'Neill had written her daughters that she was coming home in April and that she had a wonderful secret to tell them which she hoped they would rejoice in for her sake. She also said that an old Irish uncle had died during her stay abroad and had left to Mollie and Polly a legacy of two thousand dollars each, so that they need have no worry about their education. If it were possible Mrs. O'Neill hoped to see Mrs. Ashton before coming back to America, so that she could bring Betty and Dick a better report of their father's exact condition than letters had yet been able to give them. CHAPTER XVII General News The final winter months passed peacefully and fairly uneventfully at the Sunrise cabin, with the girls following a regular routine of school and Camp Fire work and receiving new honors at each monthly meeting of their Council Fire. So far Esther Clark, Mollie O'Neill and, strangely enough, Nan Graham, had earned the greatest number of honor beads, for since Nan's unpleasant day at home a new incentive seemed to have been added to her first ambition to make herself an attractive and capable woman. What this incentive was she confided only to her two most admired friends, Rose Dyer and Polly, but by a Polly channel the news also reached Betty Ashton's ears. Nan's former good-for-nothing brother, Anthony, had disappeared, but had written his sister two letters declaring that he was hard at work, keeping straight, and, though he did not wish anyone to know where he was, some day when he could feel that Nan might be proud instead of ashamed of him, meant to come home. In the meantime he urged Nan to stick close to her Camp Fire friends and to work. Therefore there was only one Wood Gatherer now within the Sunrise club circle and this the small Abbie, whom Dr. Barton and Sylvia had introduced with such an amazing lack of tact on Christmas eve. For several weeks after her arrival the girls had simply permitted her to live on at the cabin enjoying their outdoor life, their healthy diet and watching the faint roses bloom in her cheeks but without the faintest idea of ever asking her to become a member of the Sunrise club. In the first place the child was too impossibly young, a bare thirteen, when most of the other girls were now approaching seventeen and grown-up-ness, and it was an unwritten Camp Fire law that the girls in a single group should be as nearly as possible of the same age. If Abbie had only been as old as her years, but she was not even that, and yet somehow this very babyishness and oddity finally won her admittance to the magic circle paradoxical as it may seem. Perchance the club may have needed a baby now that "Little Brother" had returned, to live in his own home, anyhow, Abbie, almost before any one was aware of it, was occupying this position. Before her arrival Sylvia Wharton had been the youngest member of the Sunrise club, but there had never been anything particularly youthful or clinging about Sylvia; indeed, she had been about the most independent and self-reliant of the girls and therefore she found it very difficult to understand her own special protégé. Abbie's name wasn't Abbie at all, but Abigail Faith Abbott, and once the romantic Polly made this discovery, Faith the little girl became to the entire club. Faith had lived a curiously solitary life apart from all other children. It was true her mother kept boarders in a downtown house in old Boston that had once belonged to her great-grandfather, but Faith had been kept away from them as much as possible and because of her ill health had never been allowed to go to school. It was because of her many illnesses that young Dr. Barton took an interest in the child. Her father was dead and her mother too busy with many cares to see much of her, so most of the young girl's life had been spent in a small room at the top of an old house, which had an ever-closed window through which she could look out upon miles of chimney tops with every now and then a more aspiring steeple. So was it much of a wonder that the little lonely girl lived with fancies instead of realities and that as a result of all these things she now looked as though a harsh New Hampshire wind might easily blow her away? The children Faith had played with had never been real children at all, but two little spirit sisters whom she had imaged in her own mind for so long now that she could not remember when first she had thought of them. Nevertheless, it was with them that she constantly played and, if left alone, occasionally she spoke to them aloud. Of course Faith was old enough now to understand the absurdity of this and had made up her mind never to betray herself at the cabin. Yet within a short time after her arrival and because of her dreadful homesickness, Miss Dyer made the discovery. Unfortunately Sylvia, who had taken the little visitor's physical training sternly in hand, also found out the fancy. Faith did not go into town to school with the other girls, for by the doctor's and Sylvia's advice she was to spend all her time outdoors on the cabin front porch wrapped up in rugs. It was rather cold and dull with only the Sunrise Hill before her, the now frozen lake, where the girls skated in the late afternoons, and the long, dark avenue of pines. However, in the beginning of her experience Faith confessed to herself that she liked the loneliness far better than so many and such amazingly enterprising girls. With an almost desperate shyness she clung to Rose Dyer as the one grown-up person who faintly suggested her own mother and to Sylvia's ministrations she yielded herself without protesting, but for some weeks she never spoke one word to any of the older girls except in answering a question addressed to her. Indeed, when evening came and the others gathered about their log fire to talk, the little stranger used to slip away to be cuddled like a baby in old Mammy's arms until Sylvia, who wished her to retire an hour before any one else and have a special late supper of milk and eggs, would come and bear her off to be put to bed. One morning Rose had been feeling worried at having been compelled to leave Faith so long outdoors alone without even going to the door to speak to her. The guardian's hands had been unusually full that morning with Mammy, who ordinarily helped a little with the work while the girls were away, laid up with rheumatism. Also Rose knew that Max, the big St. Bernard dog who had arrived almost at the same time with Faith, spent most of his time with the little girl, and so she let the whole matter slip her mind until it was time to carry out her midday lunch. Then she smiled a little ruefully as she paused for a moment before opening the front door, wondering if Dr. Barton could guess just how much this child had added to her responsibilities and whether he would care seriously if he did. With his own devotion to looking after the sick (really he seemed totally indifferent to people who were well) doubtless he would take everything as a matter of course. In his visits to the cabin since Christmas certainly nothing more had been said on the subject. Rose laughed and then sighed, pausing with the door to the porch half open and listening. Faith was evidently not alone, for she could distinctly hear her talking to some one although unable to catch any answers. "I think perhaps I can keep on bearing it, Anastasia," Faith said in a voice that was only fairly brave, "if only you will stay with me and not let all those strange girls drive you and Gloria away. When they talk so much it seems as though I can't remember you and it makes me want to go _home_." Her voice broke and Rose peering out was deeply mystified. The little half-sick girl was plainly alone and plainly dreadfully homesick, but with whom could she be talking? "I don't mind the Rose one so much, Gloria," she continued, "but Dr. Ned said she was as nice as my mother, even nicer I believe he thought her. Yet he does not even look at her and hardly speaks to her when he comes to visit me." And here Faith dropped her pale face into her small gloved hands and began to cry just as Rose appeared with her lunch. Nevertheless, by the exercise of as much tact and patience as Miss Dyer had ever used in her society days to charm the coldest and most obdurate of her critics, finally she managed to persuade Faith to explain to her with whom she had been talking and just who were the mysterious persons Gloria and Anastasia. Of course, with many blushes Faith made her confession, understanding that she was now far too old for any such fanciful nonsense. Yet she did tell Rose with a good deal of pleasure toward the last that the two names represented two older sisters with whom she had been pretending to play ever since she was a baby and who were really dearer to her and more actual than real people. Naturally the new Camp Fire guardian was puzzled over this wholly new problem, with a so much younger girl, and after thinking it over for a long time made up her mind to consult with Dr. Barton. For if ever the little girl were to recover her normal health under their Camp Fire rules she must certainly put away her morbid fancies. But the consultation gave the new guardian no satisfaction, appearing to estrange her more than ever from the young physician. For he and Rose disagreed about the method of Faith's cure completely and it was ever the young man's obstinacy that Rose had found it hardest to forgive. Actually Dr. Barton had the stupidity to lecture Faith about her cherished secret and even to betray her to Sylvia, who tried reasoning with her every night while putting her to bed. Fortunately, however, Rose Dyer had not had a colored Mammy for nothing, having grown up on splendid fairy and folk-lore stories, so that by degrees she managed to interest little Faith in the things outside her own mind, in real Camp Fire games and work, and finally in the girls themselves, until, growing less afraid, Faith found Mollie, Polly and Betty better substitutes than the sisters of her dreams. And by and by through their guardian's advice the little girl was permitted to enter the Sunrise club as a Wood Gatherer. There she grew to be more and more faithful to its rules and ideals, until after a while her too vivid imagination seemed to be fairly well under her control. If later in life, however, her fancy was to lead her into strange experiences, soon no one would have guessed it, for March found Faith stronger than ever before in her life and utterly attached to Rose Dyer. Still looking like our little golden haired Christmas angel, Polly once remarked, but like the angel after she had eaten the Christmas dinner. Nevertheless, though Sylvia fully understood that all Faith's devotion was now bestowed on their Camp Fire guardian, now and then she used to wonder why Faith did not show any liking for her. Certainly she had given her the tenderest physical care, making her follow faithfully every Camp Fire health rule, live outdoors, sleep and eat all she should. It was also puzzling to Sylvia, just as it has often been to older persons, why after a few weeks every girl in the Sunrise camp seemed to feel a special affection for little Faith. She never appeared to do anything to try to deserve it, except to be pretty and have curly light hair, big gentle, blue eyes and a timid and appealing manner, while Sylvia, who spent most of her time making herself as useful as possible to her friends, was not particularly loved, not even by Polly. And for Polly O'Neill, Sylvia Wharton's devotion has never for a single instant wavered and never will, even when the future puts it to many difficult tests. For faithfulness to an idea, a conviction or a person will ever be Sylvia's predominant trait of character, and while it may not make her appear on the surface as loving or lovable as some of her companions, it would be well if she could now know that it will be to her the other girls will always turn in after years when they stand in need of sensible advice or even of real practical assistance. And this was to be particularly true of Polly O'Neill in her not very peaceful life, so it was unfortunate that poor Sylvia had now to fight down many pangs of foolish jealousy through seeing that Polly as well as the other girls made a special pet and plaything of the newest comer. But if Faith had unconsciously made Sylvia suffer now and then, she also accomplished another result. Just at first Betty Ashton had imagined that there might be some unknown bond of interest between Rose Dyer and young Dr. Barton, cemented before Rose's entrance into their club as guardian. But now she gave up the impression, believing thoroughly that Rose found the cold, puritanical young man actually distasteful in spite of his many acts of kindness to the Sunrise Camp Fire girls. CHAPTER XVIII Donna and Her Don However, if none of the Camp Fire girls thought of a possible romance between their new guardian and the young physician, now established as the regular visiting doctor at the Sunrise cabin, when the month of March was passing and the New Hampshire snows beginning to show every now and then a tendency toward melting, indicating the return of the ever romantic spring, there was a good deal of carefully whispered discussion about the chief Camp Fire guardian, Miss Martha McMurtry. Their guardian of the preceding summer liked best that the girls should call her by her Camp Fire title, "The Madonna of the Hill," shortened for use into the Italian "Donna." In the first weeks at camp the summer before, Miss McMurtry had seemed to some of the Camp Fire girls a sort of heaven-appointed old maid, a regular born and bred one. As she had lived and worked through the outdoor months with such a variety of girls, gradually this old-maidish appearance had worn off, until now there were actually self-evident reasons for believing that Donna had a real _bona fide_ admirer in the person of the poor German gentleman who had rescued Betty and Esther on that memorable December evening in the snow and, through their acquaintance, had since come to know every member of the club. It is but natural to suppose that the first breath of this suggestion may have been introduced by Esther Clark, since she had best opportunities for making observations. Yet actually it was Betty Ashton who first whispered it to Esther, next to Polly, and afterward it traveled very naturally about the select Camp Fire circle. Esther had been continuing her lessons with the German professor once every week since before Christmas. Not that he was a singing master, but he proved to be a thoroughly trained musician who understood the piano almost as well as the violin, so that he was able to give Esther splendid assistance with her piano training so necessary to the singing later on. And this he insisted on doing without payment in spite of his poverty, showing a very decided interest in Esther's possible future. In spite of her own seriously reduced income, however, Betty had at first suggested that she be allowed to contribute a small sum for the lessons, but Esther had positively refused to accept anything more than her singing lessons from her friend. She explained that Herr Crippen said she rendered him sufficient aid in his other work to pay for what he was doing for her, and closing with the more truthful statement that, for a reason which he could not now set forth, he felt particularly hopeful for _das gnädige Fräulein_. And yet notwithstanding the fact that Betty was extremely grateful to him for his kindness to Esther, from their first acquaintance she had never been able to resist the inclination to make fun of the poor gentleman on every possible occasion, in the face of Esther's open protests, that is, when it could be done without hurting his feelings. Under most circumstances Esther felt that Betty could do no wrong, but her jokes at the Herr Professor's expense made Esther suffer a variety of emotions which she could not exactly explain even to herself. The poor man was so shabby and shy, such an apparent failure in life, without money, position, friends or family, none of the things which Betty still considered absolutely essential. Though she never thought she had betrayed herself, in a way it is just possible that Herr Crippen was all that winter guessing what was going on in regard to him in the back of Betty Ashton's mind. He had a pleading, almost apologetic expression as he gazed into her lovely face as though vaguely asking her not to be too hard in her judgment and to be kind to him if she could. Once or twice it is just possible that he asked Miss McMurtry questions about her in his semi-weekly visits to the older Camp Fire guardian, but of this Betty of course had no knowledge. It was on one Saturday night, when Miss McMurtry happened to be staying at the cabin to afford Rose Dyer a holiday in town, that Betty's suspicions of a possible romance were first aroused. Promptly at eight o'clock that evening the Herr Professor, dressed in his best clothes, made his appearance at the front door, wearing a large clean collar considerably frayed at the ends and a flowing black silk necktie. By chance there happened to be but a few of the Sunrise girls at home that evening, for Mollie O'Neill was staying all night with Meg, Eleanor Meade was to remain over Sunday with her mother and Nan had gone home to take her father to church the next day as he had solemnly promised to be her companion. So as Edith had not come out for her regular week-end visit there were only the five girls in camp. However, Sylvia was so busily engaged in seeing Faith to bed that when the Professor arrived there were only Betty, Polly and Esther about to be in the way. Yet half an hour or so after his arrival and in the midst of quite an interesting general conversation Herr Crippen, seeming to be overwhelmed with emotion, suddenly asked Miss McMurtry to take a walk outside with him and this when it was not even a particularly warm or agreeable late March evening. Betty was a little vexed, for they had just been talking of the old-time history of Woodford, of the names of some of the old families in the town and the immediate neighborhood. This was always a subject of keen interest to Betty, as her own family, the Ashtons, had been among the first settlers in the village and through each generation had furnished some of its most distinguished men and women. Indeed, it was Betty's grandfather who had built the orphan asylum where Esther had lived as a child. Consequently, she felt an interest in it for her own as well as Esther's sake when Herr Crippen asked Miss McMurtry if she had not once taught some of the children at the asylum as a kind of practice work before graduating at the Normal School. And directly after this question when Miss McMurtry had quietly answered, "yes," she and her Professor had disappeared out into the moonlight. Then immediately after this, Esther had slipped over to the piano and presently begun playing over a new Camp Fire song, which Frank Wharton had just sent his sister from headquarters in New York, hearing that the girls were particularly anxious for the latest Camp Fire music. Polly, who had been rather annoyed at the interruption of a visitor, returned once more to the reading of her book, so that it was left to Betty, who was in an idle mood, to wander over casually to the window and there, without the least intention of spying, behold what certainly looked like a very interesting scene. Instead of walking up and down outside as the Professor had suggested, Herr Crippen's hands were clasped imploringly together and his face wore a strangely beseeching expression. Indeed, if Betty had been near enough she might have seen actual tears in his eyes as there had been on the Christmas eve when he had his conversation with Esther. The very next instant Betty had of course turned hurriedly away, feeling ashamed of herself for having even innocently seen what was so plainly not intended for her eyes. And yet at the same moment she could not restrain a giggle, a giggle which grew later on into a confession of what she had witnessed. Still as she explained it was merely a suspicion, nothing more, for Betty had not seen how Donna had received the Professor's suit nor did she really know what kind of a question he had asked. However, when a few days later Miss McMurtry actually asked for a leave of absence from school in order to have a quiet talk alone with Rose Dyer at the cabin, what had been an idle suspicion now looked as though it might be a reality. Notwithstanding, the girls had to suffer for some time with ungratified curiosity, since Rose made no mention even of having had an unexpected visit from the older woman. Indeed, she tried to go about her regular Camp Fire work from day to day as though nothing had happened, as though there were nothing of special interest or importance on her mind, but this she did not quite succeed in doing, at least not to the watchful eyes of Betty, Esther and Polly, who were the most interested of the girls. For Rose's face, when she supposed that no one was looking, wore an expression of surprise, of uncertainty and even of worry and uneasiness. It was odd, Betty thought, why Rose should take Miss McMurtry's love affair so seriously and what could there be in it to trouble over, anyhow? Either Miss Martha did or did not care for the funny old German who must have been fifteen years her senior, and who certainly was not a desirable catch from a worldly point of view. It never occurred to Betty that there could be any possibility of love not running smoothly with two such elderly persons. However, as Rose made no confidences, after a week had passed the whole subject vanished into the background of everybody's minds and most of the girls believed that the whole idea had been a mistaken one from the beginning. And then one afternoon in the early part of April, Rose called Betty aside and asked her if on the following afternoon she and Esther could meet Miss McMurtry, Herr Crippen and herself in the drawing room at the Ashton house in Woodford. There was a question which had to be discussed and it was not possible to have any privacy at the cabin. Miss Dyer's own house was closed, but a caretaker had been left in charge of the Ashton home, as it was too beautiful a place to remain for so many months unguarded. CHAPTER XIX Memories Betty arrived at her home before her visitors. Esther was engaged for another half hour with a music lesson and besides Betty wished to see that the house was in order for her visitors. It was a curious sensation to come home alone and to wander from one end of the big house to the other, hearing only the sound of her own footsteps, for Mrs. Mitchell, the caretaker, was in the kitchen preparing afternoon tea to be served the guests a little later, while her husband was working in the yard. Betty had an uncomfortable feeling of desolation, as though she were a kind of a ghost. First she went straight to her mother's room, but there the pictures were covered with sheets, the mattress rolled up, the curtains down, and the tables and mantel so bare of ornament that Betty hurried away to her own blue sitting room across the hall. Would her father and mother never be back? Surely they would both be returning in the early summer when the weather would be less severe upon her father's health and the great house would be reopened as it had always been. At the cabin with the other girls the time had not seemed so long to Betty, nearly ten months now since their sailing, but here at home why it seemed that years might have passed. A sudden fear clutched the girl's heart--would things ever be quite the same again; did life ever repeat itself in exactly the same old way? And yet Betty had no regrets, only pleasure, that she had been the moving spirit in the first organization of the Sunrise Camp Fire club. How much they had learned in their summer and winter together! And though she might count herself as having learned least of all, yet surely she would never be quite so spoiled and selfish as on that May day when she had accidentally discovered Esther Clark singing the Camp Fire hymn in their formerly deserted back room. When her mother returned she would relieve her by taking the care of the housekeeping upon her own shoulders and certainly she would be able to cut down expenses. Now that her father's income was so reduced, this would be a great assistance to him, as Mrs. Ashton had no idea of possible household economies. Betty smiled, not in the least mournfully. There was no thought of any real poverty to be grappled with in her mind. She was only considering in what an unexpected fashion she was going to be able to show to her mother and father the benefits of her Camp Fire training, for which she had plead so earnestly not quite a year before. The young girl was in her own room at the time of these reflections, seated in her own blue rocking chair with her feet tucked up under her and her chin resting in her hand, looking out her open window at the desolate garden, for this April afternoon was just as cold and uninspiring as that other May afternoon, and there was also no fire in her grate, although downstairs a big blaze had been lighted for the expected company. That Betty had changed in the past year, her parents would be able to see readily. Really she was prettier than ever; from her outdoor life the color in her cheeks was deeper, her lips a more vivid scarlet and the selfish, sometimes discontented lines about her mouth and forehead had wholly disappeared. Now thinking of her parents return, of how she would be able to prove her love for them by greater devotion to her father in his ill-health; that perhaps he would even teach her something of his business cares and responsibilities since Dick would be so long away completing his medical studies, her expression was very thoughtful and charming and her gray eyes unusually serious. Yet the next instant with a gay laugh Betty jumped to her feet. "My goodness, I must hurry downstairs and see how the drawing room looks!" she exclaimed aloud. "I have been forgetting what an interesting interview we are going to have this afternoon! Dear me, I wonder what the trouble is and why Esther and I should be privileged to attend this romantic meeting? Perhaps there is going to be some kind of marriage contract, arranged in German fashion, and Esther, Rose and I are wanted as witnesses. It matters not just so I am allowed in the secret." And Betty started running down the hall. However, before arriving at the front steps a moment's hesitation overtook her and she paused. The next second she had gone to the end of the passage and stood with her hand on the door-knob of the very room where she had once surprised Esther. But to-day she could hear no sounds of singing on the inside. "I am going to peep into Esther's old room; I wonder if she will wish this same one when she comes back to live with us again. Somehow it must affect me like the locked chamber did Bluebeard's wife; there isn't the least reason why I should be peering into this empty place to-day." The door opened quickly and Betty gave a sudden scream of terror. The room was not unoccupied, some one was kneeling over in a corner by a closed window. The figure rose slowly to its feet. "I am sorry, Betty, I didn't mean to frighten you. Really, dear, I didn't dream of your coming in here." It was Esther Clark. In the half light Betty was now able to distinguish her perfectly. Esther's face was extremely white, there were tears in her large pale blue eyes and her lids were red and swollen. Her big hands worked nervously as they had on that former occasion when Betty had thought her so plain and unattractive looking. "Oh, it's you, Esther," Betty exclaimed in relieved tones. "Gracious, how you startled me! But I thought you were taking your music lesson. What in the world is troubling you, child, and how did you get into this house and upstairs without my knowing?" "I came in through the kitchen and crept upstairs as quietly as possible, since I wanted to be alone here for a few minutes," Esther explained. "Will you please leave me for a little while?" "Most certainly not," returned Betty in her most autocratic tones. "If you have anything on your mind that is worrying you, come on downstairs and tell me what it is. You have a dreadful tiresome fashion, Esther, of just hugging your grievances to yourself, when if you just told outright what they were, there would probably be nothing for you to fret about." Betty was annoyed and her tone was far more irritable than usual. Nevertheless, Esther crossed the short space between them and taking Betty's lovely face between her hands kissed her two or three times in succession. "Do as I tell you, Princess, please," she spoke in unusual tones of authority. "I will join you downstairs in a very little while, but I must get back my self-control first." So there seemed to be nothing left for Betty but obedience, so plainly did Esther appear to know what she wanted. Very slowly the younger girl walked down to the drawing room. "Esther did find it difficult to confide things to people, but usually she was willing to tell them to her," Betty thought. "Well, perhaps her shyness and reticence came from having been raised in an orphan asylum where no one was really deeply interested in her or her personal affairs. Nothing very serious could have happened, however, since Esther had left school only about an hour before." In the drawing room everything was far more cheerful, the fire was burning, the window blinds were drawn up, the grand piano was open and on it rested a vase of white roses. It was perfectly impossible for Betty Ashton to learn to be economical all at once, and with the thought of a possible betrothal in the house that afternoon she had stopped at a florist's and brought the flowers in with her. Now she could not help feeling a little glow of pride over the beauty of their old drawing room, especially noticeable after the simplicity of the living room at the cabin. Feeling rather nervous over the idea that Esther might probably be continuing with her crying upstairs and so unable to take part in the coming interview, Betty walked slowly around the great room studying the portraits of her ancestors,--a favorite amusement with her so long as she could remember. They were stern persons most of them. Betty did not believe that she could ever have such strict views of the difference between right and wrong, be so harsh in her judgments as they had been, but then the world had moved on to a wider vision since those days. One of her great, great uncles had assisted in the burning of witches. Betty turned from this self-righteous looking portrait to the picture of the aunt whom she had always believed herself to resemble, the young woman in the white dress with the big picture hat, then the girl smiled at her own vanity. How absurd to think that she could look like any one so lovely! And yet here was the auburn hair, only a shade more golden than her own, big eyes that were blue instead of gray and a kind of proud fashion of tilting her chin. Very probably Betty had always held her own head in this fashion because she had always so wished to be thought like this special great aunt. "Well, it was a good thing to feel a certain pride of ancestry," the young girl thought, "in spite of all of Polly's teasing. Surely the possession of a great name ought to keep one away from littleness or meanness, make one strive to fill an honorable position in the world. If she had not the ability to be a great woman certainly she intended to be a good one. And then the recollection of Esther came to her again. Poor Esther, who had not even a name of her own! For this very reason had she not always been more ambitious for her friend than Esther had seemed for herself? If she had no position, no money and no family, Esther did have a real talent and must make a place for herself some day." But there sounded the first ring at the door bell! Let one hope it was not Herr Crippen arriving first, since, with Esther still upstairs, how could she ever hope to keep him entertained until the arrival of the others? But probably the elderly violinist had never seen anything quite so handsome as their drawing room. Betty had the grace to laugh and then blush over her own foolishness, snobbishness Polly might call it. What did she know of Herr Crippen, his past, what he had seen, where he had traveled in the forty-five years or more of his life? With a smile of welcome and her hand extended Betty then moved forward toward the door to receive her first guest. CHAPTER XX The Explanation However, it only turned out to be Rose Dyer, looking unusually flushed and excited, who kissed Betty rather tremulously and then sat down as though she were out of breath. "I was afraid I would be late," was her explanation. An instant later there was another ring at the bell and on this second occasion Miss McMurtry and Herr Crippen entered together. Betty considered that Miss McMurtry looked a little bit agitated, but not remarkably so, just enough if she were really about to announce her engagement. But Herr Crippen, unhappy man, was this the way that love affected the emotional German temperament? His face, which was ordinarily pale enough, was to-day like chalk, his red hair was moist upon his high forehead and his big hands cold as he shook hands with his hostess. Then the little company arranged themselves in chairs before the glowing fire and remained perfectly silent. Why on earth didn't some one speak? It was her own home, and Betty felt that upon herself devolved the duties of a hostess and yet so plainly in the present instance did it seem to be her place to say nothing until her older guests offered some explanation for their presence. "Where is Esther?" Miss McMurtry finally asked, and feeling grateful at having something to do which permitted even an instant's escape from the frozen stillness of the room, Betty jumped up, announcing hurriedly: "I will get her myself; Esther isn't feeling very well or she would have been down before. She is upstairs in her own room." Then before she could get away there was an unmistakable sound of some one approaching and the next moment Esther Clark joined her friends. She had washed her face and smoothed her hair, but there were still plain traces of recent tears about her and yet no one of the company appeared surprised. When Betty had taken her place before the fire again Esther sat down on a stool near her and, not seeming to care in the least about the near presence of other people, took one of Betty's hands in hers as though she were clinging to it for encouragement and support. "Will you please tell the whole story as slowly and as clearly as you can, Herr Crippen?" Esther then asked. "Miss McMurtry and Miss Dyer both understand about it in a measure, but it will be an entire surprise to Miss Ashton." In utter amazement Betty, entirely forgetting her manners, now proceeded to stare from one face to the other of her guests. Was this the way to announce a betrothal, and besides what could Esther know of the relation between her music teacher and their first Camp Fire guardian; had she not been as much mystified as the rest of them? Herr Crippen, clearing his throat, jumped up from his chair and began striding rapidly up and down the length of the great room, talking so rapidly and under the pressure of such great excitement that Betty had almost to strain her ears to catch the real drift of what he was saying. "I haf told you before, I haf lived one oder time in Woodford, fourteen, fifteen year ago, but I haf not said for how long I am here nor why I went away," he began hastily. "I haf a very beautiful wife, an American woman. She was not well and we came here to your Crystal Hill country with our babies that she might recover. But she recovered not; instead she was ill so long a time until at last she was _todt_, dead," he corrected himself, wiping the moisture from his brow with a big pocket handkerchief. "Then I am poor, very poor; I haf spent so much time nursing her and I haf two babies left who must be looked after. I try then to get music pupils, but I haf not much heart, besides are not the babies always there to be kept out of mischief, so where is the time I can work? I must go away, there is noding else and how can I carry the little ones, one under each arm? No, I must leave my children behind." Esther's blue eyes were gazing steadfastly down at the oriental rug at her feet, but Betty's cheeks were burning with interest and her gray eyes followed the speaker as eagerly as her ears heard him. "There is a great house here for little ones I am told, an orphans' home, they call it. Are not my babies orphans, with no mother and a father that has not even food to give them?" In a flash Betty's arms were about Esther's neck and she was drawing her toward her with an affectionate understanding she had rarely ever before shown her. "You need not explain any more, Herr Crippen, if the others already know," Betty Ashton interrupted, "for I think I understand what you are intending to tell me. You left your children at our Woodford orphan asylum and Esther is your daughter, so after all these years have passed you come back to find her. It is very, very strange, I can't quite realize it all yet and here is Esther not looking in the least like a German but inheriting your musical talent, although with her it has taken the form of a wonderful voice." And Betty stopped talking at last to gaze into the fire, too overcome with the surprising mysteries of life to say anything more for the present. An apparent relief showed itself in the faces of everybody present. Herr Crippen sat down again and Esther left her place for a chair next his. "Aren't we going to have some tea, Betty dear, now our surprise party is over?" Rose Dyer inquired, so that Betty came back to herself with a start and crossing the room rang the bell. The next instant she paused in front of Esther and her father. It was odd that no one had ever thought of it, but there was a kind of likeness between the man and girl, the same red hair and paleness, the same nervous manner, although Esther was far more attractive looking and had learned a great deal more self-control. This afternoon there was an added dignity about Esther, even a nobility, which showed itself in the quiet poise of her head, in the firm lines about her always handsome mouth. Looking at her friend, Betty Ashton's eyes filled suddenly with tears, for in this moment she was feeling a deeper, a sincerer affection for her than at any time since their acquaintance. "But you won't be taking Esther away from me, Herr Crippen?" Betty suddenly pleaded. "She has been a kind of foster sister to me for almost a year and I should be so dreadfully lonely here in this big house without her after the closing of our camp. She has already taught me such a number of things, I don't suppose she can even dream how many! Can't you just let her live on with me and come and see her whenever you like?" Which question showed that Betty Ashton did not realize that circumstances ever could seriously interfere with her dearest wishes. But the German violinist, while he held his daughter's hand clasped tight in his, slowly shook his head. "For a little while, yes," he agreed, "but after that my Esther she must go away from Woodford. She hast _ein grosser_ talent than you her friends who do not understand music can know. She must study much, she must do all that I haf failed to do. I haf a little money, it is enough for the start, after that----" "But I shall not wish ever to leave Betty or you," Esther here interrupted quietly. "I am not ambitious; I can learn all I shall need to know to earn my living here in Woodford." It was hardly the time for argument, as each member of the little company realized, and fortunately at this moment the tea tray made its arrival so that Betty and Esther were both busy in supplying the wants of their few guests. However, when Betty had secured her own cup of tea she brought up a tiny table and placed it between the German professor and herself. There had not been much time for thought, but in a vague way Betty felt that she wanted to make reparation both to her friend and Herr Crippen for any foolish joking which she had done at the man's expense. Really he was not so bad, now one realized how many misfortunes he had passed through, although he could not have had much strength of character or he would never have let anything persuade him to desert his children. "You will go with Esther when she has to leave Woodford?" Betty inquired softly, not wishing that any one else should overhear. "Of course when the time comes it wouldn't be fair for me to stand in her way no matter how much we care for one another, but Esther would be far too timid to go alone." Herr Crippen shook his head violently. "I cannot leaf this neighborhood, nothing can make me until I haf accomplished all my purpose, no objectings, no arguments." He spoke with such anger that Betty stared in a complete state of mystification. Herr Crippen's voice was not lowered; he gazed with apparent fierceness at Miss McMurtry, whom Betty had supposed until very recently to be the object of his ardent affections. "I tell you I leaf behind two childrens," he went on, "the one I haf found, the other the superintendent at the asylum, my friends, no one will tell me where mine oder child is. Adopted they tell me, taken away from here, I haf no more a legal right, I should only make unhappiness should I demand my little baby back again." "You promised me you would not talk of this, father," Esther began in a pleading tone, "you promised me that if I would forget all your past neglect you would find your happiness in me." But Betty had risen to her feet and stood frowning with unconscious earnestness at the tall man. "If your son has been adopted by people who love him and whom he loves and thinks are his parents, then I don't think you have the least right to interfere, Herr Crippen. You went away and left him when he was a little baby to almost any kind of fate. Now you expect him to give up everything and everybody and come back to you, a perfect stranger. I am sure if I were in his place, I should love my adopted parents whom I had always believed to be my own far better than I could ever care for you." The big German dropped his head on his chest. Rose and Miss McMurtry got up quickly, "Come, girls, we must be getting back home to the cabin or the other girls will believe we are lost. Run away, Betty, you and Esther, and get your coats and hats." But when the five people were leaving the big house together, Betty waited behind for a moment. "I hope I didn't hurt your feelings about your son, Herr Professor," she apologized. "I--I didn't intend to be rude, and I should think just finding a wonderful daughter like Esther might make one happy enough." Herr Crippen opened his mouth intending to say something but evidently changed his mind as to what it should be. "You are very good, little lady, whom I haf heard your friends call Princess, and I haf no doubt that what you before said to me is most true." CHAPTER XXI Misfortune Several days later Dick Ashton, walking out to the Sunrise cabin from Woodford, unexpectedly caught up with Esther making the same journey. He came up to her side very quickly and with one look in his face the girl gave a cry of dismay. Dick was always serious and yet in spite of his seriousness there was no one with a keener appreciation of humorous situations and people, but to-day his face was drawn and there was a set look about his lips. "I didn't mean to startle you, Esther," Dick said quietly, "but I am very glad it is you I have met rather than any one of the other girls. I have bad news for Betty." Did Esther's face for a fleeting instant show surprise and almost alarm? "It has nothing to do with me, has it?" she asked, but Dick, shaking his head and hardly heeding her question, went on: "I have just received news of my father's death and must break it to Betty. It is going to be very hard; Betty has never known anything but happiness and in spite of--in spite of everything, I believe my father loved her almost better than either my mother or me." After her first exclamation of sympathy Esther continued silent, feeling it wiser to let Dick talk himself out to a sympathetic listener than to pour forth her own regrets. "It isn't only the loss of my father that Betty and mother will have to endure," he continued, "but the entire loss of my father's fortune. The trouble has been brewing for some time, but a few weeks ago the crash came and it must have hastened the end." "You don't mean to say they will have nothing?" Esther inquired in a frightened voice. The thought of Betty, whom her friends had always called "Princess" because of her careless generosity, her indifference, her absolute ignorance of the whole money question, now to face poverty without any training or preparation for it,--the thought fairly made Esther gasp, and Dick who had some idea of what was passing in her mind added: "Yes, it is pretty rough to bring a girl up to live like a Princess and then suddenly to leave her a pauper. I have always been afraid we have not been quite fair with Betty, maybe it would have been easier for her to have known the truth about things from the beginning. Still it can't be helped now. But the worst of it is that I know nothing about business either; I have never cared for anything but my profession and it takes a long time for a man to be able to support even himself in medicine until he has had several years of experience at least. I must give it up." Dick's face went whiter than ever at this and Esther, who in spite of a certain shyness and nervousness when she found herself the center of observation, had a really good judgment and self-control, now replied quietly: "I wouldn't think too much of this now, Mr. Ashton, things are pretty sure to turn out a little better than you feel they can at present and in any case I am sure something will be arranged so that you can go on with your profession. It would be too great a pity, when you have studied so long and are now so near your graduation, to have to give it up." Dick Ashton looked at Esther gratefully, thinking of how their positions had been reversed in a little less than a year. Had he not, when first he came upon the shy, homely girl among his sister's group of friends, done his best to make her more comfortable, less of a stranger and an outsider, and now he felt strangely strengthened and calmed by her presence and advice. He too saw that there were times when Esther's self-forgetfulness gave her a kind of beauty which was more important than mere lines and color, since it was a beauty that would last far longer. So the young people walked on for a little time in silence, until Dick Ashton colored and then hesitated. "I hope you won't think me rude, Miss Esther, that in my own trouble I have forgotten to congratulate you on having found your father. Betty has written me all about it and I certainly hope it may add to your happiness. I used to wonder even when I was a little boy if you felt very lonely at the asylum without a--a single relative." "You wondered about me; then you knew about _me_?" Esther asked quietly, and turned, stopping short in the path to give Dick Ashton a long, quiet look. Something passed between them without words, one of those subtle and silent communications of thought for which there has been no satisfactory explanation. Yet in the instant each one of them knew that the other had guessed his and her secret, or if not quite guessing it, at least had very reasonable foundations for their suspicion. Dick's formerly pale face crimsoned and he looked down at the ground, beginning to walk slowly on. "We--we thought it best this way, Miss Esther, and still think so. It has been hard upon you perhaps, but isn't it better that one person should suffer than that a number should be made unhappy?" There was almost entreaty in Dick Ashton's voice and at the same time he meant to make no betrayal if Esther did not know what he supposed she might possibly have learned within the past few weeks. Esther's reply left no room for doubt. "It is best this way now," she answered slowly. "I can't say that I think it altogether fair or just at the beginning. But so far as I am concerned, why you need never worry." "I wish there were some way in which we could make it up to you, but we have nothing now to be of any assistance to anybody. It is what my mother meant in a measure when----" Esther nodded. "I understand and there is no need of talking about repaying me. Betty has already done more than that and there is nothing in the world I would not do or give up for her sake. I care for her more than she may ever know." His companion's voice trembled so that Dick feared she might be losing her self-control and knew that they had a hard enough task before them. They were not very far from Sunrise cabin now and feared that at any moment Betty Ashton might come out to meet them, since Dick had telegraphed that he was coming to see her on important business in order that she might be a little bit prepared for what was to follow. "It is a pretty dark road for all of us just now, Miss Esther, but some day perhaps without our having to make the decision things will right themselves _somehow_," he returned kindly. And at this instant the young man and girl discovered Betty flying along the path in their direction. It was a fairly warm April afternoon and she wore her blue cape, the cape which Esther remembered so well during the spring of her own coming to the big Ashton house. She had on no hat and her hair was tied back in a loose bunch of red-brown curls. Evidently Betty had suspected no trouble from Dick's telegram (Betty and trouble were so far apart these days), for she laughed and waved both hands in joyous welcome at her brother's approach. "Where did you two people find one another? I believe it was all arranged beforehand and Dick Ashton's visits to our cabin are quite as much to see Miss Esther Clark--Crippen I meant to say--as they are to see poor little me." Betty had always enjoyed teasing Esther and now she expected this silly remark of hers to make her friend blush and scold, but Esther seemed not to have paid the least attention, not even to have heard her. And in the same instant Betty guessed that something serious had occurred. Her expression changed instantly. Betty looked suddenly older and unlike any one had ever seen her look before. She took her brother's hand. "Never mind, Dick, I think I know already," she whispered, and unexpectedly it seemed to be Dick who was having to be upheld and consoled. Esther slipped silently away, leaving the brother and sister together in their sorrow, and somehow in her loneliness she felt almost envious of them in the closeness of their grief. CHAPTER XXII Saying Farewell to the Cabin "For my part," announced Polly O'Neill, "I am not so heart-broken as I expected at having to say farewell to Sunrise cabin. It is so different for us all, with the Princess not here and having to think of her back home in their big house with only her mother and one little maid of all work. To think that I used to tell the Princess I thought she ought to be poor a little while just to find out what it felt like! I could cry my eyes out now when I realize that it has actually come true." It was the May meeting of the Sunrise Council Fire and because it was to be the last meeting for some time which might be held on their old camping grounds, the girls and their guardian had decided that it should take place outdoors and that at the close of their regular program there should be, a general talk over the history of the past year. Esther rose quietly at this speech of Polly's, partly because she seemed to wish to find relief in action and then because the May night was cold, and put several fresh pine logs on their already glowing fire. "You must not think I am ungrateful, Rose dear," Polly continued. "This winter has been to me the most wonderful one, sometimes I think the turning point in my whole life, but if Betty is going to be trying to take boarders in that big Ashton house to support herself and her mother and let Dick finish his medical studies, why I think Mollie and mother and I had better be back in our own tiny cottage to give her our valuable advice." "But Betty won't be keeping boarders herself, will she? I thought it was Mrs. Ashton who was to look after things with Betty to help," Nan Graham spoke in a kind of awed tone. "Still it wouldn't seem very nice of us to keep on living here in our cabin, which Betty did a great deal more toward building than the rest of us, if she were not here to share it." Mollie shook her head decidedly, so that the feathers of her Indian head-dress made fantastic small shadows on the ground. "I don't think that would matter in the least and certainly not to Betty," she said in her sensible, far-seeing fashion. "Betty would love to think of our being here and she would come and visit us whenever it were possible, but circumstances seem to have changed for all of us. Here is mother coming home from Ireland and Polly and I will want to keep house for her and look after things while she is at work just as we have always done, and then Mrs. Meade says she isn't willing for Eleanor to be away from her any longer, and Nan feels she ought to go home and help her mother with the younger children, and Esther going away after a while to New York to study. Dear me, what changes a few months can bring! I am glad they have not brought such big ones to us, Polly." Sylvia Wharton had been in the act of wrapping a white woolen shawl about the small Faith, who was cuddled close to Rose Dyer, but now she stopped and stared hard at Mollie and then at Polly with an apparently wooden expression of face. "What makes you feel things won't be different for you and that your mother will go back to work?" she stammered, feeling their guardian give a little warning tug at her dress but unable to change the form of her question once it had taken a start in that way in her mind. However, both the sisters only laughed, Polly exclaiming in an amused tone: "Of course we don't know anything definitely, oh Sylvia, in this world of surprises, but merely that present indications point the way Mollie has just mentioned." Fortunately, Polly, who was usually quick as a flash to follow up any suggestion, had her mind on other than her own affairs to-night. "Esther," she continued the next moment, "this is a kind of confessional to-night, or at least it may be if we girls decide that we are willing to confide in one another (autobiography is so much more interesting than history anyhow), so I wonder if you would mind telling us why you changed your mind so suddenly about going away from Woodford to study. At first you said nothing in the world would persuade you to go and then all of a sudden, after Betty's misfortune, when it looked as though you might be a help to her, you determined to leave. Don't answer me if you don't like, Esther, I know you have a perfectly good reason. Of course _I_ change my mind without a reason, but you don't." Esther now felt that the eyes of all the members of the Camp Fire circle were fixed upon her and that many of them held the same question that Polly had just so frankly asked. For a moment she hesitated, looking a little appealingly at Miss McMurtry and then at Rose Dyer. Rose nodded her head. "I would tell just what I felt, Esther, as far as you can," Rose recommended. "It is only fair to you that Betty's dearest friends should understand your position, even though you would rather that Betty herself should not know. I feel you can trust them to keep your secret." Esther wound the seven strings of honor beads into a single chain before she spoke. "It sounds rather absurd of me and pretentious I know," she began slowly; "of course I have a great many reasons in my mind why I feel it best for me to go away from Woodford right now and the most important one I cannot tell, but there is another which perhaps I have the right to let you try to understand. I am not deserting Betty just when she seems to need me most; it is because Betty now is poor and some day I may be able to help her if I do go away and succeed with my music that I am willing to go. You see Betty has done such a lot for me and has wanted to do so much more and--and--" Esther could not continue with her confession, but it was hardly necessary, for rising from her place Polly marched solemnly around their circle and sitting down by Esther put her arm about her neck. "I understand you perfectly now, Esther, though I want you to believe that no one of us has ever doubted you. You are too unselfish and too unworldly to care to make a big success in the world with your talent if it is only for yourself, but the thought that maybe you can some day bring back wealth and happiness again to the Princess makes most any effort worth while?" Esther bowed her head, too full of emotion to answer Polly's question in words. "I supposed I cared for Betty a lot, I have known her so much longer than you have," Polly went on thoughtfully, "but I don't half love her as you do, Esther, even in this little while. I suppose it is because you haven't any relatives of your own and your father is still so new to you. But didn't you have a baby brother or some one long years ago----?" Polly's remark was never finished because Miss Dyer now got up quickly. Because the evenings were so cool the May Council Fire had started early and though it was well nigh over, there was still a faint reflection of daylight. "I thought I heard the wheels of a wagon several moments ago," she explained, "and now I think I can see Dr. Barton's buggy being driven this way. I wonder what in the world he can want with us at this time of the evening? Polly, will you come back to the cabin with me to see." The Council Fire was being held at no great distance from the Sunrise cabin, but perhaps it was Rose Dyer's purpose at this moment to separate Polly and Esther. Of course Polly followed with entire willingness, but a few feet from their door, seeing Dr. Barton's buggy draw nearer and that it held two occupants instead of one, her face crimsoned and she bit her lips to control her vexation. She was returning to join the girls when Dr. Barton's voice called after her: "Don't go away, Miss O'Neill, please, our call is upon your sister and you. I was driving through the woods and found Mr. Webster with a telegram which had been telephoned to the farm and which he was bringing out to you and I offered to give him a lift." Although neither of the two young men had received any invitation to alight, they both got out of the buggy and both wearing somewhat crestfallen expressions, stood gazing at the two young women. "I will call Mollie," Polly declared stiffly, drawing back from Billy's hand which held a square of paper in it. "You need not speak to me, Miss O'Neill, simply because I happen to be your messenger boy," the young man said as haughtily as Polly could have spoken. "And you need not feel any contamination at accepting this message from me. The telegram was telephoned out to our farm and my mother wrote it down, so I haven't the faintest idea what the paper contains." Without showing any further signs of recognizing the speaker, Polly reached for the paper, but the next instant her frightened cry for Mollie brought her sister, Sylvia Wharton, and half a dozen other persons to her side. "I must have read it wrong, it is so dark, or your mother must have made some mistake!" Polly cried, forgetting her policy of silence in her agitation. And then standing with a white face and clenched teeth she watched Mollie read the message. Mollie did not betray any great grief or anger, only a considerable amount of surprise, so that Polly for an instant believed her own eyes must have deceived her. "Why, I can't quite understand it," Mollie said aloud, seeing the puzzled group of faces around her. "Mother telegraphs that she and Mr. Wharton, Sylvia's father, have been engaged to be married for the past few months and that she was coming home to tell us about it and to ask us if we were willing, but something has happened or else Mr. Wharton has just persuaded her, for they are married already and are sailing for home to-morrow. Mother says she is very happy and hopes we will forgive her and be almost as overjoyed as she is in coming home to us. At least that is what I think the cablegram means. Billy was mistaken in thinking it a telegram. How do you feel, Polly dear? I am too dazed to take it all in." "I feel," said Polly, with a return to her old passionate, uncontrolled manner, "that I shall never be happy again as long as I live." And then observing a slow, hurt look in Sylvia Wharton's usually unmoved face, she turned for an instant toward her. "I don't mean to hurt your feelings, Sylvia, or to say anything against your father, but it just isn't possible for you to understand what this means to me." And with this thoroughly Polly-like point of view she ran away and hid herself inside the cabin. Billy Webster walked off with Mollie and the other Camp Fire girls to talk things over, giving Dr. Barton a chance to linger for a few moments with Rose Dyer. "I don't know why you seem so offended with me these days, Miss Rose," that young man was soon saying in rather an humble voice for so stern and upright a judge of other people's duties, "but may I say that I think your work among the Camp Fire girls this winter has been quite wonderful and that I never dreamed you could or would be interested in anything outside of society? Oh, Rose----" "Rose of the World," Rose Dyer finished in a slightly mocking tone, which did not show whether or not she had forgiven the young man's former opinion of her. However, he _was_ obstinate and so would not be interrupted. "Oh, Rose of a Thousand Leaves," he ended for himself. CHAPTER XXIII Future Plans "It was Sylvia who really arranged things for me," Polly explained confidentially. The girls were in Betty Ashton's own blue room, having said good-bye to Sunrise cabin and turned their backs upon it for a time at least. But the cabin had been left ready to receive its owners at any time when they might be able to come back to it and week-end parties and Council Fire meetings were often to take place there, besides more important events which the girls could not well anticipate now. But to-day was Betty Ashton's birthday and although she was in too deep mourning for any kind of gayety, her Camp Fire friends had planned to stop by her house during the afternoon to leave little gifts for her, along with their best wishes. And Mollie and Polly O'Neill had arrived first. "I shall miss you terribly, Polly," Betty returned wistfully; her bright color had gone in the last few weeks and there were slight shadows under her gray eyes. "Still I feel sure that under the circumstances it is best for you to go. You are too restless anyhow to have wanted to stay in Woodford and the new life with the new people and sights will make you much happier. You will probably have a good deal of liberty at a New York boarding school and you'll be able to go to the theater now and then and do many of the things you will like. But Mollie and I hope you will come back for Christmas and will write us pretty often." Polly looked thoughtfully from her friend to her sister. "I know I am an absolutely selfish person and I would rather neither one of you would even attempt to deny it. I am not leaving my home though simply because I am restless. The truth is I simply can't get used to mother's being married to Mr. Wharton and to living in their great ugly house instead of our own beloved cottage. I don't like Frank Wharton and though Mr. Wharton is very kind and wants to do everything for Mollie and me, he is one of those dreadfully literal persons, so I am afraid we never will understand one another." "But you used to say, Polly, that you were tired of our small house and that you wanted to live in a big one with lots of money and servants. And now you have it you are dying to get away." And Mollie sighed, for the thought of being parted from her sister even as far away as the next fall, was very hard to bear, and yet she would not leave her mother, since for both of her daughters to go away would look like a reflection upon her marriage. "Heigh, ho!" laughed Polly. "Perhaps I have made some such statement in the past but I suppose I wanted to get rich in my own little way, like I wish to do everything else. And _in_consistency, which is not a jewel, is certainly Polly O'Neill. But don't let's talk about me any more, it's Betty's birthday. However, I would like to register this statement-- Sylvia Wharton is the most extraordinary person I ever met. And what Sylvia starts out to do in this world she'll do. It was Sylvia who saw I wasn't happy in her home, Sylvia who talked things over first to me, and then suggested my departure to mother and her father. And though our parents were both horribly opposed to the idea at first, Sylvia brought them around without any arguments or excitement simply by continuing to make plain statements of the facts." "Well, the wheel of fortune we hear so much about has truly turned, dear, and you're rich and I'm poor and now we must wait to see what will happen next," Betty remarked, hearing a faint knock at her bedroom door and moving forward to open it, but in passing she stopped and kissed Polly lightly on the forehead. "Don't look as though you were the wheel, Polly child, and had made the changes. I am not going to be half so miserable being poor as you girls think I will. Just think of how much more self-respecting I am going to feel if, when I go to bed some night, I can say to myself: 'Betty Ashton has earned her salt to-day.'" Betty now opened her door and there on the threshold stood Rose Dyer with a bunch of pink roses and Faith with a pot of lemon verbena in her hand. Faith was not yet well enough to go home to the boarding house in Boston, so Miss Dyer had brought her to her own home in Woodford, where she and Mammy were still to look after the odd child. On the arrival of Polly and Mollie a few moments before, Betty had not been in the least surprised. The two girls usually ran in to see her every afternoon now and had been giving her birthday presents for nearly as many years as she could remember, but when Rose and Faith also appeared she realized that the members of the Sunrise club might all be coming in to see her during the afternoon in just this same quiet fashion. And the next instant she was convinced when Sylvia solemnly appeared with a box of candy, which she thrust awkwardly at her. "It's against our Camp Fire rules to eat candy, Betty, and I don't approve of it or like it very much myself, but I couldn't think of anything else to bring when Polly and Mollie went off without me; and there won't be enough to make so many people sick." During the laughter over Sylvia's remark, Nan Graham walked shyly in through the now open door, bearing a loaf of cake. "I couldn't bring a real present, Betty," she explained with far more grace and sweetness than one could have dreamed possible of so rough and untrained a girl the year before, "but this is the kind of cake you used to like when I made it at the cabin and I thought you wouldn't mind eating a piece on your birthday for old times' sake." Feeling a sudden rush of emotion, Betty gave Nan a swift embrace and then excusing herself from her friends for a moment slipped out of the room for two purposes: she wanted to find her mother and make her join her friends and she wanted to prepare a great pitcher of lemonade for her guests, for Betty was neither foolish nor selfish in her sorrow, and if her friends had come to her to bring their good wishes, she desired that the afternoon might pass as pleasantly as possible. Things had not gone quite so badly with the Ashton fortune as Dick Ashton had originally feared, although conditions were surely bad enough. For Mrs. Ashton still had the house and Betty a small income settled on her by Mr. Ashton years before as a dress allowance, which now had to cover many other needs. For the completion of Dick's medical course there were several thousand dollars that an aunt had left him as a legacy when he was only a small boy and to use the capital in this way now seemed the wisest investment he could make. To keep the big Ashton house and try and make it yield an income was perhaps not quite so wise, but this had been Betty's dearest desire, and her mother and brother had agreed to it for her sake. To give up the home of her ancestors, to see the beloved old portraits stored away in some one's attic or stuck up in a small room where they would seem absurdly out of place, Betty felt that she could bear everything, do anything if only their old home remained! And so she was allowed at least to try the experiment of renting rooms or taking boarders, whichever might turn out the simpler plan. But when Mrs. Ashton was finally persuaded to join Betty's friends, it was fairly plain that the greater part of the planning and work for the future must fall upon Betty and not her mother, for Mrs. Ashton looked dazed by misfortune and was already a semi-invalid, querulous and rebellious against more evil fortune than she had character or health to withstand. It was no wonder therefore, that even Betty's best friends doubted whether she would be able to meet the responsibilities that had so unexpectedly come upon her, although rejoicing that a year of Camp Fire training found her far better prepared than most girls of her age and position. Esther had been sitting in the room with Mrs. Ashton when Betty found them, as the older woman seemed to enjoy the society of her daughter's companion more than any one's else these days, so the two girls soon brought the lemonade back to Betty's room. In her absence Betty found that her writing table had been cleared and was now decorated with Rose's flowers, Nan's cake and Sylvia's candy, with sandwiches which Meg had just brought in and which "Little Brother" was rapidly devouring, and with a little pile of gifts at the head. Betty's eyes filled with tears, but instinctively her hands flew toward a small square of canvas that stood facing her leaning against one of her candlesticks. It was a painting of the Sunrise cabin which Eleanor had made after Betty had returned home and quite the best piece of work she had ever done. The painting had been made in the dawn and the colors of the sunrise flooded the log cabin, touching the tops of the tall pines standing a little in the foreground and making a crown of light for the high peak of the Sunrise Hill. "It is too lovely; I ought not to have it," Betty exclaimed, extending her picture toward Miss McMurtry, for she and Edith Norton had at this moment joined the party; but seeing that their first Camp Fire guardian shook her head, Betty then turned to Rose Dyer. "Oughtn't you to have it then, Rose, and let the Sunrise Camp Fire girls just come in and look at it now and then?" But at this Eleanor Meade laughed. "Look here, Princess, we all know your passion for giving away your possessions, but do you think you ought to thrust my gift upon some one else while I am standing here watching you? I would like humbly to mention that I painted that picture of the Sunrise cabin for your particular birthday gift and that I would prefer to have you keep it." "And I would like to add," said Miss McMurtry, with an affectionate, even an admiring glance toward the Betty for whom she had once felt so keen a disapproval, "that among us there is no one with quite the same claim upon whatever has to do with our Sunrise club as Betty Ashton. For though she may have forgotten, we have not, that it was to Betty's enthusiasm and a great deal to her efforts that we owe the organization of our club." The chief guardian now leaned over, lighting three candles on Betty's tea table--"Work, Health, Love." "We wish you all the good things that following the law of the Camp Fire may bring you, Betty dear," she whispered. "Seek beauty Give service Pursue knowledge Be trustworthy Hold on to health Glorify work Be happy." While the older woman was speaking, Esther had slipped quietly over to Betty's own piano, which had been brought home from the cabin to her room, and now in order to relieve the atmosphere of emotion which was making ordinary conversation impossible at this moment, she commenced singing her own and Betty's favorite Camp Fire song, the other girls joining in an instant later. "Lay me to sleep in sheltering flame, O Master of the Hidden Fire, Wash pure my heart and cleanse for me My soul's desire. In flame of sunrise bathe my mind, O Master of the Hidden Fire, That when I wake, clear-eyed may be My soul's desire." And before the song had ended, half a dozen of the girls in the room at least were wondering whether they were any nearer to the all-important knowledge of what their soul's desire might be. * * * * * * * * A year the Sunrise Camp Fire girls have tried living and working together, following to the best of their different abilities the Camp Fire law, but while the third volume in this series will show them still under its influence, they will be pursuing their own careers under utterly different circumstances in a story to be called: "The Camp Fire Girls in the Outside World." BOOKS BY MARGARET VANDERCOOK THE RANCH GIRLS SERIES The Ranch Girls at Rainbow Lodge The Ranch Girls' Pot of Gold The Ranch Girls at Boarding School The Ranch Girls in Europe The Ranch Girls at Home Again The Ranch Girls and their Great Adventure THE RED CROSS GIRLS SERIES The Red Cross Girls in the British Trenches The Red Cross Girls on the French Firing Line The Red Cross Girls in Belgium The Red Cross Girls with the Russian Army The Red Cross Girls with the Italian Army The Red Cross Girls Under the Stars and Stripes STORIES ABOUT CAMP FIRE GIRLS List of Titles in the Order of their Publication The Camp Fire Girls at Sunrise Hill The Camp Fire Girls Amid the Snows The Camp Fire Girls in the Outside World The Camp Fire Girls Across the Sea The Camp Fire Girls' Careers The Camp Fire Girls in After Years The Camp Fire Girls at the Edge of the Desert The Camp Fire Girls at the End of the Trail The Camp Fire Girls Behind the Lines The Camp Fire Girls on the Field of Honor * * * * * * Transcriber's note: Obvious typographical errors were corrected without note. Promotional material was moved to the end of the text. Inconsistently-cited book titles were changed to match the actual book. 
18606	----	THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS IN THE MAINE WOODS or, The Winnebagos Go Camping by HILDEGARD G. FREY Author of "The Camp Fire Girls at School," "The Camp Fire Girls at Onoway House," "The Camp Fire Girls Go Motoring." New York : A. L. Burt 1916. CHAPTER I. A NEW WINNEBAGO. Sahwah the Sunfish sat on top of the diving tower squinting through Nakwisi's spy-glass at the distant horizon. "Sister Anne, sister Anne," called Migwan from the rocks below, "do you see any one coming?" Sahwah lowered her glass and shook her head. "No sign of the _Bluebird_ yet," she answered. "If Gladys doesn't come pretty soon I shall die of impatience. Oh, what do you suppose she'll be like, anyway?" "Beautiful beyond compare," answered Migwan promptly, "and skilled in every art we ever thought or dreamed of. She is going to be my affinity, I feel it in my bones." Sahwah looked rather pensive. "Nobody in her right mind would choose me for an affinity," she said with a sigh, squinting sidewise down her nose and mentally counting the freckles thereon, "I'm not interesting enough looking." "Goosie," said Migwan, laughing, "affinities aren't chosen, they just happen. You see somebody for the first time and you don't know a thing about her, perhaps not even her name, and yet something tells you that you two belong together. That's an affinity." "But how can you tell in advance that you and Gladys are going to be affinities?" asked Sahwah. "How do you know that when she sees me waving the sheet from the tower she won't say to herself, 'The energetic maiden on yon lofty tower is my one and only love. I can only see one bloomer leg and a hank of hair, but that is enough to recognize my soul mate by. Come to my arms, Finny!'" Migwan laughed at the picture, and replied mysteriously, "Oh, I have a way of telling things beforehand. I can read them in the stars!" Sahwah sniffed and resumed her watch, holding the sheet in readiness to wave the instant the little steamer should appear around Blueberry Island. The minutes passed without a sign of the _Bluebird_, and Sahwah grew tired of looking at nothing. She ceased staring fixedly at the distant gap between Blueberry Island and the mainland, and pointed the glass around at the objects near her; at Migwan washing middies in the lake, her soap tied to the dock to keep it from floating away; at the toothbrushes strewn over the rocks like bones bleaching in the sun; at the smooth strip of shining sand; aiming her glass idly now here, now there, her feet swinging in the air eighteen feet above the water, her long brown hair flying in the wind. High up on the cliff Hinpoha stood nailing the railing around the Crow's Nest, a tiny tree-house just big enough for two, built in the branches of a tall pine tree. She finished her pounding and stood looking out over the gleaming lake, dotted with rocky, pine-covered islands, shading her eyes with her hand. Her gaze strayed again and again to the narrow gap between Blueberry Island and the mainland, and now and then she heaved an impatient sigh. "Oh, please, dear _Bluebird_," she said aloud, "please hurry up!" By and by her eyes rested upon Sahwah, silhouetted against the sky on top of the diving tower. Picking up a big dry pine cone from the floor of the Crow's Nest, she took careful aim and sent it sailing downward in a swift, curving flight. The prickly missile hit Sahwah squarely in the back of the neck. She started violently and threw up her arms, while the spyglass fell into the water with a loud splash. Hinpoha laughed a ringing laugh when she beheld the effect of her handiwork. Sahwah turned around and saw Hinpoha perched in the Crow's Nest, nearly doubled up with laughter, and she too laughed, and then, shaking her fist amiably in Hinpoha's direction, she prepared to dive from the tower, bloomers and all, in search of the spy-glass. As she stood there poised on the end of the springboard her ears caught the sound of a swinging boating song, borne on the breeze across the water: "Across the silver'd lake The moonlit ripples break, Their path a magic highway seems: We'll send our good canoe Along that highway, too, And follow where the moonlight gleams." Around the cliff which jutted out just beyond the camp there appeared two canoes, containing four more of the Winnebagos, making all speed ahead, the girls singing in time to the dipping of their paddles. Sahwah curved her hands around her mouth and set forth a long, yodling hail, which was answered in kind by the paddlers. Then the four girls in the boats, speaking all together as with one voice, called to Sahwah, "J-U-D-G-E T-H-E F-I-N-I-S-H! W-E-'-R-E R-A-C-I-N-G!" Sahwah waved her arm as a signal that she understood, and then stood motionless, her eyes fixed on the shadow of the springboard on the water, watching to see which canoe would cross it first. In a few moments the slender green craft bearing Nyoda and Medmangi shot into view beneath her, the two paddlers shouting triumphantly. Scarcely a canoe-length behind came the other pair. Choosing the instant when the second canoe was directly beneath her, Sahwah jumped from the springboard and landed neatly in the bow, upsetting the craft and dumping the girls into the lake. The other girls in the first canoe, just ahead, turned to see what was happening, and in their laughter over the upset forgot to hold their own boat steady, and presently there was a second spill. Sahwah came up choking with laughter, and was immediately ducked under again by Nakwisi and Chapa, the two she had dropped in upon. The water flew in all directions, and Migwan fled over the rocks to avoid being drenched. Medmangi and Nyoda also came up thirsting for vengeance, but Sahwah escaped by swimming under water around the dock and clambering out on the rocks. She made an impish grimace at Migwan, who was standing on the rock where she came up. Migwan leaned over and put a streak of soap on her face, Sahwah promptly caught Migwan by the feet and pulled her off the rock into the water. Struggling, they both went under and came up choking and giggling. Hinpoha, from her airy perch in the tree, cheered the combatants on. "Good work, Migwan, hang on to the rock! That's the stuff, Sahwah, pull her off!" Meanwhile, the four racers, at Nyoda's suggestion, had towed their canoes out some distance from the dock and were trying to right them and climb in. This was easier said than done, for as fast as they splashed the water out on one side it ran in at the other. Nyoda and Medmangi were trying to get all the water out of theirs before getting in themselves, while Nakwisi and Chapa had theirs half empty and had managed to get in and were splashing the water out from both sides at once. Sahwah and Migwan stopped ducking each other to watch the righting process. Nakwisi and Chapa had just triumphantly paddled up to the canoe dock, and Nyoda and Medmangi were just about ready to start, when Hinpoha shouted that the _Bluebird_ was coming. The girls looked up to find the little steamer hardly a hundred yards from the dock. "Sahwah," cried Nyoda, hastily coming up on the dock, "where is the sheet you were going to wave from the tower when the _Bluebird_ came in sight?" "It's up on top," said Sahwah, running for the ladder. An instant later she was frantically waving the sheet from the top of the tower. There was no time for the girls to get dry clothes on before the boat stopped beside the dock. They lined up all dripping, except Hinpoha, to greet, the newcomer, and looked on expectantly when a young girl of about sixteen stepped ashore. Nyoda advanced and held out her hand. "Welcome to Camp Winnebago," she said cordially. "Girls, this is Gladys Evans, our new member, whose father has made it possible for us to camp here this summer. Winnebago Maidens, stand forth and tell your names! You begin, 'Poha." "I am Hinpoha," said the girl addressed, an extremely fat girl with an amazing quantity of bright red hair that curled below her waist, "it means 'Curly Haired."' "I am Sahwah the Sunfish," said a slim brown-haired maiden with dancing eyes. "I chose the Sun part because I like sunshine and the Fish part because I like to swim. I am very virtuous and a pattern of propriety." The girls shouted with laughter. "My name is Migwan," said the next girl. "It means 'Quill Pen,' and stands for my ambition to write stories and things." She was a thoughtful-looking girl with a beautiful high forehead and large dreamy eyes. So all the girls introduced themselves, Chapa the Chipmunk, Medmangi the Medicine Man Girl, and Nakwisi the Star Maiden. "And this," they cried in unison, encircling one of their number with affectionate arms, "is Nyoda, the best Guardian that ever lived!" "How do you do, Miss Kent?" said Gladys, in a high, artificially sweet voice, staring amazedly at her wet clothes and then around at the dishevelled group. She was a very fair girl, rather tall, but slender and pale and delicate looking. "Stuck up," was Sahwah's mental estimate. "How do you do, girls?" she continued, edging, back a little, as if she were afraid they might also enfold her in a wet embrace, "would you mind telling me your names?" "We told you our names," said Sahwah. "I mean your real names," answered Gladys, "you don't expect me to remember all those Camp Fire names, do you?" "Oh, you'll learn them soon enough," said Nyoda, "we left our old names behind us when we came to camp." Silence fell on the group, and each girl was acutely conscious of her wet clothes. Sahwah looked to see Migwan and Gladys fall into each other's arms, but nothing happened. Nyoda was busy checking over the supplies brought by the boat. The silence became awkward. "Look, there's an eagle," shrieked Hinpoha suddenly, pointing to a large winged bird that was circling slowly above the lake. "Quick, where's my glass?" said Nakwisi. "Wait a minute, I'll get it for you," said Sahwah, and quick as a flash she dove off the end of the dock, coming up with the spy-glass in her hand. Gladys's eyes nearly popped out of her head as Sahwah cast herself headlong into the water. "Awfully sorry, 'Wisi, I dropped it in off the tower," said Sahwah, tendering her the glass, "will getting it wet hurt it any?" Nakwisi screwed her beloved glass back and forth and wiped the lenses and finally reported it unharmed. "Sahwah, Sahwah," said Nyoda, shaking her head, "you will never learn to be careful of other people's things?" Sahwah flushed. "I didn't mean to be careless with it, it just slipped out of my hand." Here Hinpoha spoke up. "It's all my fault, Nyoda," she explained. "I hit her with a pine cone and made her drop it." Nyoda could do nothing but laugh at the good-natured sparring that was continually going on between those two. "Come on, girls," she called, "and get dry clothes on. Whoever gets dressed first may go to the village with me this afternoon." The girls scurried up the steep path like squirrels and Nyoda followed more slowly with Gladys, whose city shoes made it hard for her to climb. As they went up she explained how she happened to be so wet, describing in detail the upsetting of the canoes. Gladys's eyes opened wide at the tale of Sahwah's pranks. "How dreadful," she said with a shudder, and Nyoda sighed inwardly, for she realized that she had a problem on her hands. Gladys Evans was not a regular member of the Winnebago Camp Fire. She did not attend the public high school where the other girls went, but went to a private girls' school in the East. Early in the spring, Mr. Evans, with whom Miss Kent was slightly acquainted, came to her and offered her group the use of his camping grounds on Loon Lake in Maine for the summer if they would take Gladys in and teach her to do the things they did. He had become interested in the Winnebago group through a picture of them in the newspaper, and thought it would be a fine thing for Gladys. He and Mrs. Evans were going on an all-summer trip through Canada with a party of friends, and wanted to put Gladys where she would have a good time. He added in confidence that Gladys had been in the company of grown-ups so much that she felt altogether too grown up herself, and he wished her to romp a whole summer in bloomers and forget about styles. Miss Kent gladly accepted the charge. Aside from her willingness to help Gladys, the offer of a camping ground for the summer was irresistible. All winter the girls had been trying to find a place to camp for at least a few weeks the next summer, and had given a play to raise the money. They had not thought of going so far away as Maine, but now that they could have the camp without paying for it they could use the money for railroad fares. Such a shout went up from the Winnebagos when Miss Kent broke the news that passersby paused to listen. They sang a dozen different cheers to Gladys and her father; then they cheered for the lake and the camp and the good time they were going to have until they were too hoarse to speak. Gladys was then away at school and was to be in New York City with her parents until the first of July, so Miss Kent and her girls came up the last week in June to open camp. Gladys had never seen the place until that day, for her father had just bought it the previous winter. That she did not want to come was evident to Miss Kent. She was overdressed and rather supercilious looking, and was not strong enough to really enjoy the rough and tumble life of the camp. Miss Kent realized that some adjusting would be necessary before Gladys would be transformed into a genuine Winnebago. "But we'll do it, never fear," she thought brightly, with the unquenchable optimism that had won for her the name of "Face Toward the Mountain." CHAPTER II. THE COUNCIL FIRE. Supper, which was eaten on the big rock overhanging the lake, was made short work of, for tonight was to be held the first Council Fire. "What's going to happen?" asked Gladys of Nyoda, watching the girls scrambling out of their bloomers and middies and into brown khaki dresses trimmed with leather fringe. "Ceremonial Meeting," answered Nyoda, slipping on a pair of beaded moccasins. "What's that?" asked Gladys. "You'll see," said Nyoda. "Follow the girls when I call them." Nyoda slipped out of her tent and disappeared into the woods. In a few minutes a clear call rang out through the stillness: "Wohelo, Wohelo, come ye all Wohelo." The girls stepped forward in a single file, their arms folded in front of them, singing as they went, "Wohelo, Wohelo, come we all Wohelo." Gladys followed at the tail of the procession. Nyoda stood in the center of a circular space about twenty feet across among the trees, completely surrounded by high pines. In the middle the fire was laid. The girls took their places in the circle, and Gladys, now arrayed in bloomers and middy, with her hair down in two braids and a leather band around her forehead, sat under a tree and looked on. Not being a Camp Fire Girl she could not sit in the Council Circle. Nyoda made fire with the bow and drill, and when the leaping flames lit up the circle of faces the girls sprang to their feet and sang, "Burn, fire, burn," and then, "Mystic Fire," with its dramatic gestures. Gladys, sitting in the shadows, looked on curiously at the fantastically clad figures passing back and forth around the fire singing, "Ghost-dance round the mystic ring, Faces in the starlight glow, Maids of Wohelo. Praises to Wokanda sing, While the music soft and low Rubbing sticks grind slow. Dusky forest now darker grown, Broods in silence o'er its own, Till the wee spark to a flame has blown, And living fire leaps up to greet The song of Wohelo." As they chanted the words the girls acted out with gestures the dancing ghosts, the brooding forest, the rubbing sticks and the leaping fire. So they proceeded through the strange measures, ending up in a close circle around the fire, all making the hand sign of fire together. Gladys began to be stirred with a desire to sit in the circle. When the girls were again seated in their original places and the roll called, Nyoda rose and read the rules of camp. No one was to leave the camp without telling at least one person where she was going, or the general direction in which she was going, and the length of time she expected to be gone. No candy was to be bought in the village. No one was to go in swimming except at the regular swimming time. Every one pointed a finger at Sahwah when this was read, for she had been going into the lake at least a dozen times a day. No one could go in swimming whose belongings were not in order at tent inspection time. A groan went around the circle at this. Nyoda dwelt with particular emphasis on the rules governing the canoes. No one could go out in a canoe who had not taken the swimming test. No one could go out in a canoe unless Sahwah, Hinpoha or herself were along. Disobedience to these rules would mean having to stay out of the canoes altogether. She explained to the girls the importance of implicit obedience to the one in charge of a boat, regardless of personal feeling, and how the captain of a vessel had absolute authority over those on board. She spoke of the necessity of coolheadedness and courage on the part of the girl in charge, and ability to control her temper. She said she knew Sahwah and Hinpoha were well able to have charge of a canoe and she would never feel uneasy to have the other girls go out with them. Hinpoha and Sahwah flushed with pleasure and mentally resolved to die rather than prove unworthy of her trust. Gladys gave a little start when the canoe rules were read. She could not swim. She had been looking forward to going out in a canoe very shortly. The rest of the rules dealt with the day's schedule, which was as follows: Rising bugle at seven. Morning dip. Breakfast. Song hour. Tent inspection. Craft work. Folk dancing. Swimming. Lesson in camp cookery. Dinner. Rest hour. Nature study. Two hours spent in any way preferred. Supper. Evening open for any kind of stunt. First bugle, 8:30. Lights out, 9:00. Ceremonial meeting would be held every week on Monday night, because the girls had so many opportunities to win honors now that a whole month would be too long to wait. After the announcements Nyoda awarded the honors. Medmangi had taken the swimming test, Nakwisi and Chapa had righted an overturned canoe, Sahwah had built a reflecting oven and baked biscuits in it. All the girls had won some kind of an honor. Gladys listened wonderingly to the account of the things they had accomplished--things she did not have the faintest notion of how to do. Then came the elevating of Migwan to the rank of Fire Maker. Proudly she exhibited her fourteen purple beads, indicating the fulfilment of the fourteen requirements. Nyoda asked her questions on the things she had learned, and asked her to explain to the girls how much better she had gotten along since she started to keep an itemized account book. Migwan blushed and hung her head, for figures were an abomination to her and keeping accounts a fearful task. If it had not been for her ambition to be a Fire Maker she would never have attempted it at all, but once having learned how she realized their value, and heroically resolved to keep accurate accounts right along. When it came to the subject of bandaging she had to give demonstrations of triangular and roller bandaging, with Hinpoha as the subject. Then in a clear, earnest voice she dedicated her "strength, her ambition, her heart's desire, her joy and her sorrow" to the keeping up of the flame of love for her fellow creatures. Satisfied that Migwan was a worthy candidate, Nyoda slipped the silver bracelet on her arm and proclaimed her a Fire Maker. Migwan blushed fiery red and hung her head modestly. "Speech, speech!" shouted the girls. "Give us a poem, Migwan." Migwan thought a moment and then recited dramatically: "I am a Fire Maker! I have completed The Fourteen Requirements! I have repeated The Fire Maker's Desire! Now I may light The great Council Fire! Now I may kindle The Wohelo Candles! Long months have I labored Gathering firewood, That I might kindle The Fire of Wohelo! My arm is encircled With a silver bracelet, The outward symbol Of the Fire I have kindled; And those who behold it Shall say to each other, 'Lo, she has labored, She has given service, She has pursued knowledge, She has been trustworthy, Fulfilled the requirements, She is a Fire Maker!' That symbol is sacred, A charm against evil, Evil thoughts and dark passions, Against envy and hatred! One step am I nearer The goal of my ambition, To be a Torch Bearer Is now my desire! To carry aloft The threefold flame, The symbol of Work, Of Health and of Love, The flaming, enveloping Symbol of Love Triumphant; where might fails I conquer by Love! Where I have been led I now will lead others, Undimmed will I pass on The light I have kindled; The flame in my hand Shall mount higher and higher, To be a Torch Bearer Is now my desire!" A round of applause followed. Next the "Count" was called for. This had also been written by Migwan. In rippling Hiawatha meter it told how the Winnebagos had journeyed "From their homes in distant Cleveland To Loon Lake's inviting waters--" how they pitched the tents and made the beds, how they named the tents Alpha and Omega, how eagerly they awaited Gladys's coming, how Sahwah was placed on the tower to wave at her, "And the telescope descending, Fell kersplash into the water," and all the rest of the doings up to the beginning of Council Fire. Nyoda then rose and said that as the Camp Fire was a singing movement she wished the girls to write as many songs as possible, and to encourage this had worked out a system of local honors for songs which could be sung by the Winnebagos. Any girl writing the words of a song which was adopted for use would receive a leather W cut in the form of wings to represent "winged words" or poetry; the honor for composing the music for a song would be a winged note cut from leather, and the honor for writing both words and music would be a combination of the two. These were to be known as the "Olowan" honors, because "Olowan" was the Winnebago word for song, and were quite independent of the National song honors, because a great many songs which could not be adopted by the National organization would be admirable for use in the local group on account of their aptness. Just before they sang the Goodnight Song, Nyoda drew Gladys into the group and officially invited her to become a Winnebago at the next Council Fire. Gladys accepted the invitation and the girls sang a ringing cheer to her because her coming made it possible for them to have the camp. To close the Ceremonial Meeting the girls sang "Mammy Moon," ending up by lying in a circle around the fire, their heads pillowed on one another. The fire was burning very low now and great shadows from the woods lay across the open space. Nyoda stole silently to the edge of the clearing and the girls rose and filed past her, softly singing "Now our Camp Fire's burning low." Nyoda held each girl's hand in a warm clasp for a moment as she passed before her and the girls clung to her lovingly. The forest was so big and dark, and they were so far from home, and Nyoda was so strong and tender! "Wasn't it wonderful?" whispered Migwan to Sahwah, as they picked their way back to the tents in the darkness. "Wasn't it, though!" answered Sahwah, flashing her little bug light on the path before her. Gladys's bed was in the Omega tent with Sahwah, Hinpoha and Migwan. One end faced the lake and the stars peeked in with friendly twinkles, while the moon flooded the place with silver light. The three girls were out of their Ceremonial costumes and into their nightgowns in no time, while Gladys fussed around nervously. "Aren't we going to have the lantern lit?" she asked. "What for?" said Sahwah. "The moon makes it as bright as day." Gladys took off her middy. "Where are we going to hang our clothes?" she asked next. "Throw them across the foot of your bed," answered Hinpoha, "or lay them on the stool, or up on the swinging shelf, or hang them on the floor, the way Sahwah does." At this Sahwah sat up in bed and threw her pillow at Hinpoha. Hinpoha sent it back and Sahwah threw it the second time. Instead of hitting Hinpoha, however, it landed in the basin of water in which Gladys was trying to wash herself, knocking it off the stand and out of the tent door. Gladys gave an exclamation of impatience. Sahwah hastened to apologize. "I'm awfully sorry, Gladys. But you saw how it was. I was trying to hit 'Poha and hit you by mistake." Here the pent-up laughter of the three girls broke forth, and they shouted in unison. Gladys did not laugh. "I'll get you some more water," said Sahwah, getting out of bed. The pail was empty, so Sahwah went all the way down to the lake for water. On the way back she rescued the pillow, which was soaking wet, and stood it up against the tent pole to dry. Just then came a loud hail from the other tent. "Goodnight, Omegas!" "Good night, Alphas," they answered, "sleep tight!" Again came the fourfold voice out of Alpha, "Goodnight, Gladys!" Gladys was finally ready for bed. "You aren't going to leave the sides of the tent rolled up all night, are you?" she asked in a horrified tone. "We surely are," said Sahwah, "we always do." "What if it rains?" "Plenty of time then to put them down." Gladys stood irresolute beside the bed. "We'll put your side down, if you prefer it," said Migwan good-naturedly, "but it's really pleasanter with it up. It seemed rather airy to me at first, but now I wouldn't have it down for anything." "Don't trouble yourself," said Gladys. "Sure, I'll put it down," said Migwan, making a motion to rise, but just then the second bugle rang out and she subsided. Gladys got into bed and pulled the blankets over her head. It was the first time she had ever slept out of doors. She felt very small and lonesome and neglected. She had not wanted to come to this camp the least bit. Other summers she had always gone to Atlantic City or some other crowded, lively summer resort with her parents, where she had received considerable attention from young men, just like the older girls with whom she associated. Here, banished to the silent woods, she saw the summer stretch out endlessly before her, intolerably dull and uninteresting. She loved fluffy clothes and despised the bloomers and middies which the girls wore. She loved dainty table service and hated to cook. Up here she would be expected to help with the meals, and all there was to cook on was an open fire and a gasoline stove! What could her father have been thinking of to want her to join such a club! These girls were not in her own class; they went to public school, they were rough and horrid and threw each other into the water! Gladys could not go to sleep. She tossed restlessly, thinking rebellious thoughts, and shuddering at the night noises in the woods. The lapping of the water on the rocks below had a lonesome sound. She had not yet learned to hear its soft crooning lullaby. The wind rustled in the pine trees with a ghostly, mysterious sound. From somewhere in the woods came a mournful cry that sent the chills up and down her spine. It was only a whippoorwill, but Gladys did not know a whippoorwill from a bluebird. Then the frogs in a distant pool began their concert. "Blub!" "Blub!" "Knee-deep!" "Better go round!" "Knee-deep!" "Better go round!" "Skeel!" "Skeek!" "Skeel!" "Skeek!" "Blub!" "Glub!" "Chralk!" Gladys's eyes started out of her head at the unearthly noises. Her nerves were just about on edge from their incessant piping when suddenly a long, eerie laugh rang out over the water. "Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!" She screamed aloud and sat up in bed. "What's the matter?" said Migwan, waking up. "What was it? Oh, what was it?" asked Gladys in a voice cold with terror. "What was what?" said Migwan. Just then the sound rang out again. "That!" said Gladys. "Why, that's nothing but a loon," answered Migwan. "Isn't it lovely!" And she fell asleep again. But slumber would not come to Gladys. The bed sagged in the middle and she could not get herself adjusted to it. She was finally in the act of dozing off when the bed collapsed with a jarring crash. Instantly the whole camp was awake. Migwan jumped up and lit the lantern, and Nyoda came running over from Alpha to see what was the matter. There was much laughter over the mishap, but unfortunately Gladys got the idea that Sahwah, who had giggled uncontrollably from the start, was responsible for the bed going down. "You made it fall down," she said to her, and burst into tears. Sahwah stared at her open mouthed. "I never touched it," she declared. Nyoda hastened to smooth things over. "Nobody made your bed collapse, dear," she said, putting her arm around Gladys, "it's a trick camp beds have." Gladys went on crying, however, so Nyoda sat down on the edge of her bed and talked soothingly to her. She realized that Gladys felt strange in camp and was probably homesick in spite of the fact that the girls had received her with open arms. So to divert the girl's attention from herself she pointed out the constellations blazing in the sky and told some of their stories, and Gladys gradually relaxed and fell asleep. When she opened her eyes again it was broad daylight and the sun was shining into the tent. She looked around at the others. Hinpoha was still asleep; Migwan was coaxing a chipmunk up on the bed with peanuts; Sahwah was noiselessly getting into her bathing suit. Seeing that Gladys was awake, both girls waved their arms in friendly greeting. Talking was not allowed before the first bugle. There was a soft scurry of little feet on the floor, and another chipmunk darted in and paused inquiringly beside Gladys's bed. Migwan tossed her some peanuts and Gladys held one out gingerly to the little creature. He hopped up boldly and took it from her fingers, stuffing it into his baggy cheek. Then his bright little eyes spied the rest of the peanuts on Gladys's bed, and quick as a wink he was up after them, his tail whisking right into her face. Gladys screamed and wriggled, and he fled for his life, pausing a short distance from the tent to scold about the peanuts he had left behind in his flight. Just then the bugle blew, and with a whoop Sahwah leapt from bed, while Migwan rose and donned her bathing suit. "Coming in for a dip, Gladys?" she asked. "Is the water cold?" asked Gladys. "Well, yes," said Migwan honestly. "It usually is in the morning before the sun has shone very long on it." Gladys decided she would not take a dip. Hinpoha slumbered calmly on. Sahwah pulled the pillow from under her head with a quick jerk and plucked the blankets off. Hinpoha opened her eyes sleepily. "Wake up, lazy bones," said Sahwah. "It's time to dip!" "Have a heart," mumbled Hinpoha, opening her eyes a little farther, "the bugle hasn't blown yet!" "Indeed it has, a whole minute ago! Hurry up or you'll miss the dip!" Sahwah prodded Hinpoha energetically. Hinpoha struggled into her bathing suit and sped down the path to the lake, hot in pursuit of Sahwah. Migwan had already gone down. A minute later the girls from the other tent ran out, calling a cheery good-morning to Gladys. A series of splashes and shrieks followed, which proclaimed the coldness of the water. Gladys lay cozily in bed, watching the chipmunks as they scampered across the floor of the tent. Presently another bugle sounded from somewhere and the girls returned, dripping and rosy, to hustle into middies and bloomers. "Aren't you going to get up, Gladys?" asked Migwan. "That second bugle means 'get up,' you know." "Does it?" said Gladys, and rose reluctantly. It seemed as if she had just gone to sleep. She was still combing her hair before the tiny mirror that hung on the tent pole swinging in the wind when the breakfast bugle blew. Migwan waited for her dutifully and escorted her to the "Mess Tent," where the other girls were already gathered around the table. "We'll call it the 'Mess Tent' until we can find a prettier name for it," explained Migwan. "Sahwah thinks we should call it the 'Grand Gorge.' Have you anything to suggest?" "No," replied Gladys, "I haven't." Nyoda greeted Gladys cordially and asked how she slept, and the other girls sang her a Kindergarten Good Morning song, making funny little bows and bobs. Then they sang the Camp Fire Grace, "If We Have Earned the Right to Eat This Bread," and set to work making the fruit and pancakes and cocoa disappear like magic. Gladys ate nearly as much as the others, although she would have been very much surprised if you had told her so. The meal over, each girl carried her dishes and stacked them in a neat pile on the table in the tiny kitchen which formed a part of the small wooden shack which stood on the camp grounds, and dropped her cup into a pan of water. This made very light work for the Dishes Committee, which consisted of two different girls each week. The Dishes Committee took care of all three meals a day for the entire week, as this duty did not require much time, but there was a different Breakfast, Dinner and Supper Committee, each pair serving a whole week at their job. Up until Gladys's arrival there had been only seven in camp and Nyoda had been working alone, but now the division was equal. Gladys was assigned to the supper committee for the rest of the week with Migwan as a partner, for Nyoda thought it would help her get acquainted faster to let her work with one of the girls. As soon as the dishes were washed the girls gathered in the front part of the shack, where there was an old piano, and sang hymns and camp songs. "Let's pick out some hymns to learn by heart," suggested Nyoda; "think how lovely they'll sound, sung out on the lake in canoes." Nyoda's suggestion found favor with the girls, and they set immediately to work learning the "Crusaders' Hymn." "Do you know," said Nyoda from her seat on the piano stool, after they had sung it through a couple of times, "I believe that the last verse of that song should be sung first. The climax seems be in the first verse, and the rest, beginning with the last, merely lead up to it. Try it that way once." The girls sang it through in the new order and declared they liked the effect much better, so the change was adopted. Migwan and Nyoda sang a strong alto, and Sahwah a clear, though somewhat uncertain, high tenor, so the little band succeeded in making a considerable amount of harmony. A tiny song bird, perched on the limb of a tall pine tree just before the shack, blended his notes with theirs and poured out his enjoyment of the universe in a thrilling flood of song. The girls sang their hymn over and over again, just to hear him join in, until Nyoda, looking at her watch, exclaimed, "Ten minutes until tent inspection!" The girls scattered to their tents, and began a hasty cleaning up. Gladys had never made a bed before, and had trouble getting hers straight and smooth, but Migwan took a hand and showed her how to spread the sheets evenly and tuck them in neatly. Her night gown she folded and tucked under the pillow. "One quarter of this swinging shelf belongs to you, Gladys, so you might as well put some of your stuff up here," she said when the bed was finished, "as well as part of the table and the washstand." She moved things around as she spoke, leaving spaces clear for Gladys's possessions. "We aren't supposed to have anything hanging over the edge of the shelf, or out of the compartment of the table," she explained as she moved about. "Nothing is to be left on the bed except one sweater or one folded up blanket, and not more than two pairs of shoes under the bed. Our towels and bathing suits are to be hung on the tent flies as inconspicuously as possible. We also clean up our dooryards and see that there is no waste paper about." "What happens if everything isn't in applepie order?" asked Gladys, mentally remarking that such rules were an unnecessary nuisance. "We get marked down in tent inspection, and if our things are left in very bad order we forfeit our swimming hour for that day. Besides, we are all working for the Camp Craft honor of doing the work in a tent for a week, and if the tent isn't properly cared for it doesn't count toward the honor. More than all that, the two tents are racing to see which one gets the highest average at the end of the summer, for Nyoda has offered a banner to the members of the winning family." She had hardly finished her explanation when the bugle announced the imminent approach of Nyoda on her tour of inspection, and the three girls ran from the tent, pulling Gladys with them. "What's the matter?" panted Gladys. "What are we running away for?" "We never stay in the tent while it's being inspected," explained Migwan. "Nyoda tells us our standing during Craft hour, and what the matter was, if there was anything, and the weekly averages are to be read at Council Fire." The girls settled down to Craft work in the shack, for they had chosen that as their workroom, on account of the hinged shelves around the walls, which were so convenient to spread work out on. The front wall of the shack, facing the lake, was all windows, which could be lowered, making the room as cool and airy as could be desired. The special work which the girls had just begun was the painting of their paddles with their symbols. Gladys, having neither paddle nor symbol, was at a loss what to do. "Here, take the symbol book," said Migwan, "and begin working on your symbol." Gladys took the book and began idly turning the pages. Symbolism was an entirely new thing to her, and she was unable to decide on any of the queerly shaped things in the little book. "I can't find a thing that I like," she said to Nyoda when she joined the girls in the shack. "Have you decided on a name?" asked Nyoda. Gladys shook her head. "Well, then," said Nyoda, "I would wait with the symbol until I had chosen a name. And I wouldn't be in too much of a hurry about it, either. Take time to look about you and make your name express something that you like to do better than anything else, or something that you earnestly aspire to do or be. Then choose your symbol in keeping with your name." "But suppose there shouldn't be a symbol in the book that fitted the name I chose?" asked Gladys. "Then we would be put to the painful necessity of finding a brand new one!" answered Nyoda with a mock tragic air. Here the others girls flung themselves upon Nyoda and demanded to be told their standing in tent inspection. "Alpha, 97, Omega, 98," she replied. The Omegas hugged each other with joy at having received a higher mark than the Alphas. "What was wrong with us?" chorused the disappointed Alphas. "One bed had not been swept under, one pair of shoes were lying down instead of standing up, and the wash bowl contained a spy-glass," answered Nyoda. Nakwisi blushed at the mention of the spy-glass. "I didn't mean to leave it there, really and truly I didn't, Nyoda. I was just looking over the lake when Chapa wanted me to help her move her bed and I laid it in the first convenient place and then forgot to remove it." "No explanations!" called the girls. Nakwisi laughed and subsided. "Where did we lose our two points, Nyoda?" demanded the Omegas. "There was a pillow propped against the tent pole and one bed looked decidedly lumpy," said Nyoda. "I knew you'd go off and leave that pillow there, Sahwah," exclaimed Hinpoha. "I knew your shoes would show if you tried to hide them in the bed!" returned Sahwah. "Murder will out," said Nyoda, laughing, "I was not going to mention any names!" CHAPTER III. INDEPENDENCE DAY. "Girls!" exclaimed Nyoda one day at the dinner table, "to-morrow is the Fourth of July. Shall we have a celebration?" Sahwah looked at Hinpoha and slowly lowered one eyelid. "Yes, yes," cried all the girls in chorus, "let's do!" "Well, what shall it be?" continued Nyoda, "a flag raising and a bonfire and some canoe races?" "Oh, a flag raising by all means," said Migwan, "they always have one in the Scout camps. My brother is a Scout and he thinks it's awful because we don't have more flag exercises." "Where will we get the flag?" asked Sahwah. "It's here already," answered Nyoda, "in the bottom of my trunk. I knew that sooner or later we would want it so I brought it along." "Who will do the raising?" asked Hinpoha. "Why, Nyoda, of course," said Migwan, "who else?" "And I move," said Nyoda, "that Migwan write a poem suitable to the occasion and deliver same." "Yes, yes," cried all the girls, "a poem from Migwan." Migwan demurred at first, but finally promised, just as she always did. "Wait a minute," said Sahwah suddenly, "where are we going to get the pole to raise the flag on?" All the girls looked blank for a moment. "We'll run it up on the diving tower," said Nyoda promptly. "We can find a small dry tree in the woods and strip the branches off and fasten it to the top of the tower and run the flag up on it. There, that's settled. Now, what kind of water sports shall we have?" Sahwah and Hinpoha exchanged glances, and Sahwah wriggled in her chair. "Wouldn't you like a committee to arrange that?" she asked, trying to make her voice sound natural and disinterested. "Why, yes, that would be a good idea," said Nyoda, "and I appoint you and Hinpoha as the committee to do the arranging. I am very glad you suggested that, for it leaves me free to go to the village this afternoon. Now, do we need any more committees?" "There ought to be one on seating arrangements," said Sahwah. "On what?" asked Nyoda. "Seating arrangements," repeated Sahwah. "Where to place our guests." "May I ask who our guests are going to be?" said Nyoda. "I don't know yet, myself," said Sahwah calmly. "But we ought to have some. It would be sort of flat to have a celebration just for ourselves. We'll all have to be in it and there won't be any audience. How would you feel like giving a show for nobody's benefit? So I thought we'd do it this way.. We'd have a committee on seating arrangements, and they would have to furnish the audience as well as the seats. Isn't that a good idea?" "It's an original one, anyway," said Nyoda, somewhat breathlessly. "However, I think you are quite right. If there is an audience to be had, by all means let us have one. But I give you fair warning, it may not be the easiest thing to pick up an audience in the Maine woods." "There are other campers around the lake," replied Sahwah, "and there are the people in the village. We could bring them here in the boats." "They might have plans of their own, though," said Nyoda, "so we mustn't count too much on having them come to visit us. By the way, Sahwah, whom would you suggest for a seating-arrangements committee?" "Oh, you would be the best one for that, Nyoda," answered Sahwah. Nyoda bowed, laughing. "I accept the position of Audience Furnisher," she said, formally. "Now, every man to his task! Gladys, would you like to come to the village with me this afternoon?" Sahwah and Hinpoha also went to the village, but they waited until Nyoda was well out of sight, then they paddled across the lake with strong swift strokes that sent the canoe fairly flying through the water. "I thought Nyoda would want some kind of a celebration," said Sahwah, "so it's a good thing we have our plans made, although we did want them to be a complete surprise." Instead of getting out at the regular landing they paddled around the village and up the mouth of a small creek, where they beached the canoe and crept stealthily toward the store. After peeking through the window and satisfying themselves that Nyoda was not within Sahwah entered, while Hinpoha kept watch in the doorway. "Did you get everything?" asked Hinpoha, as Sahwah emerged with her arms full of bundles. Sahwah nodded. "But it took every yard of bunting they had." They hastened back to camp and preparations for the next day's celebration were soon under way. When Nyoda returned at supper time she was immediately surrounded by an eager group clamoring to know who was going to be the audience. Nyoda shook her head sadly. "There ain't no such animal," she replied tragically. "We stopped everybody we met on the street in the village--we only met five people--and, invited them; we invited the storekeeper and the man who rents the boats; but none of them could come. Then we went around to the houses to see if we could find some women and girls, but with the same result. It seems that some local magnate is giving a barbecue out at his farm to-morrow and the whole town is invited." "But the other campers," said Sahwah hopefully. Again Nyoda shook her head. "We took the launch and ran in at every landing for several miles around. There aren't so many campers up here yet as you might think. A great many of the cottages were closed. The few people we did talk to had their plans already made. Don't look so disappointed, Sahwah. If we were out in the middle of the desert or shipwrecked on a lonely island there wouldn't be any possibility of an audience, and yet we would be having a celebration for our own benefit just the same." "Of course we would," said Migwan stoutly, "and to tell the truth, it would never have occurred to me to ask any one else to our celebration to-morrow. I think it's lovely to have it just by ourselves." "I tell you what we'll do," said Hinpoha with a burst of inspiration, "we'll take turns being the audience. The seating committee can usher us to our seats between our own performances and we can pretend that we don't know what is coming." "You forget that I, for one, don't know what is coming," said Nyoda, "and will be a very appreciative spectator indeed. Behold me, ladies, at your service, the Audience!" And Nyoda swept them a low curtsey, whereupon they fell on her neck with one accord. Sahwah woke with the dawn the next morning and craned her neck to look at the weather. To her great disappointment the lake was covered with a heavy mist and there was no sign of the sun. The woods looked dark and gloomy. "Rain!" she exclaimed tragically, and buried her head in the blankets. The clouds were still thick at breakfast time, although no actual rain had fallen. The flag raising took place right after breakfast, with due ceremony. Up went the Stars and Stripes, without a pause, and just as it reached the top of the pole and yielded its folds to the breeze the sun broke through the clouds and bathed it in a golden glory. The girls cheered and burst into a lusty rendition of the "Star Spangled Banner," after which Migwan's patriotic poem was recited amid much applause. Then began the water sports, which opened with canoe races. The four who were not in this took their seats on the shore, being placed by Nyoda with great formality, and passed Nakwisi's spy-glass from hand to hand. Hinpoha and Nakwisi, and Sahwah and Migwan were partners in the races. First they raced for distance, paddling around the nearest island and coming back to the dock. Hinpoha and Nakwisi came out ahead, because Migwan, who was paddling stem in her canoe, lost time steering around the island. Then came an obstacle race, in which the girls paddled up to the dock, disembarked, dragged the canoes across the dock and launched them again on the other side. Again Hinpoha and Nakwisi won. Then came a race between the two crews with the paddlers standing on the gunwales, which tested the skill of the girls to the uttermost. With superhuman effort they kept their balance and came sweeping in neck and neck, the watchers on shore cheering lustily. "Go it, Hinpoha!" shouted Nyoda, and Hinpoha raised her head to look at her, lost her balance, and upset the canoe, leaving Sahwah and Migwan the victors. The spectators applauded heartily, and sang cheers for the winners, when suddenly the applause was echoed from behind them. Nyoda wheeled swiftly around and faced two gentlemen standing at the foot of the path leading to the dock. As she turned they came forward, hats in hand. The elder man spoke: "I am Professor Bentley, of Harvard University, and this is Professor Wheeler." Nyoda graciously acknowledged the introductions. "We have been staying at the other end of the lake," resumed the stranger, "and intended to return home to-day, but missed the steamer. We were told that a steamer passed Wharton's Landing at noon, so we walked over for it. Can you tell us which is Wharton's Landing?" "That is Wharton's Landing directly opposite," replied Nyoda, "but the steamer has already gone past. There is a different schedule on holidays. However, it passes again at six this evening. Won't you be our guests until then? We can take you across in the launch." The strangers accepted the invitation and Nyoda introduced the other girls. Professor Wheeler looked long and hard at Hinpoha. He seemed unable to take his eyes from her hair. "And now," said Professor Bentley, when they were all comfortably seated upon the rocks, "would you mind telling me what you are and what you were doing when we came up?" "We are Camp Fire Girls," they cried in chorus, "and we're celebrating the Fourth of July!" "So you're Camp Fire Girls, are you?" answered Professor Bentley. "That is a Species of the Female that I am greatly interested in. How fortunate that I should have come upon them in their native wilds! Is this where you hibernate?--excuse me, I mean sunburnate!" He wanted to ask a great many questions about the girls, but Professor Wheeler was anxious for the water sports to continue. "The Audience!" exclaimed Sahwah in a rapturous aside to Hinpoha, "it fell right kerplunk off the knees of the gods!" Sahwah, who was by far the best diver in camp, now performed a series of spectacular dives, which she had been practising early and late, including forward, backward, somersault, angel, sailor, box-to-springboard, and springboard from the top of the tower. Then she produced a hoop, which she made Hinpoha hold while she dove through it, forward and backward, from the high springboard. She ended her number with what she called the "Wohelo Dive," in which she jumped from the dock to the low springboard, landing in a sitting position, bounced up three times for Work, Health and Love, and then turned a somersault into the water. "Whew!" whistled Professor Bentley, "what a diver! She's a regular Annette Kellerman!" This was repeated to Sahwah later, to her great gratification. After the diving was over the girls did a stunt which called for a great deal of endurance. It was invented by Sahwah and called a "Submarine Race." Sahwah, Hinpoha and Nakwisi, the three girls who could swim under water, each tied a toy balloon around her neck, and jumping from the dock on signal, swam beneath the surface to see who could reach the shore without coming up for air. The balloons of course stayed in the air and indicated the progress of the swimmers. This stunt amused both the visitors highly, and they grew quite excited over which one was going to stay down the longest. "I bet on the red balloon," said Professor Bentley, who knew that Sahwah was attached to it. "The green one for mine," answered Professor Wheeler, who was keeping his eye on Hinpoha. "It was the weirdest thing," said Migwan afterward, "to see those balloons go darting and wobbling back and forth!" "And the weirdest feeling when you were attached to them," said Sahwah, "I felt like the keel of a boat when the sails are full of wind." The second part of the program was a series of tableaux showing events of American history. The first represented Washington Crossing the Delaware. The sponson, a flat-bottomed canoe with air tanks in the sides, came into view around the cliff propelled by one paddler in the stern. In the bottom sat two devoted patriots carrying hatchets. The great George stood in the bow, in defiance of all canoe laws, with one foot up on the bow point, his hand on his sword, his eyes on the distant shore. His hair had turned bright red and he had taken on considerable flesh since his friends had seen him last, but there was no mistaking the military attitude. In the water around the sponson floated a number of water wings, tied to the boat, to represent floating ice cakes. The audience applauded vigorously as the skiff drew near. At the psychological moment, when Nyoda had her camera focused for a snap a huge mosquito settled on George's extended calf. He uttered a sudden yell, brought his hand down on his leg and pitched headfirst into the water. The patriots rescued him and set him on the dock, and Professor Wheeler, who had sprung from his seat and looked as if he were going to the rescue himself, sat down again amid the general laughter. "What next?" he murmured, chuckling extravagantly. The next was an episode entitled "The Pirates of Tripoli." Chapa, Medmangi and Nakwisi came swaggering out on the dock dressed as pirates, with turbans and sashes and fearful knives stuck in their belts, singing, "Fifteen men on a dead man's chest!" Striking piratical attitudes on the end of the dock they sang the Pirate song from "Peter Pan," making savage gestures and pointing downward dramatically at the line, "We're sure to meet below!" Chorus over, the captain bold set his men to swabbing decks, etc., and ordered the watch up aloft on the tower to plant the flag with the skull and crossbones and keep the lookout. Boldly he paced up and down on top of the tower, sweeping the seas with his spy-glass. Suddenly he paused and uttered a shout. The pirates crowded to the edge of the dock. Looking in the direction he pointed they beheld two sailors approaching in a small open boat. Seeing the pirates, the sailors were overcome with terror and tried to avoid passing the dock, but the ruthless cut-throats flung out a rope and lassoed them. Pulling them up on the dock, they blindfolded them and tied their hands behind them. Then, in spite of pitiful shrieks for mercy, the pirate captain ordered the poor sailors up the ladder to the top of the tower and made them walk the plank off the high springboard, still blindfolded. It was so thrilling the audience squealed with excitement. As Sahwah jumped she flung out her arms in a despairing gesture, and wobbled beautifully all the way down through the air. It was Migwan, though, who created the most merriment. The two sailors were dressed very correctly in white duck trousers, middies and sailor caps. The trousers were part of the outfit that Sahwah had purchased in the village the day before, and the pair that fell to Migwan were much too big for her. When it came her turn to walk the plank she remembered Sahwah's parting injunction to "hang on to 'em, whatever you do," and in a sudden panic lest she should fall out of them in her flight through the air, she grabbed them firmly by both sides of the belt, and jumped in that position. The watchers on the beach were convulsed and struggled for some minutes to regain their composure. The last tableau brought tears to Nyoda's eyes--tears of joy and pride. Around the cliff came a gay craft, moving slowly and majestically through the water, but there was no sign of a paddle. As it drew nearer the watchers saw that it was a canoe, its sides covered with red, white and blue bunting. Before it swam Sahwah and Medmangi. Inside, on a flag-covered seat, sat Hinpoha, dressed as Columbia, with a crown on her head, her glorious hair rippling down to her waist and shining like copper in the sunlight. In one hand she carried a torch, in the other she held two white streamers. These streamers were fastened to Sahwah's and Medmangi's waists, who drew the canoe as they swam. The spectators drew a long breath and exclaimed with delight. Professor Wheeler sprang to his feet, camera in hand, and snapped the "Ship of State" at least a dozen times. "Glory! What a head of hair!" he muttered to himself. The cortege approached the dock and those on shore thrilled with a fearful realism as the swimmers reared up their heads and blew jets of water out through their mouths and noses just like sea horses. As the boat passed the dock the watchers with one accord stood and sang "America," and kept on singing until it had vanished from sight around the next cliff. "Great!" cried Professor Bentley, applauding until he was red in the face, "great!" When the three girls came out on the beach after having changed their fancy costumes they were met with another round of applause. "That little pageant of yours," said Professor Bentley, "was about the neatest thing I have ever seen. Was it an original idea?" The girls proudly replied that it was. "And not only original," added Nyoda, "but executed entirely without my help. The whole program was a surprise to me." "You don't say so," said Professor Bentley. "Well, all I can say is you are a pretty clever lot of girls!" Chapa had been busy for the last few minutes gathering driftwood and getting a fire started. The girls had decided to cook dinner down on the beach in order to show the visitors their skill in cooking in the most primitive way. A big kettle of clams was hung over a fire all its own, while another fire was kindled between two long logs, and the pots and pans set along on it in a row. Migwan tended the clams, Sahwah put on a kettle of potatoes and then began making toast, Nakwisi made cocoa, Medmangi fried bacon, and Hinpoha flew about concocting a delicious compound which was her own invention and with which no one dared to meddle. The two men watched with interest every move of the girls as they went about preparing dinner. "Look at that!" said Professor Bentley to his friend. "That" happened to be Hinpoha, who was momentarily left alone with the fire. The cocoa kettle started to sag as the wood burned away and at the same time the mixture in the other kettle began to boil over. Bracing the cocoa kettle with one foot, she snatched the other kettle from the fire, and stood there on one foot holding the steaming pot. Professor Wheeler sprang to her assistance and propped up the cocoa kettle. Dinner was the merriest meal imaginable, and "food just faded away," as Sahwah declared. Hinpoha won much praise for her concoction, which she called "Slumgullion." It was a sort of glorified tomato soup, made with a thick white sauce, containing chopped-up pimentoes and hard-boiled eggs, the mixture being served over toast. The clams of course were the main dainty, and when dipped in butter slid down with amazing rapidity. After dinner the girls threw themselves down in the sand in various attitudes of relaxation, while Professor Wheeler, his eyes straying again and again toward Hinpoha, told stories of camping in the Canadian Rockies. When he had finished the girls rose and stretched themselves, and then began to clamor for "more celebration." Nyoda suggested a fire-building contest. Each girl was to have three minutes in which to collect material and get a fire started. No paper was allowed and only three matches. What a scramble there was to find small dry twigs! There was a smart breeze blowing, and most of the matches went out as soon as lighted, putting their owners out of the contest. Sahwah was wise and piled her twigs where a huge stump sheltered them from the wind; Hinpoha sat between hers and the wind. Even then it was difficult to get the twigs to burn. It seemed as if they were in league against the contestants and firmly refused to light. "Two and a half minutes," called Nyoda warningly, her watch in her hand. "Mine's burning," shouted Hinpoha, jumping up as the flames began to curl up from the twigs. Just then a gust of wind came up, and pouf! out went the fire. "Time's up!" called Nyoda, and Sahwah rose from her knees, disclosing a neat little blaze. She had wisely sheltered her fire until the last second, giving it a chance to kindle well. Now it was the custom of the Winnebagos to have a folk story told by one of their number right after supper, but as the visitors would have to leave early Nyoda asked if the girls wouldn't like to tell the folk story before supper. They agreed, as usual, to anything that would give pleasure to a guest. It was Migwan's turn to tell the story, so seating herself on a rock in the midst of the group, she related the story of Aliquipiso, the heroic Oneida maiden. "Once upon a time the savage Mingoes made war upon the Oneidas, so the Oneidas were obliged to flee from their pleasant village and seek refuge in the depths of the forest. So well did they hide their traces that the Mingoes were not able to find their hiding place and they remained safe. Their food supply, however, began to be exhausted, for they were hemmed in by the Mingoes and could not break through the lines. They were facing destruction in two ways; either by slow starvation should they remain in hiding, or a cruel death at the hands of the Mingoes should they venture out. The chiefs and warriors of the Oneidas held a council, but none had a plan to offer which would effect their salvation. Then the maiden Aliquipiso stepped forward. With becoming modesty she addressed the chiefs and warriors, saying that the Great Manitou had sent her a dream in which he showed her how great boulders could be dashed on the heads of the Mingoes if they could be lured to a spot directly beneath the bluff on which the Oneidas were hiding. She went on to say that the Great Manitou had inspired her with the desire to be the means of luring the Mingoes to their destruction, and she was ready to start out on her mission. "The Oneida braves hailed her as the saviour of her people and the Beloved of the Great Spirit, and hung strings of wampum around her neck. Bidding her people farewell, she left the hiding place and was found by the Mingoes wandering in the forest, apparently a lost maiden of the Oneida tribe. They took her to their camp and put her to torture trying to make her tell where her people were hidden. At last she broke down and promised that when night fell she would lead the Mingoes to the hiding place of the Oneidas. "Under cover of the darkness she led them to the gully at the foot of the ravine. On each side of her was a Mingo warrior, ready to strike her dead at the first cry for help. When she reached the spot where she knew the Oneidas were waiting to hurl immense boulders down over the cliff she uttered a piercing scream--the signal agreed upon. The warrior next to her had just time to strike her dead with his club when the boulders came down, crushing him and all the Mingoes like worms beneath a giant's heel. Thus the Oneidas owed their deliverance to the bravery of a maiden." "It must be fine to be a heroine," sighed Sahwah, when the applause was finished, "to save a person's life or something. I wish I had lived in the early days of the country. Nothing ever happens now." Unsuspecting Sahwah! Little did she dream what was hidden under the wings of the Thunder Moon! The guests rose to depart, after inspecting the tents and partaking of sandwiches and cocoa out on the Sunset Rock. Nyoda took them across the lake in the _Sunbeam_, the little launch that belonged to camp. Both gentlemen expressed their unbounded admiration for the physical prowess of the Winnebago girls and remarked on their splendid ability to pull together. Professor Wheeler raved about Hinpoha's hair. "Let me come and paint her," he pleaded. "Sitting out on the rocks--with the sun on that hair--O, what a picture!" Gently but firmly, Nyoda refused permission. "The girls have come up here for a summer all by themselves; to learn the joys of camping out and of doing things together. Such an interruption would break up the unity of their activities and lessen the influence of camp." Professor Wheeler begged and entreated, but in vain; Nyoda stood her ground. The most she would promise to do was to send him Hinpoha's address at the close of camp so that he might take the matter up with her parents. Nyoda returned home very thoughtful. Hinpoha's dawning beauty was causing her many thoughtful moments of late. Not that Hinpoha was in the least vain or self-conscious; on the contrary, she was the jolliest and most natural girl in the group, and the least fastidious. That same red hair which Professor Wheeler raved over was the bane of her existence, and she had more than once threatened to cut it off when the curls became hopelessly snarled. Her chief aim in life was to have as much fun as possible and to get as many others mixed up in it as she could. Hinpoha, haughty and proud because of her good looks, was a picture that the imagination balked at. Yet Nyoda could not help noticing that wherever the group went Hinpoha attracted by far the most attention from outsiders. All the way down from Cleveland on the train Nyoda had watched men who had scarcely taken their eyes from Hinpoha. The guardian sighed as she reflected on the problem, for she knew how difficult it would be for Hinpoha to live out the happy normal girl life which was her birthright. When Nyoda reached camp Hinpoha and Sahwah were lying on their stomachs on the dock, rigging up a light-boat to be sent over the lake. It consisted of a flat board for a keel and voluminous sails dipped in turpentine. As Nyoda landed they set a match to the sails and shoved the boat out into the wind. It made a grand glare as it glided out over the lake and the girls cheered until the last spark had fallen hissing into the water. "Wasn't it a grand success all the way through?" sighed Sahwah happily as they climbed the path to the tents at the sound of the first bugle. "First we thought it was going to rain and then the sun shone; and first we thought we weren't going to have any audience and then we did anyway, and the dinner didn't burn and everything was lovely!" The day had been pretty strenuous for most of the girls and it was not long before Nepahwin, the Spirit of Sleep, claimed them for his own. Then it was that the Dream Manitou, hovering over the Omega tent, fluttered down on Sahwah's pillow. In fancy she roamed through the virgin forest, before the white man had come to destroy the Indian lodges. She was the daughter of a Chieftain, the acknowledged leader of the other maidens. Now there was a young brave belonging to a neighboring tribe with whom she was in love, but there was enmity between her tribe and his, and he dared not ask for her hand. So they were in the habit of meeting secretly in the forest. One day when they were together they became aware of footsteps approaching, and peering through the bushes saw a number of braves belonging to the young man's tribe close upon them. So great was their hatred of her father that for them to find her would mean instant death. "Fly! fly!" whispered her lover, "fly to the edge of the cliff and jump for your life. My canoe is at the foot of the cliff--take it and escape while I divert the attention of these braves!" Like an arrow from the bow she set out. Reaching the edge of the cliff, she poised for an instant, then leaped into the lake twenty feet below. As she struck the water Sahwah woke up. All about her was darkness and seeming chaos. There was a swirling about her ears and her limbs seemed detached from her body. She seemed to be rising rapidly. Suddenly her head shot clear of the enveloping gloom and she saw the moon and stars overhead. Just above her reared a black framework. Mechanically she flung out her hand and grasped solid wood. The next moment a voice rang out above her head. "Sahwah! What are you doing?" Then a hand came over the edge of the dock and pulled her up. It was Nyoda. Sahwah blinked at her stupidly. "Whatever possessed you to jump off the tower?" persisted Nyoda. "He told me to jump and I did," said Sahwah, still in a daze. Then suddenly her eyes fell on her nightdress, dripping at every fold. "Where am I?" she said sharply, her teeth beginning to chatter. "Why, _Nyoda!_" Nyoda laughed. "You dreamed it, dear," she said. "You jumped off the tower in your sleep. Come up to bed now before you take cold." Putting her arm around the shivering girl, she led her up the path to the tent and tucked her in between dry blankets. "Too much celebration," she reflected, and then added to herself, "It's a good thing I happened to see her." Nyoda had wakened in the night and lay looking out through the tent door at the lake bathed in moonlight. The diving tower was right in her line of vision, solitary and black against the moonlight. Suddenly she became aware of a figure climbing up the ladder to the top. She sat up in bed and rubbed her eyes and recognized Sahwah. The girl poised for an instant on the edge and then jumped into the water. Nyoda sped down the path and reached the dock just as Sahwah came up. "And up until now," thought Nyoda, as she dropped off to sleep again, "I did think they were safe in their beds!" CHAPTER IV. IN SEARCH OF ADVENTURE. At the close of singing hour one morning the week following the Fourth-of-July celebration Nyoda rose with an air of mystery and requested the girls not to make up their beds as usual, but instead to roll their blankets in their ponchos and pile them up together. A shriek of joy went up from the girls. "What is it, Nyoda, a canoe trip?" Nyoda shook her head. "You'll see," was all she would say. Immediately she was surrounded by the girls clamoring to be told where they were going. "I surrender," she said, laughing at Migwan, who was embracing her feet in supplication, "we're going hunting." "Hunting what?" clamored the chorus. "Oh, adventures and such things," said Nyoda in an off-hand manner. "Where are we going?" "How are we going?" "When are we going to start?" shouted the girls from all sides. Nyoda put her hands over her ears and tapped for silence with her foot. "One at a time, please, ladies, and I will endeavor to answer any questions that may come into your minds," she said in her best lecture-room manner. "Oh, Nyoda, tell us," begged the girls. "Having your kind permission to speak," resumed Nyoda, "I will try to state the case briefly. Now then, one, two, three! We're going to Balsam Lake!" "It's a hike!" shouted Sahwah, turning a handspring. "Is it, Nyoda?" asked Migwan. Nyoda nodded. "That's it. We're going to hike through the woods to Balsam Lake, which is a distance of about twelve miles, camp there for the night, and return to-morrow by another route." "O Goody!" cried Sahwah, hopping up and down on one foot, "when are we going to start?" "The first two will start at ten o'clock," said Nyoda. "The first two!" echoed the girls. "Aren't we all going together?" Then Nyoda outlined her plan. Believing that the girls would collect more adventures by going in pairs instead of all together, besides the fun of following a trail marked out by leaders, she had arranged the girls two by two. The first pair, who would be the pathfinders and blaze the trail for those coming after, would leave at ten o'clock, the next pair twenty minutes later, then the next, and so on. Their ponchos would be brought in a wagon over the main road and left for them; they would buy their supplies for supper and breakfast at the last village they passed through. Their lunches, they would carry with them. The first two were to buy potatoes and start the fire and put them in, while the rest would bring the other supplies. "Who and who are going to be partners?" demanded Sahwah. "Listen, while I read the list," answered Nyoda. "Sahwah and Nakwisi, Hinpoha and Migwan, Gladys and Chapa, Medmangi and myself. You will leave camp in the order I have named you. Sahwah and Nakwisi will be the pathfinders." Sahwah seized Nakwisi around the waist and the two danced for joy. "Who'll take care of the camp while we're away?" asked Chapa. "I have arranged with a man from the village to look after things until we get back," answered Nyoda. "What are we to carry with us?" asked Migwan. "You will each carry a hatchet, flashlight, notebook and pencil, a camera, a roll of antiseptic gauze and a roll of surgeon's plaster. Sahwah and Nakwisi, here is a chart of the road you are to take and a can of vermilion paint with which to mark the trail. Take all the pictures you can along the road, girls, and keep a list of the birds, animals, trees and flowers that you recognize. We will compare them afterward and the pair who has observed the most will receive a local honor. Hurry up, you pathfinders, you have only an hour to get ready!" With a wild scramble the girls made for their tents to get their ponchos rolled and things collected. Nyoda had given them a demonstration of poncho rolling the week before so they all knew how. Gladys, however, had to have a good deal of help from Chapa before she was ready to start. Good-natured Chapa folded her blankets so the poncho extended on all sides and spread her nightgown, towel, brush and comb and toothbrush crosswise so they would roll. Now Gladys understood why Nyoda had told her especially to bring a small, loosely-stuffed pillow. It was to roll in the poncho. When it came to the actual rolling Gladys had to take a hand herself, for it takes two to roll a poncho successfully. "Now you tie it up with a square knot," directed Chapa, when the stovepipe-like roll had been bent into a horseshoe. "What's a square knot?" asked Gladys. "Why, this kind," said Chapa, dexterously tying one. Gladys tried several times, but failed to produce a square knot. "O dear," she exclaimed impatiently, "I can't tie the crazy thing. Why won't the other kind do?" "A granny knot always comes untied," explained Chapa. "Here, I'll tie your poncho up. It's getting late, and I want to help make the sandwiches for the girls who are starting first." "Close your tents before you leave, girls," said Nyoda, appearing in the doorway, "it may rain while we are away. Very neatly done," she said, indicating Gladys's poncho with its smooth ties, "you are fast learning to be a camper." Gladys said nothing about Chapa's having done it up for her, and of course Chapa would not say so. Promptly at ten o'clock the pathfinders marched away, looking quite explorerfied with their hatchets hanging from their belts and their Wohelo knives chained to their bloomer pockets. At twenty-minute intervals the other pairs started, Nyoda going the rounds before she left to see who had left her things in the neatest order, and whose poncho looked the best. A banner would go to the pair who kept up the best style throughout the hike. She and Medmangi ate their lunch before starting, as they left so near noon. Leaving camp in the care of the man from the village, they struck into the path through the woods. The whole earth seemed filled with the scent of flowers and the invigorating odor of the pines. Here in Maine the wild strawberries were in full prime early in July, and the path was bordered with daisies and other bright flowers. The two swung along in silence with an enjoyment too deep for words, for they appreciated as only Camp Fire Girls can the beauties and, wonders of nature. Back somewhere in the world they had left behind dull care might be beating its incessant tom-tom, and the air was full of wars and rumors of wars, but here every harsh note was drowned in the singing of birds. "Isn't it glorious?" said Nyoda fervently, drinking in a long breath of the pine-scented air, and swelling out her already well-developed chest. Presently the path they were on was crossed by another and at the intersection there was a splash of bright red paint on a tree. "A blaze!" cried Nyoda, stopping short. "Which path did they take, I wonder?" In the road at the foot of the blazed tree lay a small heap of stones pointing in the direction taken by the leaders. "What's this?" asked Nyoda, picking up a small box from beside the stones. It was marked "For Nyoda." She lifted the lid and out hopped a tiny live frog. In the bottom of the box was a piece of paper on which was drawn a sunfish. So they went on for nearly half an hour, following the red blazes, when suddenly they came upon Chapa and Gladys sitting in the road. Gladys had a blister on her heel. Nyoda bandaged it for her and showed her how to put a piece of adhesive on the other heel to keep it from blistering. The rule of the road was that if one pair caught up with another they were to sit down and give them a ten minutes' start. So Nyoda and Medmangi sat down and waited until Gladys and Chapa were well under way. The next blaze they struck was truly startling. It was a little silver birch tree with the stem painted entirely red. Nailed to it with a big rusty nail was a piece of cardboard. At the top was written: "Sahwah and the Starlore Maiden Keep ahead though heavy laden." Then followed a many-pointed symbol and the words, "See our combination symbol? It's a starfish!" Underneath was a couplet in a different writing. "Here come Migwan and Hinpoha Two and two like the beasts of Noah." Underneath that was a verse signed by "The Chipmunk." "Gladys's heel is full of plaster, Or else we would travel faster." Nyoda and Medmangi shouted and took the card along for a souvenir, adding the lines, "Here Nyoda and Medmangi Read the blaze and held a tangi." A little farther on they discovered the legend: "Here we sit down in the road, For Sahwah's stocking must be sewed." "What's the matter, Grumpy?" said Migwan to Hinpoha, who had been stewing around to herself for the last ten minutes. "It's this old orange I brought along for lunch," burst out Hinpoha. "I don't know what to do with it. If I put it in my bloomers it bangs against my leg, and if I carry it in my bag it bangs against my stomach, and if I carry it in my hand I drop it every other minute. It's driving me crazy." "Why don't you eat it?" asked Migwan simply. "Why, I never thought of that!" exclaimed Hinpoha, and soon had the offending orange safely disposed of. Lunch time found Sahwah and Nakwisi close to a farm house and they went in to ask for a drink of water. The farmer's wife looked curiously at the two girls in bloomers carrying a can of red paint. Sahwah introduced Nakwisi and herself and explained what they were doing. "Land sakes alive!" exclaimed the farmer's wife, "what girls don't do nowadays! Livin' like Indians and walkin' their legs off just for the fun of it! Come right in and I'll see if I can't find something better than water to give you." She bustled out into the summer kitchen and returned with a pitcher of milk and two glasses. "Here, drink this along with your sandwiches, and try a dish of berries." Sahwah and Nakwisi needed no second invitation. Their sandwiches had been pretty well baked in the sun for the last two hours and were as dry as straw, so the milk and berries were decidedly refreshing. "How restful it is here," sighed Sahwah luxuriously, leaning back in the cushioned rocking chair. "Can't you stay a spell, girls, and rest up?" said their hostess cordially. "We have half an hour for our noonday rest," said Sahwah, "and I'd like to take it right in this chair, if you don't mind." She slipped off her shoes and stretched her feet to rest them, closing her eyes meanwhile, and Nakwisi followed suit. When they finally rose to go the farmer's wife brought out a plate of cookies which she urged them to take along to eat on the road. She stood looking after them for a long time as they trudged along in the yellow dust. "I wish I could go along with 'em, over the hills," she exclaimed suddenly to the unheeding hens that were walking up and down the steps, "I'm tired of staying at home and doing the same things over and over again. I wish I could go along too!" Chapa and Gladys, following the blazes through the woods, found their path barred at one place by a rather wide brook. The trail was marked again on the other side. "How are we going to get across?" asked Gladys. "Wade through," said Chapa, briefly, sitting down and commencing to pull off her shoes and stockings. Gladys put her hand into the water and shook her head. "It's too cold," she said, drawing back. "No, it isn't," said Chapa, "the rest went through it. Come on, you'll be all right." Stuffing her stockings into her shoes, she threw them to the farther bank, and then stepping into the swift little stream she waded across calmly. Gladys hesitated for several minutes before she could make up her mind to put her feet in the water, but finally, encouraged by Chapa, she stepped gingerly in. "Be careful of the rocks, they're slippery," warned Chapa, but the warning was hardly out of her mouth when Gladys slipped on one of the smooth stones and sat down with a mighty splash. Chapa flew to the rescue and pulled her out on the bank. "What will I do?" wailed Gladys, "I can't go on with these wet bloomers." "Wear my bathing suit," suggested Chapa, untying it from around her waist where she had been wearing it as a sort of sash, with all her impedimenta stuck into the folds. So Gladys changed to the bathing suit, and Chapa fixed the wet bloomers on a stick which they could carry between them, so they would be dry by the time they reached the night's encampment. "We ought to be pretty near the end of our journey," said Nyoda to Medmangi, at about half-past four in the afternoon. "Have you caught sight of Balsam Lake yet?" Medmangi shook her head. "The woods are too thick to see anything through," she answered. "Let's call," said Nyoda. Together they raised their hands to their mouths and sent out the long, yodling call of the Camp Fire Girls, and then stood silent, listening. Before the echoes had ceased coming out of the woods the call was answered from somewhere beyond the trees. "We're nearly there!" said Nyoda, and they quickened their pace as they went through the last strip of woods. Soon they heard voices and saw figures moving about in the distance, and presently they came upon the rest of the girls on the shore of the tiny lake. Some of the girls were lying at full length on the soft ground; others were preparing supper. Hinpoha was chopping wood with her hatchet; Sahwah was shaving chocolate with hers. The fire was built close to the water's edge and the firelight shone out redly across the water. Migwan set a can of beans in the embers to warm, then she sat down on the beach to enjoy the view. The late afternoon sun was pouring its full glory on the lake, making its surface one dazzling sheet of light. Migwan shaded her eyes with her hand, and drank in the splendor of the scene with all her beauty-loving soul. "Now I know how Scott felt when he wrote: "One burnished sheet of living gold, Loch Katrine lay beneath him rolled,"' mused Migwan, and fell to dreaming dreams as golden as the setting sun. Around the fire the tongues were wagging merrily. "We met a man with a wagon and he said, 'Jump in,' and we said, 'No, thank you,' and he said, 'Well, don't, then, ding it.'--" "We ate our lunch beside a brook and Migwan dropped her sandwiches in and had bread soup--" "We met a bull and Hinpoha climbed the fence into a field and there were two bulls in that field--" "Nyoda sat down in a potato patch to tie her shoe and the farmer came out and yelled--" BANG! There was a terrific explosion that scattered the firebrands among the girls and showered them with ashes and fragments of potatoes. They sprang to their feet, extinguishing the fires that started in various places, and asking what had happened. Nyoda's glance happened to fall on Hinpoha, who had sat nearest the fire. The whole front of her middy was plastered with--_beans!_ On the ground by the fire lay the flattened remains of a tin can. Migwan had put the beans to heat without opening the can. Shrieks of laughter arose when the truth dawned on the girls and it was many a day before they left off teasing Migwan about it. The fire was built up again, bacon "frizzled," and toast and cocoa made. "And my mouth was just watering for baked potatoes," wailed Hinpoha. "And mine for baked beans," echoed Sahwah. "You shouldn't eat potatoes if you want to get thin," said Migwan. "Shouldn't I, Nyoda?" asked Hinpoha, appealing to her guardian. Nyoda pursed up her lips and recited with a judicial air: "If you would slimmer grow, my daughter, Eat no starches, drink no water." Sahwah then took up the tale: "Look not on the candy sweet, Fall not for the fat of meat." Thus it went round the circle, each girl pointing her finger at Hinpoha and reciting a couplet: "If your fat you'd wear away, Exercise ten hours a day," "If you would grow thin and graceful, Eat of lemons this whole caseful." "If you think that you're too large, Swim ahead and tow the barge." "If you really would grow small, Don't eat anything at all." "I think you're mean," said Hinpoha, wiping away mock tears. Immediately all the girls flung themselves on her, hugging and caressing her. "Never mind, 'Poha," they comforted, "we love you anyhow. We couldn't live without you." "Did anybody catch up with anybody else today?" asked Sahwah. Nyoda and Medmangi sprang to their feet, and pointing scornfully at Chapa and Gladys, sang to the tune of "Forsaken: "O'ertaken, o'ertaken, o'ertaken were they, On a stone by the roadside they sat plain as day; We sat down beside them and sang them this song, Which caused them to rise up and travel along." "We made a song, too," cried Migwan and Hinpoha, springing to their feet. "It's to the tune of 'Jingle Bells.'" And keeping time with their feet, they sang: "Marching through the woods, Onward day by day, Round the lake we go, Singing all the way. Packs strapped to our backs, There our eats we stow, Oh, what fun it is to hike With the girls of Wohelo! Wohelo, Wohelo, Singing all the day, O what fun it is to hike Around the world away!" The girls joined in the chorus, and then went back to the beginning, and in a few minutes the song had been "adopted for use." By this time the fire was burning low and Nyoda reminded the girls that they had walked twelve miles that day and had a still longer tramp ahead on the morrow. "It doesn't seem possible that I've walked so far today," said Migwan, sitting up and stretching. "I'm not nearly as tired as I have been some days last winter after school." The girls had all picked out their sleeping places before dark and made up their beds on the ground. Before retiring they all took a dip in the lake, splashing around in the darkness and barking their shins on the rocks. Gladys and Chapa sought their beds first. It was the first time that Gladys had ever slept on the ground. "There's a rock in my back and my feet are higher than my head," she wailed. "Then let's move," said Chapa, and suiting the action to the word, she picked up the bed and deposited it in another place. This was fairly comfortable and they subsided. Next an uproar arose from a bed near the beach. "There's a million ants in my bed!" shrieked Migwan, jumping up and shaking her blankets. She had spread her bed on a colony of ant hills, and the ants had improved the shining hours until bedtime by crawling between the blankets. Sahwah was the last in bed, having stayed in the water longer than the others. She was strangely wakeful and lay for a long time staring up at the pines towering above her, that seemed to rise hundreds of feet before a branch appeared. She amused herself by reaching out her hand and identifying her belongings, which hung on a bush at her head. Her hand closed over the can of red paint. Like lightning she had an inspiration. She raised her head and looked at the next bed. "It's Migwan," she said to herself. Grasping the paint brush, she reached over and daubed the face of the sleeper. Then she settled down and slept. Gladys woke up in the gray dawn and looked out from her sandwich bed. The lake was completely hidden by a thick mist. Drops were coming down, patter, patter, on her poncho. "Chapa," she whispered excitedly to her partner, "it's raining!" "Well, what of it?" answered Chapa, without opening her eyes, and pulling the poncho over their heads, she resumed her slumbers. Gladys drew a horrified breath at the idea of sleeping on the ground in the rain, but the cozy dryness of her bed soon wooed her back to slumber. When she opened her eyes again the sun was rising over the lake. No, there were two suns, one in the lake which was making it boil and send up clouds of steam, and another in the sky which was drawing up the vapor. Soon the bugle blew and the camp woke to activity. With a whoop the girls made for the lake for their morning plunge. "Gladys!" said Nyoda, "what is the matter with your face?" On each cheek, as well as on her nose and forehead, there was a daub of red. Sahwah stared, then she giggled. "I thought it was Migwan beside me," she explained. "Excuse me, Gladys, I didn't mean to decorate you." Gladys, however, evidently thought differently, for she was decidedly cool to Sahwah from then on. Just before breakfast the girls assembled on the high cliff to sing the morning song. Their choice was Rousseau's beautiful hymn, "When the mists have rolled in splendor From the beauty of the hills." The mist curtains were rolling up from the lake in the morning sun, disclosing the lofty brow of Mount Washington in the distance, and the girls felt very near to God and Nature as they sang the inspired words. Breakfast was cooked in the open and consisted of fruit, pancakes and cocoa. Hinpoha heroically passed up both the pancakes and the cocoa and contented herself with one piece of dry toast. The hike proceeded in order just as on the previous day. Right after breakfast the ponchos were rolled and the pathfinders struck the trail through the woods. The first note left by them read: "10:30. First rest. 'Ware the pest!" "Wonder what they meant by that?" said Hinpoha to Migwan. They soon found out. At the last blaze the path dipped into dense woods. From all sides rose a cloud of mosquitoes which settled on every exposed portion of their persons and stung viciously. "Ooo, wow!" they cried, breaking into a run and brushing the mosquitoes off with branches. Before they entered the next woods they stripped the bark off a fallen birch log and made leggings of it, tying them on with their handkerchiefs. Migwan made up a song as they went along and taught it to Hinpoha. The tune was "Solomon Levi:" "Oh, we are Winnebagos and our color is the Red, Over the hills and down the dales we go wherever we're led, We follow the blazes through the wood like hounds upon the hunt, We keep our feet upon the path and our faces to the front! Oh, Winnebagos! 'Bagos, tra la la la, Oh, Winnebagos! 'Bagos, tra la la la la la la, Oh, we are Winnebagos and our color is the Red, Over the hills and down the dales we go wherever we're led!" "I suppose you'll be a great poet when you grow up," said Hinpoha, stooping to pick a cluster of ripe strawberries. Migwan sighed. "No, I'll never be a great poet," she answered, "but I may be able to write stories in time, if I learn enough about composition." "What college are you going to?" asked Hinpoha. "I'm not going at all," said Migwan seriously. "You know, since father died we have had to live very carefully, and high school is all mother can do for me. I have to go to work as soon as I graduate." "It's too bad," sympathized Hinpoha. "You ought to go to college more than any of us. Here am I, with no more brains than a rabbit, going to Smith. It isn't fair. Can't you work your way through and go anyhow?" Migwan shook her head. "You see, we will need the money I earn to send Betty and Tom to high school." Thus talking earnestly they followed the blazes until they came to a place where the path divided around a very dense piece of woods. "You take one path, and I'll take the other," said Migwan, "and we'll see who comes out first." They separated and Migwan plunged into the darker of the two paths. It was hard breaking through. Small scrub pines closed over the path, their branches intertwined, so that more than once she had to use her hatchet. Roots and vines tangled her feet and made her stumble. Then she wedged her foot in between two stumps and could not get it out. She pulled and twisted and finally grasped hold of the stem of a small tree and braced herself firmly while she endeavored to free herself. With a sudden jerk her foot came free, and at the same instant the tree came up by the roots, the ground caved in beneath it and Migwan began to fall. She now discovered what she had not noticed before, that the path was on the edge of a very deep ravine which was hidden by the thick bushes. Straight down she rolled for about fifty feet, vainly trying to stop herself by grasping the small bushes. Deep down in the gully she came to a stop not two feet away from a small stream. "I'm not dead, anyhow," was her first thought as she scrambled to her feet. A red-hot stab of agony went through her left knee and she sank down again, white and faint. "Dislocated," she said to herself after inspecting the injured member. "Let's see if I can put it back." Migwan had had First-Aid work and had learned to set dislocations, so she slipped the joint back into place before it could get a chance to swell, and bound it fast with a strip of the bandage the girls always carried with them. At that the pain made her sick to her stomach and she lay back, her head reeling. When she could see clearly again she sat up and looked around. It was nearly dark, as the thick pines shut out the declining rays of the sun. She called aloud till the echoes rang, but there was no answering call. The gravity of the situation came home to her, but Migwan was not one to whimper. She had nothing with her to eat, but there was clear water at hand and she drank and bathed her scratched face and hands. Then she lay still and thought things out. "They'll surely find me sometime," she reflected, "for Hinpoha knows which path I took. The cave-in will tell the tale. There's nothing in the woods to hurt me, either man or beast. My knee is back in joint and will begin to heal while I stay here. Things might have been worse." Beside her lay a dry pine tree and she chopped it up and built a fire. For a long time she lay looking up at the great pines above her, lost in romantic fancies, her beautiful, expressive eyes shining in the firelight. By and by she slept, her head pillowed on her sweater. She was aroused by the squalling of the jays in the pine trees. Sunlight was filtering down through the branches. She felt chilly from her sleep on the ground, although the trees had kept the dew from her. Sitting up, she exercised her arms to get up the circulation. Then, leaning on a heavy stick and hobbling on one foot, she began to look about her. Not far from where she had fallen there was an opening in the undergrowth and through this Migwan could see another path about six feet lower down the slope. "I wonder if they would come this way," thought Migwan. "I had better put a blaze in the road so they can find me." She was casting about for something that would attract the attention of the searchers when she heard footsteps coming down the path. "They're coming," she thought, and was just ready to fall on Hinpoha's neck, when out of the woods came two men, one of them carrying a little boy. A few paces from where Migwan stood, hidden by a large tree trunk, they came to a halt, and the one man, pulling out a purse, began to count money. The little boy was dressed in a white sailor suit and hat, and his hair under the hat brim was yellow and curly. A beam of sunlight fell directly on him, making such a pretty picture that Migwan could not help snap-shotting him. Her camera still hung around her neck in its case, having luckily escaped injury by her fall. Then she stepped out and called to the men. Both started violently. Migwan hastened to explain her plight. "Sorry we can't carry you along," said the man with the purse, "but we have to catch the boat at the lake and that would make us miss it." "Can't you tell someone where I am?" asked Migwan. "Why, yes, yes," answered the man, pulling out his watch. "We'll send some one for you." They disappeared down the path at a quick pace, and Migwan sat down by the opening and waited. Hinpoha, following the path taken by the leaders, was tripping blithely along, not looking where she was going, with the result that she ran into a pine branch which caught her long hair, and in freeing herself broke the chain of her locket, which slipped to the ground and hid among the leaves. Hinpoha got down on her knees and hunted for it. The minutes passed, but still she did not find it. She did not worry about Migwan because she knew she would wait where the paths met. Chapa and Gladys caught up and helped her search, and finally they found it. Upon reaching the main path, however, they did not see Migwan. "Probably got tired waiting and went on by herself," said Hinpoha. "Serves me right." And she walked on with Gladys and Chapa. Two hours later they reached camp, and Hinpoha began calling around for Migwan, but there was no sign of her. "Are you sure she isn't hiding about the camp to surprise us?" asked Hinpoha hopefully. Sahwah seized the bugle and blew the call which meant, "Come at once, no matter what you are doing," but there was no answer. Thoroughly frightened, they started back on the trail, meeting Nyoda and Medmangi just coming in. At the story of Migwan's disappearance Nyoda immediately planned a search. But first of all she insisted on the girls eating their supper. Then she reminded them that they had walked fifteen miles that day and most of them needed rest. Hinpoha stoutly maintained that she was as fresh as a May morning and declared she would walk all night to find Migwan. "What if she never comes back!" she wailed. Her knees gave way under her at the thought and she sank down at Nyoda's feet, her head on her arms. "Of course she'll come back," said Nyoda confidently, but her heart was like water within her. These girls were all in her charge for the summer and she was responsible for their welfare. What had become of Migwan? The party that finally started out were Nyoda, Hinpoha, Sahwah and the man who had watched the camp while the girls were away, who drove his wagon along the roadway and let the girls ride in turn. They explored the woods back to where the two paths emerged from the thicket, calling and searching with lanterns. All to no purpose. They went over every inch of the path down which Migwan had disappeared. Now Migwan, in coming through, had strayed off the path, which was very hard to follow, and the place where she had gone over the edge was at least twenty feet from the true path. The searchers therefore did not find the evidence of her fall, and as the time when they stood there and called to her corresponded with the time when Migwan lay in a dead faint, she made no response, and they passed on. The night wore on and the searchers grew more and more alarmed. Hinpoha dissolved in tears and declared she just couldn't live without Migwan. Nyoda tried to comfort her with all sorts of cheering possibilities, but her own heart was troubled and anxious. They retraced their route back to the place where they had camped the night before, but found nothing. Then, discouraged and panic-stricken, they began to retrace their steps to camp. Morning light brought a new disclosure. Not only had they lost Migwan somewhere in the great woods, but they themselves were completely off the trail of the day before. At one of the dim cross-roads they had made a misturn, and were now wandering around without the slightest notion of where they were going. "Well, I'll be jiggered," said the man with the wagon. "I thought I knew these here woods pretty well, but I'm blamed if I know where we are now. Everything looks turned around; I'd swear now, that that was the west over there, yet there is the sun a-risin' as big as life. I'm plumb addled!" They advanced uncertainly, looking closely for the red-marked trees of the hike. "This road looks as if it went somewhere," said Hinpoha. They stuck to the road for a while but soon saw a sign board reading, "Cambridge, 7 miles." Cambridge was a town lying exactly in the opposite direction from Loon Lake. Bewildered, they turned back and Hinpoha left the main road and followed a narrow path that led into the woods. Wearily Nyoda walked after her. She was at her wits' end. "It's no use, Hinpoha," she said sadly. "This path isn't any better than the road. We never went through this gully on the hike." "Still, it might lead to one we know," answered Hinpoha, and they kept on. The path seemed endless, and was hard to walk in, for it was on the side of a hill. "Let's turn back," pleaded Nyoda. "We're only wasting our strength without getting anywhere." "Maybe we had better," answered Hinpoha in a discouraged tone. Just then the path turned sharply, and as they rounded the corner they came upon a figure sitting in the long grass. "Migwan!" cried Nyoda, and stood as if petrified. Hinpoha pointed her finger and tried to sing "O'ertaken," but burst into tears instead and fell on Migwan's neck. Explanations were soon made and Migwan was carried to the wagon to be petted and fussed over as if she had been lost for a year. So, wearied but triumphant, the hunting party returned to camp with the trophy of the chase. CHAPTER V. IN WHICH A FILM TELLS A TALE. It was the end of the swimming period and Nyoda was thoroughly exhausted. She had been giving Gladys her first swimming lesson. It had taken a week to coax the girl into the water at all and nearly another one to get her in over her knees. She showed a perfectly unreasoning terror of the water. In vain did Sahwah dive off the tower and come up safe and sound; in vain did Hinpoha demonstrate how impossible it was to sink if you relaxed. Gladys doubled up in a tense knot and grew sick with fear, regardless of Nyoda's supporting hand. Finally Nyoda took her farther up the beach, away from the other girls. "Now, Gladys," she said reassuringly, "do you believe, down deep in your heart, that I would let go of you and let you drown?" "No," said Gladys. "Then," said Nyoda, "you come along and let me hold you up while you float." Gladys swallowed hard and stiffened out like a crowbar; then as a wavelet washed over her face she clutched wildly at Nyoda and put her feet on solid bottom. And so she went on. With inexhaustible patience Nyoda tried again and again to get her to lie out flat on the water, but was compelled to admit at the end of the hour that she had made no progress whatever, for Gladys had not made the slightest effort to control either her muscles or her fears. Nyoda sympathized with her great fear of the water, for she realized that it was a very real thing; but she was disappointed that she had not tried to conquer it. Her first impression of Gladys bad been borne out by later events. She was vain and silly and shallow; she lacked the good sportsmanship which made the rest of the Winnebagos such successful campers. Of team work she had no idea at all. She wanted to order her day to suit herself, and put on an injured air if one of the girls declined to help her make a stencil when it was time to clean up the tent for inspection. Her corner of the tent was never in order, and as a result the Omegas were getting low marks in inspection, much to their disgust, for the rivalry between the two tents was very keen. Gladys had officially joined the Winnebagos, having come into the group at the last Council Fire as Kamama the Butterfly. The very name she chose was an illustration of her character. She had no higher ambition than to be a society butterfly. Nyoda sighed, but she knew Gladys was not to blame, for she had been brought up in an artificial atmosphere of fashion and snobbery. Nyoda saw at once that in order to get the most good out of camp Gladys must be on the same basis as the other girls, so she defined their relative positions clearly at the beginning. Gladys's father owned the camp, so they were in a measure her guests; therefore, Nyoda would not let her pay a share of the provisions, thus evening things up. Gladys had now been in camp nearly two weeks, but she had not entered heart and soul into the life as the others had. And it was not because they had left her out of things--every girl had gone out of her way to make her feel at home. The fault was clearly Gladys's own. Nyoda was thinking about all these things when her reverie was interrupted by the sound of an automobile horn, and in a few moments a man came down the path from the road. He approached her and introduced himself as Mr. Bailey. He was a private detective, he said, and was trying to locate a child that had strayed or been kidnapped from a family on the other end of the lake. He was visiting all the camps to see if any one had seen the child. Nyoda shook her head. "We haven't seen any child around here," she said. "Was it a girl or a boy?" "A boy," answered Mr. Bailey, "three years old; at the time of his disappearance he wore a white sailor suit and hat." "When did he disappear?" asked Nyoda. "Last Thursday night." "We were just coming home from a hiking trip then and had lost one of our own girls and weren't paying much attention to anything else," said Nyoda, "but I'll ask the girls who were in camp while we were looking for Migwan." She blew the bugle and called the girls together and when they had come she introduced Mr. Bailey and asked if they had seen anything of the little boy. At the mention of a boy in a white sailor suit Migwan pricked up her ears. "Why, I saw him when I was lying in the woods waiting for the girls to come for me. There were two men with him, one carrying him. I spoke to them and asked them to send somebody after me. They said they were hurrying to catch the boat." "What boat?" asked the detective. "It must have been the _Bluebird_,--the Loon Lake boat--for they were going in the direction of Loon Lake." "Can you describe the men?" asked Mr. Bailey. Migwan tilted back her head and squinted her eyes in an effort to bring back the picture. "One was tall and had a black mustache. He was the one who carried the boy. The other was shorter and smooth-faced," she said. "Could you swear to that description?" asked the detective. Migwan suddenly clapped her hands. "I can do better than that," she said. "I can show a picture of them. The little boy looked so cute I snapped them." "You have this picture?" said the detective eagerly. "The film isn't developed yet," answered Migwan. "How soon can you have it developed?" asked Mr. Bailey. "We'll do it right away," said Nyoda. "We have a dark room rigged up." Nyoda took every precaution to guard against spoiling the film, and Hinpoha, who was in the dark room with her, hardly dared breathe for fear of working some harm. What an exciting moment it was when the figures finally stood out plainly on the film! The girls crowded around the detective as he held the picture to the light. There were the two men and the little boy just as Migwan had described them. "What will you take for this film?" asked the detective. "Take for it!" said Migwan. "You're perfectly welcome to it. I'm only too glad to help if the picture will be of any benefit." "Migwan's a heroine!" sighed Sahwah after the detective had departed. "I wish I had a chance to do something big and noble! The only time I can be heroic is in my sleep, and then I make myself ridiculous." "Cheer up, Sahwah," said Hinpoha, "I can't even be heroic in my sleep. Come on, I'll beat you a game of tennis." And off went the two cronies, arm in arm. Gladys came and sat beside Migwan, who was spending her convalescent days in a steamer chair on the porch of the shack, where she could watch the girls in the lake and be with them during Craft hour. Nyoda had summoned a doctor from the village who proclaimed Migwan's dislocation a slight one and her prompt setting of it a good thing, and promised that in a few weeks it would be as good as ever. Meanwhile, however, she had to keep off her feet, and the enforced rest bothered her more than the pain did at first. She read a good deal, however, and did much Craft work, and the days went by somehow. "What are you doing?" asked Gladys. "Making a woodblock," said Migwan. "What's it for?" "Why, you cut a design in the wood," explained Migwan, "and then use it to stamp things with, either scarfs or table covers or book-plates. This is for a book-plate." "What's a book-plate?" asked Gladys. "It's a thin sheet of paper stamped with a design bearing your name. You paste it in the front of your books. See my design? The tall pine trees on either side mean friendship; the rocks underneath signify that my friendships have a firm foundation. The letters underneath read, 'Migwan, Her Book.' You have to carve the letters backward so they will print forward. The feather design around the letters is made from my symbol, which is the Quill Pen." Gladys sat watching Migwan's busy knife cutting out the design. "Why don't you bring your Craft work and keep me company?" asked Migwan presently. "I hate Craft work," said Gladys fretfully, "but I suppose I might as well work on my ceremonial gown." She brought the gown and sat down beside Migwan. "Do you think these beads would be pretty hanging down this way?" she asked, pinning several strings of gay-colored beads to the leather collar. "You aren't going to put those beads on your dress, are you?" asked Migwan in surprise. "Why not?" said Gladys, "you've got beads hanging all over yours." "But they're all honor beads," explained Migwan, "and stand for something." "But I have no honor beads," said Gladys. "Then you must win some. We all went with our dresses undecorated until we had won honors." "I don't care," said Gladys, "I'm going to decorate mine. I won't be the only plain one. Miss Kent," she called, as their guardian passed by with an armful of firewood, "I may put these beads on my ceremonial costume, mayn't I?" Nyoda dumped her burden on the ground and came over to the girls. "Of course you may if you want to," she said genially. "It's your dress. But do you want to? What does the ceremonial dress mean to you? Is it only a sort of masquerade costume to be decorated up just anyhow to make it look fantastic, or is it a record of achievements, written in a language that only Camp Fire Girls understand? Just think what it means to sit in a circle of girls and be able to tell by their costumes what kind of things they have done! We'll pretend that a Guardian from another group has come to look on at our ceremonial. The first one she happens to see is myself. She looks at my costume, sees the Guardian's symbol on the back and the border of small symbols around the bottom. She counts them; there are seven. She says to herself, 'She is the Guardian and there are seven girls in her group.' She then sees Migwan's costume with the four Wakan honors for Written Thought. She knows that Migwan has literary ability and that her symbol is the Quill Pen, because there is a quill sewn to the front of her dress and feathers are never used for decoration except in case of a personal symbol. She knows that Migwan had to work hard for her Wakan honors because above the first one there are two Shuta buttons and a Keda, showing that her first efforts won only third and second class honors, but she persevered until she reached the first class. She knows Sahwah can swim well because she has a fish on the side seam of her gown, which is the place for local or national honors. She knows Chapa must be very dexterous in Handcraft, for she has a great many green beads on her thong. And then she sees you--with a number of gaudy and meaningless beads sewn around your collar! Just what would be her estimate of you? Whereas, if you had no decoration whatever on your gown she would know at once that you had lately joined the group and had not yet won honors." The beads gradually slipped from Gladys's hands. "I guess I won't put them on, anyhow," she said, not without some regret. "However," said Nyoda, "there is no need of your costume being utterly bare of ornamentation. I can suggest several things which you have a perfect right to wear on your dress." "What are they?" asked Gladys, looking interested. "The first thing to do," said Nyoda, "is to get your symbol put in a conspicuous place. You have designed your collar with the long bands dropping from the shoulders. Now, I would apply your butterfly symbol to each band about six inches from the bottom, and then cut the leather below the symbol into fringe. I would paint the butterflies red, yellow and blue, which are the colors that represent Work, Health and Love. You could also produce the colors by sewing beads over the design. So much for your symbol. Now in the middle of the hem in the front of your dress you may put the Winnebago symbol--the sign of your tribe. You will find it on the banner before the tents and over the fireplace in the shack, as well as on all the girls' costumes. It is the Indian sign Aki-yu-hapi and means 'Carrying Together.' It is the secret of the wonderful team work of the Winnebagos. Develop this in wood brown and green. When you put the fringe on the bottom, instead of using a straight piece, leave the top edge in uneven peaks to represent mountains and outline them with blue beads for the sky above them. This will indicate that you love nature. There you have the costume with the thongs and fringes all ready to receive the honor beads, and there are some honors you should be able to win very soon. You will receive a Handcraft honor for making the costume, and a Campcraft bead for making the headband. You have walked forty miles in ten days--twenty-seven on the hike and the rest going to and from the village. You have done enough camp cooking to win a bead. You will receive these beads next Monday night. If you are sharp you can have enough to get your Woodgatherer's ring. Ask Nakwisi to tell you star lore; also get her to take you into the woods and help you identify trees. You can get enough beads very soon to take away your reproach of being undecorated." While Nyoda was instructing Gladys in the mysteries of symbolic decoration, Sahwah and Hinpoha, finishing their tennis game, strolled into the woods beyond the court, looking for berries. "Let's make a leaf cup and fill it for Migwan," said thoughtful Hinpoha. "Poor Migwan," said Sahwah, "she certainly is having a time with that knee. I don't see how she can be so patient. I'd die if I had to sit in one place all day. She's a dead game sport, though, and never complains. She does bushels of Craft work, and studies. I'm proud to be in the same group with her." "All our girls are good sports," said Hinpoha. "All but one." "Which one?" "You know." "You mean Gladys?" "Yes." "She isn't a good sport, now," said Hinpoha, "but she may develop into one before the summer is over. Let's hope so." Then she added, "She surely has it in for you for some reason." "I know it," said Sahwah, "and that's what gives me a pain. I never touched her bed the night it fell down, but I might as well have." "But you did paint her face that night at Balsam Lake," said Hinpoha, with a giggle at the remembrance. "Yes, but I thought it was Migwan, and anyhow I apologized." "Well," said Hinpoha with a burst of altruism, "it's this way. Gladys is as shallow as a pie-tin and a big cry baby and all that, but if she hadn't been like that her father wouldn't have wanted her to be a Camp Fire Girl and we never would have come to this camp. It's an ill wind, you know. Anyway, she's a Winnebago now, and we have to make something out of her." "You're so good-natured, 'Poha," said Sahwah. "I wish I could like everybody the way you do." Hinpoha opened her mouth to reply, but instead uttered a prolonged "Ow-oo-oo-oo!" They were sitting on a log when the above conversation took place, and Hinpoha had poked her hand into the hollow end. Now she drew it out hastily and began to dance around, shaking her hand violently. "Oh, what is it?" cried Sahwah. "Bees!" shrieked Hinpoha. "Run for your life!" An angry buzz sounded from the log and the bees began crawling out at the end. Hinpoha fled through the woods with Sahwah close at her heels. By the time they reached camp Hinpoha's hand was swelled all out of shape. It was all she could do to repress a cry of pain. Nyoda rose quickly when she took in the situation. "Get some moist clay at once," she commanded. "There is some in the woods behind the shack." Sahwah sped after the clay and returned with a large lump. "Now you make mud pies until the inflammation is drawn out of your hand," said Nyoda. Hinpoha dutifully sat down beside Migwan and played in the clay. After she had rolled it around in her hand awhile it became a beautiful consistency for modeling, so she began making statuettes of the different girls. She had a great deal of aptness in modeling and managed to make her figures resemble somewhat the girls they were supposed to represent. She became so absorbed in her new occupation that she forgot the burning pain in her hand, and gradually the swelling went down. Sahwah came along to see how she was feeling and exclaimed in delight at the statuettes. Hinpoha held up her hand warningly, for Migwan was asleep. Sahwah promptly fell to making hand signs of admiration. Hinpoha laughed at her antics, and falling into her mood, arrayed her figures in a semicircle on the ground, and sitting cross-legged behind them, made a gesture to intimate that they were for sale. Sahwah sat down and signalled that she had come to buy. She indicated several that she would like to have and Hinpoha held up fingers for the price. Nyoda came along and watched them with keen amusement; Gladys looked on uncomprehendingly. Sahwah purchased the Winnebagos in effigy, paying for them with pebbles, and making hand signs to the effect that she considered them a bargain at the price. Finally there was only one left. This was Gladys. Sahwah refused to purchase. Hinpoha lowered her price step by step, but Sahwah waved her away. The other girls, crowding around to see the fun, caught on and giggled. "What's the joke?" asked Gladys. Nobody answered. Finding the eyes of several girls fixed on her, Gladys flushed. "It's something about me," she cried passionately. "I know it's something about me. You know I can't understand your old signs and motions and you can talk about me all you want. I hate you!" she cried, bursting into tears. "I'm going home to-morrow!" Sahwah sprang to her feet, the realization of what she had done knocking her speechless. One look at Nyoda's pained and surprised face upset her completely and she rushed off to the woods by herself. With rare tact Nyoda smoothed over the difficult situation confronting her. It was no use to pass the thing over as a misunderstanding on Gladys's part, for Sahwah's flight condemned her. Putting her arm around Gladys, she led her down to the dock and into the launch. She set the engine going at full speed, sending the small craft through the water like a torpedo, the spray dashing over the bow and drenching them both. The excitement of this mad flight through the water made Gladys forget her hurt feelings. She watched Nyoda, fascinated. Nyoda was of a decided athletic build, tall and broad-shouldered, with black hair and dark eyes, and high color. She was the picture of health and joyousness as she stood at the wheel of the launch, her hair streaming out in the wind, her eyes sparkling with excitement. Gladys had a real admiration for Nyoda, which was developing into a "crush," and liked to be alone with her. Nyoda could not help seeing this, and with her deep insight into girl nature knew that the solution of the problem which had worried her so at first was in her hands. By and by she slackened the speed of the boat, and calling Gladys up into the bow with her, she showed her how to steer, and gave the wheel into her hands. She made no mention of the occurrence of the afternoon, not being clear in her mind just how to begin. Gladys finally relieved her of the task by asking: "What was it Sahwah was saying about me this afternoon when she was talking with her hands?" Nyoda eyed her calmly. "She wasn't saying anything about you at all. She and Hinpoha were playing a game, a very clever and original game, by the way, having an auction sale in sign language. Sahwah bought all the figures but one, and then, wishing a diversion, refused the last one. It just happened to be the one representing you." "I see," cried Gladys, breaking into Nyoda's explanation, "she wouldn't buy me." Nyoda felt weak inside and tingled with a desire to shake Sahwah, but she never changed countenance. "I don't believe that ever occurred to her," she said loyally. "You are so quick to jump at conclusions, Gladys. Just because you couldn't understand what they were doing you thought it must be something unpleasant about you. Your outburst at that time frightened Sahwah so she probably thought she had done something dreadful. Now Sahwah feels badly and so do all the girls. You don't want her to go on feeling that way, do you?" Gladys said nothing. Nyoda slipped her arm around her and smiled down at her. "You know that the girls are not trying to make it unpleasant for you, don't you, now?" Gladys smiled faintly. It was impossible to withstand Nyoda's pretty pleading. Nyoda, watching her face, saw that she had gained her point. "And you'll like Sahwah and let her like you, won't you?" she said, hugging Gladys to her. Sahwah was nowhere to be found when Nyoda returned to camp. Neither did she appear when the supper bugle blew. Hinpoha drooped visibly without her side partner, but Nyoda refused her permission to go out and look for Sahwah. When it began to grow dark Nyoda took her lantern and went into the woods by herself. She soon found Sahwah crouching on the ground at the foot of a tree, her face buried in her hands. "Sahwah, dear, look up," said Nyoda gently, setting her lantern on the ground and seating herself beside Sahwah. Sahwah uncovered one eye. "Oh, Nyoda," she exclaimed tragically, "what will I do? I never dare show my face in camp again. What ever possessed me this afternoon, and what must you think of me?" Nyoda could not help smiling at the depth of Sahwah's self-abasement. "Cheer up, sister," she said kindly, "it's not as bad as all that. You were thoughtless, that was all, for I will not believe that you were slighting Gladys intentionally." "That's it," cried Sahwah eagerly. "I never stopped to think what I was doing, and I never dreamed that she would catch on." Nyoda nodded sympathetically. "I know just how it is," she said. "We never mean to do unkind things, and yet we do them right along, without thinking. The only remedy is to get a habit of thinking before we do anything." "Not thinking is my besetting sin," said Sahwah, dolefully. "Yes," said Nyoda frankly, "I believe it is. You do so many things impulsively that you never would have done on second thought. Take the time, for instance, that you jumped off the tower into the canoe and upset it. That was a very dangerous thing to do. You might have landed on top of one of those girls and hurt her badly, or been hurt yourself. Even granting that you were so sure of yourself that you could do it successfully, you set a bad example. Some of the other girls might be tempted to try it sometime with disastrous results." "I never thought of it in that way," said Sahwah seriously. "I'm awfully sorry I hurt Gladys's feelings, and I'll apologize to her this very night." "I don't believe an apology would help matters any," said Nyoda slowly. "There are some things you can't make right with an apology any more than you could mend Migwan's dislocated knee by saying you were sorry it got fallen on. It takes special treatment." "What shall I do then?" asked Sahwah. "Be especially nice to Gladys from now on. Offer to help her learn to swim, and go out with her in the sponson until she may go out in a canoe. Let her see by your actions that you want to be her friend, and then she won't suspect you of saying unkind things about her. Put yourself in her place. She feels just as strange among you strong, self-reliant, outdoor-loving girls as you would among her friends. You know a great deal that she does not, and she undoubtedly knows a great deal that you do not. She has been abroad several times, and spent a whole year in school in France, while her father was there on business. She paints china beautifully, sings well and does fancy dancing. In fact, she dances so well that various people have tried to persuade her father to allow her to take it up as a profession." This last statement did not make such an impression on Sahwah as Nyoda expected it would, for Gladys had boasted of her dancing to the girls ever since she had come to camp, and had made fun of the simple folk dances the girls did among themselves. Sahwah, however, was still deeply ashamed of her performance of the afternoon and eager to atone for it and regain her standing in Nyoda's eyes, so she made up her mind that Gladys was a superior being whose superiority would be unveiled by constant effort on her part, and promised to devote her entire time to teaching her the delights of camping. Then hand in hand she and Nyoda returned to the tents. CHAPTER VI. THE RAIN BIRD SHAKES HIS WINGS. True to her promise, Sahwah began the very next morning "cultivating" Gladys. "Have you any middies you want washed?" she asked, as she dumped her own into the kettle over the fire. "Every one I own is soiled," replied Gladys. "Bring them along, then," said Sahwah, "and we'll do them together." Gladys brought her middies and Sahwah popped them into the boiling soapsuds, stirring them around with a stick. When they had boiled a few minutes she fished them out into a pail and carried them down to the lake for rinsing, Gladys walked along, but she did not offer to help carry the pail. Sahwah rinsed the soapy pieces in the clear water and was spreading them out on the rocks in the sun when she noticed that the _Bluebird_, which had been making its morning stop at Wharton's Landing, was headed their way instead of passing out through the gap. "Who can be coming to see us?" she said to Gladys. "The boat wouldn't stop unless it had a passenger, for our supplies came yesterday." It was not a passenger, however, that was left on the Winnebago dock, but a wooden box from the express company. The girls crowded around to get a look at it. It was addressed to the "Winnebago Camp Fire Girls, Camp Winnebago, Loon Lake, Maine." Sahwah ran and got a hammer and soon had the box open. "What is it?" cried the girls. "It's a sail!" exclaimed Sahwah, looking at it closely, "the kind you put on canoes." Attached to the lid of the box was a card which read: "To the Winnebagos, to save them the trouble of harnessing themselves to their canoe to make it go. In remembrance of a delightful day spent in their camp. "EMERSON BENTLEY, FRANK D. WHEELER." "O joy!" exclaimed Sahwah, clapping her hands. "Maybe we won't have some fun now! Just wait until I get it adjusted." She spent most of the day hoisting that sail on one of the canoes, but finally had it finished, and went darting around on the lake like a white-winged bird, taking the other girls out with her in turn. "It's too bad you can't go out in a canoe," she said to Gladys with real regret, "I should love to have you go sailing with me." There was no help for it, however, and Gladys had to stay on shore. "Won't you let me help you?" she asked Gladys at the next swimming period. "I'll hold you up if you'll try to float." But Gladys would not let any one touch her in the water except Nyoda. When Nyoda was directing the other girls Gladys stood out on the beach. "How am I going to help Gladys learn to swim if she won't let me?" thought Sahwah in despair. "Don't go too far out on the lake," Nyoda warned Sahwah that afternoon, her eye on a bank of clouds that was rolling up in the west. "I know there's a storm coming, and I'll be careful," promised Sahwah, mindful of her new resolution to think before she acted, "but the wind is so strong now it's great fun to be out sailing. I'll stay near shore." The storm that had been threatening broke loose about supper time, and the girls ran to fasten down their tents. "Whew!" said Sahwah, struggling with a tent flap, "listen to the wind." The great pines were roaring deafeningly, and the lake, lashed into fury, was dashing high against the cliff. "Where are you going?" said Nyoda imperatively, as Hinpoha started down the path to the lake in her bathing suit. "To bring in the flag," answered Hinpoha. "It'll be torn to pieces in that gale." It was all she could do to stand upright on the dock. The rain was coming down in slanting sheets that closed round her like a fog. She untied the ropes that held the flag and tried to lower it. But it would not come. Something was wrong with the pulley. The flag was flapping in the wind and straining at the ropes like a spirited horse. "No help for it," said Hinpoha to herself, "I'll have to go up on top." The tower swayed in the wind as she mounted the ladder, and the rain dashed in her face, blinding her. Great crashes of thunder sounded in her ears, and the lightning flashed all around her. Up on top it was worse yet. The wind whipped her long hair out and threatened to hurl her from the little platform, so she did not dare let go of the railing with one hand while she released the pulley with the other. "Glory," she whispered as she cautiously descended the ladder, "but the Thunder Bird has it in for us!" She sped up the path with the precious flag held against her bosom, and found the girls gathered in the shack. Nyoda was kindling a fire in the big open fireplace, and the girls were seated in a circle before it. Then Nyoda, raising her voice above the patter of the raindrops on the roof, read aloud while the girls did Craft work by the light of lanterns. The evening wore away pleasantly, but the rain continued. At bed time they wrapped their ponchos around them and ran for the tents. The hollows between the rocks were veritable rivers, and in the inky darkness more than one girl stepped squarely into the flood. "I'm soaked to the skin," panted Sahwah, running into the tent and quickly closing the flap behind her, "and I stepped into a puddle up to my knees." "So am I," said Hinpoha, who was divesting herself of her clothes in the middle of the tent. "Did you ever see such a downpour?" "Cheer up," said Migwan, who had gone to bed early in the evening with a headache and stayed in during the storm, "the tent doesn't leak, anyway. We'll be perfectly dry in here." "It'll be all right if the tent doesn't blow over," said Sahwah. "Whew! Listen to that!" The girls held their breath as a particularly fierce blast hurled itself against the canvas sides of their shelter. Gladys, terror-stricken, sat on the bed and trembled. Sahwah hastened to reassure her. "It probably won't blow down," she said cheerfully; "these tents are made pretty strong, and the ropes on this one are all new, but there is always the possibility. Do you mind if I take your laundry bag down? It is pinned to the side of the tent and will lead the water through." The girls slept very little that night, although the tent withstood the storm and remained standing. The rain still fell with unabated vigor at dawn. At about six o'clock Nyoda put her head into the tent and called Sahwah. Sahwah was alert instantly. Nyoda had on her bathing suit and cap. "What is it?" asked Sahwah. "One of the canoes has broken away, and is floating off," Nyoda said in a low tone, so as not to disturb Gladys and Migwan, who were still sleeping. Hinpoha sat up and listened. "I am going after it in the launch," continued Nyoda, "and will need help. Put on your bathing suit and come." "Let me come, too," begged Hinpoha. "All right," said Nyoda, and the three crept out of the tent and down the path to the lake. The water had risen at least a foot, and the floor of the dock was flooded. About half a mile out in the lake they saw the runaway canoe, now standing on end, now floating bottom up. "Wouldn't it float in by itself?" asked Sahwah. Nyoda shook her head. "It might float in all right," she said, "but it would be dashed to pieces on the rocks on the other side. You notice it is being carried farther away from us all the time. If we want that canoe for the rest of the summer we'll have to go after it." That was the most exciting launch ride the two girls had ever taken. The little boat rode up and down on the waves like an egg shell, the water going over her constantly, drenching the girls and threatening to swamp the engine. The wind whirled the rain against their faces. Nyoda stood up in the bow handling the wheel as calmly as if she were pouring tea at a reception. Nyoda's strong point was her composure; it was next thing to impossible to get her excited. They caught up with the canoe and Sahwah and Hinpoha managed to right it and fasten it to the launch with a rope. They got back to the dock without mishap and pulled the canoe high up where it could not be washed away a second time. Sahwah and Hinpoha returned to the tent red as roses from their exposure to the wind and rain and recounted their early morning adventure to Migwan and Gladys. At breakfast time they had to put on their ponchos again and pick their way through the puddles to the shack, where they ate their breakfast. The "Mess Tent" was leaking merrily in a dozen places. By noon there was still no let up in the downpour. Rest hour was spent on the floor in the shack. When Nyoda came in in the middle of the afternoon from a tour of inspection she announced that both the Alpha and Omega tents were leaking badly and the bedding was getting wet. She made the girls bring their blankets, rolled up in their ponchos, into the shack and spread them out before the fire. The shack was pretty well crowded before the afternoon was over. Besides all the girls and the bedding and the partially painted paddles that stood around everywhere, Nyoda brought in a large supply of fire wood. It was all damp and had to be dried out before it would burn. The rain whirled against the windows, as if seeking entrance by force, but the girls inside, safe and dry, made merry before the fire. Nyoda taught them a new game, called "Johnny, Where Are You?" She blindfolded Hinpoha and Sahwah and set them on the floor. Then each one in turn had to call, "Johnny, where are you?" and upon the other one's answering, "Here!" whacked in the direction of the voice with a rolled-up newspaper. Both had to keep one hand on a pie-tin on the floor between them. Sahwah and Hinpoha both gave and received some sounding whacks, and kept the watchers in a roar of laughter with their efforts to dodge each other. Towards the end Nyoda slipped up and removed the bandage from Hinpoha's eyes and let her whack Sahwah with her eyes open, and poor Sahwah wondered why she could not dodge the attacks any better. After supper Nyoda proposed playing "Aeroplane." She shooed all the girls but Hinpoha out into the kitchen. One by one they were blindfolded and led in. Sahwah was the first. She was led into the center of the room and there brought to a halt. "Step up," commanded some one. Sahwah did as she was told and her feet were planted on something that felt like a platform. "Now hang on!" they ordered. She hung. It seemed to be hair she was hanging on to. "Up with her!" Sahwah felt herself rising, up, up. The hair sank out of her grasp. The board wobbled under her feet. Straight up toward the ceiling she went, past the rafters and on up, until her head struck the roof. The board wobbled much worse. "Jump!" they shouted. Sahwah gathered her forces for a mighty leap, determining to strike the floor with knees bent so as to break the shock. She struck solid ground before she had fairly started. The bandage was taken from her eyes. She was standing on the floor in front of the fireplace. Beside her was the "Aeroplane." It was a plain wooden board. When she had stood on it they had lifted it up, and Hinpoha, whose head she had seized upon to support herself, had gradually stooped down, to enhance Sahwah's sensation of going up. To complete illusion they hit her on the head with a book to make her think she had struck the ceiling. She had risen about six inches from the floor in all, although she was sure she had gone up six feet at least. Her mighty leap caused the "conductors" much merriment. Gladys did still better. She fell off without jumping. When bedtime came there was no thinking of going to the tents, so the beds were made up on the floor in a circle about the fireplace. "Does this count toward our honor for sleeping five nights on the ground?" asked Sahwah. "It ought to," said Hinpoha, "it's harder than the ground." Morning found the rain still unabated. "This is getting monotonous," said Migwan, looking out at the grey skies and the lake shrouded in mist. "Can't we take our dip even if it is raining?" asked Sahwah anxiously. "I don't see why not," said Nyoda. But when they were in their bathing suits and ready to start they found they could not open the porch door of the shack. "What's the matter?" said Nyoda, lowering one of the windows and looking out. "Oh, look at the porch floor!" she cried. The flooring had warped up into a great hump before the door, preventing its being opened. "It looks like a roller coaster," said Migwan. The girls were obliged to make their exit and re-entrance through the window. "Hurray! No tent inspection to-day!" cried Hinpoha, picking up her blankets from the floor to make room for Craft work. "It'll take more than inspection to fix your tent up again," said Nyoda, looking out of the side window of the shack. "Why?" said Hinpoha. "Come here and look," said Nyoda. "Why, it's fallen down!" cried Hinpoha, looking over Nyoda's shoulder. The girls pressed to the window to see the heap of canvas that had been the Omega tent. "Is Alpha still standing?" asked the inhabitants of that tent, craning their necks. "Yes," answered Nyoda, "which proves its superiority once for all." The Alphas swelled out their chests and made triumphant grimaces at the Omegas. "I don't care," declared Sahwah, "I'd rather be an Omega any day than an Alpha. We have a better view of the lake." "But we keep our tent neater," said Chapa, "and so it looks better." "Like fun you keep yours neater," returned Sahwah. "We get higher marks than you right along," said Chapa, "and that goes to show." "Well," flashed Sahwah, "we'd get higher marks if it wasn't for--." Just in time she remembered her promise and broke off abruptly. "If it wasn't for what?" asked Chapa. "For the wind blowing our things around so," she finished lamely, and fell to carving her wood block furiously. "Let's sing something," said Nyoda hastily. "Migwan and Hinpoha, sing 'The Owl and the Pussy Cat,'" cried the girls in chorus. Thus urged, the two mounted the piano bench and acted out the romantic tale as they sang the words. "Now let's all sing something," said Nyoda, when the amorous owl and the impassioned pussy had danced themselves off the bench. "What were some of those songs we sang on the hike?" "Let's sing Migwan's latest song, 'O We Are Winnebagos,'" said Hinpoha. "That has a good swing to it," said Nyoda when they had sung it several times. "Sahwah, dear, follow the tune more closely with your tenor, you put us out." "Well, I'm _willing_ to sing, anyhow," said Sahwah, "even if I can't and that's more than some people do." This last was a direct reference to Gladys. Although she was supposed to have a very good and well-trained voice and had done much solo singing in her time, Gladys steadfastly refused to sing along with the other girls in chorus. Once or twice, after much coaxing on Nyoda's part, she had consented to sing a "solo" on Sunday morning or on "stunt night," but sing mornings in the shack with the others she would not. They laid it to the fact that she considered herself better than themselves and did not want to mix in their doings, and it put a damper on their own, singing because they thought she was criticising them. This was not exactly the case. Once an enthusiastic teacher of hers had pronounced her voice "different" from others and told her that chorus singing would spoil it, so from then on she refused to blend her voice with others. She knew well enough that this was ridiculous, but it pleased her vanity and she kept it up. She would not come right out and tell why, however, but simply said she "didn't feel like singing." Naturally the girls thought her reason a personal one and it made bad feeling all around. Her refusal to sing puzzled and grieved Nyoda more than anything else she did. The Winnebagos were known as a "singing group," and the addition of a trained voice was very welcome. Nyoda thought of course that Gladys would lead the singing in great shape and her disappointment at her attitude was very keen. "Yes, Sahwah," said Nyoda warmly, "your willingness to use the talents you have is one of the reasons why we love you so." "I think that any one who can sing and won't isn't--isn't a sport," said Hinpoha emphatically. "Maybe I have a reason for not singing," said Gladys in a lofty manner. "Well, what is it?" said Sahwah, exasperated into sharp speech. Gladys pursed up her lips but did not reply. Nyoda saw that a storm was brewing. It was the inevitable result of the girls having been pent up so close together for over two days. She pulled out her watch. "It's time for folk dancing," she announced briskly. The girls looked out of the window. The rain was still teeming down. "Who's game to put on her bathing suit and dance in the rain?" asked Nyoda. "I, I," cried all the girls. They followed her to the tennis court, where they did such dances as they could without music and ended up with a lively game of "Three Deep," the water running down over their faces. "Let's play 'Stump the Leader,"' said Nyoda, when they had grown tired of "Three Deep."; "Follow me." She led them a wild chase all over the camp, over rocks and stumps, around trees and through puddles, then down on the dock. She dove into the lake, swam around the dock, climbed out on the rocks, out on the dock again and climbed the tower, from which she jumped, the girls keeping close behind her, all except Gladys. By the time swimming hour was over the girls had let off enough steam to dwell together again in peace and amity. Late that afternoon the rain ceased and the sun peeped out, pale and wan from his long imprisonment. At the first beam that shone through the girls were out of the shack with a whoop and began putting up the Omega tent. "Let Hinpoha and me do it alone!" shrieked Sahwah, pushing the others away, "if only two do it we get an honor, if more help we don't!" "Right-O," said Nyoda, stepping back, "do your worst, you two." The tent was re-erected, and the girls scrambled around looking for their scattered possessions. "And the looking glass didn't even break!" said Migwan, picking it up from one of the beds where it had landed when the tent went down. The next morning the sun shone in splendor and the sky was deep blue and cloudless, while a high wind did its best to dry up the ground. "Isn't it fine to be dry again?" said Migwan, looking approvingly at her canvas shoes. "For the last three days I've felt like a water-soaked sponge." "Goodness, but the lake is rough," said Nyoda, watching Sahwah out in a canoe, which was nearly standing on end. Her hair stood out straight behind her in the wind and she reminded Nyoda of the picture of the girl going over the falls in the "Legend of Niagara." "There! I knew she would tip! For goodness sake, what is she doing now?" For Sahwah had climbed on top of the overturned canoe and was trying to paddle it in wrong side up. She kept her eyes on Sahwah, watching her rather slow progress through the waves, and did not see a party of people who were coming up the path from the road until they were right beside her. Her attention was attracted by a cry from Migwan. She turned and saw a man and woman with a little boy about three years old. "Why, that's _my_ little boy!" said Migwan. "The one I saw in the woods that morning." "Then you are the young lady we are looking for," said the man, coming forward. "We have you to thank that we have our boy with us to-day. It was you who put us on the track of the men who had kidnapped him." "He _was_ kidnapped, then," said Migwan. "Yes," answered the boy's father, "he was taken from our camp by those two men whom you saw. Thanks to your picture of them we put the police on their trail and caught them in Portland. We are just coming home with him now and wanted to see you. This is Mrs. Bartlett, my wife, and our son Raymond, whom you have already seen." "Come right up and sit down," said Nyoda cordially, "and tell us all about it. We have been curious to know whether the little boy was ever found or not." They told how the little boy was missed from their camp that Thursday night, and of their frantic search along the shore, thinking he had fallen into the lake. Then some one found a toy sailboat of his in the woods and they came to the conclusion that he had either wandered off or been carried away. No trace of any abductor could be found, however, and it would have been hard work running the men down if it had not been for Migwan's picture of them with the boy and her report that they were headed for the Loon Lake boat. When found, little Raymond was dressed in girl's clothes and effectually disguised. Then Migwan told the story of her fall down the cliff and her night in the woods and her seeing the three on the path in the morning. It was just like a fairy tale. "By the way," said Mr. Bartlett when she had finished, "did you know that I had offered a reward of two hundred and fifty dollars to any one giving information which would lead to Raymond's recovery?" "No," said Migwan, "I didn't." "Well," said Mr. Bartlett, "that's what I did, and I don't see that any one is entitled to it but yourself. You gave us the only definite clue we had to work on. It gives me great pleasure, madam, to pay my just debts," and he handed Migwan a check. Migwan stared at the slip of paper in a dazed fashion. She could not comprehend the good fortune that had suddenly come to her. Then she handed the check back to Mr. Bartlett. "I can't take your money," she said. "I really didn't do anything, you know." "That's all right," said Mr. Bartlett, waving her back. "You did a whole lot more than you know, young lady. Just think of the worry and anxiety you have saved us! It's worth the money, every cent of it. I only wish I could offer a larger reward." So Migwan, still protesting, was forced to accept the check, and the Bartletts rose to go. "Come over and see us sometime," said Mrs. Bartlett cordially, "and bring all the girls along. You might have a sleeping party on our lawn." "That will be fine, and I accept the invitation in behalf of my girls," said Nyoda, as she accompanied them to the road where their car stood. Up on the shack porch Migwan was the center of an excited group, and the check was passed from hand to hand. Sahwah sighed enviously and wished with all her heart that she might be the heroine of the hour. "What are you going to do with all that money?" asked one of the girls. "It looks," said Migwan in an awed tone, hugging the precious check in her hands, "as if I were really going to college, after all!" CHAPTER VII. SAHWAH THE SUNFISH. Migwan sat on a rock on the beach making notes in her journal, now and then lifting her eyes to the lake to watch the shadows gliding across the water, as the clouds floated by overhead. Sometimes the sunlight was darkened for a few minutes and the lake looked gray and cold, but on the opposite shore a tiny village nestled at the foot of a mountain, and over there the sun was shining, and the white houses gleamed brightly against the dull brown background. "It looks like a mirage," said Migwan to Hinpoha, who had dropped down on the sand at her feet. Hinpoha glanced across the lake at the fairy scene and then back at Migwan. "What are you always writing in that book of yours?" she asked curiously. "Wouldn't you like to know, though!" replied Migwan, closing it up. "Oh, let me see some of it, won't you, Migwan, dear?" said Hinpoha coaxingly. "I love to read what you write and I never make fun of it, you know that. Please do." After a little more coaxing Migwan relented and handed Hinpoha the page she had just written. Hinpoha spread it out on her knee and read: "I was sitting in the woods rather pensively the other day when I suddenly became aware of two merry eyes fixed on me from the ground beside me. There was something so irresistibly roguish in their expression that my sadness leaked out of me unceremoniously. As I looked the eyes disappeared behind a leaf, only to appear an instant later on the other side, and a tiny, round red face nodded cheerfully at me. Visions of wood sprites went through my head and I sat perfectly still, so as not to frighten him away. He had retired behind his leaf after that last nod, but as I made no sound he soon looked out again to see if I was still there. This time I got a good look at him. He was no elf, but a berry; a brilliant round red berry with two little holes in him that looked just like eyes. 'Such a cheerful berry, I thought, 'deserves a whole face,' so I made him a nose and mouth with my pencil. When last I saw him he was still playing peek-a-boo among the leaves, enjoying the world for all he was worth." "Oh, how lovely!" exclaimed Hinpoha, when she had read that far, "you must let the other girls read this. Wouldn't you like me to illustrate it for you? I'm just itching to paint that little red berry." "That will be fine," said Migwan, and Hinpoha sped after her paint box. Hinpoha could not have written that little sketch if her life depended upon it, but her talent with the brush was unmistakable. With a few deft strokes she pictured Migwan sitting in the woods and beside her the little red berry with its comical face. Now it was Migwan's turn to admire. Hinpoha went on to the next paragraph: "I walked on through the wood, admiring the little green moss stars that twinkled up from the ground. 'Oh, I must get a closer view,' I said, half aloud, and immediately my wish was granted, for a pine tree put out his foot and tripped me and I fell with my face right in the moss." "How I should like to have seen you!" laughed Hinpoha as she painted Migwan sprawling on the ground. "Haven't you some more stuff I can illustrate? There's such a lot of paint mixed up. Oh, here's another one," she said, turning over the pages: "I am sitting in the woods near Sandy Beach. Have been gathering blueberries and my cup runneth over. The sun has turned the beach into a Sahara, but here in the woods it is dim and cool and pleasant. I am leaning against a big tree with my feet stretched out in front of me. There is a spider weaving a web from one foot to the other. I hate to break down his handiwork, or rather, his footiwork, but I can't stay here forever, much as I would like to. He ought to have been more careful about getting a clear title to his property before building. This will teach him a lesson, I think. "Just now a tiny red squirrel ran down a tree, paused beside me, gave an impertinent whisk of his tail and disappeared. 'Lazy girl,' he seemed to say, 'idling away this beautiful summer weather when you ought to be storing nuts for the winter. You'll repent when the snow begins to fly. Idle in summer, hungry in winter.' With a disapproving cough he disappeared. "There is a blueberry bush nearby hanging full of large luscious berries. I never saw blueberries in their native wilds before. I had a sort of hazy notion that blueberries grew in quart boxes in market stalls." "That reminds me," said Hinpoha suddenly, "it must be getting near time for our promised trip to Blueberry Island." She painted a bush with berries nearly as big as marbles and read on eagerly: "I have surprised an acorn in a gross neglect of duty. He is lying on the ground where he fell last fall and hasn't sprouted in the least. I thought all acorns aspired to be oak trees. Think of being a nut half an inch long, and in that half inch to have the power of becoming the King of the Forest, and then let that power lie unused! If I were an acorn I would feel eternally disgraced if I hadn't sprouted." Hinpoha duly portrayed the delinquent acorn. "I'll tell you what we'll do when we grow up," she said, leaning back and surveying her work critically, "you write books and I'll illustrate them!" All this time Nyoda and Sahwah had been working on a canoe a little farther up the beach. Sahwah had crossed the lake in the dark the night before and had grounded on a sharp rock that jutted up just underneath the surface, ripping a hole in the bottom of the canoe nearly a foot long. Now she and Nyoda were repairing the damage. "Don't anybody take this canoe out for a couple of days," said Nyoda to the girls, "the pine pitch we put on isn't hard yet." Hinpoha showed Nyoda the leaves from Migwan's journal which she had illustrated and Nyoda was delighted. "You two had better form a permanent partnership," she advised. "You will produce something worth while in time." Then she added: "Wouldn't it be a fine idea for you to make an illustrated book of the camp doings and send it to Professor Bentley and Professor Wheeler? As long as they are so much interested in Camp Fire Girls nothing would please them better." Migwan and Hinpoha were enthusiastic over the idea and promised to begin that very day. Sahwah, having determined not to clash with Gladys again, and to make a friend of her at all costs, lost no opportunity to do her service. She filled Gladys's water pail in the morning, she hung up her wet bathing suit when Gladys had gone off and left it lying on the tent floor, she paddled her out in the heavy sponson when she was dying to skim over the lake in the sailing canoe, and in short, sacrificed herself at every turn for Gladys. And Gladys in time began to look on her as a sort of serving maid, who would do any unpleasant task she happened to want done. Nyoda could not help noticing this and wondered how long Sahwah would stand for it, but she said nothing to either one of them, preferring to watch matters take their course. Things finally came to a head one afternoon during rest hour. Sahwah was out of sorts that day. The night before she had stayed out on the lake after she had promised to come in and as a result had injured the canoe in the darkness. While Nyoda had not scolded her for staying out so long she knew she was disappointed in her and it made her cross with herself. Then the first thing that morning she had received a letter from her mother chiding her for not having written home for two weeks. That made her crosser yet. During the folk dancing hour she could not keep her mind on her feet, and blundered so many times that Gladys, who was her partner, left the ring in disgust. Sahwah was sensitive about her dancing, which did not come very easy to her, and tried especially hard when dancing with Gladys, who did the figures with wonderful grace and skill, and Gladys's conduct on this occasion filled her with unutterable mortification. Sahwah rushed away to her tent and got into her bathing suit and sat down on the dock, impatiently waiting for Nyoda's "All in!" In swimming hour she managed to get herself into disfavor again. Hinpoha was taking her test for towing a person to shore and was swimming with Nakwisi in tow. She was just nearing the dock where Nyoda stood watching to see if she could land her burden when Sahwah dove off the high tower, right on top of her and Nakwisi, carrying them both under the surface and breaking up the test. Nyoda uttered an impatient exclamation and sent Sahwah out of the water as a reminder to look before she dove the next time. Sahwah's heart was nearly broken and she could hardly eat her dinner. She and Gladys were washing dishes that day, but when the time came Gladys pleaded a headache and went to the tent to lie down, leaving Sahwah to do them alone. It seemed that every dish in camp had been used that day. She finished at last, all tired out, and flung herself on her bed, resolved not to move until rest hour was over, and not then if she didn't feel like it. She was just sinking off into a delicious doze when Gladys reached over and pulled her by the foot. "What do you want?" said Sahwah drowsily. "Come on, take me for a ride in the sponson," said Gladys. "Can't, it's rest hour," answered Sahwah. "What of it?" said Gladys, "Let's go anyway. Everybody's asleep. They'll never know the difference." Sahwah looked at her with an expression of horror. "It doesn't matter whether any one knows it or not," she said stiffly. "It isn't a custom of the Winnebagos to go boating in rest hour." "It doesn't seem to be a custom of the Winnebagos to do anything they want to," said Gladys sneeringly. "You girls let Miss Kent lead you around by the nose as if you were six years old! It's a pity if girls as old as we are have to take a nap after dinner like babies. I for one won't stand for it. I don't want to lie down for an hour every afternoon and I'm not going to do it, so there! If you had any spirit you'd rebel, too. But you haven't. You're just like wax in her hands. If she told you to go bed at four o'clock in the afternoon and stay there, you'd do it! I dare you to slip out and go for a boat ride with me now, I dare you! I dare you!" Sahwah's hair nearly stood on end with fury at this attack on her beloved Nyoda. "Dare all you like," she said in a choking voice, "I'll not break a camp rule to please you." "Very well, then, don't," said Gladys, "and see if I care. If you would rather abide by silly old rules than have a good time it's your loss, not mine. I wouldn't be such a baby." She went back to her bed and lay down with the air of a martyr. Every few seconds she would look over at Sahwah and pronounce the word "baby" in a taunting tone. Sahwah closed her eyes resolutely and pretended not to hear her. She was filled from head to foot with contempt for Gladys. Sahwah was heedless and hot-tempered and undiplomatic, but in matters where honor was concerned she was true blue. All her admiration for Gladys vanished when she tried to lead her into dishonor. As she lay there thinking over her attempts to win Gladys's friendship she saw clearly how Gladys had been working her all this time, getting her to wait on her hand and foot and in return treating her in a patronizing manner as if she were an inferior being from whom such service was no more than due. Her rage rose at the very thought of Gladys. "Catch me doing anything for her again!" she muttered to herself. She lay very still with her eyes closed for a long time, feigning sleep. After a while a stealthy rustle from Gladys's bed caught her ear. She opened one eye slightly and then opened both very wide in surprise. Gladys was in the act of drawing a box of candy from under her blankets. Opening it, she proceeded to eat one piece after another. Sahwah was so astonished that she could not repress an exclamation. Gladys looked in her direction. "Have a piece of candy?" she said mockingly, holding out the box, "or are you afraid to do that too?" Sahwah disregarded the taunt. "Where did you get that candy?" she asked sternly. "I bought it down in the village, Miss Simplicity," answered Gladys. "Did you know that we weren't to buy candy and eat it between meals, or didn't you?" continued Sahwah. "Certainly, I knew it was against the rules," said Gladys, "but I don't intend to have any one dictate to me whether or not I shall eat candy. I've eaten candy all my life and it's never hurt me. If I can't eat it openly I'll eat it on the sly, but I will eat it!" "Didn't it occur to you that it's dishonest to do things on the sly like that?" said Sahwah in a husky voice. If she had held Gladys in contempt before there was no name for what she thought of her now. "Who says it's dishonest to break silly rules?" said Gladys, putting another piece into her mouth. "Such rules were made to be broken." "What would Nyoda say?" asked Sahwah. "I don't care what she says," said Gladys recklessly. "I thought you admired her so much," said Sahwah, remembering how Gladys was constantly fawning on Nyoda. "I do admire her, more than any of you," said Gladys loftily, "but that's no sign she can order me around. Go and tell her if you like, old busybody!" "Tell her what?" asked Nyoda, appearing in the door of the tent. "That I buy candy in the village and keep it in my bed to eat during rest hour!" said Gladys brazenly. Nyoda opened her eyes very wide. "That you do what?" she asked. Gladys held up the box. Nyoda said nothing, but merely looked at her, and before the expression in her eyes Gladys wilted and was covered with confusion. "I don't care, I want some candy," she said, looking ready to burst into tears. "Why didn't you wait until supper time and pass it around?" asked Nyoda quietly, but there was a note in her voice that robbed Gladys of her air of bravado. "Because I wanted it now," she said sulkily. "Gladys," said Nyoda, trying to conceal her disgust at this untrustworthy trait revealed in the character of her charge by the episode, "have you any idea why that candy rule was made?" Gladys shook her head. "It was made," said Nyoda, "to keep me from dishonor." Gladys looked at her uncomprehendingly. "It is a very responsible thing," continued Nyoda, "to take a group of girls so far away from home. Many of the girls' mothers were unwilling to have them go, and I promised every one of them, on my honor, that no harm should come to their girls that I could in any way prevent and that we should all come back in better health than we went. Now, a change of climate and drinking water is hard on any one, and you girls have enough to do adjusting your systems to the new order of things even with a carefully regulated diet. Eating candy between meals is one good way to produce an upset stomach, and up here we can't take any chances. It would be inconvenient to take care of a sick person in camp, and besides, think of all the fun you would lose! So when we were discussing the difficulties of camping out for so long we all agreed, willingly and cheerfully, to live on a strict schedule recommended by experienced campers, and to run no risks by eating candy between meals. So you see that the rule, which you probably consider merely a piece of tyranny on my part, is not my rule at all, but was adopted by unanimous consent at a meeting of the group. If I were to allow you to eat candy between meals I would be breaking my promise to your parents, and you know that we Camp Fire Girls have taken a vow to be trustworthy." Gladys flushed and hung her head, although Nyoda had made no reference to her breaking of trust. Nyoda continued: "You, of all the girls here, have need to be the most careful. You are the least robust of them all, and enter into our sports with the least vigor. Your racket stroke is weak and your paddle stroke is weak, and exertion which does not affect the other girls at all leaves you exhausted. That is a condition of which you should be ashamed, inasmuch as you have no definite ailment. 'Hold on to Health' is only another form of 'Be trustworthy,' for it means taking good care of the body which has been given into our keeping. I know you never thought about it in just that way and broke the rule because you saw no reason for it, not because you have no sense of honor. "And now about this candy you have on hand. I will ask you to put it in the kitchen where it will keep dry and pass it around to the girls at meal time as long as it lasts. After that I must request you not to buy any more, even to eat with meals. We have home-made candy three times a week and that is sufficient." Nyoda withdrew from the tent, leaving Gladys feeling very small. Hinpoha and Migwan had waked in time to hear the last of Nyoda's speech and saw the candy, and while they were too polite to make any remarks their attitude plainly showed their disapproval, and this state of things galled Gladys more than Nyoda's chiding. Sahwah, with a fine sense of charity, had left the tent when Nyoda appeared. Her generous nature forbade her to crow over a fallen foe. A nature walk was on the program for the afternoon, but Gladys feigned a headache and remained at home. "Somehow I don't feel like going on a nature walk, either," said Sahwah, when they were ready to start. This was so unusual from Sahwah, who was generally enthusiastic about everything that was proposed, that Nyoda looked at her in some anxiety. "Don't you feel well, dear?" she asked. "Yes, I feel perfectly well," said Sahwah. "That's the trouble. I feel too well to go on a nature walk." "Feel too well to go on a nature walk!" repeated Nyoda. "What do you mean by that?" "I don't know," said Sahwah. "I feel so full of--of something that I'd like to wrestle with an elephant!" Nyoda understood the feeling. She had watched Sahwah's growing irritation all day long and knew that in her case the only relief would be strenuous activity. "Then perhaps it would be better for you to stay at home," she said lightly. "You might do some damage to us peaceful citizens. By the way, have you ever swum as far as Blueberry Island? It's a mile, I think. That ought to work off some of your superfluous energy. You have special permission to go in this afternoon. When you get there wait until I come for you in the launch. We can keep our eye on you from the road while you are swimming." Sahwah jumped for joy and ran to get into her bathing suit. The cool water closed around her limbs like the caress of a loving hand and her irritation vanished like magic. Water was Sahwah's element, and as she propelled herself gracefully across the sparkling lake, feeling the absolute mastery of her muscles, changing regularly from left to right in her side stroke, she might have been taken for a mermaid by some Neckan of the deep. She reached Blueberry Island in good time and, climbing up on the rocky shore, sat down in the sun to dry. Meanwhile Gladys was not having anywhere near such a glorious time. She tossed on her bed for a long time, feeling more sorry for herself every minute. She still thought Nyoda's explanation of the candy rule a weak excuse for an act of tyranny, and was furious at the thought of having been caught in an undignified position. The tears, which she had managed to hold back in front of Nyoda, came now, and she cried herself into a genuine headache. But it was all self-pity; there was no real sorrow for her fault. She considered herself the most abused girl in the world; deserted by her parents, disliked by girls whom she considered beneath her, and deprived of her rights by a young woman who had no real authority over her. "I bet the other girls eat candy between meals too," she said to herself viciously, "only they're too clever to get found out. I wouldn't have been found out either, if it hadn't been for that snippy little Sahwah making a fuss!" She worked herself into a perfect fury, and blamed Sahwah for all of her troubles. "I'd give a whole lot to get even with her," she said to herself, and immediately began looking around the tent for something of Sahwah's which she could damage. The only thing in evidence was her tennis racket, and Gladys took it out and deliberately put a stone through it. Then, frightened at what she had done, and thoroughly homesick and miserable, she sat down and began a letter to her father, begging him to send for her immediately. "Dear Papa," she wrote, "if you only knew what a dreadful place this is you would not leave me here another day. The girls are very rude and horrid and low class; they are continually fighting and playing rough jokes on each other, and especially on me. I don't like Miss Kent as well as you said I would. She makes me go in bathing until I'm all tired out and cold and tries to make me swim when it's impossible for me to learn. She takes me out beyond my depth and ducks me under when I don't make my hands go right. She treats me as if I were a baby and won't trust me out of her sight. It seems they have a rule here about not eating candy between meals and I didn't know it and I bought some and ate it and she called me a sneak before all the girls and made me throw the candy into the lake. I am very miserable and sick most of the time as we don't get enough to eat, and what we do get isn't good. I'm always cold at night and they often let it rain right in on our beds. If you don't send for me right away I may get sick and die before very long. "Your miserable daughter, "GLADYS "P.S.: Aunt Sally is going to Atlantic City in August; may I go with her?" She gave the letter to the captain of the steamer when he stopped to bring the supplies and then sat down on the dock and stared moodily out over the lake. She was lonesome; and in spite of the fact that she had stayed home of her own accord she resented the fact that the girls had gone off and left her. The canoes lay side by side on the beach and Gladys was seized with a fancy to get into one and go gliding out over the smooth surface of the lake. She was not allowed in a canoe because she had not taken the swimming test, but she considered this another piece of tyranny on Nyoda's part. She could paddle pretty well, as Sahwah had taught her to handle the sponson, and she saw no reason at all why she couldn't enjoy a quiet canoe ride up and down the beach while no one was around to interfere. "I'll stay near shore," she told herself, as she laid hold of one of the canoes and launched it as she had seen the girls do. She managed to seat herself in the right end and pushed off from the shore. It was more fun even than she had imagined, and the canoe seemed so light in comparison to the sponson that she sent it flying through the water with little effort. "I'll bet they're keeping me out of the canoes on purpose, so they'll have more use of them themselves," she thought ungraciously, "and it's not because I can't swim at all. That was a safe rule to make when I'm the only one who can't swim. And they're my own father's canoes!" Gladys edged a little farther out from the shore, then a little farther and a little farther. The end of the canoe swung around until it pointed directly out across the lake, and Gladys kept on paddling in the way it pointed. When she had reached a distance about halfway between Blueberry Island and the dock she noticed with terror that the canoe was leaking. She had not been in the group when Nyoda had warned them about not using the one canoe for several days, and as luck would have it, the canoe she picked out was the very one which Sahwah had grounded on the rock. The gash was opening again and the canoe was filling with water. Helpless from fright, Gladys dropped her paddle overboard and buried her face in her hands after one wild look at the distant shore. It seemed to her like a swift judgment from heaven for her outrageous conduct that day. Sahwah, grown weary of sitting in the sun doing nothing, fixed her eyes on the camp dock to watch for the putting out of the launch. No launch was forthcoming, but she saw a canoe gliding out from the dock. "Something must be the matter with the launch and Nyoda's coming for me in a canoe," thought Sahwah. "How slowly she is paddling, it will take her an age to get here!" Sahwah waited a little while and then slid off the rocks into the water. "I'll swim out and meet her," she said to herself. When she had gone about half the distance she saw that it was not Nyoda in the canoe, but Gladys, and an exclamation of astonishment escaped from her lips. Coming nearer yet she saw that Gladys was in distress and had dropped her paddle overboard, and she doubled her speed, shooting through the water like a speed boat. Raising up her head once, she shouted to attract Gladys's attention. Gladys evidently did not hear her, for she did not turn around. When she was nearly there Sahwah saw that the canoe was sinking, and with a mighty spurt she reached it just as it settled to the water's edge, and Gladys, with a wild scream, fell into the lake. Sahwah caught her by the hair as she came up and held her head out of water. "What did you take a canoe out for, you goose?" she sputtered. "You deserve to drown." The canoe had not sunk entirely yet, and Sahwah thought that if she could turn it over keel up it would be all right until they could come for it. So, turning Gladys over on her back, she bade her float while she kept one hand on her to keep her above water and reached out for the canoe with the other. Gladys struggled and choked, but Sahwah paid no attention to her, for she knew that she was safe and could not get a strangle hold on her. Grasping one end of the canoe she tried to turn it over. At first it would not move, and so Sahwah exerted all her strength in a mighty push. The canoe stood partly on end, and then came down with a crashing thud on her outstretched arm. An instant of numbness was followed by the most excruciating pain, and the arm sank limply through the water. Sahwah knew that it was broken. But even then her presence of mind did not desert her. Shoving Gladys out ahead of her with her good arm, she propelled herself with her legs, swimming on her back, and slowly they began to move toward the distant shore. The half mile that was nothing to Sahwah ordinarily now became an endless stretch. The pain in her arm made her feel faint, and her limbs, tired from her long swim, seemed suddenly to have turned into lead. The clouds above turned black, then blood red, then every color of the rainbow. Strange lights and shadows danced in front of her eyes, and there were strange noises in her ears. Her breath came in long, sobbing gasps. The arm that was holding Gladys became cramped and weak, but there was no relief. "Draw, kick, close! Draw, kick, close!" The monotonous rhythm beat itself into her brain. "Draw, kick, close!" Throb! Throb! Throb! Would the nightmare never come to an end? Through the sound of strange voices that were echoing in her ears Sahwah heard a cry that sounded like Nyoda's, and then darkness settled around her and her efforts ceased. Nyoda, coming down to untie the launch, reached the dock just as Sahwah and Gladys came alongside of it, and held out her hand to help Gladys up. She thought she was being towed for fun. "Sahwah, you naughty girl, what did you swim all the way home for?" she began, and then gasped in astonishment as Sahwah stiffened out in the water and went down. She grasped her by the collar as she came up and pulled her out on the dock, limp and dripping. "What does this mean?" she asked Gladys. "She towed me in when the canoe went down," said Gladys, her teeth chattering with fright. "She broke her arm and held me up with the other while she swam with her legs." Gladys's knees gave way and she sank down on the dock, burying her face in her hands. And Sahwah the Sunfish, the lover of maiden bravery, the envier of heroines, was the greatest of them all, and knew it not. CHAPTER VIII. A SERENADE. "Is she dead?" cried the girls, gathering around with frightened faces. Gladys caught the word "dead" and her heart turned to water within her. The horror of the afternoon's experience had made her see herself in her true light and she was overwhelmed with shame at the sight. This Sahwah whom she had twitted as being a coward and a baby because she would not break her word, was made of the stuff that heroes are made of, and had probably given her brave life to save her worthless one. Looking back over the weeks she had spent in camp, she could not remember one instance where she had done anybody a favor or entered with enthusiasm into their plans, while Sahwah's unselfish devotion to her during these last days smote her with sharp remorse. In the new light she suddenly saw the vast difference between herself and these other girls. Verily, they were not of her class, because they were far above it. How could she ever take her hands from her face and look at them again? "If Sahwah dies," she sobbed to herself, "I'll kill myself too." Meanwhile Nyoda was working hard to bring Sahwah around. It was not a case of reviving a drowned person, for Sahwah had swallowed no water. She had fainted from exhaustion. Nyoda rubbed her and held salts to her nose and Sahwah finally opened her eyes. "Did I jump off in my sleep?" she asked dreamily. "No, my dear, you did not," said Nyoda. "You're a real, wide-awake heroine this time, and no mistake." "Where's Gladys?" cried Sahwah wildly, starting up suddenly, and falling back with a groan. "She's all right," said Nyoda, without looking around. Sahwah was carried up the hill and rolled in warm blankets and put to bed with a hot drink, while Nyoda sped the launch across the lake for the nearest doctor. "Vell, vich von of de ladies has been celebrating dis time?" he said with his German accent, as he entered the tent. He was the same doctor who had come to look at Migwan's knee. "A broken arm? Ach, so," he said, patting the injured member. "And for vy did you not set it right away yourself, like dat Missis Migvan did?" he asked. "She vas a hustler, now!" He talked on jovially all the while he set the bone, and Sahwah stuffed the corners of the pillow into her mouth so that no sound should escape her. "Vell, vell," he continued, "dropped a canoe on her funny bone and kicked herself all de vay across de lake, now. And pushed anoder lady by de neck! I gif it up! And now, Missis Sahvah," he said, holding up one finger at her, "you lie on de bed until I say you should get out. You could get a fever, pushing ladies around by de neck!" "_And_ now," he said, looking around, "de lady vot got drowned, vere is she?" The girls searched through the camp for Gladys, but she was nowhere to be found, and he was obliged to depart without seeing her. Far out in the woods Gladys wandered about distractedly until her anxiety regarding Sahwah drove her back to camp to face the girls and find out bow she was. Near the tent she stumbled against something on the ground, and stooping to see what it was, found the racket on which she had vented her fury that afternoon. The sight of it nearly made her ill. "I'll get her another," she resolved, "the best that money can buy. Hers was only a cheap one, after all." It was a long time before she could make up her mind to enter the tent, but she finally crept in, hoping to remain unnoticed and hear how Sahwah was getting along. Nyoda looked up as she came in, and pitied her from the bottom of her heart. "Come in, Gladys," she said softly, and Gladys approached. "How is--" she began, and then her voice broke. "Fine and dandy," said Sahwah herself, rather weakly. The fever that the doctor had predicted was rising, and her lips were dry. Nyoda feared that the presence of Gladys would excite Sahwah, and led her out of the tent. "Now Gladys," she said, sitting down on the steps of the shack, "I want you to tell me everything that happened this afternoon. How did it come that you were out in a canoe and had to be rescued?" Gladys told a straight story, not sparing herself in the least. She told about the dreadful mood she had been in that afternoon after the girls had gone away; how she had broken Sahwah's racket, and then, filled with a very devil of rebellion, had taken out one of the canoes. It happened to be the leaky one and her punishment overtook her swift as the wings of a bird. She had given up all hope when Sahwah had appeared magically from somewhere and towed her in, in spite of her broken arm. Gladys's face was crimson with shame when she told how she had tried to make Sahwah take her out in the sponson during rest hour, and had called her a coward because she refused. She told Nyoda everything except the letter she had written to her father. She could not bring herself to tell that. It lay on her conscience like a lump of lead. Nyoda said very little about the matter and did not upbraid her at all. She saw that Gladys's sins had come down on her head in a manner which would make a very deep impression, and that Gladys would emerge from the experience a sadder and wiser girl. "I haven't been a very good camper, Nyoda," said Gladys humbly, "but I'm going to try to be after this." "I know you will," said Nyoda, putting her arm around her, "and you are going to succeed, too. And now let's go and see how Sahwah is." Sahwah was tossing on the bed and muttering when they came in. She had a high fever and was living over again her strenuous escapade of the afternoon. She cried aloud that the shore was running away from her, that the clouds were tumbling down on her, that a big fish had a hold of her arm. "This rock I am pushing against," she moaned, "is so heavy, I shall never get around it." Nyoda gave her the fever medicine left by the doctor and she sank into a heavy sleep. All that night and all the next day she alternately raved and slept. Nyoda fetched the doctor again the next day and he predicted that Sahwah would soon be better. "She is a strong von, dat Missis Sahvah," he said. "She has bones like iron! A weak von vould maybe haf brain fever, but not she, I don't tink!" Nor did Sahwah disappoint him. She had a constitution like a nine-lived cat, and her active outdoor life kept her blood in perfect condition, and it was not long before she began to get the upper hand of the fever. During the second night she woke up feeling delightfully cool and comfortable. The fever had left her sometime during sleep. The moon was setting over the lake, making a long golden streak across the water. Sahwah smiled happily at the peaceful scene. Then she became aware of a figure crouching on the floor beside her bed. It was Gladys, sitting on a low stool beside her, keeping watch. "Hello, Gladys," she said, weakly but cheerfully. Gladys started up. "Do you really know me?" she said joyfully. "Sure I know you," said Sahwah. "Why shouldn't I?" "You didn't yesterday, you know," said Gladys. "Did my arm make me so sick?" asked Sahwah, feeling gingerly of the white bandage, and moving her feet to make sure that they were not similarly adorned. Gladys nodded. "Have you been sitting here all night?" asked Sahwah. "Yes," said Gladys. "Nyoda sat up last night, but I made her go to bed to-night. She is here in my bed, and I'm to call her if she's needed." "Let her sleep," said Sahwah softly. "And you go back to bed, too. I won't need anything to-night, really I won't, I feel fine now." Gladys shook her head resolutely. "I promised to sit up with you to-night, and I'm going to keep my promise. You see I can be trustworthy sometimes. O Sahwah," she cried, burying her face in the blankets, "how can I ever repay you for what you have done?" "Don't try," said Sahwah cheerfully. "What a miserable sneak you must think me!" continued Gladys. "O shucks!" said Sahwah, who hated scenes. "Forget it. Let's start all over from the beginning." "Are you really willing to give me another chance?" said Gladys joyfully. "Sure," said Sahwah. "Here's my hand on it." She slid her hand out from under the covers and caught Gladys's in a warm clasp. She fell asleep soon after that and did not waken again during the night, but Gladys sat beside her until morning, watching her slightest movement. And the Camp Fire leaven was beginning to work in her, and she was learning to fulfil the Law, which says, "Give service." The girls were filled with delight the next morning to hear Sahwah calling for her breakfast in her natural voice and clucking to the chipmunks as of old. Migwan sped to the woods for a bouquet of the brightest flowers she could find to adorn the tent, while Hinpoha clattered around the kitchen concocting delicacies. Gladys hovered over her like a fond grandmama, brushing her hair, washing her face and plumping up the pillows, and the rest of the Winnebagos looked in every five minutes to see how she felt. Sahwah had never had so much attention before in her life. Her slightest want was attended to as soon as expressed. The suffering of the last two days was more than made up for by the joys of being a heroine, and Sahwah drank deep of the cup that was offered her. "This tent is getting famous," said Hinpoha, as she moved about setting it to rights, "there are already two heroines in it. We'll have to change the name from 'Omega' to 'Heroine's Lodge.' Quite a good idea, that," and picking up a piece of birch-bark, she painted the name on it in large letters and tacked it to the tent pole. "Now,", she continued, "we'll name your bed 'Rescuer's Roost' and Migwan's 'Clew-givers' Cradle,'" and she made two more signs, and hung them on the foot rails of the beds. Sahwah sat up for an hour in the afternoon and Gladys danced for her amusement. The girls gasped with wonder and delight, for they had never seen anything like it. She was as light on her feet as thistledown and as graceful as a swaying rose. Nyoda watched her with keen pleasure, but it was not her twinkling feet, nor the artistic posing of her limbs that held her attention, but the new expression on her face. The old selfish, blase' look was gone, and her features were lit up by an eager smile that sparkled in her eyes and curved up the corners of her pretty mouth. Again the leaven was at work in her, and she was fulfilling the Law of the Camp Fire, which is to "Seek beauty." Sahwah slept again after that and Gladys called all the girls together around the piano in the shack, where they stayed until supper time, singing softly under Gladys's direction. Sahwah had finished her supper and had been made comfortable for the night and lay staring out into the gathering darkness and wondering where the girls were. Not a soul was in sight, neither could she hear their voices. Then all at once she heard the sound of singing, wafted up from the lake. It was "Stars of the Summer Night," sung exquisitely in three parts. Sahwah could hardly believe it was the Winnebagos, so perfect was the harmony. This was followed by "I Would That My Love," sung by Gladys and Nyoda. Sahwah drew a long, rapturous breath at the beautiful blending of alto and soprano. She was passionately fond of music. Then Gladys sang "Come Where My Love Lies Dreaming," her clear high voice ringing over the water like a flute. The notes died lingeringly away, and the silence was broken by the soft chugging of the launch as it bore the serenaders back to shore. Sahwah composed herself to sleep, the melodies she had just heard still echoing in her ears. A soft rustling outside the tent door made her open her eyes, and she started in surprise at the fairy scene which was being enacted there. In the open grassy space before the tent figures were passing back and forth and winding in and out in the mazes of a dance. So silently they moved they scarcely seemed flesh and blood, but rather a band of woodland nymphs performing their nightly revels. There was one figure among them who was lighter and airier than all the rest, and she darted in and out between the lines, and round and round them, like a butterfly fluttering around a bed of tossing flowers. At last, after joining hands and whirling madly in a circle, they broke ranks and vanished among the trees. Sahwah tried to applaud, but could not manage it single-handed, and shouted her appreciation at the top of her lungs, which brought the whole troupe to the edge of the tent to bow and curtsey. Nyoda drew them away again immediately, however, declaring that it was high time Sahwah went to sleep. Long after the other girls lay motionless in their beds Gladys was wakeful and restless. In spite of the fact that she had spent the entire day in the service of others she had no peace. Nyoda had praised her warmly for arranging the serenade and dance, but this only aggravated the trouble she was having in her mind; namely, the letter which she had written her father, the horrid, lying epistle in which she had cruelly wronged kind-hearted Nyoda and all these wonderful girls. He must have it by now, and would undoubtedly send for her immediately. And furthermore, he would probably make all the others go home too. At this thought her heart almost stopped beating. There was only one thing that could prevent it, and that was for her to write him another letter, contradicting the first. It sounded easy to say it, but it would mean that her father would know she had told an untruth, and she shrank back miserably from the revelation. She admired her father and cared much for his opinion of her, and to be branded as a liar in his sight was more than she could bear. He would never believe her again. On the other hand, the thought of breaking up this jolly summer camp and sending the girls home unhappy made the chills run down her back and the perspiration start out on her forehead. Sahwah and her swimming--could she have the heart to separate them? Her other indebtedness to Sahwah she dared not even think of. Wherever she turned her face she saw Nyoda's trusting eyes looking into hers with a smile as they had done that very evening. Could she bear to cloud them over with grief and disappointment? She was just beginning to rise in Nyoda's good graces. Could she bear to fall forever? The hours dragged wakefully and her thoughts tortured her like searing irons. In all her life Gladys had never done the hard thing when there was an easier alternative, and the struggle between the two forces in her was a mortal one. But the constant example of unselfishness which the girls had set for her all summer had had its effect, and by morning the balance had swung over to the side of self-sacrifice, and she was fully resolved to write the letter which would make her father despise her. She rose as soon as it was light, brought out her writing materials, and with an unfaltering pen wrote the sentences which branded her with dishonor. It was the most difficult letter she had ever written, but she kept on steadily to the end, and sealed and addressed it as the rising bugle blew. When it was all over a load seemed lifted from her heart, and breakfast was the jolliest meal she had eaten for some time. For the last three days her meals had been nightmares. The happy chatter of the girls nearly maddened her when she thought that it would soon be hushed and she had done the deed which was to silence it. She could not look a single girl in the face and her food choked her. But this morning all that was over. She joined in making plans for future trips with enthusiasm, for she felt that she had a right to. Whatever would be the consequences of her confession to her father, all the suffering would be borne by her alone, and she had nothing more on her conscience. Feeling curiously light-hearted, she ran down to the dock to give the letter to the steamer captain. Nyoda had already received the incoming mail and was distributing it. "Here, Gladys, something for you," she said, handing her an envelope. At the sight of it Gladys stood as if rooted to the dock. It was the very letter she had written to her father on that memorable afternoon. It had missed her father in his travels and been returned to her. "What's the matter, Gladys, have you seen a ghost?" asked Hinpoha, as Gladys stood staring open-mouthed at the envelope. "Nothing," said Gladys, and sped up the path clutching the two letters in her hand. "I didn't deserve it," she panted, as she reached the shelter of the woods. "Some good angel had me under its wing that time for sure." She tore both letters into bits and then burned them and scattered the ashes to the winds. Then taking her knife she cut a letter L in the bark of the tree under which she stood, and pierced it with an arrow, to signify that a letter can do as much harm as an arrow. Every time she passed that tree she saw the mark and renewed her vow never to write another letter in anger. The next mail did carry another letter to her father, but its composing cost Gladys no pain. It contained an enthusiastic account of her rescue by Sahwah, and then she went on to tell what a good time she was having and what wonderful girls the Winnebagos were. She ended up with the statement that they had such good "eats" here that she never knew when to stop, and had already gained five pounds. She also sent to Portland for a new racket for Sahwah, paying eight dollars for it. She did not ask her father for the money, but took the whole amount out of her own allowance. Sahwah was up now and running around the camp as lively as ever, in spite of her splinted arm. "Isn't it blessed luck that it's my left one," she declared over and over again, "and doesn't interfere much with what I want to do?" She insisted on taking her morning dip with the rest of them, although of course she could neither swim nor dive. She waded out to her waist and with her good hand managed to splash the water over her chest and head. This proceeding generally filled her with profound disgust when she saw the others jumping in with a grand gurgle and splash, but it was better than staying out of the water altogether. But the greatest phenomenon in the water just now was the way Gladys was learning to swim. Thoroughly ashamed of her backwardness in this matter, she made up her mind once for all that she was going to overcome her fear of the water and let herself be helped. Of late the girls had about given up trying to teach her. She confided her determination to Nyoda and asked her to be patient with her a little while longer. Nyoda, overjoyed at this sudden show of spirit, took her under her wing immediately. Gladys struck out bravely; lost her balance and went under; came up blind and strangling; blew the water out of her nose and laughed, and then went at it again. She repeated the performance more than a dozen times and every time she went down she came up more determined than ever to master that stroke. At the end of the swimming hour she had taken six strokes in succession with Nyoda just barely supporting her. The next day Nyoda began by holding her up and then when her arms and legs were working rhythmically slyly withdrew her hand and let her go alone. Gladys went a dozen strokes before she perceived that Nyoda had let go of her. She progressed so much that day that the next swimming period Nyoda considered it unnecessary to help her at all, and let her swim up and down the beach by herself and practise for distance until she could take the test. Sahwah no longer had the doctor come over to see her, as this took a great deal of his time, but went across the lake in the launch to his office to have the splints looked after. "Vell, Missis Sahvah," he would always say on these occasions, "how many ladies haf you pushed by de neck across de top of de lake to-day?" He always exclaimed in delight at the progress her arm was making. "Such bones!" he would say, waving his hands eloquently. "Dey can knit faster dan my grandmama could, and she was de fastest knitter in Hamburg! If only my son Heinrich could see dose bones! You vould like to see my son Heinrich, yes?" He took down a photograph from the top of his medicine cabinet and showed it to her and Nyoda. "Dot is my son Heinrich. He now studies medicine at de University of Berlin in de Staatsklinick. He is going to be a great surgeon doctor. Next year he comes to America to practise mit me in dis office. Den you can break both of your arms at vonce, for dere will be two doctors to tie dem up!" His deep laugh boomed out pleasantly at his own joke. On another occasion he led them with an air of great mystery into the kitchen of his house and showed them a basket wherein five kittens were lying on a soft bed. He sat down and took all five of them into his lap. They scampered all over him, up and down his arms, on top of his head, up and down his legs, while he laughed heartily at their antics. He shouted with glee when one of them darted a furry paw into his open mouth. "You vould like von of de liddle cats, yes?" he said to Sahwah. "I vould like to keep dem all, but Missis Schmitt, de lady who keeps house for me, she says no, and I haf to mind vot she says." "May I take one, Nyoda?" asked Sahwah. Nyoda assented and Sahwah picked out the liveliest one, which was coal black from his nose to the tip of his tail. "Vait a minute," said the doctor when they were about to start, and after fumbling in a drawer he produced a red ribbon with a little bell attached. "Dere, now, you can find him in de dark," he said, tying it round the kitten's neck. The girls were enchanted with the new pet and promptly christened it "Kitty Wohelo." Playing with it whiled away many a tedious hour for Sahwah when she could not join in the sports with the other girls. One morning the steamer stopped at the dock and unloaded two express packages of enormous size, both addressed to Sahwah. "What on earth can it be?" she said. "I don't know a soul who would be sending me anything by express." There was a letter for her in the mail and she opened this first. It was from Gladys's father and read: "I am sending you by express a few trifles I picked up among the Indians here, in gratitude for the service you rendered my daughter Gladys on the 30th of July. May you live a hundred years, and wear every one of them out!" The first of the "trifles" was a pair of Indian moccasins, made of finest doe skin and elaborately beaded. Then came a variety of reed and birch baskets of different shapes and sizes. Most of these were filled with strings of wampum, arrow heads, pieces of bead work and other Indian curios. Under the baskets was an Indian girl's costume made of doe skin, with leggings to match. The next thing that came to light was a large muff of finest black fox fur, and another package contained the neckpiece. In the bottom of the box were a sealskin cap, a hunting knife in a soft leather case, a small Winchester rifle and a pair of fine hockey skates with shoes attached. Sahwah, rendered speechless by this sudden rain of presents, could only hop up and down for joy as each new treasure was brought to light. But if the contents of the first box took her breath away, when she saw what was in the other her delight knew no bounds. It was a long narrow crate, built of wooden slats, and careful opening revealed a birchbark canoe, big enough to paddle on the lake. Its sides were decorated with Indian craft work and in it lay two paddles. It took almost physical restraint to keep Sahwah from launching it right then and there, one-handed as she was, and trying it out. Only the promise of a grand ceremony of launching when she could use her arm again comforted her for the delay. One morning not long afterward Gladys announced modestly that she thought she could take the swimming test to-day. Nyoda and Hinpoha got into the sponson and the three set out, Gladys swimming alongside the boat. All fear of deep water had left her now and she moved along easily and swiftly. The first half of the distance was covered without difficulty, and then she began to tire. Even a vaulting ambition cannot supply a powerful body on short notice. Her breath grew short and the water began to run into her throat and choke her. She struggled on valiantly for some time until Nyoda, seeing that she was going beyond her strength, reached out and pulled her into the boat. Gladys crouched in a disconsolate heap in the bottom of the sponson, and refused to be comforted by the assurance that she had done wonderfully well, all things considered, and that a number of the other girls had failed their first test. "I'll do it to-morrow," she said, clenching her hands, "or die." And she did. The old weakness overcame her at the same distance out, but this time she had the presence of mind to turn over on her back and rest, and went on again when she had her breath back. Nyoda noted this manoeuver approvingly. It indicated good sense. Gladys covered the last twenty-five yards by sheer grit. Every breath was a gasp, the shore line wavered dizzily before her, and it seemed that she was pushing against an immovable wall. Nyoda watched her closely, and saw her rear up her head and set her teeth and battle on against wind and wave. "She'll do," she said to herself joyfully, "she has physical courage as well as the others. She will uphold the honor of the Winnebagos!" "That will do," she said gently, as the boat grounded noiselessly on the sloping beach. Gladys's feet struck solid ground and she opened her eyes in surprise. "Is it all over?" she asked wonderingly. "All over," said Nyoda. "Congratulations!" She was borne back to the dock in triumph, to be praised and patted on the head by all the girls, like a conquering hero. Sahwah was particularly pleased at her success. "When you first came I didn't think you had it in you," she said, "but now I believe you can do anything you want to!" "When may I go out in a canoe?" asked Gladys. "Right this very minute," said Nyoda, and took her out for a ride in the sailing canoe. The morning song hour had now become a time of keenest pleasure, for Gladys threw herself into the work with heart and voice. Her strong, sure soprano led the girls through many a difficult passage which they could not have attempted without her help, and she taught them much about expression. She took great pleasure in singing solo parts and having the girls hum the accompaniment. This last arrangement was particularly effective on the water, and the hills echoed nightly with "Don' You Cry, Ma Honey," "Mammy Lou," "Rockin' in the Wind" and other negro melodies, besides boating songs galore. Migwan won a local song honor by writing a lullaby, beginning: "Over the water Night steers her canoe, She's coming, she's coming, for me and for you." But the favorite canoe song was, and always would be, "Across the Silver'd Lake," and the girls sang it first and last every night. The moon was in full glory at that time of the month, and the glittering lake closed in by high dark pines made a scene of indescribable beauty. It was harder each night to break away and go to bed. "O dear," sighed Migwan one night, "why do we have to go to bed at all? I'd like to stay up and serenade the moon all night!" "I don't know as I care about wasting songs on that old dead moon," said practical Sahwah, "but there is one thing I'd like to do, and that is serenade the doctor." "That's a good idea," said. Nyoda, "and one which we must carry out." So the next morning they gathered around the piano to practise a song to sing under Dr. Hoffman's window. "We ought to sing a German one," said Sahwah, "that would please him more than anything." They picked out the "Lorelei" and began learning the German words. The night was one of magic splendor and the lake was without a ripple as the two long, dark canoes glided silently over the water toward the opposite shore. The doctor's house, which was a summer cottage, stood close to the beach, and a light on the side where his office was assured them that he was at home. Gladys started them off, and the beautiful strains rose on the still air: "Ich weiss nicht wass soll es bedeuten Dass ich so traurig bin--" Inside the office the doctor sat with his head in his hands, his whole body bowed in grief and despair. On the table beside him lay an open letter and in his hand he clasped a small iron cross. "Heinrich," he cried brokenly, "my Heinrich!" The letter told the story. When the war broke out the young man had been called from his studies in the University to take up arms for his country and fell in the very first battle at the storming of Liege'. Not before he had distinguished himself for bravery, however. He received the bullet which caused his death while carrying a wounded comrade off the battlefield in the face of a murderous fire from the enemy, and wounded and suffering, had borne his friend to safety. He lived just long enough to be decorated with the Iron Cross, which he begged the captain to send to his father, as his last message. It was a heavy blow for the old man, who was counting the days until his son should come to America and go into partnership with him. The world became a dark and sad place for him and he had no ambition to go on living. The only consolation he had was the thought that his son had died a hero and his last act had brought honor to his family. He gripped the Iron Cross tightly and wished passionately that Heinrich had lived to wear it. As the lonely, broken-hearted old doctor sat there with his head in his hands trying to realize the misfortune which had crushed him he heard strains of music floating up from the lake. "Ich Weiss nicht wass soll es bedeuten Dass ich so traurig bin--" The sweet girlish voices rang out in fine harmony. The doctor raised his head to listen. "Bless dere liddle hearts," he murmured, "dey are bringing me a serenade to please me." A tiny ray of pleasure visited his sad heart. "Tell dem," he said to his housekeeper, "dat de old doctor has too much sorrow to speak to dem to-night, but he tanks dem for de song and hopes dey will come again." CHAPTER IX THE WHITE MEN'S LODGES. "Don't stand so stiffly, Sahwah," said Gladys. "Bend your knees a little. Let yourself go in the air the way you were always telling me to let myself go in the water. See, this way." She took a few graceful dancing steps back and forth in front of Sahwah. Sahwah did her best to imitate her. "There, that's a little better," said Gladys, "but there is lots of room for improvement still. Now, one, two, three, point, step, point, turn, point, step, point, turn, point, slide, slide, slide, close." Sahwah struggled to follow her directions, poising her free hand in the air as Gladys did. "You handle your feet fairly well," said Gladys, "but you ought to see your face. You look as if you were performing the most disagreeable task, and were in perfect misery over it. Smile when you dance, and incline your head gracefully, and don't act as if it were glued immovably onto your shoulders." Sahwah dutifully grinned from ear to ear, and Gladys shook her head again. "No, not like that, it makes you look like a clown. Just smile slightly and naturally; act as if you were enjoying yourself." Thus the lesson proceeded. Gladys had undertaken the task of teaching Sahwah fancy dancing, and drilled her every morning in the shack. Sahwah was eager to learn and practised the steps until her feet ached with weariness. "There," said Gladys, as Sahwah succeeded in memorizing a number of steps, now we'll try it with the music. Remember, you are impersonating a tree swaying in the wind, and bend from your waist line. That's the right way. "Now, everybody up for the 'Hesitation,'" she called, when Sahwah, flushed and panting, sat down in a corner to rest. The girls lined up briskly for their lesson. Nearly all of them knew the correct steps of the modern society dances, but few of them danced really well, and it was the little fine touches and graces that Gladys was teaching them--lightness of foot, stateliness of carriage, graceful disposing of arms and hands. Gladys had taken charge of the entire dancing hour now, and it was the most popular class in the whole schedule. Nyoda was a little breathless at the way Gladys was developing into a leader. She, who a few weeks before was not able to reach the standards which the Winnebagos had set for themselves, was now calmly leading them on to greater heights! Now that Gladys had learned to swim, the next thing for her to do was to get used to jumping into deep water. She stood out on the end of the low springboard a long time trying to make up her mind to go off, and finally shrank back, thoroughly disgusted with herself, but unable to bring herself to make the leap. "Shall I hold your hand the first time?" said Nyoda. Holding tightly to Nyoda's hand, Gladys jumped from the board, and sank down, down through the glassy, translucent depths, holding her breath and trying to keep her eyes open as she had been bidden. At first all was darkness, then a mass of bubbles became visible, then light shone through the water and the next moment her head shot out above the surface, and Nyoda pulled her up on the dock. It had all happened so quickly that she had no time to be frightened. "Why, it's _fun_," she said in amazement. All the girls laughed at the comical expression on her face. "Now do it alone," said Nyoda, "and this time try to right yourself and begin to swim." Again Gladys jumped into the depths, and as soon as her head was clear of the water struck out of her own accord and swam around the dock. "Now come up, and turn over on your back and float," said Nyoda. Gladys accomplished this also. She could not overcome her astonishment at the feats she was able to perform in the water, now that she had lost her fear of it. She became bolder and bolder with each new trial and finally took every one's breath away by announcing that she was going off the top of the tower. And she did it, too, without a moment's hesitation. There was one trick she had which caused them all great amusement. She _would_ hold her nose when she jumped, which Nyoda laughingly explained, was _very_ bad form indeed. It was a sight to see her going off the tower, feet together like a statue, one hand held straight above her head and the other tight over her nose. Sahwah's arm had fully healed by this time and the splints were taken off. The old doctor tried hard to be cheerful when she came to him the last time, but his heart had gone out of his work. He told Sahwah about his son and showed her the Iron Cross. Led on by her sympathetic manner, he talked a long time about Heinrich, told her little incidents of his school days, and dwelt with pride on the record he had made in the class room, in the gymnasium, in the Klinik. When he spoke of the brave deed which had won him the Iron Cross his voice sank into a reverent whisper and his stooped figure straightened up into the bearing of a soldier. It was no light thing to be the father of a hero! Then he added, "But I forget, Missis Sahwah, you haf also done a brave deed and brought honor to your family. You should also haf de Iron Cross!" Sahwah smiled at the idea of being decorated for "pushing a lady by de neck across de top of de lake" as the doctor had expressed it. She and the doctor had become great friends while he was taking care of her arm. He had taken a great fancy to her from the start. Sahwah had no German blood in her; she was straight Puritan descent and knew only the few words of the German language she had acquired in school, and pronounced them badly. She reminded him of nothing in the Fatherland, and he was unlike any one she had ever associated with, and yet between these two there had sprung up the warmest kind of friendship. He opened up his cabinet and let her handle the instruments, a thing it would have been worth his housekeeper's life to have tried; he pulled out old pipes and pieces of pewter and told her their stories; he showed her pictures of his wife and little Heinrich. And Sahwah in turn took his breath away recounting the escapades of the Winnebagos. She made him promise to come over to camp to see her new canoe launched. Promptly at the time appointed he came, in his own launch, with a big straw hat shading his face and his surgical case in his hand, "in case von of de ladies should break her a bone." Sahwah had named her new canoe the "_Keewaydin_," or "_Northwest Wind_," and the launching proceeded ceremoniously. The seven girls carried it down to the water's edge, its sides decorated with balsam boughs, saluted it by raising it three times above their heads at arm's length, and then held it while Migwan recited a poem in honor of the launching: "Out o'er the shining lake, Glide thou, my bark canoe, Out toward the purple hills, Lovely _Keewaydin_! Swift as the seabird's wing, Light as the ocean's foam, Speed o'er the dancing wave, Lovely _Keewaydin_!" The canoe was lowered to the water's edge and Sahwah and Gladys got in and paddled out from shore, followed by the cheers of the girls. When the _Keewaydin_ had returned from her maiden voyage Hinpoha and Migwan were ready with a stunt to amuse the audience. They dramatized that classic argument between the man and his wife as to whether the crime was committed with a knife or a scissors. Migwan, as the husband, stoutly maintained that it was a knife, and Hinpoha, as his spouse, fiercely declared it was a scissors. Arguing hotly, they went out in a canoe, and soon came to blows about the point in question. The man threw his wife overboard, and hit her with a paddle every time she poked her head up. She kept coming up and saying, "Scissors!" while he insisted, "Knife!" As the story goes, the wife finally drowns, and the last minute her fingers come up making a scissors motion. Migwan, however, after Hinpoha went overboard, hit out so energetically with her paddle that the canoe went over and the climax was lost in the splash. The girls did everything they could think of to cheer up the doctor and made a great feast in his honor. Sahwah baked her feathery biscuits; Migwan stirred up a pan of delicious fudge; Hinpoha made her famous slumgullion; Nyoda broiled fish, while the rest of the girls gathered blueberries in the woods. The cooking must have tasted good to the doctor, for he passed his plate three times for slumgullion and ate so many biscuits he lost count. Hinpoha, too, throwing her vow of abstinence to the winds, ate until she groaned, and while she was clearing away the dishes finished up all that was left of the fudge and the blueberries. The doctor took his leave in the afternoon, declaring he had never eaten anything so good as Sahwah's biscuits. "She can make," he said impressively, "better biscuits dan my grandmama, and she made de best biscuits in Hamburg!" Strange to say, the girls were not very hungry at supper time, and ate nothing but wafers and lemonade. "Where are you going with your blankets?" said Nyoda, stopping in surprise as she met Migwan coming out of her tent with all her bedding in her arms. "I'm going to sleep in the tree-house," answered Migwan. "Sleep in the tree-house?" echoed Nyoda, "isn't there room enough in the tent?" "Oh, there's room enough," said Migwan, "that isn't the reason. I just want to do it for the experience. I was lying awake the other night, listening to the wind singing through the treetops, and I thought of all the little birds sleeping up in the trees, and decided I would try it and see what it was like." "Her poet's soul spurns the common earth, and she seeks the treetops to be nearer the sky," said Nyoda banteringly. "If I may intrude such a material question among your ethereal desires," she continued, "how are you going to get your blankets up there?" Migwan stopped, a little taken aback. The tree-house was more than thirty feet from the ground and in order to get into it the girls had to climb up the limbs of the tree. Some of the branches were far apart and it was quite a stretch to make the distance, while the long space from the ground to the first branch was notched to assure a foothold. It was easy enough climbing empty-handed, but scrambling up there with an armful of blankets was another matter. Nyoda watched the expression on Migwan's face with keen amusement. This was the sort of thing she was always doing--her poetic fancy would be kindled to a certain idea without ever stopping to consider the practical side. But Migwan was resourceful as well as romantic. She took in the situation at a glance, laid her blankets at the foot of the tree, and repaired to the kitchen, whence she presently emerged with a long rope, made of sundry short ropes tied together and pieced out with strips of cloth. Winding this around her waist, she climbed the tree and fastened one end of it to the railing of the Crow's Nest. Then she let the other end down, asked Nyoda to tie her bedding to it, and hauled it up with the greatest ease. The floor struck her as being far from soft when she spread her blankets out, and by dint of much labor she also hauled up her mattress. Then she had a further inspiration and laid the mattress across two poles, which kept it up off the floor and made it softer yet. The moon and stars seemed very close, when she finally had the bed fixed to her satisfaction and stood looking around her. In fact, it seemed as if she could put out her hand and grasp the Great Bear by the tail. Jupiter was just at her left hand, peeking impudently through the branches while she undressed. Down below the tents gleamed ghostly in the pale light. What an airy cradle it was, after she was rolled in the blankets and fixed comfortably for sight seeing! The breezes fiddled through the twigs, making elfin music, and the tree-house swayed gently. It was too beautiful to sleep through, and Migwan lay awake hour after hour in wonder and delight, watching the moon steer her placid course across the sky. She saw Jupiter culminate and incline to westward; saw Arcturus sink behind the hills, and watched the Dipper go wheeling round the pole like the hand of an enormous clock. Off somewhere in the woods a whip-poor-will was lamenting; the waves splashed against the rocks below; a cricket chirped at the foot of the tree. Migwan turned over to get a look at the view on the other side and her pillow went overboard with a soft plop. She leaned over the edge to see where it had gone and the poles slid gently apart, letting the mattress down flat on the floor. She adjusted herself to the new position and continued looking up. When all the stars had traveled to the morning side of the sky she finally dropped off to sleep, only to waken again with the first faint gray light of dawn. A frowzy, cocky-looking bird flew into the tree just above her head and balanced himself on the limb. He had evidently been out all night and was sneaking home in the wee sma' hours, much the worse for dissipation. He teetered back and forth for a moment, then began unsteadily climbing the stairs up the branches. Migwan hoped his wife was waiting for him at the top step, and listened to hear the curtain lecture he would receive. She heard no uproar, however and concluded he was a bachelor and could go and come when he pleased. In contrast to Migwan's peaceful night, Hinpoha lay tossing in dire distress. She was no sooner in bed than the biscuits she had gobbled for dinner started to make war on the slumgullion, and the lemonade began to have words with the blueberries. The fudge was a power unto itself and made war on all the rest. Hinpoha tried to get up and get something to relieve herself, but she was so dizzy she couldn't stand. A great monstrous biscuit was sitting on the pit of her stomach, squeezing the breath out of her, and she sank back on the pillow. Sahwah finally heard her groan and got up and brought her some hot water, which settled the dispute going on in her stomach. Gladys and Sahwah were coming home from the village in the launch one afternoon, where they had been to get the milk. It looked like rain and they were hastening to get back to camp. Great was their vexation, therefore, when the engine wheezed a few times and then stopped dead still. Investigation revealed that the gasoline had given out. "Why didn't I think to fill her up before we left?" said Sahwah impatiently. "Here we are, out in the middle of the lake with never an oar or a paddle, and not a bit of breeze blowing. Why, we aren't even drifting!" To all appearances it looked as if they were becalmed there for the rest of the afternoon, until they would be missed from camp, and Gladys said so, resignedly. "I should say I won't stay here all afternoon," said Sahwah. "I'll swim ashore first. The girls are waiting for this milk. I wonder if anybody would see us if we ran up a distress signal?" "What could we use for one?" asked Gladys. Sahwah looked around for a moment and then calmly took off her middy and waved it around her head by one sleeve. They were hidden from camp by a bend in the shore line, but they hoped to attract the attention of some of the other campers along the lake. Besides waving the middy, both girls called and yodled until they were hoarse. At last they had the satisfaction of seeing a launch coming across the lake toward them, with a flag waving in answer to their signal. Sahwah hastily put on her middy again. There were two boys of about sixteen in the launch and they stopped alongside of the _Sunbeam_ and inquired the trouble. "We have run out of gasoline," said Sahwah. "Would you like us to tow you in so you can get a fill-up?" asked the boy who was running the launch. "We're from the Mountain Lake Camp over yonder, and have plenty of gasoline to spare." The girls agreed and the boys threw them a tow line and off they went toward the shore. Upon landing they found themselves in a large summer camp for boys. Boys of every age and size from six years up to eighteen were swarming around the dock, waiting to see who the distressed sailors were, and the girls became the center of interest. The two boys who had brought them in, and who had introduced themselves as "the Roberts brothers, Ed and Ned," called one of the senior Counsellors and told him the trouble, and he willingly agreed to sell Sahwah and Gladys a quantity of gasoline. Great interest was aroused when the girls said they were from Camp Winnebago, for the fame of some of their doings had gone about the village, and their singing on the lake at night had been heard by more people than they knew. "Didn't one of your girls tow in another one with both her arms broken?" asked one of the boys standing near. Sahwah and Gladys laughed outright at this version of the story. When Gladys announced that Sahwah was the heroine in question and she the nearly drowned maiden a ripple went went through the camp. "I don't see how you ever did it," said another of the boys, "you're so little!" Sahwah was sorely tempted to do one of her famous dives right then and there, only she knew that such an exhibition would be entirely out of place, and so restrained herself. It began to rain while they were waiting for the gasoline and the Counsellor insisted upon their remaining until it stopped, and took them up into one of the bungalows in which the boys lived. Before they left he showed them all over the camp. The boys lived in little wooden lodges called Senior and Junior Lodges, the younger ones on one side of the camp and the older ones on the other. They were divided into three classes according to their swimming ability, namely, minnows, perch and salmon, and the different groups had different swimming hours. "Do you have different grades in swimming, too?" asked Ned Roberts. "No," replied Sahwah, "we're all salmon!" Ned looked at Gladys expressively and Sahwah read his meaning. "Oh, she swims beautifully now," she said loyally. "At any rate, I wouldn't have to be rescued any more, even if I don't classify as a salmon," said Gladys. Sahwah could not help noticing how much Gladys was at her ease among these boys. Her eyes sparkled and her lips smiled and she displayed a lively interest in all that they showed her. One of the Roberts boys, Ed, was quite taken with her and determined to see more of her before the summer was over. When they took their departure these two boys asked permission to call on her and Sahwah. "Wouldn't you like to bring some more of the boys, and come and see all of us?" said Gladys. "I'll bring the boys over sometime," promised the Counsellor. The very next morning a twelve-year-old boy wearing the uniform of the Mountain Lake Camp came in a launch and presented a note to Nyoda. It read: "Mountain Lake Camp sends greetings to Camp Winnebago and begs permission to send a delegation to call and pay its respects." Nyoda wrote in answer: "Camp Winnebago heartily returns Mountain Lake Camp's greetings and begs to say that it will be at home this very sundown." What a flutter of excitement there was after the envoy had gone! Gladys and Sahwah were overwhelmed with questions about the boys and conjectures as to how many and which ones were coming. Tents were cleaned and put in such order as they had never known before; the shack was decorated with grasses and wild flowers; canoe cushions were brushed; songs were practised and lemons squeezed, that everything might be in readiness for the visitors! Skirts which had not been worn since the beginning of summer were brought out of trunks and the wrinkles pressed out. Then there rose such a chorus of exclamations that the birds stopped their own chattering to listen. "Oh, I can't get my skirt shut!" "Why, I can't either! Not by two inches!" "Oh, fudge! There goes the button!" From every side came the same wail. Not a girl there who had not gained from five to fifteen pounds, and the tight skirts, made to fit in their slenderer days, were a sorry sight. "What _will_ we do, Nyoda?" they groaned to their Guardian, who was in the same plight herself. "The only thing we can do," said Nyoda, "inasmuch as we haven't time to make them over, is for all of us to wear our white linen skirts with our middies outside, so it won't show how much they gap. And let this be a solemn warning to every girl to look over her clothes before it is time to go home!" Promptly at sundown four canoes appeared around the cliff, each manned by two paddlers, and drew up alongside the Winnebago dock, where the girls stood to welcome them. The Counsellor who had shown Sahwah and Gladys around the boys' camp was there, and the Roberts brothers and five more of the senior campers. Ed Roberts looked around for Gladys the first thing, and his brother for Sahwah, while the rest paired off with the other girls as they went up the hill to the shack. Nyoda was not very fond of having her company sitting around in pairs and immediately started them to playing games which took them all in, and followed the games up with a Virginia Reel. Ed Roberts was filled with impatience at this method of entertainment, for it gave him no chance to monopolize Gladys as he would have liked to. He saw that she was a good dancer and was eager to try a new Hesitation step with her. By and by Gladys slipped from the room and returned dressed in a fancy dancing costume. Poising on her toes as lightly as a butterfly, she did some of her choicest dances--"The Dance of the Snowflake," "The Daffodil," "The Fairy in the Fountain." The admiration of the boys knew no bounds, and she received a perfect ovation. "Now, Sahwah, do your dance," commanded Nyoda. Sahwah shrank back and did not want to, saying that after Gladys's performance anything she could do would seem pitifully flat. But the boys all urged her to try it, and at last she allowed herself to be led out on the floor by Gladys. She was still in an agony of embarrassment and wished the floor would open and swallow her, but it was a rule of the Winnebagos that if they were called on to perform for the entertainment of visitors they must do the thing called for to the best of their ability, and Sahwah knew that if she refused to dance the reckoning with Nyoda would be worse than the embarrassment of dancing, so she swallowed hard and went to work. She got through it very creditably indeed and was rewarded with hearty applause, which made her more fussed than ever. Then boys and girls alike clamored to be allowed to "just dance" and Ed Roberts had plenty of opportunity to try his new Hesitation with Gladys. But after she had danced three or four times with him in succession she left him for another partner. This made him cross and he would not ask any one else to dance until a quiet word from his Counsellor sent him rather unwillingly on to the floor again. "Mayn't I have this one?" he pleaded every time after that, but Gladys smilingly declined, saying she had promised every one of the boys a dance and would not get around if she gave him any more, to which he assented politely, fuming inwardly, and wanted Gladys to himself more than ever. "Bet I don't get another dance with her to-night," he thought crossly, and this was exactly the case, for Nyoda presently suggested lemonade and the dancing stopped. It was nearly nine o'clock by this time, but the boys pleaded so hard for a ride on the lake in the canoes that Nyoda yielded and granted fifteen minutes extra. Ed Roberts took immediate possession of Gladys and led her into his canoe before she had time to say a word. He pushed off before there was time to put any one else in with them, for some of the canoes had to carry four. As they paddled through the moonlit water the girls sang "Across the Silver'd Lake" and by and by the boys added a few bass and tenor notes to it. Fairly in tune now they sang song after song in time to the dipping of their paddles. "How much better any song sounds with a bass to it!" said Nyoda to the Counsellor in the canoe with her, which remark, though merely an effort to start a conversation on Nyoda's part, caused the Counsellor to flush to the roots of his hair and get completely out of stroke. Sahwah, up at the head of the procession with Ned Roberts, was in her element. He was a fine paddler and his stroke matched hers exactly. They were in her own little canoe, the _Keewaydin_, and as it was so much lighter than the others they were continually getting ahead. She taught him the "silent" paddle of the Indians, which they used to hide their approach, twisting the paddle around under the surface to avoid the sound of dipping. She told him about the rifle which Gladys's father had sent her, and he promised to teach her to shoot it when the boys made the all-day visit which Nyoda had suggested. Ed Roberts managed to keep himself and Gladys at the tail of the procession. He was continually stopping to let the canoe drift and gradually widening the distance between them and the others. When they rounded one of the little islands he stopped so long that the first canoes got out of sight around the bend, leaving them hidden behind the island. Gladys would have paddled on, but he begged her to stop and talk awhile. "Let's land on the island and sit on the rocks in the moonlight," he proposed. Gladys refused. "Nyoda wouldn't like it," she said, "and it's past our bed time already. The other canoes have started for home." "O bother bed time!" said Ed petulantly. "Who could bear to go to bed on a night like this? Besides, you can tell Miss Kent that I broke my paddle and we had trouble getting home." Gladys shook her head indignantly. "I'll do no such thing," she said. "You take me home immediately, Ed Roberts, or I'll send out a call for Nyoda." Sulkily he picked up his paddle and dipped it in the water. Gladys paddled so energetically that they soon came up with the others and landed at the dock with them, and as the rest had been so occupied with their own affairs the disappearance of the one canoe for several minutes had gone unnoticed. The boys shook hands all around and departed in their canoes, singing until they disappeared around the cliff. CHAPTER X. BLUEBERRY ISLAND. Gladys sat poring over the list of honors in the Handbook, looking for new worlds to conquer. She had been a Wood Gatherer for several weeks and was hoping to be made a Fire Maker before the end of the summer. With considerable pride she painted in the pictographs on her record sheet which stood for the honors already won. "Swim one hundred yards"--was it really true? At the beginning of the summer this honor had seemed as unattainable as flying the same distance in the air. She was also learning to recognize the different birds, trees and flowers that she found in the woods and along the roads. She was a very much surprised girl indeed when Nyoda pointed out at least a half dozen different varieties of ferns and grasses on one afternoon's walk. "Are there different kinds of ferns and grasses?" she asked in astonishment. "I thought grass was just grass and ferns were just ferns, and that was all there was to it." Winning honors had become a fascinating game, and she read carefully through the list, putting a mark opposite those she thought she could accomplish before the next Council Fire. Sahwah, sitting near her similarly occupied, suddenly called to Nyoda. "How about all of us winning this honor for planning an outing to include as many boys as girls?" she asked. "We have never had our trip to Blueberry Island, and it would be fun to have the boys along for a whole day." All the girls immediately shouted their approval and Nyoda said it would be a fine idea. "We'll have to go in a couple of days, though, for the blueberries will not last much longer," she said. "We'll ask them this very day." Nyoda delivered the invitation in person. Sherry, the Counsellor, who had escorted the boys the other night, was mending the dock when she approached in the _Sunbeam_, and was very much surprised and delighted to see her. He received the idea of a joint excursion with enthusiasm, but said he would have to wait until the camp director returned from a day's trip with three of the older boys before he could accept definitely. He would let her know in the evening. Now Sherry knew well enough that there was no question about accepting the invitation, but he had a sudden feeling that a visit to Camp Winnebago that night would benefit his health considerably, and so delayed his answer. Nyoda returned to camp and reported the result of her mission, and the girls settled down to wait for definite news. "Ned Roberts told me he wished they could come over every night;" said Sahwah, poising her woodblock in the air preparatory to stamping it down on the table cover she was decorating. "Gracious!" said Migwan, "what a bore that would be! We'd never get anything done for ourselves, because we'd spend all day getting ready for them." Migwan begrudged every minute that she lost from the book she was making for Professor Bentley. "It's impossible anyway," said Gladys in a tone of finality, "because we haven't enough skirts to last. I'll have to let out the belt of mine before I can wear it again. It was so tight last night I nearly died! That reminds me," she went on, "has anybody seen that yellow scarf I had last night when I was dancing the 'Daffodil'? I don't seem to be able to find it this morning." Nobody had seen the scarf, but all promised to look through their belongings to see if it had accidentally been put in among them. "I thought I left it hanging on the railing of the shack," said Gladys. "I might as well fix my skirt right away," said Sahwah, when conjectures about the whereabouts of the scarf had ceased, "I'll never have any more time than now." She rose and went to her tent but returned in a few moments looking mystified. "I can't find my white skirt," she announced. "I hung it on the tent ropes last night because it got splashed with water in the canoe. Has somebody taken it for a joke? Hinpoha," she cried, pointing her finger at her, "you did it!" Hinpoha shook her head in all seriousness. "Not guilty this time," she said. "The funny part of it is that I saw that skirt hanging in the moonlight after I was in bed and thought what a good joke it would be to throw it up on top of the tent, but I was too sleepy to get up and do it." Sahwah still suspected Hinpoha and Hinpoha went on declaring her innocence, when the arrival of a messenger from the Mountain Lake Camp put an end to the discussion. "He's bringing the answer to our invitation," cried the girls, as the young lad came up the path from the dock. But instead of approaching Nyoda with his message as they expected, he asked for "Miss Gladys" and handed her the envelope. Gladys opened the note and read: "Dear Miss Gladys: The lateness of the hour kept us from having a pleasant talk on the island the other night, but I hope we may have an opportunity some other time. If I come for you to-night will you go out canoeing with me, just you alone? And please get permission to stay out as long as you like, as the Counsellor in our lodge will be away to-night and if I'm not in when 'Taps' blows nobody will know the difference. "In hopes, "ED ROBERTS." Gladys flushed painfully and all the girls crowding around teased her and asked if it was a love letter. She wrote an answer and gave it to the boy: "Dear Mr. Roberts: To-night is our Council Fire and naturally I would not care to leave camp. I do not think I care to go any other night, either, as a Winnebago could never take advantage of a Counsellor's absence to stay out after hours. I am surprised and disappointed in you." The boy departed and she threw Ed's note into the fire, simply telling the girls that he had asked her to go out canoeing that night and that she had refused. She said nothing about the underhand business he had proposed or the episode of the other night. The Camp Fire leaven had done its work thoroughly, and Gladys had fulfilled that part of the Law which reads, "Be trustworthy." Sherry, the Senior Counsellor, left the Mountain Lake Camp in the gathering dusk, heading his canoe in the opposite direction from Camp Winnebago. Far out in the lake he turned right about face and pulled rapidly toward the Winnebago dock. A steady rain was falling and he drew the canoe up on the sand and turned it upside down carefully before mounting the path. He thought of course the girls would be in the shack, and bent his steps thither, but it was deserted; neither was there a sign of any one in the tents. He looked into the Mess Tent and into the kitchen end of the shack, but found no one. "Must be off for a ride," he reflected. "No, that can't be, either, because all the boats are in. They must have walked to the village." And with disappointment showing in every line of his face he turned his steps back toward his boat. Just then he heard the sound of singing coming from somewhere. "Burn, fire, burn, Burn, fire, burn, Flicker, flicker, flicker, flicker, flame!" With ears strained to listen he began to walk toward the sound. Soon he saw the soft glow of a fire shining through the distant trees and hastened toward it. "The torch shall draw them to the fire--" The wind carried the words distinctly to his ears. Through the wet loneliness of the woods the flame drew him like a magnet. Drawing nearer he saw a bright fire burning high in the middle of an open space, unchecked by the rain, and around it moved a number of black-robed figures. He recognized the Winnebagos, clad in bathing suits and bathing caps, and covered with their ponchos, calmly having their Ceremonial Meeting in the pouring rain. The song over, they sat down in a circle and went through their ritual with the water streaming over their firelit faces. A play was enacted, which he made out to be a pantomime presentation of "Cinderella," and he recognized Nyoda in the guise of the fairy godmother. Hinpoha was the prince and Migwan Cinderella. In the teeming rain she was rescued from her ashy seat by the fireplace and borne to the ball. As the prince bent over to fit the slipper to her foot a perfect torrent rolled off his poncho into her lap and threatened to swamp the romance. They plighted their troth with one hand and held their ponchos around them with the other. Sherry pulled his sou'wester down over his ears and standing under the shelter of a pine tree watched the performance to the end. "Glory, what a bunch of girls," he muttered to himself. "Having fun out in the wet woods while our boys are sticking around in their dry bungalows!" The Council Fire came to an end and the girls filed out among the trees singing the goodnight song. Of course Sherry didn't know the difference, but instead of singing the regular words, "May the peace of our firelit faces," most of the girls were singing, "May the peace of our dripping noses!" Nyoda was the last to come, as she had lingered to extinguish the fire, and Sherry placed himself directly in her path and stepped out from behind a tree as she came along. She started violently and flashed her bug light in his face. "Don't be afraid," he said, embarrassed and blushing, "it's only I, come to tell you that the boys can accept your invitation to go to Blueberry Island next Wednesday." "Oh," said Nyoda, lowering her bug light and laughing, "that's very good news indeed. The girls will be glad to hear it. I must tell them right away!" Sherry thought to himself that the news might keep awhile, as he had several other topics of conversation which would have beguiled the way up to the tents, but Nyoda called out to the girls and they came running back and swarmed all over her, and there was no chance for the poor man to say a word. After standing around for a few minutes he took his leave and paddled back to Mountain Lake Camp, looking rather drenched and forlorn. The girls spent the next day in preparation for the picnic, full of joyous anticipation, but Gladys was filled with secret trepidation. She knew Ed Roberts would be there, and would try to force himself upon her, and she was afraid her pleasure would be spoiled. She said nothing about it, however, for she feared Nyoda would take some decisive action which might result in none of the boys being allowed to go. Migwan came along in the midst of the preparation and announced that her red middy tie had disappeared. The words were hardly out of her mouth when Hinpoha came in declaring that her bathing cap must have evaporated, for it was gone from the tent ropes where she had left it. The girls looked at one another with consternation in their faces. If some one wasn't playing a joke there must be a thief in camp! That one of the Winnebagos should be taking the other girls' things was inconceivable. They were bound to each other by bonds stronger than sisterhood; they knew each other's very thoughts, almost, and to suspect one of their number of stealing hurt worse than a blow; and yet here were their things disappearing almost under their hands! No, the thing was impossible. What would one Winnebago gain by taking the other girls' clothes? She could not wear them without instant detection and they would be worth nothing if sold. A scarf, a white skirt with a seam burst open, a tie with a spot of ink in it, a half-worn bathing cap--what could induce any one to take them? The thing became uncanny. Nyoda wondered uncomfortably how long Sherry had been in camp the previous night before he had made himself known, and Gladys shuddered at the possibility of Ed Roberts having a hand in it. Each time things had disappeared some one from Mountain Lake Camp had been over. The girls had been in the habit of leaving all their belongings open and spread around, with never a thought for their safety, but now they began putting them away carefully. They all felt uncomfortable doing it and each one hoped she was unobserved. There was an air of restraint about the camp that had never existed before, and it reacted in a general crossness. The singing in the evening seemed all out of tune and the fire smoked because the wood was damp and everything had a false note in it. Nyoda was glad when it was time to blow the bugle. Even then there was no immediate peace. No sooner were they settled in bed than from the lake below came the sound of a manly voice raised in song, accompanied by the strumming of a guitar. "There's your lover, Gladys," giggled Sahwah, "I recognize his voice. He plays the guitar, his brother told me so." Gladys hid her face in the pillow and the girls kept on teasing her. "Aren't you going to reward your gallant troubadour by tossing him a flower or a glove, or something?" called Nyoda from the other tent. "I'd like to toss him a rock," said Gladys savagely to herself. Finding his efforts unrecognized, the serenader finally desisted, and they heard the dipping of his paddle as he departed. The girls were at work bright and early the next morning, for they were to be ready to leave for Blueberry Island by nine. With a great waving of paddles the boys arrived promptly on the dot and jumped out to help stow the empty baskets for berries and the full baskets of lunch into the boats, together with the cups and kettles. Gladys had been wondering all morning how she should treat Ed Roberts and stood around so quiet and pensive that Nyoda rallied her on her lack of spirits. "Are you so anxious to see your troubadour that you forget to talk?" she asked. Gladys, suddenly grown weary of all this teasing, said vehemently, "I don't like Ed Roberts and I wish you would stop talking about him to me." "Don't you really like him?" said Nyoda, grown serious in an instant. Gladys shook her head. "He thinks I shouldn't talk to any one but himself, and he's forever trying to get me off into corners away from the others. All he talks is nonsense; calls me 'kid' and 'girlie,' and actually tried to hold my hand when we were going down to the canoes that night. It makes me tired! I wish I didn't have to go to-day." Nyoda puckered her brows, but thought best not to treat the matter too seriously, and merely said, "Stay near me all day and I don't think he will act that way." There were sixteen of them altogether and only seven canoes, counting the _Keewaydin_, so one canoe had to carry four. When Nyoda got in with Sherry, Gladys got in right after her, and Ed Roberts, who was trying to get a canoe for himself, either had to get in also or let some one else have the place. He chose the former and was placed as bow paddler with his back to the others and Nyoda between him and Gladys. The day was perfect and every one in high spirits. The berries were thick on the Island and the baskets were filled with little trouble. Gladys kept close to Nyoda. After a courteous greeting she had paid no further attention to Ed, and during the picking he stayed in the background, sulky and chagrined. When the berries were picked Gladys went to help Nyoda make the blueberry pudding, which was to crown the feast. Sherry sought out Ed Roberts. "You big boob," he said, "why don't you take that Gladys girl away from Miss Kent and keep her entertained? She's sticking so close beside her I have no chance to talk at all. Where are your manners, anyway, leaving her without a partner?" Ed looked at him sourly, and then he brightened at the prospect of having Sherry for an ally. "If you can manage to lose her somewhere near me I'd be delighted," he said. But Gladys steadfastly refused to be "lost" and Nyoda was constantly requiring her assistance, so the two were never very far away from each other. Sahwah and Ned were having a glorious time. He was teaching her to shoot her rifle and she was proving a very apt pupil indeed, hitting the paper three times out of five the first round. Not so Hinpoha, who was also being taught. She took aim with her left eye and pulled the trigger with her right hand and the result was that she could not even hit the tree on which the paper was fastened. She screwed her face up into a frightful grimace and turned her head away when she fired, as if she expected the explosion to blow her head off. But Ned gallantly assured her that she would be a good shot in time and never made one remark about "the way girls do such things." Hinpoha persisted until she had hit the paper once and then left to put her slumgullion over the fire, assisted by Lane Allen, who had followed her around since the first night he visited the camp. Soon dinner was ready and the hungry crowd spread out on the rocks to be served with good things cooked over the open fire. "Leave room for blueberry pudding!" Gladys cautioned every one, viewing with alarm the quantities of slumgullion and sandwiches that were being consumed. "No danger!" laughed Ned. "I could eat everything in sight and still have room for all the blueberry pudding you have. Bring it on!" Gladys served every one with a heaping big dish, and with "'Ohs" and "Ahs" of enjoyment they sent it the way of the rest of the feast. "Now we must heat water to wash the dishes," said Nyoda, when every one had reached the limit of eating. "You let us fellows attend to that," said Sherry decisively, "it's enough that you got the dinner." He calmly took her big cook's apron away from her and put it on himself. The boys fell to with a will and the dishes were soon off the scene. In the afternoon they divided the company into two parts and had a shooting match with Sahwah's rifle. Some of the girls surprised themselves by hitting the paper the first time, and more than one hit the bull's eye before her round was over. Ed Roberts called out the wrath of Sherry because he would point the gun at people, and lost his turn in consequence, which did not improve his temper. Later he received a sharp rebuke from Sahwah because he wanted her to shoot at a song sparrow, and retired to the beach by himself to mope. He was no more like his frank, courteous, sunny-hearted twin brother than day is like night, and Nyoda understood fully Gladys's aversion to him. They went paddling home in the rosy sunset singing "A Perfect Day," which it had been to every one but Ed Roberts, all vowing that they must get together again before the camps broke up. Long after the others were wrapped in slumber Sahwah lay staring into the moonlight. She was never more wide awake. The night was hot and the blankets seemed to stifle her. "I can't sleep!" she declared to herself as she thumped her pillow for the twentieth time, "I'm going to get up awhile." She stepped softly out of bed, slipped on her sweater and stood at the door of the tent looking out into the night. By and by her feet began to move as by their own impulse and carried her down the path to the lake. The _Keewaydin_ lay on the beach bathed in moonlight, and scarcely knowing what she was doing she drew it down to the water's edge, launched it and got in. She had no thought of disobeying Nyoda by going out after bedtime; she was not thinking at all; she was moving in a sort of wide-awake dream. It was one of those strange wild fancies that seize girls in their teens and she was going out to play in the moonlight like an elf. The lake exerted its magic influence over her and drew her to itself when awake as it had done once before in her sleep. Straight across the lake she paddled, following the path of the moonbeams, to where the rocky shore reared its steep cliffs on the other side. At the base of one of the highest cliffs there was a tiny cave and into this Sahwah steered the _Keewaydin_. Inside it was as black as ink and so low that she had to bend her head. "Chaos and ancient night--" The words came aimlessly into her mind. From afar off in the depths of the cave came the sound of water falling. She shuddered at the awfulness of it and backed the canoe out. During those minutes she had spent in the cave a change had come over the moon. It was fast becoming veiled and a heavy mist was settling on the lake, closing around her like a mantle. She had not the slightest idea where she was, nor in which direction she was going. The spell of the moonlight was gone and she was wide awake. She felt chilly and very much afraid. She lost her sense of direction and dared not steer out toward the middle of the lake, but kept close to the shore, following the sound of the waves as they dashed on the rocks. A strong breeze sprang up and the light canoe tossed like a blossom in the wind. On and on around that great curve of the shore line she paddled, until her arms ached from the strain. The waves flung themselves upon the rocks with a horrible moaning sound that chilled the marrow of her bones. Then came the weirdest sensation that something was swimming after the boat. It was really only the swirls made by the rocks below, but in that queer light every wave seemed topped by a head that twisted its neck after her and then started in pursuit. Her teeth chattered, and her hands trembled so she could hardly hold the paddle. Thus passed the night--fearful, unreal, endless. When morning came the mists began to lift and she could see where she was. She was quite close to camp, still very near to shore. She had paddled halfway around the circumference of the lake, a distance of nearly twelve miles. In the hush of dawn she beached the _Keewaydin_ and crept up to bed, falling asleep immediately from exhaustion. No one knew that she had gone out, and she never told any one, not even Nyoda. It was not that she was afraid to tell Nyoda that she had broken bounds, but the whole experience seemed so unreal to her that she did not see how she could ever explain it at all. She knew it was not her fault and at the same time she knew that she would never do it again, and so it remained a secret. In fact, in a few days she was not at all sure that she had not dreamed the whole thing--except for her shoulder, which was lame for a week. The morning after Sahwah's nocturnal journey the camp was thrown into consternation by the discovery that Nyoda's sweater was gone. The last time she remembered having it was coming home from Blueberry Island, when she had given it to Sherry to hold while she unpacked the cups from the canoes. This was the first thing of value that had been taken, but it might not be the last, and Nyoda was really worried. Sahwah's fine furs were in a trunk in the shack, along with the rest of her presents, and she remembered with a start that Sahwah had shown them all to the boys when they were over. Since yesterday a distrust of Ed Roberts sprang up in her mind, and she wondered if there could be any connection between his determined hanging around the camp and the disappearance of the articles. Might not the taking of the unimportant things at first be a deliberate blind? Calling Sahwah she made her put all the things from Canada in the trunk and locked it securely, after first weighting it down with stones so that it could not be carried away bodily by less than six men. A short time later Sahwah came in in a high state of excitement. Her bathing suit was gone! Here was trouble indeed. Sahwah would have been sorry if the furs had been stolen, but it would not have roused her half so much as the taking of her bathing suit. Sahwah without a bathing suit was like a horse without a head. "I'm going to sit up all night and watch," she declared. "We'll all sit up, I think," said Nyoda. "If the thief comes again he'll find a bivouac." Accordingly that night they all stayed up, sitting in the shadow of the shack. The tents were plainly visible in the moonlight. The place was as calm and still as a churchyard, and did not look as if it could be the scene of such mysterious doings. Hour after hour passed and nothing happened. The thief had evidently changed his mind to-night. The girls yawned and dozed and wished they were in bed. Suddenly there was a crashing in the underbrush that made the girls sit up as if an electric shock had passed through them. With a rapid snapping of dry twigs and waving of tall grass the bushes parted and a great St. Bernard puppy dashed up the path to the tents. Seizing a bath towel that hung on a rope he worried it for a moment with his jaws and then made off with it in the direction he had come. For a moment astonishment held them speechless, then Sahwah broke into her giggle and they all screamed with laughter. The thought of the weighted trunk overcame them and they doubled up weakly on the shack floor. Ten minutes later the puppy was back again, looking for something else to chew. They drove him off with switches and he ran yelping with his tail between his legs. He never came again. "I don't doubt but what we'll find all our belongings scattered through the woods," said Nyoda. Which was exactly the case. A search by daylight disclosed all the missing articles, strewn through the various paths and hollows, all more or less chewed, but still recognizable. Thus the specter of suspicion that had been hovering over the camp vanished into thin air. In spite of the fact that Gladys had made her feeling toward Ed Roberts perfectly plain, the nocturnal serenades continued. Nightly at about half-past nine, they would hear a canoe scrape on the rocks in the shadow of the great cliff, and then the voice and the guitar would begin. For fifteen minutes or more the songs would float up to the occupants of the tents, and then the serenader would paddle away. The girls never gave any sign of hearing, but this did not seem to discourage the singer any. They had ceased to tease Gladys about Ed and were no longer thrilled at the serenades. The business was getting monotonous. Nyoda thought of sending word over to the head of the boys' camp and having him put a stop to it; but this course struck her as ridiculous and she determined to go down herself the next night and send Ed about his business. Accordingly, when the first strains rose from the lake the next night, she went down the path to the foot of the cliff, while the girls above listened breathless for what would happen. She saw the dim figure in the canoe outlined against the tall rock and crossed the beach toward him. "Roberts!" she called sharply, "Ed Roberts!" The singer ceased his song at the sound of her voice and looked around. Nyoda stopped in confusion. The youth in the boat was not Ed Roberts. It was Sherry, the Senior Counsellor. "You came down at last?" he said joyfully. When Nyoda returned to the tents the girls eagerly demanded to know "what he had said." But she waved all their questions and sent them back to bed. Only to Gladys's, "Will he stop serenading us now?" she returned a short, non-committal "Yes." CHAPTER XI. ON SHADOW RIVER. The long awaited canoe trip, which had been put off "until Gladys learned to swim," had at last become a reality, and bright and early one morning the Winnebagos started off on a fifteen-mile paddle up the Shadow River. Sahwah led the procession in the _Keewaydin_, uttering shouts which she fondly believed to be in imitation of an Indian warrior. Her new hunting knife hung at one side of her belt, her own hatchet on the other, while the rest of the space was decorated with her Wohelo knife and a string of enormous safety pins with which to pin her blankets together. In the bottom of the canoe reposed her rifle. Nyoda had to turn her head away to hide a smile when she saw the outfit. Sahwah looked like a floating cutlery store. Just why she should elect to impersonate a brave instead of an Indian maiden was not clear to Nyoda, but this was only another illustration of her whimsical temperament. Part of the time the stay-at-home duties appealed to her; the care of the hearthfire, the cooking and cleaning and hand-craft; and then again her imagination was kindled by tales of scouts and warriors and she longed for the wild life of the hunter. Migwan, on the other hand, was the picture of shy, dreamy girlhood, as she sat in the bottom of the canoe and let herself be paddled along by two other girls so she might have her hands free for writing down her impressions of the trip. Describing it in a letter to her mother, she wrote: "I am packed in like a sardine between the ponchos and supplies. Can you imagine me sitting in an inch of water, with one foot straight up in the air, the other doubled under somebody's poncho, and scarcely daring to breathe for fear of disturbing the balance, placidly doing beadwork? It is quite an accomplishment to thread a needle in a pitching canoe, but every one has mastered the art." The trip up the Shadow River was ideally beautiful. The scenery was still wild and natural, and the foliage very dense. Many of the trees along the banks had four or five trunks, and leaned far out over the water, making the shadows which gave the river its name. A crane, startled by the approach of the canoes, rose in wheeling flight over their heads. The willows waved their feathery boughs in the sun and gleamed bright against the dark background of the pines. Migwan noted down the different contours of the trees, how the elms spread out wide at the top, how the pines tapered to a point, how the maples spread out irregularly. A flock of wild ducks passed them. In some places the banks of the river were honeycombed by the holes of bank swallows. A turtle, sitting on a half-sunken log, stretched his neck and looked after them as long as he could see them. All these things Migwan saw and set down in her book with a quiet enjoyment. A ripple of excitement ran through the girls as they saw, far in the distance, the big river steamer approaching. "Shall we land until it has passed?" called Sahwah. "We can't land here," answered Nyoda, "the banks are nothing but mud and slime. Come in as close to shore as possible, and keep paddling so the waves from the steamer won't swamp you." The big passenger boat nearly filled the river from bank to bank, but she came very slowly and the waves she made did not amount to much after all. The people on board ran to the rail with their cameras to snapshot the three canoes full of girls--a birchbark canoe ahead bearing the huntress with her rifle; a big green canoe next packed with ponchos and supplies, followed by a canoe with sails, at the top of which floated the Winnebago banner. Sahwah saluted with her paddle as she passed; the other girls waved their handkerchiefs in friendly greeting. Farther up the river there were rapids and the paddling became strenuous indeed. The sails had to come down from the sailing canoe, and the crew, who had been having an easy time, of it, had to bend to their paddles with all their might. Going through a rapid requires short, hard strokes in swift succession, to make any headway at all, and more than once a canoe was whirled around in the rushing water and hurled back downstream. Sahwah was having a great time. She pretended that she was in the rapids of the Niagara, paddling for her life, and put forth such strenuous efforts that she soon left the others behind. The girls were so tired by the time they reached calm waters again that Nyoda ordered them to land on a low green bank and rest for an hour. They built a fire and cooked their dinner and then stretched themselves in the shade of a large oak tree for a nap. As far as the eye could see on every side there was no trace of a human being; no house, no boat, no cultivated land. It was as though they had stepped back a hundred years and were in the midst of the primeval forest of song and story. Migwan lay on her back in lazy contentment, watching the sunshine filter through the leaves. Idly she drew out her pencil and began scribbling words in her notebook: "Underneath this spreading tree, Let us rest luxuriously; And caressed by breezes mild, And with song of birds beguiled, Interweave our bright day dream With a tale of wondrous theme." "Up, up, comrades," cried Nyoda, rising and returning to her canoe. All through the lovely golden afternoon they paddled steadily upstream, and just about sunset landed on a low green meadow that ran down to the water's edge. Behind the tiny plain the woods grew high and dark. Sahwah, watching the other girls picking out their sleeping sites for the night, had an inspiration. "May I sleep out in the _Keewaydin_ to-night?" she asked Nyoda. "Why, yes," said Nyoda, "if you will tie it securely to a tree. The current is pretty strong." They lingered long around the camp fire that night, telling stories and watching the moon rise over the treetops. None of them had ever experienced that feeling of being so absolutely by themselves. Quiet and unmolested as Camp Winnebago was, it seemed the center of civilization compared to this. Migwan, who was in a poetical mood, made up a new Camp Fire song and taught it to the girls: "Lofty pine tree, old and grim, With the horned moon hooked round the topmost limb, And the owl awatch on the branch below, What is the song of the winds that blow Through your boughs so mysteriously? They sing a song of the wide green world, Of the leaves in the merry breezes whirled, And rustle and murmur and moan and sigh Of the storm that darkened the sunny sky, And the ship that was lost at sea. Lofty pine tree, lone and grim, With the moon peering over the topmost limb, And the owl asleep on the branch below, What is the song of the winds that blow Through your twigs so caressingly?" Before rolling into their beds they all went for a moonlight swim in the river, which each girl declared to be the most wonderful experience of her life. No outdoor bed is quite so comfortable as a grassy meadow and the Winnebagos settled themselves with sighs of contentment. In her letter to her mother, Migwan wrote: "I have never seen such cloud pictures as I saw that night. Once it looked as if a black-robed priest were holding the moon before him like a basin, while a polar bear stood upright beside him, his paws resting on a carved pillar. Once it seemed as if the moon were about to enter a vast cavern, at the door of which stood the figure of a youth with hands outstretched in welcome. The moon paused before the door but did not enter. The youth slid to the ground and crouched with head on knee in an attitude of despair. A gigantic figure stood out in the light. Before him danced a circle of elves. The figure in the doorway leaned back and slept. Watching this strange panorama, I fell asleep." Nyoda awoke before sunrise and sat up to see if the rest were all right. All those girls sleeping on the ground looked like an army. She could not help wondering--would it ever come to that in earnest? Was this semi-military training of the Camp Fire girls all over the country a prophetic flash? She looked fondly around at her charges. Hinpoha and Migwan were sleeping together and the bed would hardly hold them. Both were still sound asleep and both mechanically swatting mosquitoes in their sleep. At the foot of her own bed the Winnebago banner was stuck into the ground, keeping silent guard. Gladys's bed had come apart and her bare feet were sticking out between the ponchos. Nyoda lay back for another nap to waken when the rising sun shone in her face. She sat up again and this time she beheld a curious sight. One of the ponchos, tied up in a long roll, suddenly rose in the air, and after waving back and forth like a pendulum, slowly descended. Smothered giggles burst from the beds about. Again the phenomenon occurred. Nyoda jumped up suddenly. Seizing the poncho, she shook it, and a head appeared at the bottom end. It was Hinpoha. The girls had rolled her into her poncho and tied it up, and she was lying on the ground with her legs in the air when Nyoda first spied her. It was two hours before rising time but the girls were all wide awake and ready for larks. They sat up in bed and began to throw shoes at each other, until Nyoda, in sheer self-defense, blew the rising bugle. The river was hidden from the girls by a heavy fringe of willows, and Sahwah had not joined in the early morning frolic. When she did not appear at the sound of the bugle Nyoda went down to call her. There was no sign of the _Keewaydin_. Nyoda knew well that Sahwah would not have paddled off by herself without saying anything. The canoe had broken away and floated downstream while she was asleep! Calling Hinpoha to come and paddle bow, Nyoda launched a canoe and started in pursuit. A great fear tugged at her heart. The rapids! The first one was not three miles down. What if Sahwah should not wake up in time to see her danger! With powerful strokes she sent the canoe flying downstream. Fifteen anxious minutes passed and then they saw the _Keewaydin_ floating merrily along ahead of them, with the rope trailing out behind it and Sahwah still sound asleep in the bottom. They caught the runaway and Sahwah sat up in great surprise. "Sahwah," said Nyoda severely, "is that the best hitch-knot you can tie? You come back to camp and tie fifty secure hitch-knots before you get a bite of breakfast!" Migwan, fully dressed, stood on the bank of the river admiring the scenery. Without moment's warning the ground gave way under her feet and she tumbled headlong into the water. It was only up to her waist, but the suddenness of the slide took her breath away and she blinked dazedly at the laughing girls. Recovering herself, however, she asked them to throw her her toothbrush, as she might as well finish her toilet while she had the water so handy! An instant later Gladys was in trouble. "Watch me dive!" she called, and sprang from the bank. The water was shallow and the bottom soft, and her head stuck fast in the mud while her feet waved in the air. She was rescued from her uncomfortable position, her face and hair plastered with mud. Next, Hinpoha, swimming under water with the swift current, struck her head against a log and emerged with a great bruise. Nyoda, trying to get the pancake batter ready for breakfast, was nearly distracted with this swift succession of accidents. "Every one of you come here and sit in a row beside me," she commanded, "and the first one that causes any excitement until breakfast is over will get spanked!" "What a lovely cave!" exclaimed Migwan later when they were exploring the woods. "It's a regular witch's cave. Nyoda, won't you dress up like a witch to-night and tell our fortunes?" Nyoda consented and the girls scoured the woods for hanging moss to decorate the cave, and for pine cones to build a charmed fire. They were busily transforming the bare rocks into a green tapestried chamber, when Sahwah came up, crying as if her heart would break, carrying in her arms a dead wild duck. "What's the matter?" asked Nyoda in alarm. "I shot it!" sobbed Sahwah. "But that's nothing to cry about," said Nyoda, "don't you know that wild ducks are game birds? It's a bit out of season and you mustn't shoot any more, but I must congratulate you on your aim." Sahwah was a living riddle to her. Fearless as an Indian in the woods and possessing the skill with a rifle to bring down a bird on the wing, she was so tender-hearted that she could not bear to think of having killed any living thing! Nyoda bade her cheer up and pluck the fowl for roasting, and the girls danced for joy at the thought of the feast in store for them. They left off decorating the cave and went to constructing a stone oven in which to cook the bird. It was a bit scorched on the outside when done, but the meat was so tender it nearly fell apart. Sahwah, who at first wanted to bury the martyr with full honors, changed her mind when she smelled the savory odor and enjoyed the dinner as much as the rest. When night fell the girls repaired one by one to the cave in the woods to have their fortunes read. Nyoda, clad in her gray bathrobe in lieu of a witch's cloak, trimmed with streamers of ground pine, and with a high-peaked hat with a pine tassel on top, was a weird figure as she bent over the low fire stirring her kettle and muttering incantations. She read such amazing things in the extended palms that the Truth Seekers' eyes began to pop out of their heads. The grinning, toothless old hag (Nyoda had blackened all her teeth but one), was so realistic that they had to look closely to make sure that it was their beloved friend and not a real witch. Near by Sahwah and Hinpoha were conducting a "Turkish Bath" for the entertainment of the girls who were through having their fortunes told. They had built a shelter of ponchos and had a fire going. They heated small stones red hot and then plunged them into a pail of water. The resulting steam heated the tiny chamber and threw the patients into a dripping perspiration, which limbered up their muscles, which were stiff from paddling. They took the "Turkish Bath" in their bathing suits and went into the river immediately afterward so as not to take cold. Nyoda was the last customer, and helped take down the ponchos, and as Sahwah and Hinpoha had their beds to make up she sent Migwan to put out the fire. Instead of putting it out immediately Migwan sat down to dream fire dreams, until Nyoda called her to come to bed. Hastily scattering the fire brands with her feet she ran in obedience to Nyoda's call, and the camp was soon wrapped in slumber. In the place where the fire had been a tiny spark lay on a dry leaf. Soon there was only a little curl of smoke where the leaf had been, and the spark looked around for another leaf to eat up. He found it and then put his teeth into a pine cone. From a tiny spark he had grown to a hungry flame. The pine cone crackled and snapped and jumped into a dry pine tree that lay nearby. In a few minutes the twigs were burning merrily and the flame was twice as big as when Sahwah was heating stones. Then the wind came along and carried a flock of sparks into another dry tree, and that one outdid the other and made a still bigger blaze! The ground was covered with dry sticks and pine cones and the fire leaped along with giant strides. Then it did a cruel thing. It caught hold of a living pine tree and thrust its fiery tongues deep into its bark. After that it took no heed whether a tree was living or dead. Whole families of tender green needles blazed up together, and when they fled into the arms of their relatives for shelter started them blazing too. Nyoda, waking suddenly from a dream, sat up and saw the glare in the woods, and blew the alarm call on the bugle. In an instant the girls were awake and saw what was the matter. Getting quickly into their bloomers and sweaters instead of white middies they dipped into the river to get wet all over and then ran for the blazing woods. The fire was spreading alarmingly through the underbrush, and Nyoda set half the girls to clearing away the dry wood in the path of the flames while the others threw water into the blazing trees and beat the fire with wet ponchos. Sahwah worked like a Trojan with her hatchet, cutting down young trees bodily and hurling them out of the way. Every now and then a shower of blazing pine needles would envelop the workers and if it had not been for their wet clothes and hair they would have been in constant peril of blazing up themselves. It took several hours of the liveliest fighting before the last spark was extinguished and the danger past. "Now then," said Nyoda when they had washed their blackened hands and faces, "who had charge of putting out the camp fire last night?" "I did," said Migwan in a small voice. "You, a Fire Maker!" said Nyoda, unbelievingly. That was all she said, but Migwan crept away, overwhelmed with shame. The privilege of tending the fire was counted an honor among the Winnebagos. To let a fire go out that you had been set to watch, or to leave a fire not properly extinguished was a disgrace. Migwan learned an effective lesson that night about the consequences of dreaming when she should have been doing. Nyoda thought that the girls would be tired out the next morning after their strenuous midnight exercise, and planned to let them sleep several hours later than usual. But at the first appearance of the sun on the river they were wide awake and impatient to get up. Pulling downstream seemed like play after having come up, and going through the rapids with the current was a delirious delight. All that was necessary was to keep the canoe headed straight. Migwan paddled on the trip home and Hinpoha sat in the bottom of the boat doing beadwork. "Hi, you, up in front," called the girls in the sailing canoe, "look at the way the wind is filling out our sails." Hinpoha turned to look, and shifted her weight, which was considerable, to the side of the canoe. The result was inevitable and in a moment the three girls were in the river. The water was not very deep here and they were able to touch bottom. Migwan and Gladys set to work righting the canoe and fishing out the ponchos. The current caught Hinpoha's bead loom and it went sailing merrily downstream, with Hinpoha in hot pursuit. The girls shouted as they watched her. "How did you happen to tip over?" asked Nyoda, when they were back in the canoe and the line had proceeded again. "I just looked back to see your sails," said Hinpoha, "like this." She craned her neck back to show Nyoda what she had done, and Presto! over went the canoe again. "Isn't the water delicious?" she cried, lazily swimming in with a poncho in tow. "Let's all go in," said Sahwah, "we have our bathing suits on anyway." Nyoda gave the word, and the girls hopped into the water like frogs, swam around for a while and then got back into the canoes, where the sun soon dried their bathing suits. And so they paddled on, mile after mile, singing, laughing, talking, following the winding course of the river down to its mouth, and back into the wide waters of Loon Lake, toward the camp which they had come to speak of as "home." The boys of Mountain Lake Camp, having their swimming hour, saw the three canoes passing out in the lake and heard the song of the girls floating in on the wind, as their voices kept time to the dipping of their paddles: "Oh, the laughing life, Oh, the joyous strife As my paddlers, struggling, bend low, And the big rocks sing To the River King, And the waters forever flow!" CHAPTER XII. NOW OUR CAMP FIRE'S BURNING LOW. "It doesn't seem possible that the summer is nearly over and we are going home next week," said Migwan. "It seems like only yesterday that we came. And yet, somehow I feel as if we had always been here together. Won't it seem queer, not to be eating and sleeping together any more?" The Winnebagos were taking a walk down the road that ran along beside the woods, seeking specimens of flowers and weeds. They could not help noticing the changes in the trees and flowers along the way. Many of the leaves were already crimson, and the wild asters were blooming in profusion everywhere. The air had the cool, crisp clearness of autumn. The sky had become that deep blue which marks the passing of summer, and the clouds seemed thicker in texture. The girls drank in the air in great draughts like strong new wine, rejoicing in the glorious weather, yet it made them feel sad, because it meant that this most wonderful of all summers was very near its end. This would probably be their last nature walk, and the girls were taking a sample of every growing thing that looked in the least promising, and snapshotting all the dear familiar scenes, to be taken home and shown to friends, and the events connected with them lived over again in the telling! Nyoda and Sahwah, covering the ground with their swift stride, soon left the others far behind. "We really ought to wait for the girls," said Nyoda, coming to a halt when she discovered that they were so far in the lead, and seating herself on a stone fence she helped herself to the blackberries which grew against it, and held out a handful to Sahwah. Opposite them was an old, tumble-down house, weatherbeaten and bare of paint, its empty window sashes gaping like eyeless sockets. The girls had named it the "Haunted House," and wove many a tale of mystery about it. Beside it was an apple orchard, its trees dying of old age, and under one of them was a grave with a headstone. Nyoda swung her heels against the stone wall and contemplated this gaunt remnant of other days. She glanced down the road to see if the girls were coming. They were not yet in sight. "Sahwah," she said in a tone that proclaimed a sudden inspiration, "I 'stump' you to go into the haunted house and make ghostly noises when the girls come along." Sahwah needed no urging to undertake a mission of this kind. Hand in hand the two stole across the road and climbed in one of the windows of the house. The door, locked years ago, was still holding its ground against intruders. The room they stepped into was empty save for an old spinning wheel, thick with dust and cobwebs, which stood in the corner. The floor echoed hollowly to their footsteps and instinctively they rose up on tiptoe, to stop the noise. Thus they walked cautiously about making believe that they were followed by ghostly footsteps, and clinging to each other in mock terror. There was a closed door at one end of the room and Nyoda whispered dramatically: "In one minute that door will swing open and a ghostly hand will be thrust in." She had hardly finished speaking when the door did swing open, and a hand clutching a paint brush came through. Nyoda gave a fine shriek and fell over backwards as if fainting. The hand was followed by a body and a head. "What the devil!" said a voice. "Excuse me, ladies, what the devil!" Finding that the haunted house was haunted by a painter they returned to the road and resumed their seat on the fence to wait for the girls. Thus the days slipped by, each more lovely than the last, filled to the brim with joyous incidents that would linger in the memories of the girls as long as they lived. One of the big events of this last week was the dancing party given for them by the Mountain Lake boys. The boys' big assembly hall was decorated with flags in honor of the occasion, in addition to the trophies and banners lining the walls, which Mountain Lake Camp had won in athletic and aquatic contests with other camps. Hinpoha and Gladys were easily the belles of the ball, and had so many partners to choose from that it was hard choosing. Sahwah said afterward that she was glad she was not so popular, because she did not have to spend so much time splitting dances up, and consequently had more time to dance! Now all the girls were glad indeed for Gladys's rigorous coaching, for they were complimented on every side upon their "different" way of dancing. Nyoda fell in love with little Manuel, a nine-year-old Spanish boy from Cuba. It was his first visit to America and his first experience with American boys, and he often felt very homesick. Nyoda, with her dark hair and eyes, reminded him of the young women at home and he warmed to her like an old friend. "I like not the baseball," he confided when she inquired as to his favorite sports, "I like the high joomp." He and Nyoda danced together so much that Sherry regretted his intercession with the camp director that the little boys be allowed to stay up all evening. Gladys had arranged a fancy dance taking in all of the girls, which they presented during the course of the evening. The music for it was the "Beautiful Blue Danube Waltz" and the girls impersonated in their dance the Danube River, winding through its green valley. The girls, dressed in light green, were the river itself, while Gladys, in a filmy white dress with water lilies twined in her long yellow hair, was the Spirit of the Danube, and frolicked among the rhythmically swaying girls like a real river nymph on the rocking waves of the mighty stream. Their dance brought down the house, and the girls were obliged to do it three times before they would stop applauding. Ed Roberts watched with jealous eyes as Gladys glided off with one or another of the boys, but beyond the one dance she granted him for politeness' sake she paid no further attention to him, and he retired to the side lines to scowl upon the gay scene. The evening drew to a close all too quickly and the boys and girls parted, with many regrets and promises to write. The next day the Mountain Lake boys broke camp and departed for their homes, and the girls gathered on the dock to see the steamer go by. There was a great waving of handkerchiefs when the _Bluebird_ rounded the cliff. "O look what they're doing!" gasped Sahwah, as a commotion rose on the deck of the boat. The boys had seized one of their number and were dragging him to the rail in spite of vigorous resistance. Superior forces won out and he went overboard with a mighty splash, in accordance with an immemorial custom of the Mountain Lake Camp, that at least one boy be thrown into the water with his city clothes on. The boy didn't seem to mind it in the least, but climbed aboard again perfectly good-natured, and waved his dripping hat at the girls until a bend in the shore line hid them from sight. "O dear," cried Migwan, "to think that the next time the _Bluebird_ comes we'll get aboard her and sail out through the Gap and leave dear Camp Winnebago behind forever!" But Nyoda would not let them be sad even though it was all coming to an end, and kept up such a perfect whirl of merrymaking that they did not have any time to think of the evil day so near at hand. Seeing Sahwah sitting pensively on the dock one day she fastened a rope to the launch and bade her hang on to it and then drove the launch around in swift circles. Sahwah shot through the water like a torpedo, holding on for dear life and shrieking with excitement. The other girls came running at the sound and demanded to be towed likewise, and soon the launch had a tail like a kite, that swished along at a fearful rate, leaving a long foaming ridge in its wake, until one by one the joy riders dropped off and swam ashore. The nights were very cool now and the girls required sweaters and sometimes blankets when they sat on the high rocks after sundown and watched the stars rise over the lake. Nakwisi was in constant demand in those star watches to introduce the girls to their brothers and sisters in the sky, and under her guidance they soon learned where to look for Corona, Arcturus, The Twins, Spica, Vega, Regulus and all the gentle summer stars. The wide open spaces of the sky over the lake were a constant delight to Nakwisi, and she kept saying, "What a joy it is not to have your favorite constellation cut in half by a chimney or a telegraph pole!" Willingly she told over and over again the story of Castor and Pollux, of the Great Bear and the Little Bear, of Cassiopeia, and Corona Borealis. They were thrilled night after night when Scorpio sprawled his great length over the hilltops, with fiery Antares glowing like a jewel in his shell. They traced out the filmy scarf of the Milky Way and recalled the Indian legend of this being the pathway of the departed spirits. Nakwisi told another tale about two lovers who were separated in death and placed on different spheres, and who built the Milky Way as a bridge so they could communicate with each other. Nyoda had taught the girls the three ways the Indians had of testing eyesight, namely, by reproducing the spots on the rabbit, counting the Pleiades, and spying out the little companion star to the one in the handle of the Big Dipper, the pair which the Arabs call the Horse and Rider, and the girls would not rest until they, too, had caught sight of the tiny point of light. And in learning to know the stars they were doing much more than just that; they were making friends whom they would always keep and love, and who would greet them with the same cheery twinkle wherever they were, rich or poor or joyful or sad, as surely as the seasons came round! The camp book was finished, and sent off to Professor Bentley with its clever descriptions and cunning illustrations, bound in a leather cover with the Winnebago symbol on the front. The "doings" and adventures recounted in it made it very thick and heavy, and yet there were so many things they had planned to do that were left undone! "We never had our sleeping party on the Bartletts' lawn," said Migwan regretfully. "Don't you remember," said Sahwah, suddenly grown reminiscent, "when we were waiting for Gladys to come, you said she was going to be your affinity, and I was afraid she would never look at me at all?" And Sahwah smiled happily, for if Gladys had any "affinity" at all it certainly was Sahwah herself. Meanwhile Gladys and Nyoda were sitting up on the Sunset Rock, looking out over the water and enjoying their own thoughts. The lake was absolutely calm, except for a few long ripples like folds in satin. A motor boat cutting through left a long, fan-shaped tail like a peacock. There was a faint rosy tint on the water, as if the lake were blushing at the consciousness of her own loveliness. Nyoda noted idly that the rocks under the water looked warm and green; those above cold and gray. "Nyoda," said Gladys. "What is it, dear?" answered Nyoda, taking her eyes from the lake. "I've been thinking a great deal of late," went on Gladys, "about what I shall do this winter. You know mother has her heart set on my finishing at Miss Russell's school, but the more I think of it the more I see what I have lost by not going to the public high school. So in my last letter to papa I asked him if I might not go to public school the last two years, and I now have his answer." She spread out a letter and handed it to Nyoda. It read: "My dear daughter: Nothing could please me more than your request to take the last two years of your high school work in the public school instead of at Miss Russell's, although I must say your mother made a considerable fuss at first on account of the various classes of girls you would be thrown with. However, she thought better of the plan when she heard that your little friend Sahwah is a Brewster of the Samuel Brewsters, and this Hinpoha person you are so fond of is Judge Bradford's granddaughter. As long as Miss Kent is a teacher in the High School and takes such an interest in you there is no objection on our part to your going on to school in the company of your new friends. You are old enough to choose your companions, so from now on it's going to be 'up to you.' "Lovingly, "YOUR DADDY." "My dear child," said Nyoda, "this is certainly good news! I have wanted very much to have you continue in the Winnebago group this winter, but thought of course this was impossible, as you were going away to school. How glad I am!" Their hands met in a warm clasp, setting a new seal on their friendship. The girls, who had begun to dread the separation from Gladys, were overjoyed at the prospect of having her in school with them. "To think," said Sahwah, "that I have lived in the next block to you for fifteen years, and never knew you until now!" Dr. Hoffman was very sorry indeed to say goodbye to Sahwah. "You vill write to me, yes?" he begged. "In vinter I lif in Boston in such a street," and he scribbled the address on the back of an envelope. "And, if you should break any more bones, you let me know, and I vill come and tie dem up!" Then came the last Council Fire at camp. With misty eyes they rose to sing "Mystic Fire" once more under the spell of the forest. "With hand uplifted we claim thy power, Guide and keep us as we go, True to Wohelo. Thy law is our law from this hour, Thy mystic spirit flame will show Us the way to go--" The glow of their faces was not entirely from the fire which flickered over them as they danced, but was mingled with the light of that inner flame of Wohelo which had been kindled in their hearts, and which would mould and color their whole lives. Gladys was to be made a Fire Maker at this Council, and when the time came for the bestowing of rank Nyoda called for "Kamama the Butterfly" to stand and present her qualifications. Gladys stood, and before the initiation began asked if she might make a request. Nyoda nodded and Gladys asked if it would be possible for her to change her Camp Fire name. "State your reason," said Nyoda. "If it is a plausible one the change is permissible." Gladys spoke in a firm, clear voice. "When I was choosing my name I took 'Kamama the Butterfly' because it was such a pretty design to put on my dress, and not because it meant anything to me. I do not wish to be known as 'Kamama the Butterfly' any longer. If I may, I would like to take the name Geyahi, which means 'Real Woman.'" "Your reason is a good and sufficient one," said Nyoda, "and you may make the change." Then followed the pretty ceremony of taking a new Camp Fire name. The old one was written on a piece of birchbark and put in the fire to signify that it was to be in existence no longer, and as it burned the girls all pronounced the new name in concert, and promised to forget the old one. Proudly Gladys displayed her fourteen required honors and her twenty others, and passed her examination admirably. She stepped back into the circle a full-fledged Fire Maker, with flushed face and downcast eyes, her new rank filling her with a great sense of responsibility. Nyoda then awarded the special honors for which the girls had been trying all summer. Sahwah and Nakwisi won the banner for keeping up the best form on the Hike; Migwan and Hinpoha had made the best nature count; the Alphas were the best housekeepers and had planned their menus the most economically; Gladys had learned the greatest number of birds, flowers and trees; Migwan had written the most songs. Each girl thus honored felt prouder to wear the bit of painted leather bestowed upon her than if it had been a crown jewel. After the summer honors had all been given out Nyoda rose again and said there was one more honor to be awarded before the Council was over, and called on Sahwah to stand. Sahwah rose wonderingly. "Sahwah the Sunfish," said Nyoda impressively, "on the thirtieth day of the Thunder Moon you rescued from drowning, at considerable inconvenience to yourself, the maiden we now know as Geyahi. Through some mysterious agency which we will not mention, our good friends, Professor Bentley and Professor Wheeler, heard of your little escapade, and made it known to a National Society which takes delight in hearing such tales. This Society has sent you a little badge for a keepsake. It gives me great pleasure to bestow upon you this Carnegie Hero Medal 'for distinguished bravery."' "A which?" stammered Sahwah, abandoning both ceremonial etiquette and grammar in her amazement. "Yes, it's true," laughed Nyoda. "Stand forth and be decorated!" "Speech!" cried the girls, when the medal had been fastened on Sahwah's ceremonial gown. But instead of making a speech Sahwah sat down on the ground and burst into tears, and had to be patted on the back before she was herself again. So the last Council Meeting ended with a great feather in the cap of the Winnebagos, and the fire sank to embers and the girls filed out softly to the tune of their good-night song: "Now our camp fire's burning low, Wohelo, Wohelo, Off to slumber we must go, Wohelo, Wohelo." And the next morning they all stood on the dock waiting for the _Bluebird_ to come and carry them off, laughing at each other's funny appearance in city clothes, and winking the tears back whenever they thought of what they were leaving behind. Gladys, who had never seen the other girls in "suits," scarcely knew them at all. The _Keewaydin_ was crated up and ready to be taken along to the city, and Sahwah's bathing suit, still wet, was tied to the outside of her suitcase, for she had stayed in the lake until the very last minute. "Good-bye, dear, beloved lake," Nyoda heard her whisper as she rose from the depths for the last time. And Gladys, who had been so loth to come to camp with the Winnebagos, was still more loth to go, and her only consolation was that she could be with the girls during the winter! And by and by the _Bluebird_ came and they got aboard and went sailing out through the Gap, and left the lake and mountains and islands and forest behind them forever. But the strangest part was that they took with them as much as they left behind! THE END. * * * * * * The next volume in this series is entitled "The Camp Fire Girls at School; The Wohelo Weavers." [Advertisement] THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS SERIES By HILDEGARD G. FREY. The only series of stories for Camp Fire Girls endorsed by the officials of the Camp Fire Girls Organization PRICE, 40 CENTS PER VOLUME. THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS IN THE MAINE WOODS; or, The Winnebagos Go Camping. This lively Camp Fire group and their Guardian go back to Nature in a camp in the wilds of Maine and pile up more adventures in one summer than they have had in all their previous vacations put together. Before the summer is over they have transformed Gladys, the frivolous boarding school girl, into a genuine Winnebago. THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS AT SCHOOL; or, The Wohelo Weavers. It is the custom of the Winnebagos to weave the events of their lives into symbolic bead bands, instead of keeping a diary. All commendatory doings are worked out in bright colors, but every time the Law of the Camp Fire is broken it must be recorded in black. How these seven live wire girls strive to infuse into their school the spirit of Work, Health and Love and yet manage to get into more than their share of mischief is told in this story. THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS AT ONOWAY HOUSE; or, The Magic Garden. Migwan is determined to go to college, and not being strong enough to work indoors earns the money by raising fruits and vegetables. The Winnebagos all turn a hand to help the cause along and the "goings-on" at Onoway House that summer make the foundations shake with laughter. THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS GO MOTORING; or, Along the Road That Leads the Way. The Winnebagos take a thousand mile auto trip. The "pinching" of Nyoda, the fire in the country inn, the runaway girl and the dead-earnest hare and hound chase combine to make these three weeks the most exciting the Winnebagos have ever experienced. For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the publishers A. L. Burt Company, 114-120 East 23rd Street, New York. 
22652	----	THE CAMPFIRE GIRLS SERIES A CAMPFIRE GIRL'S FIRST COUNCIL FIRE A CAMPFIRE GIRL'S CHUM A CAMPFIRE GIRL IN SUMMER CAMP A CAMPFIRE GIRL'S ADVENTURE A CAMPFIRE GIRL'S TEST OF FRIENDSHIP A CAMPFIRE GIRL'S HAPPINESS [Illustration: "Keep still, and you won't be hurt," commanded the man.] A Campfire Girl's Test of Friendship By JANE L. STEWART CAMPFIRE GIRLS SERIES VOLUME V THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY AKRON, OHIO NEW YORK Made in U.S.A. COPYRIGHT, MCMXIV BY THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING CO. The Camp Fire Girls On the March CHAPTER I AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR "Oh, what a glorious day!" cried Bessie King, the first of the members of the Manasquan Camp Fire Girls of America to emerge from the sleeping house of Camp Sunset, on Lake Dean, and to see the sun sparkling on the water of the lake. She was not long alone in her enjoyment of the scene, however. "Oh, it's lovely!" said Dolly Ransom, as, rubbing her eyes sleepily, since it was only a little after six, she joined her friend on the porch. "This is really the first time we've had a chance to see what the lake looks like. It's been covered with that dense smoke ever since we've been here." "Well, the smoke has nearly all gone, Dolly. The change in the wind not only helped to put out the fire, but it's driving the smoke away from us." "The smoke isn't all gone, though, Bessie. Look over there. It's still rising from the other end of the woods on the other side of the lake, but it isn't bothering us over here any more." "What a pity it is that we've got to go away just as the weather gives us a chance to enjoy it here! But then I guess we'll have a good time when we do go away, anyhow. We thought we weren't going to enjoy it here, but it hasn't been so bad, after all, has it?" "No, because it ended well, Bessie. But if those girls in the camp next door had had their way, we wouldn't have had a single pleasant thing to remember about staying here, would we?" "They've had their lesson, I think, Dolly. Perhaps they won't be so ready to look down on the Camp Fire Girls after this--and I'm sure they would be nice and friendly if we stayed." "I wouldn't want any of their friendliness. All I'd ask would be for them to let us alone. That's all I ever did want them to do, anyhow. If they had just minded their own affairs, there wouldn't have been any trouble." "Well, I feel sort of sorry for them, Dolly. When they finally got into real trouble they had to come to us for help, and if they are the sort of girls they seem to be, they couldn't have liked doing that very well." "You bet they didn't, Bessie! It was just the hardest thing they could have done. You see, the reason they were so mean to us is that they are awfully proud, and they think they're better than any other people." "Then what's the use of still being angry at them? I thought you weren't last night--not at Gladys Cooper, at least." "Why, I thought then that she was in danger because of what I'd done, and that made me feel bad. But you and I helped to get her back to their camp safely, so I feel as if we were square. I suppose I ought to be willing to forgive them for the way they acted, but I just can't seem to do it, Bessie." "Well, as long as we're going away from here to-day anyhow, it doesn't make much difference. We're not likely to see them again, are we?" "I don't know why not--those who live in the same town, anyhow. Marcia Bates and Gladys Cooper--the two who were lost on the mountain last night, you know--live very close to me at home." "You were always good friends with Gladys until you met her up here, weren't you?" "Oh, yes, good friends enough. I don't think we either of us cared particularly about the other. Each of us had a lot of friends we liked better, but we got along well enough." "Well, don't you think she just made a mistake, and then was afraid to admit it, and try to make up for it? I think lots of people are like that. They do something wrong, and then, just because it frightens them a little and they think it would be hard to set matters right, they make a bad thing much worse." "Oh, you can't make me feel charitable about them, and there's no use trying, Bessie! Let's try not to talk about them, for it makes me angry every time I think of the way they behaved. They were just plain snobs, that's all!" "I thought Gladys Cooper was pretty mean, after all the trouble we had taken last night to help her and her chum, but I do think the rest were sorry, and felt that they'd been all wrong. They really said so, if you remember." "Well, they ought to have been, certainly! What a lot of lazy girls they must be! Do look, Bessie. There isn't a sign of life over at their camp. I bet not one of them is up yet!" "You're a fine one to criticise anyone else for being lazy, Dolly Ransom! How long did it take me to wake you up this morning? And how many times have you nearly missed breakfast by going back to bed after you'd pretended to get up?" "Oh, well," said Dolly, defiantly, "it's just because I'm lazy myself and know what a fault it is that I'm the proper one to call other people down for it. It's always the one who knows all about some sin who can preach the best sermon against it, you know." "Turning preacher, Dolly?" asked Eleanor Mercer. Both the girls spun around and rushed toward her as soon as they heard her voice, and realized that she had stepped noiselessly out on the porch. They embraced her happily. She was Guardian of the Camp Fire, and no more popular Guardian could have been found in the whole State. "Dolly's got something more against the girls from Halsted Camp!" explained Bessie, with a peal of laughter. "She says they're lazy because they're not up yet, and I said she was a fine one to say anything about that! Don't you think so too, Miss Eleanor?" "Well, she's up early enough this morning, Bessie. But, well, I'm afraid you're right. Dolly's got a lot of good qualities, but getting up early in the morning unless someone pulls her out of bed and keeps her from climbing in again, isn't one of them." "What time are we going to start, Miss Eleanor?" asked Dolly, who felt that it was time to change the topic of conversation. Dolly was usually willing enough to talk about herself, but she preferred to choose the subject herself. "After we've had breakfast and cleaned things up here. It was very nice of the Worcesters to let us use their camp, and we must leave it looking just as nice as when we came." "Are they coming back here this summer?" "The Worcesters? No, I don't think so. I'm pretty sure, though, that they have invited some friends of theirs to use the camp next week and stay as long as they like." "I hope their friends will please the Halsted Camp crowd better than we did," said Dolly, sarcastically. "The Worcesters ought to be very careful only to let people come here who are a little better socially than those girls. Then they'd probably be satisfied." "Now, don't hold a grudge against all those girls, Dolly," said Eleanor, smiling. "Gladys Cooper was really the ringleader in all the trouble they tried to make for us, and you've had your revenge on her. On all of them, for that matter." "Oh, Miss Eleanor, if you could only have seen them when I threw that basket full of mice among them! I never saw such a scared lot of girls in my life!" "That was a pretty mean trick," said Eleanor. "I don't think what they did to bother us deserved such a revenge as that, even if I believed in revenge, anyhow. I don't because it usually hurts the people who get it more than the victims." Bessie looked at Dolly sharply, but, if she meant to say anything, Eleanor herself anticipated her remark. "Now come on, Dolly, own up!" she said. "Didn't you feel pretty bad when you heard Gladys and Marcia were lost in the woods last night? Didn't you think that it was because you'd got the best of the girls that they turned against Gladys, and so drove her into taking that foolish night walk in the woods?" "Oh, I did--I did!" cried Dolly. "And I told Bessie so last night, too. I never would have forgiven myself if anything really serious had happened to those two girls." "That's just it, Dolly. You may think that revenge is a joke, perhaps, as you meant yours to be, but you never can tell how far it's going, nor what the final effect is going to be." "I'm beginning to see that, Miss Mercer." "I know you are, Dolly. You were lucky--as lucky as Gladys and Marcia. You were particularly lucky, because, after all, it was your pluck in going into that cave, when you didn't know what sort of danger you might run into, that found them. So you had a salve for your conscience right then. But often and often it wouldn't have happened that way. You might very well have had to remember always that your revenge, though you thought it was such a trifling thing, had had a whole lot of pretty serious results." "Well, I really am beginning to feel a little sorry," admitted Dolly, "though Gladys acted just as if she was insulted because we found them. She said she and Marcia would have been all right in that cave if they'd stayed there until morning." "I think she'll have reason to change her mind," said Eleanor. "She'd have found herself pretty uncomfortable this morning with nothing to eat. And she's in for a bad cold, unless I'm mistaken, and it might very well have been pneumonia if they'd had to stay out all night." "She's a softy!" declared Dolly, scornfully. "I'll bet Bessie and I could have spent the night there and been all right, too, after it was all over." "You and Bessie are both unusually strong and healthy, Dolly. It may not be her fault that she's a softy, as you call her. The Camp Fire pays a whole lot of attention to health. That's why Health is one of the words that we use to make up Wo-he-lo. Work, and Health, and Love. Because you can't work properly, and love properly, unless you are healthy." "I suppose what happened to Gladys last night was one of the things you were talking about when you wanted us to be patient, wasn't it?" "What do you mean, Dolly?" "Why, when you said that pride went before a fall, and that she'd be sure to have something unpleasant happen if we only let her alone, and didn't try to get even ourselves?" "Well, it looks like it, doesn't it?" "I don't get much satisfaction out of seeing people punished that way, though," admitted Dolly, after a moment's thought. "It seems to me--well, listen, Miss Eleanor. Suppose someone did something awfully nice for me. It wouldn't be right, would it, for me just to say to myself, 'Oh, well, something nice will happen to her.' She might have some piece of good fortune, but I wouldn't have anything to do with it. I'd want to do something nice myself to show that I was grateful." "Of course you would," said Eleanor, who saw the point Dolly was trying to make and admired her power of working out a logical proposition. "Well, then, if that's true, why shouldn't it be true if someone does something hateful to me? I don't take any credit for the pleasant things that happen to people who are nice to me, so why should I feel satisfied because the hateful ones have some piece of bad luck that I didn't have anything to do with, either?" "That's a perfectly good argument as far as it goes, Dolly. But the trouble is that it doesn't go far enough. You've got a false step in it. Can't you see where she goes wrong, Bessie?" "I think I can, Miss Eleanor," said Bessie. "It's that we ought not to be glad when people are in trouble, even if they are mean to us, isn't it? But we are glad, and ought to be, when nice people have good luck. So the two cases aren't the same a bit, are they?" "Right!" said Eleanor, heartily. "Think that over a bit, Dolly. You'll see the point pretty soon, and then maybe you'll understand the whole business better." Just then the girls whose turn it had been to prepare breakfast came to the door of the Living Camp, which contained the dining-room and the kitchen, and a blast on a horn announced that breakfast was ready. "Come on! We'll eat our next meal sitting around a camp fire in the woods, if that forest fire has left any woods where we're going," announced Eleanor. "So we want to make this meal a good one. No telling what sort of places we'll find on our tramp." "I bet it will be good fun, no matter what they're like," said Margery Burton, one of the other members of the Camp Fire. She was a Fire-Maker, the second rank of the Camp Fire. First are the Wood-Gatherers, to which Bessie and Dolly belonged; then the Fire-Makers, and finally, and next to the Guardian, whom they serve as assistants, the Torch-Bearers. Margery hoped soon to be made a Torch-Bearer, and had an ambition to become a Guardian herself as soon as Miss Eleanor and the local council of the National Camp Fire decided that she was qualified for the work. "Oh, you'd like any old thing just because you had to stand for it, Margery, whether it was any good or not," said Dolly. "Well, isn't that a good idea? Why, I even manage to get along with you, Dolly! Sometimes I like you quite well. And anyone who could stand for you!" Dolly laughed as loudly as the rest. She had been pretty thoroughly spoiled, but her association with the other girls in the Camp Fire had taught her to take a joke when at was aimed at her, unlike most people who are fond of making jokes at the expense of others, and of teasing them. She recognized that she had fairly invited Margery's sharp reply. "We'll have to hurry and get ready when breakfast is over," said Eleanor as they were finishing the meal. "You girls whose turn it is to wash up had better get through as quickly as you can. Then we'll all get the packs ready. We have to take the boat that leaves at half past nine for the other end of Lake Dean." "Why, there's someone coming! It's those girls from the other camp!" announced Dolly, suddenly. She had left the table, and was looking out of the window. And, sure enough, when the Camp Fire Girls went out on the porch in a minute, they saw advancing the private school girls, whose snobbishness had nearly ruined their stay at Camp Sunset. Marcia Bates, who had been rescued with her friend, Gladys Cooper, acted as spokesman for them. "We've come to tell you that we've all decided we were nasty and acted like horrid snobs," she said. "We have found out that you're nice girls--nicer than we are. And we're very grateful--of course I am, especially--for you helping us. And so we want you to accept these little presents we've brought for you." CHAPTER II TROUBLE SMOOTHED AWAY Probably none of the Camp Fire Girls had ever been so surprised in their lives as when they heard the object of this utterly unexpected visit. Marcia's eyes were rather blurred while she was speaking, and anyone could see that it was a hard task she had assumed. It is never easy to confess that one has been in the wrong, and it was particularly hard for these girls, whose whole campaign against the Camp Fire party had been based on pride and a false sense of their own superiority, which, of course, had existed only in their imaginations. For a moment no one seemed to know what to do or say. Strangely enough, it was Dolly, who had resented the previous attitude of the rich girls more than any of her companions, who found by instinct the true solution. She didn't say a word; she simply ran forward impulsively and threw her arms about Marcia's neck. Then, and not till then, as she kissed the friend with whom she had quarreled, did she find words. "You're an old dear, Marcia!" she cried. "I knew you wouldn't keep on hating us when you knew us better--and you'll forgive me, won't you, for playing that horrid trick with the mice?" Dolly had broken the ice, and in a moment the stiffness of the two groups of girls was gone, and they mingled, talking and laughing naturally. "I don't know what the presents you brought are--you haven't shown them to us yet," said Dolly, with a laugh. "But I'm sure they must be lovely, and as for accepting them, why, you just bet we will!" "You know," said Marcia a little apologetically, "there aren't any real stores up here, and we couldn't get what we would really have liked, but we just did the best we could. Girls, get those things out!" And then a dozen blankets were unrolled, beautifully woven Indian blankets, such as girls love to use for their dens, as couch covers and for hangings on the walls. Dolly exclaimed with delight as she saw hers. "Heavens! And you act as if they weren't perfectly lovely!" she cried. "Why, Marcia, how can you talk as if they weren't the prettiest things! If that's what you call just doing the best you can, I'm afraid to think of what you'd have got for us if you'd been able to pick out whatever you wanted. It would have been something so fine that we'd have been afraid to take it, I'm sure." "Well, we thought perhaps you'd find them useful if you're going on this tramp of yours," said Marcia, blushing with pleasure. "And I'm ever so glad you like them, if you really do, because I helped to pick them out. There's one for each of you, and then we've got a big Mackinaw jacket for Miss Mercer, so that she'd have something different." "I can't tell you how happy this makes me!" said Eleanor, swallowing a little hard, for she was evidently deeply touched. "I don't mean the presents, Marcia, though they're lovely, but the spirit in which you all bring them." "We--we wanted to show you we were sorry, and that we understood how mean we'd been," said Marcia. "Oh, my dear, do let's forget all that!" said Eleanor, heartily. "We don't want to remember anything unpleasant. Let's bury all that, and just have the memory that we're all good friends now, and that we'd never have been anything else if we'd only understood one another in the beginning as well as we do now. "That's the reason for most of the quarrels in this world; people don't understand one another, that's all. And when they do, it's just as it is with us--they wonder how they ever could have hated one another!" "Why, where's Gladys Cooper?" asked Dolly, suddenly. She had been looking around for the girl who had been chiefly responsible for all the trouble, and who had been, before this meeting, one of Dolly's friends in the city from which she and Marcia, as well as the Camp Fire Girls, came. And Gladys was missing. "She--why--she--she isn't feeling very well," stammered Marcia unhappily. But a look at Dolly's face convinced her that she might as well tell the truth. "I'm awfully sorry," she went on shamefacedly, "but Gladys was awfully silly." "You mean she hasn't forgiven us?" said Eleanor gently. "She's just stupid," flashed Marcia. "What has she got to forgive? She ought to be here, thanking Dolly and Bessie King for finding us, just as I am. And she's sulking in her room, instead!" "She'll change her mind, Marcia," said Eleanor, "just as the rest of you have done. I'm dreadfully sorry that she feels that way, because it must make her unhappy. But please don't be angry with her if you really want to please us. We're just as ready and just as anxious to be friends with her as with all the rest of you, and some time we will be, too. I'm sure of that." "We'll make her see what a fool she is!" said Marcia, hotly. "If she'd only come with us, she'd have seen it for herself. She said all the girls here would crow over us, and act as if we were backing down, and had done this because someone made us." Eleanor laughed heartily. "Well, that is a silly idea!" she said. "Just explain to her that we were just as pleased and as surprised to see you as we could be, Marcia. You didn't need to come here this way at all, and we know it perfectly well. You did it just because you are nice girls and wanted to be friendly, and we appreciate the way you've come a good deal more than we do the lovely presents, even." "Well, I hope we'll see you again," said Marcia. "If you're going on that half past nine boat we'll go back now, and let you pack, unless we can help you?" "No, you can't help us. We've really got very little to do. But don't go. Stay around, if you will, and we'll all talk and visit with you while we do what there is to be done." "I'm awfully sorry Gladys is cutting up so. It makes me feel ashamed, Dolly," said Marcia, when she and Dolly were alone. "But you know how she is. I think she's really just as sorry as the rest of us, but--" "But she's awfully proud, and she won't show it, Marcia. I know, for I'm that way myself, though I really do think I've been behaving myself a little better since I've belonged to the Camp Fire. I wish you'd join, Marcia." "Maybe I will, Dolly." "Oh, that would be fine! Shall I speak to Miss Eleanor? She'd be perfectly delighted, I know." "No, don't speak to her yet. I've got a plan, or some of us have, rather, but it's still a secret so I can't tell you anything about it. But maybe I'll have a great surprise for you the next time I see you." The time passed quickly and pleasantly, and all too soon Miss Eleanor had to give the word that it was time to start for the landing if they were to catch the little steamer that was to take them to the other end of the lake. "I tell you what! We'll all go with you as far as you go on the boat, and come back on her," said Marcia. "That will be good fun, won't it? I've got plenty of money for the fares, and those who haven't their money with them can pay me when we get back to camp." All the girls from Camp Halsted fell in with her suggestion, delighted by the idea of such an unplanned excursion. It was easy enough to arrange it, too, for the little steamer would be back on her return trip early in the afternoon, even though she did not make very good speed and had numerous stops to make, since Lake Dean's shores were lined with little settlements, where camps and cottages and hotels had been built at convenient spots. "We've heard you singing a lot of songs we never heard before," said Marcia to Bessie, as they took their places on the boat. "Won't you teach us some of them? They were awfully pretty, we thought." "You must mean the Camp Fire songs," said Bessie, happily. "We'll be glad to teach them to you--and they're all easy to learn, too. I think Dolly's got an extra copy of one of the song books and I know she'll be glad to let you have it." And so, as soon as Bessie explained what Marcia wanted, the deck of the steamer was turned into an impromptu concert hall, and she made her journey to the strains of the favorite songs of the Camp Fire, the Wo-he-lo cheer with its lovely music being, of course, sung more often than any of the others. "We were wondering so much about that," said Marcia. "We could make out the word Wo-he-lo, but we couldn't understand it. It sounded like an Indian word, but the others didn't seem to fit in with that idea." "It's just made up from the first syllables of work and health and love, you see," said Eleanor. "We make up a lot of the words we use. A good many of the ceremonial names that the girls choose are made that way." "Then they have a real meaning, haven't they?" "Yes. You see, one of the things that we preach and try to teach in the Camp Fire is that things ought to be useful as well as beautiful. And it's very easy to be both." "But tell me about the Indian sound of Wo-he-lo. Was that just an accident, or was it chosen that way on purpose?" "Both, I think, Marcia. You see, the Indians in this country had a lot of good qualities that a great many people have forgotten or overlooked completely. Of course they were savages, in a way, but they had a civilization of their own, and a great many of their practices are particularly well adapted to this country." "Oh, I see! You don't want them to be forgotten." "That's just it. It's a good way to keep the memory of earlier times alive, and there seems to be something romantic and picturesque about the Indian names and the Indian things." "That's one of the things I like best that I've found out about the Camp Fire since you came to Camp Sunset. We used to think the Camp Fire meant being goody-goody and learning to sew and cook and all sorts of things like that. But you have a lot of fun and good times, too, don't you?" "Yes, and there really isn't anything goody-goody about us, Marcia. You'd soon find that out if you were with us." "Well, I'm very glad that so many people have been led to know the truth about us," said Eleanor, with a smile. "If everyone knew the truth about the Camp Fire, it would soon be as big and as influential as even the most enthusiastic of us hope it will be. And I'm sure that we'll grow very fast now, because when girls understand us they see that we simply help them to have the sort of good times they enjoy most. Having a good time is a pretty important thing in this life." "I--I rather thought you would think that we spent too much time just having a good time," said Marcia, plainly rather surprised by this statement. "I don't say anything about you girls in particular, because I don't know enough about you," replied Eleanor. "Of course, it's easy to get to be so bound up in enjoying yourself that you don't think of anything else. But people who do that soon get tired of just amusing themselves, so, as a rule, there's no great harm done. They get so that everything they do bores them, and they turn to something serious and useful, for a change." "But you just said having a good time was important--" "And I meant it," said Eleanor, with a smile. "Because it's just as bad to go to one extreme as to the other, and that's true in about everything. People who never work, but spend all their time playing aren't happy, as a rule, or healthy, either. And people who reverse that, and work all the time without ever playing, are in just about the same boat, only they're really worse off than the others, because it's harder for them to change." "I think I'm beginning to see what you mean, Miss Mercer." "Why, of course you are, Marcia! It's in the middle ground that the right answer lies. Work a little, and play a little, that's the way to get on and be happy. When you've worked hard, you need some sort of relaxation, and it's pretty important to know how to enjoy yourself, and have a good time." "And you certainly can have bully good times in the Camp Fire," said Dolly, enthusiastically. "I've never enjoyed myself half so much as I have since I've belonged. Why, we have bacon bats, and picnics, and all sorts of things that are the best fun you ever dreamed of, Marcia. Much nicer than those stiff old parties you and I used to go to all the time, when we always did the same things, and could tell before we went just what was going to happen." "And the regular camp fires, the ceremonial ones, Dolly," reminded Bessie. "Don't you think Marcia would enjoy that?" "Oh, I know she would! Couldn't I bring her to one some time?" Dolly asked Eleanor. "She'll be very welcome, any time," said Eleanor with a smile. "There's nothing secret about the Camp Fire meetings," she went on. "They're not a bit like high school and private school fraternities or sororities--whichever you call them." "Why, look where we are!" said Marcia suddenly. "We'll be at the dock pretty soon." "Why, so we will!" Eleanor said. "That's Cranford, sure enough, girls! We get off here, and begin our real tramp." "I wish we were going with you," said Marcia, with a sigh of regret. "But we can't, of course. Well, I told Dolly we might have a surprise for her pretty soon, and we will if I've got anything to say about it, too. This has been awfully jolly! I guess I know a lot more about your Camp Fire now than I ever expected to. And I've enjoyed hearing every word, too." Soon the little steamer was made fast to the dock, and the Camp Fire Girls streamed off, lining up on the dock. On the steamer the girls from Camp Halsted--all but Gladys Cooper, who had not made the trip--lined up, leaning over the rail. "We'll see them off as the boat goes right back again," said Eleanor. "And let's give them the Wo-he-lo cheer for good-bye, girls." So their voices rose on the quiet air as the steamer's whistle shrieked, and she began to pull out. "Good-bye! Good luck!" cried Marcia and all the Halsted girls. "And come back whenever you can! We'll have a mighty different sort of welcome for you next time!" "Good-bye! And thank you ever so much for the blankets!" called the Camp Fire Girls. CHAPTER III THE WORK OF THE FIRE At Cranford began the road which the Camp Fire Girls were to follow through Indian Notch, the gap between the two big mountains, Mount Grant and Mount Sherman. Then they were to travel easily toward the seashore, since the Manasquan Camp Fire, ever since it had been organized, had spent a certain length of time each summer by the sea. The Village of Cranford had been saved from the fire only by a shift of the wind. The woods to the west and the north had been burning briskly for several days, and every able-bodied man in the village had been out, day and night, with little food and less rest, trying to turn off the fire. In spite of all their efforts, however, they would have failed in their task if the change in the weather had not come to their aid. As a consequence, everyone in the village, naturally enough, was still talking about the fire. "It isn't often that a village in this part of the country has such a narrow escape," said Eleanor, looking around. "See, girls, you can see for yourselves how close they were to having to turn and run from the fire." "It looks as if some of the houses here had actually been on fire," said Dolly, as they passed into the outskirts of the village. "I expect they were. You see, the wind was very high just before the shift came, and it would carry sparks and blazing branches. It's been a very hot, dry summer, too, and so all the wooden houses were ready to catch fire. The paint was dry and blistered. They probably had to watch these houses very carefully, to be ready to put out a fire the minute it started." "It didn't look so bad from our side of the lake, though, did it?" "The smoke hid the things that were really dangerous from us, but here they could see all right. I'll bet that before another summer comes around they'll be in a position to laugh at a fire." "How do you mean? Is there anything they can do to protect themselves--before a fire starts, I mean?" "That's the time to protect themselves. When people wait until the fire has actually begun to burn, it's almost impossible for them to check it. It would have been this time, if the wind had blown for a few hours longer the way it was doing when the fire started." "But what can they do?" "They can have a cleared space between the town and the forest, for one thing, with a lot of brush growing there, if they want to keep that. Then, if a fire starts, they can set the brush afire, and make a back fire, so that the big fire will be checked by the little one. The fire has to have something to feed on, you see, and if it comes to a cleared space that's fairly wide, it can't get any further. "Oh, a cleared space like that doesn't mean that the village could go to sleep and feel safe! But it's a lot easier to fight the fire then. All the men in town could line up, with beaters and plenty of water, and as soon as sparks started a fire on their side of the clearing, they could put it out before it could get beyond control." "Oh, I see! And being able to see the fire as soon as it started, they wouldn't have half so much trouble fighting it as if they had to be after the really big blaze." "Yes. The fire problem in places like this seems very dreadful, but when the conditions are as good as they are here, with plenty of water, all that's needed is a little forethought. It's different in some of the lumber towns out west, because there the fires get such a terrific start that they would jump any sort of a clearing, and the only thing to do when a fire gets within a certain distance of a town is for the people who live in the town to run." Soon the road began to pass between desolate stretches of woods, where the fire had raged at its hottest. Here the ground on each side of the road was covered with smoking ashes, and blackened stumps stood up from the barren, burnt ground. "It looks like a big graveyard, with those stumps for headstones," said Dolly, with a shudder. "It is a little like that," said Eleanor, with a sigh. "But if you came here next year you wouldn't know the place. All that ash will fertilize the ground, and it will all be green. The stumps will still be there, but a great new growth will be beginning to push out. Of course it will be years and years before it's real forest again, but nature isn't dead, though it looks so. There's life underneath all that waste and desolation, and it will soon spring up again." "I hope we'll get out of this burned country soon," said Dolly. "I think it's as gloomy and depressing as it can be. I'd like to have seen this road before the fire--it must have been beautiful." "It certainly was, Dolly. And all this won't last for many miles. We really ought to stop pretty soon to eat our dinner. What do you say, girls? Would you like to wait, and press on until we come to a more cheerful spot, where the trees aren't all burnt?" "Yes, oh, yes!" cried Margery Burton. "I think that would be ever so much nicer! Suppose we are a little hungry before we get our dinner? We can stand that for once." "I think we'll enjoy our meal more. So we'll keep on, then, if the rest of you feel the same way." Not a voice dissented from that proposition, either. Dolly was not the only one who was saddened by the picture of desolation through which they were passing. The road, of course, was deep in dust and ashes, and the air, still filled with the smoke that rose from the smouldering woods, was heavy and pungent, so that eyes were watery, and there was a good deal of coughing and sneezing. "It's a lucky thing there weren't any houses along here, isn't it?" said Margery. "I don't see how they could possibly have been saved, do you, Miss Eleanor?" "There's no way that they could have saved them, unless, perhaps, by having a lot of city fire engines, and keeping them completely covered with water on all sides while the fire was burning. They call that a water blanket, but of course there's no way that they could manage that up here." "What do you suppose started this fire, Miss Eleanor?" "No one will ever know. Perhaps someone was walking in the woods, and threw a lighted cigar or cigarette in a pile of dry leaves. Perhaps some party of campers left their camp without being sure that their fire was out." "Just think of it--that all the trouble could be started by a little thing like that! It makes you realize what a good thing it is that we have to be careful never to leave a single spark behind when we're leaving a fire, doesn't it?" "Yes. It's a dreadful thing that people should be so careless with fire. Fire, and the heat we get from it, is responsible for the whole progress of the race. It was the discovery that fire could be used by man that was back of every invention that has ever been made." "That's why it's the symbol of the Camp Fire, isn't it?" "Yes. And in this country people ought to think more of fire than they do. We lose more by fire every year than any other country in the world, because we're so terribly careless." "What is that there, ahead of us, in the road?" asked Bessie, suddenly. They had just come to a bend in the road, and about a hundred yards away a group of people stood in the road. Eleanor looked grave. She shaded her eyes with her hand, and stared ahead of her. "Oh," she cried, "what a shame! I remember now. There was a farm house there! I'm afraid we were wrong when we spoke of there being no houses in the path of this fire!" They pressed on steadily, and, as they approached the group forlorn, distressed and unhappy, they saw that their fears were only too well grounded. The people in the road were staring, with drawn faces, at a scene of ruin and desolation that far outdid the burnt wastes beside the road, since what they were looking at represented human work and the toil of hands. The foundations of a farm house were plainly to be seen, the cellar filled with the charred wood of the house itself, and in what had evidently been the yard there were heaps of ashes that showed where the barns and other buildings had stood. In the road, staring dully at the girls as they came up, were two women and a boy about seventeen years old, as well as several young children. Eleanor looked at them pityingly, and then spoke to the older of the two women. "You seem to be in great trouble," she said. "Is this your house?" "It was!" said the woman, bitterly. "You can see what's left of it! What are you--picnickers? Be off with you! Don't come around here gloating over the misfortunes of hard working people!" "How can you think we'd do that?" said Eleanor, with tears in her eyes. "We can see that things look very bad for you. Have you any place to go--any home?" "You can see it!" said the woman, ungraciously. Eleanor looked at her and at the ruined farm for a minute very thoughtfully. Then she made up her mind. "Well, if you've got to start all over again," she said, "you are going to need a lot of help, and I don't see why we can't be the first to help you! Girls, we won't go any further now. We'll stay here and help these poor people to get started!" "What can people like you do to help us?" asked the woman, scornfully. "This isn't a joke--'t ain't like a quiltin' party!" "Just you watch us, and see if we can't help," said Eleanor, sturdily. "We're not as useless as we look, I can tell you that! And the first thing we're going to do is to cook a fine dinner, and you are all going to sit right down on the ground and help us eat it. You'll be glad of a meal you don't have to cook yourselves, I'm sure. Where is your well, or your spring for drinking water? Show us that, and we'll do the rest!" Only half convinced of Eleanor's really friendly intentions, the woman sullenly pointed out the well, and in a few moments Eleanor had set the girls to work. "The poor things!" she said to Margery, sympathetically. "What they need most of all is courage to pick up again, now that everything seems to have come to an end for them, and make a new start. And I can't imagine anything harder than that!" "Why, it's dreadful!" said Margery. "She seems to have lost all ambition--to be ready to let things go." "That's just the worst of it," said Eleanor. "And it's in making them see that there's still hope and cheer and good friendship in the world that we can help them most. I do think we can be of some practical use to them, too, but the main thing is to brace them up, and make them want to be busy helping themselves. It would be so easy for me to give them the money to start over again or I could get my friends to come in with me, and make up the money, if I couldn't do it all myself." "But they ought to do it for themselves, you mean?" "Yes. They'll really be ever so much better off in the long run if it's managed that way. Often and often, in the city, I've heard the people who work in the charity organizations tell about families that were quite ruined because they were helped too much." "I can see how that would be," said Margery. "They would get into the habit of thinking they couldn't do anything for themselves--that they could turn to someone else whenever they got into trouble." "Yes. You see these poor people are in the most awful sort of trouble now. They're discouraged and hopeless. Well, the thing to do is to make them understand that they can rise superior to their troubles, that they can build a new home on the ashes of their old one." "Oh, I think it will be splendid if we can help them to do that!" "They'll feel better, physically, as soon as they have had a good dinner, Margery. Often and often people don't think enough about that. It's when people feel worst that they ought to be fed best. It's impossible to be cheerful on an empty stomach. When people are well nourished their troubles never seem so great. They look on the bright side and they tell themselves that maybe things aren't as bad as they look." "How can we help them otherwise, though?" "Oh, we'll fix up a place where they can sleep to-night, for one thing. And we'll help them to start clearing away all the rubbish. They've got to have a new house, of course, and they can't even start work on that until all this wreckage is cleared away." "I wonder if they didn't save some of their animals--their cows and horses," said Bessie. "It seems to me they might have been able to do that." "I hope so, Bessie. But we'll find out when we have dinner. I didn't want to bother them with a lot of questions at first. Look, they seem to be a little brighter already." The children of the family were already much brighter. It was natural enough for them to respond more quickly than their elders to the stimulus of the presence of these kind and helpful strangers, and they were running around, talking to the girls who were preparing dinner, and trying to find some way in which they could help. And their mother began to forget herself and her troubles, and to watch them with brightening eyes. When she saw that the girls seemed to be fond of her children and to be anxious to make them happy, the maternal instinct in her responded, and was grateful. "Oh, we're going to be able to bring a lot of cheer and new happiness to these poor people," said Eleanor, confidently. "And it will be splendid, won't it, girls? Could anything be better fun than doing good this way? It's something we'll always be able to remember, and look back at happily. And the strange part of it is that, no matter how much we do for them, we'll be doing more for ourselves." "Isn't it fine that we've got those blankets?" said Dolly. "If we camp out here to-night they'll be very useful." "They certainly will. And we shall camp here, though not in tents. Later on this afternoon, we'll have to fix up some sort of shelter. But that will be easy. I'll show you how to do it when the time comes. Now we want to hurry with the dinner--that's the main thing, because I think everyone is hungry." CHAPTER IV GETTING A START Often people who have been visited by great misfortunes become soured and suspect the motives of even those who are trying to help them. Eleanor understood this trait of human nature very well, thanks to the fact that as a volunteer she had helped out the charity workers in her own city more than once. And as a consequence she did not at all resent the dark looks that were cast at her by the poor woman whose every glance brought home to her more sharply the disaster that the fire had brought. "We've got to be patient if we want to be really helpful," she explained to Dolly Ransom, who was disposed to resent the woman's unfriendly aspect. "But I don't see why she has to act as if we were trying to annoy her, Miss Eleanor!" "She doesn't mean that at all, Dolly. You've never known what it is to face the sort of trouble and anxiety she has had for the last few days. She'll soon change her mind about us when she sees that we are really trying to help. And there's another thing. Don't you think she's a little softer already?" "Oh, she is!" said Bessie, with shining eyes. "And I think I know why--" "So will Dolly--if she will look at her now. See, Dolly, she's looking at her children. And when she sees how nice the girls are to them, she is going to be grateful--far more grateful than for anything we did for her. Because, after all, it's probably her fear for her children, and of what this will mean to them, that is her greatest trouble." Dinner was soon ready, and when it was prepared, Eleanor called the homeless family together and made them sit down. "We haven't so very much," she said. "We intended to eat just this way, but we were going on a little way. Still, I think there's plenty of everything, and there's lots of milk for the children." "Why are you so good to us?" asked the woman, suddenly. It was her first admission that she appreciated what was being done, and Eleanor secretly hailed it as a prelude to real friendliness. "Why, you don't think anyone could see you in so much trouble and not stop to try to help you, do you?" she said. "Ain't noticed none of the neighbors comin' here to help," said the woman, sullenly. "I think they're simply forgetful," said Eleanor. "And you know this fire was pretty bad. They had a great fight to save Cranford from burning up." "Is that so?" said the woman, showing a little interest in the news. "My land, I didn't think the fire would get that far!" "They were fighting night and day for most of three days," said Eleanor. "And now they're pretty tired, and I have an idea they're making up for lost sleep and rest. But I'm sure you'll find some of them driving out this way pretty soon to see how you are getting on." "Well, they won't see much!" said the woman, with a despairing laugh. "We came back here, 'cause we thought some of the buildings might be saved. But there ain't a thing left exceptin' that one barn a little way over there. You can't see it from here. It's over the hill. We did save our cattle and a good many chickens and ducks. But all our crops is ruined--and how we are ever goin' to get through the winter I declare I can't tell!" "Have you a husband? And, by the way, hadn't you better tell me your name?" said Eleanor. "My husband's dead--been dead nearly two years," said the woman. "I'm Sarah Pratt. This here's my husband's sister, Ann." "Well, Mrs. Pratt, we'll have to see if we can't think of some way of making up for all this loss," said Eleanor, after she had told the woman her own name, and introduced the girls of the Camp Fire. "Why--just a minute, now! You have cows, haven't you? Plenty of them? Do they give good milk?" "Best there is," said the woman. "My husband, he was a crank for buyin' fine cattle. I used to tell him he was wastin' his money, but he would do it. Same way with the chickens." "Then you sold the milk, I suppose?" "Yes, ma'am, and we didn't get no more for it from the creamery than the farmers who had just the ornery cows." "Well, I've got an idea already. I'm going back to Cranford as soon as we've had dinner to see if it will work out. I suppose that's your son?" She looked with a smile at the awkward, embarrassed boy who had so little to say for himself. "Well, while the girls fix you up some shelters where you can sleep to-night, if you stay here, I'm going to ask you to let him drive me into Cranford. I want to do some telephoning--and I think I'll have good news for you when I come back." Strangely enough, Mrs. Pratt made no objection to this plan. Once she had begun to yield to the charm of Eleanor's manner, and to believe that the Camp Fire Girls meant really to help and were not merely stopping out of idle curiosity, she recovered her natural manner, which turned out to be sweet and cheerful enough, and she also began to look on things with brighter eyes. "Makes no difference whether you have good news or not, my dear," she said to Eleanor. "You've done us a sight of good already. Waked me up an' made me see that it's wrong to sit down and cry when it's a time to be up an' doin'." "Oh, you wouldn't have stayed in the dumps very long," said Eleanor, cheerfully. "Perhaps we got you started a little bit sooner, but I can see that you're not the sort to stay discouraged very long." Then, while a few of the girls, with the aid of the Pratt children, washed dishes and cleared up after the meal, Eleanor took aside Margery and some of the stronger girls, like Bessie and Dolly, to show them what she wanted done while she was away. "There's plenty of wood around here," she said. "A whole lot of the boards are only a little bit scorched, and some of them really aren't burned at all. Now, if you take those and lay them against the side of that steep bank there, near where the big barn stood, you'll have one side of a shelter. Then take saplings, and put them up about seven feet away from your boards." She held a sapling in place, to show what she meant. "Cut a fork in the top of each sapling, and dig holes so that they will stand up. Then lay strips of wood from the saplings to the tops of your boards, and cover the space you've got that way with branches. If you go about half a mile beyond here, you'll be able to get all the branches you want from spots where the fire hasn't burned at all." "Why, they'll be like the Indian lean-tos I've read about, won't they?" exclaimed Margery. "They're on that principle," said Eleanor. "Probably we could get along very well without laying any boards at all against that bank, but it might be damp, and there's no use in taking chances. And--" "Oh, Miss Eleanor," Dolly interrupted, "excuse me, but if it rained or there were water above, wouldn't it leak right down and run through from the top of the bank?" "That's a good idea, Dolly. I'll tell you how to avoid that. Dig a trench at the top of the bank, just as long as the shelter you have underneath, and the water will all be caught in that. And if you give the trench a little slope, one way or the other, or both ways from the centre, not much, just an inch in ten feet--the water will all be carried off." "Oh, yes!" said Dolly. "That would fix that up all right." "Get plenty of branches of evergreens for the floor, and we'll cover those with our rubber blankets," Eleanor went on. "Then we'll be snug and dry for to-night, anyhow, and for as long as the weather holds fine." "You mean it will be a place where the Pratts can sleep?" said Margery. "Of course, it would be all right in this weather, but do you think it will stay like this very long?" "Of course it won't, Margery, but I don't expect them to have to live this way all winter. If it serves to-night and to-morrow night I think it will be all that's needed. Now you understand just what is to be done, don't you? If you want to ask any questions, go ahead." "No. We understand, don't we, girls?" said Margery. "All right, then," said Eleanor. "Girls, Margery is Acting Guardian while I'm gone. You're all to do just as she tells you, and obey her just as if she were I. I see that Tom's got the buggy all harnessed up. It's lucky they were able to save their wagons and their horses, isn't it?" "What are you going to do in Cranford?" asked Dolly. "Won't you tell us, Miss Eleanor?" "No, I won't, Dolly," said Eleanor, laughing. "If I come back with good news--and I certainly hope I shall--you'll enjoy it all the more if it's a surprise, and if I don't succeed, why, no one will be disappointed except me." And then with a wave of her hand, she sprang into the waiting buggy and drove off with Tom Pratt holding the reins, and looking very proud of his pretty passenger. "Well, I don't know what it's all about, but we know just what we're supposed to do, girls," said Margery. "So let's get to work. Bessie, you and Dolly might start picking out the boards that aren't too badly burned." "All right," said Dolly. "Come on, Bessie!" "I'll pace off the distance to see how big a place we need to make," said Margery. "Mrs. Pratt, how far is it to a part of the woods that wasn't burned? Miss Mercer thought we could get some green branches there for bedding." "Not very far," said Mrs. Pratt, with a sigh. "That's what seemed so hard! When we drove along this morning we came quite suddenly to a patch along the road on both sides where the fire hadn't reached, and it made us ever so happy." "Oh, what a shame!" said Margery. "I suppose you thought you'd come to the end of the burned part?" "I hoped so--oh, how I did hope so!" said poor Mrs. Pratt. "But then, just before we came in sight of the place, we saw that the fire had changed its direction again, and then we knew that our place must have gone." "That's very strange, isn't it?" said Margery. "I wonder why the fire should spare some places and not others?" "It seems as if it were always that way in a big fire," said Mrs. Pratt. "I suppose there'd been some cutting around that patch of woods that wasn't burned. And only last year a man was going to buy the wood in that wood lot of ours on the other side of the road, and clear it. If he had, maybe the fire wouldn't ever have come near us, at all." "Well, we'll have to think about what did happen, not what we wish had happened, Mrs. Pratt," said Margery, cheerfully. "The thing to do now is to make the best of a bad business. I'm going to send four or five of the girls to get branches. Perhaps you'll let one of the children go along to show them the way?" "You go, Sally," said Mrs. Pratt to the oldest girl, a child of fourteen, who had been listening, wide-eyed, to the conversation. "Now, ain't there somethin' Ann an' I can do to help?" "Why, yes, there is, Mrs. Pratt. I think it's going to be dreadfully hot. Over there, where we unpacked our stores, you'll find a lot of lemons. I think if you'd make a couple of big pails full of lemonade we'd all enjoy them while we were working, and they'd make the work go faster, too." "The water won't be very cold," suggested Ann. "Pshaw, Ann! Why not use the ice?" said Mrs. Pratt, whose interest in small things had been wonderfully revived. "The ice-house wasn't burned. Do you go and get a pailful of ice, and we'll have plenty for the girls to drink. They surely will be hot and tired with all they're doing for us." "I'm sorry I ever said Mrs. Pratt wasn't nice," said Dolly to Bessie, when they happened to overhear this, and saw how Mrs. Pratt began hustling to get the lemonade ready. "I knew she'd be all right as soon as she began to be waked up a little," said Bessie. "This is more fun than one of our silly adventures, isn't it, Dolly? Because it's just as exciting, but there isn't the chance of things going wrong, and we're doing something to make other people happy." "You're certainly right about that, Bessie. And it makes you think of how much hard luck people have, and how easy it would be for people who are better off to help them, doesn't it?" "It _is_ easy, Dolly. You know, I think Miss Eleanor must help an awful lot of people. It seems to be the first thing she thinks of when she sees any trouble." "She makes one understand what Wo-he-lo really means," said Dolly. "She's often explained that work means service--doing things for other people, and not just working for yourself." "That's one of the things I like best about the Camp Fire," said Bessie, thoughtfully. "Everyone in it seems to be unselfish and to think about helping others, and yet there isn't someone to preach to you all the time--they just do it themselves, and make you see that it's the way to be really happy." "I wouldn't have believed that I could enjoy this sort of work if anyone had told me so a year ago. But I do. I haven't had such a good time since I can remember. Of course, I feel awfully sorry for the Pratts, but I'm glad that, if it had to happen to them, we came along in time to help them." They hadn't stopped working while they talked, and now they had brought as many boards as Margery wanted. "There are lots more boards, Margery," said Dolly. "Why shouldn't we make a sort of floor for the lean-to? If we put up a couple of planks for them to rest on, every so often, we could have a real floor, and then, even if the ground got damp, it would be dry inside." "Good idea! We'll do that," said Margery, who was busy herself, flying here, there, and everywhere to direct the work. "Go ahead!" And so, when the sound of wheels in the road heralded the return of Miss Eleanor in the buggy, the work was done, and the lean-to was completed, a rough-and-ready shelter that was practical in the extreme, though perhaps it was not ornamental. "Splendid!" cried Eleanor. "But I knew you girls would do well. And I've got the good news I hoped to bring, too!" CHAPTER V GOOD NEWS FROM TOWN Everyone rushed eagerly forward, and crowded around Miss Mercer as she descended from the buggy, smiling pleasantly at the bashful Tom Pratt, who did his best to help her in her descent. And not the least eager, by any means, was Tom Pratt's mother, whose early indifference to the interest of these good Samaritans in her misfortunes seemed utterly to have vanished. "Oh, these girls of yours!" cried Mrs. Pratt. "You've no idea of how much they've done--or how much they've heartened us all up, Miss Mercer! I don't believe there were ever so many kind, nice people brought together before!" Eleanor laughed, as if she were keeping a secret to herself. And her words, when she spoke, proved that that was indeed the case. "Just you wait till you know how many friends you really have around here, Mrs. Pratt!" she said. "Well, I told you I hoped to bring back good news, and I have, and if you'll all give me a chance, I'll tell you what it is." "You've found a place for all the Pratts to go!" said Dolly. "You've arranged something so that they won't have to stay here!" agreed Margery. "I don't know whether Mrs. Pratt would agree that that was such good news," she said. "Tell me, Mrs. Pratt--you are still fond of this place, aren't you?" "Indeed, and I am, Miss Mercer!" she said, choking back a sob. "When I first saw how it looked this morning, I thought I only wanted to go away and never see it again, if I only knew where to go. But I feel so different now. Why, all the time we've been working around here, it's made me think of how Tom--I mean my poor husband--and I came here when we were first married. Tom had the land, you see, and he'd built a little cabin for us with his own hands." "And all the farm grew from that?" "Yes. We worked hard, you see, and the children came, but we had a better place for each one to be born in, Miss Mercer--we really did! It was our place. We've earned it all, with the help from the place itself, and before the fire--" She broke down then, and for a moment she couldn't go on. "Of course you love it!" said Eleanor, heartily. "And I don't think it would be very good news for you to know that you had a chance to go somewhere else and make a fresh start, though I could have managed that for you." "I'd be grateful, though, Miss Mercer," said Mrs. Pratt. "I don't want you to think I wouldn't. It'll be a wrench, though--I'm not saying it wouldn't. When you've lived anywhere as long as I've lived here, and seen all the changes, and had your children born in it, and--" "I know--I know," interrupted Eleanor, sympathetically. "And I could see how much you loved the place. So I never had any idea at all of suggesting anything that would take you away." "Do you really think we can get a new start here?" asked Mrs. Pratt, looking up hopefully. "I don't only believe it, I know it, Mrs. Pratt," said Eleanor, enthusiastically. "And what's more, you're going to be happier and more prosperous than you ever were before the fire. Not just at first, perhaps, but you're going to see the way clear ahead, and it won't be long before you'll be doing so well that you'll be able to let my friend Tom here go to college." Mrs. Pratt's face fell. It seemed to her that Eleanor was promising too much. "I don't see how that could be," she said. "Why, his paw and I used to talk that over. We wanted him to have a fine education, but we didn't see how we could manage it, even when his paw was alive." "Well, you listen to me, and see if you don't think there's a good chance of it, anyhow," said Eleanor. "In the first place, none of the people in Cranford knew that you'd had all this trouble. It was just as I thought. Their own danger had been so great that they simply hadn't had time to think of anything else. They were shocked and sorry when I told them." "There's a lot of good, kind people there," said Mrs. Pratt, brightening again. "I'm sure I didn't think anything of their not having come out here to see how we were getting along." "Some of them would have been out in a day or two, even if I hadn't told them, Mrs. Pratt. As it is--but I think that part of my story had better wait. Tell me, you've been selling all your milk and cream to the big creamery that supplies the milkmen in the city, haven't you?" "Yes, and I guess that we can keep their trade, if we can get on our feet pretty soon so that they can get it regular again." "I've no doubt you could," said Eleanor, dryly. "They make so much money buying from you at cheap prices and selling at high prices that they wouldn't let the chance to keep on slip by in a hurry, I can tell you. But I've got a better idea than that." Mrs. Pratt looked puzzled, but Tom Pratt, who seemed to be in Eleanor's secret, only smiled and returned Eleanor's wise look. "When you make butter you salt it and keep it to use here, don't you?" Eleanor asked next. "Yes, ma'am, we do." "Well, if you made fresh, sweet butter, and didn't salt it at all, do you know that you could sell it to people in the city for fifty cents a pound?" Mrs. Pratt gasped. "Why, no one in the world ever paid that much for butter!" she said, amazed. "And, anyhow, butter without salt's no good." "Lots of people don't agree with you, and they're willing to pay pretty well to have their own way, too," she said, with a laugh. "In the city rich families think fresh butter is a great luxury, and they can't get enough of it that's really good. And it's the same way, all summer long, at Lake Dean. "The hotel there will take fifty pounds a week from you all summer long, as long as it's open, that is. And I have got orders for another fifty pounds a week from the people who own camps and cottages. And what's more, the manager of the hotel has another house, in Lakewood, in the winter time, and when he closes up the house at Cranford, he wants you to send him fifty pounds a week for that house, too." "Why, however did you manage to get all those orders?" asked Margery, amazed. "I telephoned to the manager of the hotel," said Eleanor. "And then I remembered the girls at Camp Halsted, and I called up Marcia Bates and told her the whole story, and what I wanted them to do. So she and two or three of the others went out in that fast motor boat of theirs and visited a lot of families around the lake, and when they told them about it, it was easy to get the orders." "Well, I never!" gasped Mrs. Pratt. "I wouldn't ever have thought of doin' anythin' like that, Miss Mercer, and folks around here seem to think I'm a pretty good business woman, too, since my husband died. Why, we can make more out of the butter than we ever did out of a whole season's crops, sellin' at such prices!" "You won't get fifty cents a pound from the hotel," said Eleanor. "That's because they'll take such a lot, and they'll pay you every week. So I told them they could have all they wanted for forty cents a pound. But, you see, at fifty pounds a week, that's twenty dollars a week, all the year round, and with the other fifty pounds you'll sell to private families, that will make forty-five dollars a week. And you haven't even started yet. You'll have lots more orders than you can fill." "I'm wonderin' right now, ma'am, how we'll be able to make a hundred pounds of butter a week." "I thought of that, too," said Eleanor, "and I bought half a dozen more cows for you, right there in Cranford. They're pretty good cows, and if they're well fed, and properly taken care of, they'll be just what you want." "But I haven't got the money to pay for them now, ma'am!" said Mrs. Pratt, dismayed. "Oh, I've paid for them," said Eleanor, "and you're going to pay me when you begin to get the profits from this new butter business. I'd be glad to give them to you, but you won't need anyone to give you things; you're going to be able to afford to pay for them yourself." Mrs. Pratt broke into tears. "That's the nicest thing you've said or done yet, Miss Mercer," she sobbed. "I just couldn't bear to take charity--" "Charity? You don't need it, you only need friendly help, Mrs. Pratt, and if I didn't give you that someone else would!" "And eggs! They'll be able to sell eggs, too, won't they?" said Dolly, jumping up and down in her excitement. "They certainly will! I was coming to that," said Eleanor. "You know, this new parcel post is just the thing for you, Mrs. Pratt! Just as soon as a letter I wrote is answered, you'll get a couple of cases of new boxes that are meant especially for mailing butter and eggs and things like that from farmers to people in the city. "You'll be able to sell eggs and butter cheaper than people in the city can buy things that are anything like as good from the stores, because you won't have to pay rent and lighting bills and all the other expensive things about a city store. I'm going to be your agent, and I do believe I'll make some extra pocket money, too, because I'm going to charge you a commission." Mrs. Pratt just laughed at that idea. "Well, you wait and see!" said Eleanor. "I'm glad to be able to help, Mrs. Pratt, but I know you'll feel better if you think I'm getting something out of it, and I'm going to. I think my running across you when you were in trouble is going to be a fine thing for both of us. Why, before you get done with us, you'll have to get more land, and a lot more cows and chickens, because we're going to make it the fashionable thing to buy eggs and butter from you!" Mrs. Pratt seemed to be overwhelmed, and Eleanor, in order to create a diversion, went over to inspect the lean-to. "It's just right," she said. "Having a floor made of those boards is a fine idea; I didn't think of that at all. Good for you, Margery!" "That was Dolly's idea, not mine," said Margery. "You were perfectly right, too. Well, it's getting a little late and I think it's time we were thinking about dinner. Margery, if you'll go over to the buggy you'll find quite a lot of things I bought in Cranford. We don't want to use up the stores we brought with us before we get away from here. And--here's a secret!" "What?" said Margery, leaning toward her and smiling. And Eleanor laughed as she whispered in Margery's ear. "There are going to be some extra people--at least seven or eight, and perhaps more--for dinner, so we want to have plenty, because I think they're going to be good and hungry when they sit down to eat!" "Oh, do tell me who they are," cried Margery, eagerly. "I never saw you act so mysteriously before!" "No, it's a surprise. But you'll enjoy it all the more when it comes for not knowing ahead of time. Don't breathe a word, except to those who help you cook if they ask too many questions." Dinner was soon under way, and those who were not called upon by Margery busied themselves about the lean-to, arranging blankets and making everything snug for the night. The busy hands of the Camp Fire Girls had done much to rid the place of its look of desolation, and now everything spoke of hope and renewed activity instead of despair and inaction. A healthier spirit prevailed, and now the Pratts, encouraged as to their future, were able to join heartily in the laughter and singing with which the Camp Fire Girls made the work seem like play. "Why, what's this?" cried Bessie, suddenly. She had gone toward the road, and now she came running back. "There are four or five big wagons, loaded with wood and shingles and all sorts of things like that coming in here from the road," she cried. "Whatever are they doing here?" "That's my second surprise," laughed Eleanor. "It's your neighbors from Cranford, Mrs. Pratt. Don't you recognize Jud Harkness driving the first team there?" "Hello, folks!" bellowed Jud, from his seat. "How be you, Mis' Pratt? Think we'd clean forgot you? We didn't know you was in such an all-fired lot of trouble, or we'd ha' been here before. We're come now, though, and we ain't goin' away till you've got a new house. Brought it with us, by heck!" He laughed as he descended, and stood before them, a huge, black-bearded man, but as gentle as a child. And soon everyone could see what he meant, for the wagons were loaded with timber, and one contained all the tools that would be needed. "There'll be twenty of us here to-morrow," he said, "and I guess we'll show you how to build a house! Won't be as grand as the hotel at Cranford, mebbe, but you can live in it, and we'll come out when we get the time and put on the finishing touches. To-night we'll clear away all this rubbish, and with sun-up in the morning we'll be at work." Eleanor's eyes shone as she turned to Mrs. Pratt. "Now you see what I meant when I told you there were plenty of good friends for you not far from here!" she cried. "As soon as I told Jud what trouble you were in he thought of this, and in half an hour he'd got promises from all the men to put in a day's work fixing up a new house for you." Mrs. Pratt seemed too dazed to speak. "But they can't finish a whole house in one day!" declared Margery. "They can't paint it, and put up wall paper and do everything, Margery," said Eleanor. "That's true enough. But they can do a whole lot. You're used to thinking of city buildings, and that's different. In the country one or two men usually build a house, and build it well, and when there are twenty or thirty, why, the work just flies, especially when they're doing the work for friendship, instead of because they're hired to do it. Oh, just you wait!" "Have you ever seen this before?" "I certainly have! And you're going to see sights to-morrow that will open your eyes, I can promise you. You know what it's like, Bessie, don't you? You've seen house raisings before?" "I certainly have," said Bessie. "And it's fine. Everyone helps and does the best he can, and it seems no time at all before it's all done." "Well, we'll do our share," said Eleanor. "The men will be hungry, and I've promised that we'll feed them." CHAPTER VI THE GOOD SAMARITANS "Well, I certainly have got a better opinion of country people than I ever used to have, Bessie," said Dolly Ransom. "After the way those people in Hedgeville treated you and Zara, I'd made up my mind that they were a nasty lot, and I was glad I'd always lived in the city." "Well, aren't you still glad of it, Dolly? I really do think you're better off in the city. There wouldn't be enough excitement about living in the country for you, I'm afraid." "Of course there wouldn't! But I think maybe I was sort of unfair to all country people because the crowd at Hedgeville was so mean to you. And I like the country well enough, for a little while. I couldn't bear living there all the time, though. I think that would drive me wild." "The trouble was that Zara and I didn't exactly belong, Dolly. They thought her father was doing something wrong because he was a foreigner and they couldn't understand his ways." "I suppose he didn't like them much, either, Bessie." "He didn't. He thought they were stupid. And, of course, in a way, they were. But not as stupid as he thought they were. He was used to entirely different things, and--oh, well, I suppose in some places what he did wouldn't have been talked about, even. "But in the country everyone knows the business of everyone else, and when there is a mystery no one is happy until it's solved. That's why Zara and her father got themselves so disliked. There was a mystery about them, and the people in Hedgeville just made up their minds that something was wrong." "I feel awfully sorry for Zara, Bessie. It must be dreadful for her to know that her father is in prison, and that they are saying that he was making bad money. You don't think he did, do you?" "I certainly do not! There's something very strange about that whole business, and Miss Eleanor's cousin, the lawyer, Mr. Jamieson, thinks so too. You know that Mr. Holmes is mighty interested in Zara and her father." "He tried to help to get Zara back to that Farmer Weeks who would have been her guardian if she hadn't come to join the Camp Fire, didn't he?" "Yes. You see, in the state where Hedgeville is, Farmer Weeks is her legal guardian, and he could make her work for him until she was twenty-one. He's an old miser, and as mean as he can be. But once she is out of that state, he can't touch her, and Mr. Jamieson has had Miss Eleanor appointed her guardian, and mine too, for that state. The state where Miss Eleanor and all of us live, I mean." "Well, Mr. Holmes is trying to get hold of you, too, isn't he?" "Yes, he is. You ought to know, Dolly, after the way he tried to get us both to go off with him in his automobile that day, and the way he set those gypsies on to kidnapping us. And that's the strangest thing of all." "Perhaps he wants to know something about Zara, and thinks you can tell him, or perhaps he's afraid you'll tell someone else something he doesn't want them to know." "Yes, it may be that. But that lawyer of his, Isaac Brack, who is so mean and crooked that no one in the city will have anything to do with him except the criminals, Mr. Jamieson says, told me once that unless I went with him I'd never find out the truth about my father and mother and what became of them." "Oh, Bessie, how exciting! You never told me that before. Have you told Mr. Jamieson?" "Yes, and he just looked at me queerly, and said nothing more about it." "Bessie, do you know what I think?" "No. I'm not a mind reader, Dolly!" "Well, I believe Mr. Jamieson knows more than he has told you yet, or that he guesses something, anyway. And he won't tell you what it is because he's afraid he may be wrong, and doesn't want to raise your hopes unless he's sure that you won't be disappointed." "I think that would be just like him, Dolly. He's been awfully good to me. I suppose it's because he thinks it will please Miss Eleanor, and he knows that she likes us, and wants to do things for us." "Oh, I know he likes you, too, Bessie. He certainly ought to, after the way you brought him help back there in Hamilton, when we were there for the trial of those gypsies who kidnapped us. If it hadn't been for you, there's no telling what that thief might have done to him." "Oh, anyone would have done the same thing, Dolly. It was for my sake that he was in trouble, and when I had a chance to help him, it was certainly the least that I could do. Don't you think so?" "Well, maybe that's so, but there aren't many girls who would have known how to do what you did or who would have had the pluck to do it, even if they did. I'm quite sure I wouldn't, and yet I'd have wanted to, just as much as anyone." "I wish I did know something about my father and mother, Dolly. You've no idea how much that worries me. Sometimes I feel as if I never would find out anything." "Oh, you mustn't get discouraged, Bessie. Try to be as cheerful as you are when it's someone else who is in trouble. You're the best little cheerer-up I know when I feel blue." "Oh, Dolly, I do try to be cheerful, but it's such a long time since they left me with the Hoovers!" "Well, there must be some perfectly good reason for it all, Bessie, I feel perfectly sure of that. They would never have gone off that way unless they had to." "Oh, it isn't that that bothers me. It's feeling that unless something dreadful had happened to them, I'd have heard of them long ago. And then, Maw Hoover and Jake Hoover were always picking at me about them. When I did something Maw Hoover didn't like, she'd say she didn't wonder, that she couldn't expect me to be any good, being the child of parents who'd gone off and left me on her hands that way." "That's all right for her to talk that way, but she didn't have you on her hands. She made you work like a slave, and never paid you for it at all. You certainly earned whatever they spent for keeping you, Miss Eleanor says so, and I'll take her word any time against Maw Hoover or anyone else." "I've sometimes thought it was pretty mean for me to run off the way I did, Dolly. If it hadn't been for Zara, I don't believe I'd have done it." "It's a good thing for Zara that you did. Poor Zara! They'd taken her father to jail, and she was going to have to stay with Farmer Weeks. She'd never have been able to get along without you, you know." "Well, that's one thing that makes me feel that perhaps it was right for me to go, Dolly. That, and the way Miss Eleanor spoke of it. She seemed to think it was the right thing for me to do, and she knows better than I do, I'm sure." "Certainly she does. And look here, Bessie! It's all coming out right, sometime, I know. I'm just sure of that! You'll find out all about your father and mother, and you'll see that there was some good reason for their not turning up before." "Oh, Dolly dear, I'm sure of that now! And it's just that that makes me feel so bad, sometimes. If something dreadful hadn't happened to them, they would have come for me long ago. At least they would have kept on sending the money for my board." "How do you know they didn't, Bessie? Didn't Maw Hoover get most of the letters on the farm?" "Yes, she did, Dolly. Paw Hoover couldn't read, so they all went to her, no matter to whom they were addressed." "Why, then," said Dolly, triumphantly, "maybe your father and mother were writing and sending the money all the time!" "But wouldn't she have told me so, Dolly?" "Suppose she just kept the money, and pretended she never got it at all, Bessie? I've heard of people doing even worse things than that when they wanted money. It's possible, isn't it, now? Come on, own up!" "I suppose it is," said Bessie, doubtfully. "Only it doesn't seem very probable. Maw Hoover was pretty mean to me, but I don't think she'd ever have done anything like that." "Well, I wouldn't put it above her! She treated you badly enough about other things, heaven knows!" "I'd hate to think she had done anything quite as mean as that, though, Dolly. I do think she had a pretty hard time herself, and I'm quite sure that if it hadn't been for Jake she wouldn't have been so mean to me." "Oh, I know just the sort he is. I've seen him, remember, Bessie! He's a regular spoiled mother's boy. I don't know why it is, but the boys whose mothers coddle them and act as if they were the best boys on earth always seem to be the meanest." "Yes, you did see him, Dolly. Still, Jake's very young, and he wouldn't be so bad, either, if he'd been punished for the things he did at home. As long as I was there, you see, they could blame everything that was done onto me. He did, at least, and Maw believed him." "Didn't his father ever see what a worthless scamp he was?" "Oh, how could he, Dolly? He was his own son, you see, and then there was Maw Hoover. She wouldn't let him believe anything against Jake, any more than she would believe it herself." "I'm sorry for Paw Hoover, Bessie. He seemed like a very nice old man." "He certainly was. Do you remember how he found me with you girls the day after Zara and I ran away? He could have told them where we were then, but he didn't do it. Instead of that, he was mighty nice to me, and he gave me ten dollars." "He said you'd earned it, Bessie, and he was certainly right about that. Why, in the city they can't get servants to do all the things you did, even when they're well paid, and you never were paid at all!" "Well, that doesn't make what he did any the less nice of him, Dolly. And I'll be grateful to him, because he might have made an awful lot of trouble." "Oh, I'll always like him for that, too. And I guess from what I saw of him, and all I've heard about his wife, that he doesn't have a very happy time at home, either. Maw Hoover must make him do just about what she wants, whether he thinks she's right or not." "She certainly does, Dolly, unless she's changed an awful lot since I was there." "Well, I suppose the point is that there really must be more people like him in the country than like his wife and Farmer Weeks. These people around here are certainly being as nice as they can be to the poor Pratts. Just think of their coming here to-morrow to build a new house for them!" "There are more nice, good-hearted people than bad ones all over, Dolly. That's true of every place, city or country." "But it seems to me we always hear more of the bad ones, and those who do nasty things, than we do of the others, in the newspapers." "I think that's because the things that the bad people do are more likely to be exciting and interesting, Dolly. You see, when people do nice things, it's just taken as a matter of course, because that's what they ought to do. And when they do something wicked, it gets everyone excited and makes a lot of talk. That's the reason for that." "Still, this work that the men from Cranford are going to do for the Pratts is interesting, Bessie. I think a whole lot of people would like to know about that, if there was any way of telling them." "Yes, that's so. This isn't an ordinary case, by any means. And I guess you'll find that we'll do plenty of talking about it. Miss Eleanor will, I know, because she thinks they ought to get credit for doing it." "So will Mrs. Pratt and the children, too. Oh, yes, I was wrong about it, Bessie. Lots of people will know about this, because the Pratts will always have the house to remind them of it, and people who go by, if they've heard of it, will remember the story when they see the place. I do wonder what sort of a house they will put up?" "It'll have to be very plain, of course. And it will look rough at first, because it won't be painted, and there won't be any plaster on the ceilings and there won't be any wall paper, either." "Oh, but that will be easy to fix later. They'll have a comfortable house for the winter, anyhow, I'm sure. And if they can make as much money out of selling butter and eggs as Miss Eleanor thinks, they'll soon be able to pay to have it fixed up nicely." "Dolly, I believe we'll be able to help, too. If those girls at Camp Halsted could go around and get so many orders just in an hour or so, why shouldn't we be able to do a lot of it when we get back to the city?" "Why, that's so, Bessie! I hadn't thought of that. My aunt would buy her butter and eggs there, I know. She's always saying that she can't get really fresh eggs in the city. And they are delicious. That was one of the things I liked best at Miss Eleanor's farm. The eggs there were delicious; not a bit like the musty ones we get at home, no matter how much we pay for them." "I think it's time we were going to bed ourselves, Dolly. This is going to be like camping out, isn't it?" "Yes, and we'll be just as comfortable as we would be in tents, too. The Boy Scouts use these lean-tos very often when they are in the woods, you know. They just build them up against the side of a tree." "I never saw one before, but they certainly are splendid, and they're awfully easy to make." "We'll have to get up very early in the morning, Bessie. I heard Miss Eleanor say so. So I guess it's a good idea to go to bed, just as you say." "Yes. The others are all going. We certainly are going to have a busy day to-morrow." "I don't see that we can do much, Bessie. I know I wouldn't be any good at building a house. I'd be more trouble than help, I'm afraid." "That's all you know about it! There are ever so many things we can do." "What, for instance?" "Well, we'll have to get the meals for the men, and you haven't any idea what a lot of men can eat when they're working hard! They have appetites just like wolves." "Well, I'll certainly do my best to see that they get enough. They'll have earned it. What else?" "They'll want people to hand them their tools, and run little errands for them. And if the weather is very hot, they'll be terribly thirsty, too, and we'll be able to keep busy seeing that they have plenty of cooling drinks. Oh, we'll be busy, all right! Come on, let's go to bed." CHAPTER VII THE HOUSE RAISING The sun was scarcely up in the morning when Eleanor turned out and aroused the girls. "We've got to get our own breakfast out of the way in a hurry, girls," she said. "When country people say early, they mean early--EARLY! And we want to have coffee and cakes ready for these good friends of ours when they do come. A good many of them will come from a long way off and I think they'll all be glad to have a little something extra before they start work. It won't hurt us a bit to think so, and act accordingly anyhow." So within half an hour the Pratts and the Camp Fire Girls had had their own breakfasts, the dishes were washed, and great pots of coffee were boiling on the fires that had been built. And, just as the fragrant aroma arose on the cool air, the first of the teams that brought the workers came in sight, with jovial Jud Harkness driving. "My, but that coffee smells good, Miss Mercer!" he roared. "Say, I'm not strong for all these city fixin's in the way of food. Plain home cookin' serves me well enough, but there's one thing where you sure do lay all over us, and that's in makin' coffee. Give me a mug of that, Mis' Pratt, an' I'll start work." And from the way in which the coffee and the cakes, the latter spread with good maple syrup from trees that grew near Cranford, began to disappear, it was soon evident that Eleanor had made no mistake, and that the breakfast that she had had prepared for the workers would by no means be wasted. "It does me good to see you men eat this way," she said, laughing. "That's one thing we don't do properly in the city--eat. We peck at a lot of things, instead of eating a few plain ones, and a lot of them. And I'll bet that you men will work all the harder for this extra breakfast." "Just you watch and see!" bellowed Jud. "I'm boss here to-day, ma'am, and I tell you I'm some nigger driver. Ain't I, boys?" But he accompanied the threat with a jovial wink, and it was easy to see that these men liked and respected him, and were only too willing to look up to him as a leader in the work of kindness in which they were about to engage. "I don't know why all you boys are so good to me, Jud," said Mrs. Pratt, brokenly. "I can't begin to find words to thank you, even." "Don't try, Mis' Pratt," said Jud, looking remarkably fierce, though he was winking back something that looked suspiciously like a tear. "I guess we ain't none of us forgot Tom Pratt--as good a friend as men ever had! Many's the time he's done kind things for all of us! I guess it'd be pretty poor work if some of his friends couldn't turn out to help his wife and kids when they're in trouble." "He knows what you're doing, I'm sure of that," she answered. "And God will reward you, Jud Harkness!" Heartily as the men ate, however, they spent little enough time at the task. Jud Harkness allowed them what he thought was a reasonable time, and then he arose, stretched his great arms, and roared out his commands. "Come on, now, all hands to work!" he bellowed. "We've got to get all this rubbish cleared out, then we'll have clean decks for building." And they fell to with a will. In a surprisingly short space of time the men who had plunged into the ruined foundations of the house had torn out the remaining beams and rafters, and had flung the heap of rubbish that filled the cellar on to the level ground. While some of the men did this, others piled the rubbish on to wagons, and it was carted away and dumped. The fire, however, had really lightened their task for them. "That fire was so hot and so fierce," said Eleanor, as she watched them working, "that there's less rubbish than if the things had been only half burned." "I've seen fires in the city," said Margery, "or, at least, houses after a fire. And it really looked worse than this, because there'd be a whole lot of things that had started to burn. Then the firemen came along, to put out the fire, and though the things weren't really any good, they had to be carted away." "Yes, but this fire made a clean sweep wherever it started at all. Ashes are easier to handle than sticks and half ruined pieces of furniture. As long as it had to come, I guess it's a good thing that it was such a hot blaze." The work of clearing away, therefore, which had to be done, of course, before any actual building could be begun, was soon accomplished. "We're going to build just the way Tom Pratt did," said Jud Harkness. He was the principal carpenter and builder of Lake Dean, and a master workman. Many of the camps and cottages on the lake had been built by him, and he was, therefore, accustomed to such work. "You mean you're going to put up a square house?" said Eleanor. "Yes, ma'am, just a square house, with a hall running right through from the front to the back, and an extension in the rear for a kitchen--just a shack, that will be. Two floors--two rooms on each side of the hall on each floor. That'll give them eight rooms to start with, beside the kitchen." "That'll be fine, and it will really be the easiest thing to do, too." "That's what we're figuring, ma'am. You see, it'll be just as it was when Tom Pratt first built here, except that he only put up one story at first. Then, as Mis' Pratt gets things going again, she can add to it, and if she don't get along as fast as she expects, why, we'll lend her a hand whenever she needs it." "How on earth could you get all the lumber you need ready so quickly? That's one thing I couldn't understand. The work is not so difficult to manage, of course. But the wood--that's what's been puzzling me." Jud grinned. "Well, the truth is, ma'am, I expect to have a little argument about that yet with a city chap that's building a house on the lake. I've got the job of putting it up for him, and if it hadn't been for this fire coming along, I'd have started work day before yesterday." "Oh, and this is the lumber for his house?" "You guessed it right, ma'am! He'll be wild, I do believe, because there's no telling when I'll get the next lot of lumber through." "You say the fire stopped you from going ahead with his house?" "Yes. You see all of us had to turn out when it got so near to Cranford. My house is safe, I do believe. I'm mighty scared of fire, ma'am, and I've always figured on having things fixed so's a fire would have a pretty hard time reaching my property. But of course I had to jump in to help my neighbors--wouldn't be much profit about having the only house left standing in town, would there?" Eleanor laughed. "I guess not!" she said. "But what a lucky thing for Mrs. Pratt that you happened to have just the sort of wood she needed!" "Oh, well, we'd have managed somehow. Of course, it makes it easier, but we'd have juggled things around some way, even if this chap's plans didn't fit her foundations. As it happens, though, they do. Old Tom Pratt had a mighty well-built house here." "Well, I'm quite sure that just as good a one is going up in its place." Jud Harkness watched the work of getting out the last of the rubbish. Then he went over to the cleared foundations, and in a moment he was putting up the first of the four corner posts, great beams that looked stout enough to hold up a far bigger house than the one they were to support. All morning the work went on merrily. As Eleanor had predicted, and Bessie, too, there was plenty for the girls to do. The sun grew hotter and hotter, and the men were glad of the cooling drinks that were so liberally provided for them. "This is fine!" said Jud Harkness, as he quaffed a great drink of lemonade, well iced. "My, but it's a pleasure to work when it's made so nice for you! I tell you, having these cool drinks here is worth an extra hour's work, morning and afternoon. And what's that--just the nails I want? I'll give you a job as helper, young woman!" That remark was addressed to Bessie, who flushed with pleasure at the thought that she was playing a part, however small, in the building of the house. And, indeed, the girls all did their part, and their help was royally welcomed by the men. Quickly the skeleton of the house took form, and by noon, when work was to be knocked off for an hour, the whole framework was up. "I simply wouldn't have believed it, if I hadn't seen it with, my own eyes!" said Eleanor. "It's the most wonderful thing I ever saw!" "Oh, shucks!" said Jud, embarrassed by such praise. "There's lots of us--I don't think we've done so awful well. But it does look kind of nice, don't it?" "It's going to be a beautiful house," said Mrs. Pratt. "And to think of what the place looked like yesterday! Well, Jud Harkness, I haven't any words to tell you what I really think, and that's all there is to it!" For an hour or more Margery and her helpers had been busy at the big fire. At Eleanor's suggestion two of the men had stopped work on the house long enough to put up a rough, long table with benches at the sides, and now the table was groaning with the fine dinner that Margery had prepared. "Good solid food--no fancy fixings!" Eleanor had decreed. "These men burn up a tremendous lot of energy in work, and we've got to give them good food to replace it. So we don't want a lot of trumpery things, such as we like!" She had enforced a literal obedience, too. There were great joints of corned beef, red and savory; pots of cabbage, and huge mounds of boiled potatoes. Pots of mustard were scattered along the table, and each man had a pitcher of fine, fresh milk, and a loaf of bread, with plenty of butter. And for dessert there was a luxury--the only fancy part of the meal. Eleanor had had a whispered conference with Tom Pratt early in the day, as the result of which he had hitched up and driven into Cranford, to return with two huge tubs of ice-cream. He had brought a couple of boxes of cigars, too, and when the meal was over, and the men were getting out their pipes, Eleanor had gone around among them. "Try one of these!" she had urged. "I know they're good--and I know that when men are working hard they enjoy a first-class smoke." The cigars made a great hit. "By Golly! There's nothing she don't think of, that Miss Mercer!" said Jud Harkness appreciatively, as he lit up, and sent great clouds of blue smoke in the air. "Boys, if we don't do a tiptop job on that house to finish it off this afternoon we ought to be hung for a lot of ungrateful skunks. Eh?" There was a deep-throated shout of approval for that sentiment, and, after a few minutes of rest, during which the cigars were enjoyed to the utmost, Jud rose and once more sounded the call to work. "I've heard men in the city say that after a heavy meal in the middle of the day, they couldn't work properly in the afternoon," said Eleanor, as she watched the men go about their work, each seeming to know his part exactly. "It doesn't seem to be so with these men, though, does it? I guess that in the city men who work in offices don't use their bodies enough--they don't get enough exercise, and they eat as much as if they did." "I love cooking for men who enjoy their food the way these do," said Margery happily. "They don't have to say it's good--they show they think so by the way they eat. It's fine to think that people really enjoy what you do. I don't care how hard I work if I think that." "Well, you certainly had an appreciative lot of eaters to-day, Margery." As the shadows lengthened and the sun began to go down toward the west the house rapidly assumed the look it would have when it was finished. A good deal of the work, of course, was roughly done. There was no smoothing off of rough edges, but all that could be done later. And then, as the end of the task drew near, so that the watchers on the ground could see what the finished house would be like, Mrs. Pratt, already overwhelmed by delight at the kindness of her neighbors, had a new surprise that pleased and touched her, if possible, even more than what had gone before. A new procession of wagons came into sight in the road, and this time each was driven by a woman. And what a motley collection of stuff they did bring, to be sure! Beds and mattresses, bedding, chairs, tables, a big cook stove for the kitchen, pots and pans, china and glass, knives and forks--everything that was needed for the house. "We just made a collection of all the things we could spare, Sarah Pratt," said sprightly little Mrs. Harkness, a contrast indeed to her huge husband, who could easily lift her with one hand, so small was she. "They ain't much on looks, but they're all whole and clean, and you can use them until you have a chance to stock up again. Now, don't you go trying to thank us--it's nothing to do!" "Nothing?" exclaimed Mrs. Pratt. "Sue Harkness, don't you dare say that! Why, it means that I'll have a real home to-night for my children--we'll be jest as comfortable as we were before the fire! I don't believe any woman ever had such good neighbors before!" Long before dark the house was finished, as far as it was to be finished that day. And, as soon as the men had done their work, their wives and the Camp Fire Girls descended on the new house with brooms and pails, and soon all the shavings and the traces of the work had been banished. Then all hands set to work arranging the furniture, and by the time supper was ready the house was completely furnished. "Well," said Eleanor, standing happily in the parlor, "this certainly does look homelike!" There was even an old parlor organ. Pictures were on the wall; a good rag carpet was on the floor, and, while the furniture was not new, and had seen plenty of hard service, it was still good enough to use. The Pratt home had certainly risen like a Phoenix from its ashes. And tired but happy, all those who had contributed to the good work sat down to a bountiful supper. CHAPTER VIII ON THE MARCH AGAIN After supper, when the others who had done the good work of rebuilding were ready to go, all the girls of the Camp Fire lined up in front of the new house and sped them on their way with a cheer and the singing of the Wo-he-lo cry. "Listen to that echo!" said Dolly, as their song was brought back to them. "I didn't notice that last night. Is it always that way?" "Always," said Tom Pratt. "Folks come here sometimes to yell and hear the echo shout back at them." "Good!" cried Eleanor. "That supplies a need I've been thinking of all day!" "What's that, Miss Mercer?" asked Mrs. Pratt. "Why, if you are going into the business of supplying eggs and butter to the summer folk at the lake and to others in the city, you'll need a name for your farm. Why not call it Echo Farm? That's a good name, and in your case it means something, you see." "Whatever you say, Miss Mercer! Though I'd never thought of having a name for the place before." "Lots of things are going to be different for you now, Mrs. Pratt. You're going to be a business woman, and to make a lot of money, you know. Yes, that will look well on your boxes. When I get back to the city I'll have a friend of mine make a drawing and put that name with it, to be put on your boxes, and on all the paper you will use for writing letters." "Dear me, it's going to be splendid, Miss Mercer! Why, that fire is going to turn out to be the best thing that ever happened to us, I'm sure!" "I think we can often turn our misfortunes into blessings if we take them the right way, Mrs. Pratt. The thing to do is always to try to look on the bright side, and, no matter how black things seem, to try to see if there isn't some way that we can turn everything to account." "Well, I would never have done it if you hadn't come along, Miss Mercer. You gave us all courage in the first place, and then you got Jud Harkness and all the others to come and help me this way." "Oh, they'd have done it themselves, as soon as they heard. I didn't suggest a thing--I just told them the news, and they thought of everything else all by themselves. The only thing I thought of was using your farm so that it would really pay you." "Now that you've told us how, it seems so easy that I wonder I never thought of it myself." "Well, lots and lots of farmers just waste their land and themselves, Mrs. Pratt. You're not the only one. My father has a farm, and in his section he's done his level best to make the regular farmers see that there are new ways of farming, just as there are new ways of doing everything else." "That's what my poor husband always said. He had all sorts of new-fangled ideas, as I used to call them. Maybe he was right, too. But he didn't have money enough to try them and see how they'd do, though we always made a good living off this place." "Well, the advantage of my idea is that you don't need much money to give it a trial, and if you don't succeed, you won't lose much." "I think we'd be pretty stupid if we didn't succeed, after the fine start you've given us, and the way you've told me what to do." "Well, I think so myself," said Eleanor, with a frank laugh. "And I know you're not stupid--not a bit of it! It's going to be hard work, but I'm sure you'll succeed. You'll be able to hire someone to do most of the work for you before long, I think, and then you'll have to have a rest, and come down to visit me in the city." "Well, well, I do hope so, Miss Mercer! I ain't been in the city since I don't know when. Tom--my husband--took me once, but that was years and years ago, and I expect there's been a lot of changes since then." "I'm going to keep an eye on you, Mrs. Pratt. And I feel as if I were a sort of partner in this business, so if you don't make as much money as I think you ought to, why, you'll hear from me. I can promise you that! Girls, we'll sleep in the lean-to to-night, and in the morning we'll be off, bright and early." "Oh," said Mrs. Pratt, "have you really got to go? And you'll not sleep out to-night! You'll take the house, and we'll be the ones to sleep outside." "Nonsense, Mrs. Pratt! Who should be the ones to sleep in this fine new house the first night but you? We love to sleep in the open air, really we do! It's no hardship, I can tell you." And, despite all of Mrs. Pratt's protests, it was so arranged. "I'll hate to go away from here--really I will!" said Dolly, to Bessie. "It's been perfectly fine, helping these people. And I feel as if we'd really done something." "Well, we certainly have, Dolly," said Bessie. "I do hope that butter and egg business will do well." "I _know_ it's going to do well," said Eleanor, who had overheard. "And one reason is that you girls are going to help. Now we must all get to sleep, or we'll never get started in the morning. I think we'll have to ride part of the way to the seashore in the train, after all. We don't want to be too late in getting there, you know." And in a few minutes silence reigned over the place. It was a picture of peace and content--a vast contrast to the scene of the previous night, when desolation and gloom seemed to dominate everything. Parting in the morning brought tears alike to the eyes of those who stayed behind and those who were going on. The experience of the last two days had brought the Pratts and the girls of the Camp Fire very close together, and the Pratt children--the younger ones at least--wept and refused to be comforted when they learned that their new friends were going away. "Cheer up," said Eleanor. "We'll see you again, you know. Maybe we'll all come up next summer. And we've had a good time, haven't we?" "We certainly have!" said Mrs. Pratt, and there was sincerity, as well as pleasure, in her tone. "I've often heard that good came out of evil, and joy out of sorrow, but I never had any such reason to believe it before this!" Before the final parting, Eleanor had shown Mrs. Pratt exactly what she meant about the new way in which the butter was to be made. "Of course, as your business grows, you will want to get better machinery," she had said. "That will make the work much easier, and you will be able to do it more quickly too, and with less help than if you stuck to the old-fashioned way." "I'm going to take your advice in everything about running this farm, Miss Mercer," Mrs. Pratt had replied. "You've certainly shown that you know what you're talking about so far." "Take a trip down to my father's farm some time, Mrs. Pratt, and they'll be glad to show you everything they have there, I know. My father is very anxious for all the farmers in his neighborhood to profit by any help they can get. The only trouble is that a good many of them seem to feel that he is interfering with them." "Well, if they're as stupid as that, it serves them right to keep on losing money, Miss Mercer." "But it's natural, after all. You see they've run their farms their own way all their lives, and it's the way they learned from their fathers. So it isn't very strange that they're apt to feel that they know more, from all that practice and experiment, than city people who are farming scientifically." "Does your father enjoy farming?" "He says he does--and it's a curious thing that he makes that farm pay its way, even allowing for a whole lot of things he does that aren't really necessary. That's what proves, you see, that his theories are right--they pay. "Of course, he could afford to lose money on it, and you can't make a whole lot of those farmers in our neighborhood believe that he doesn't. So now he is having the books of the farm fixed up so that any of the farmers around can see them, and find out for themselves how things are run." Tired as the girls of the Camp Fire had been, the night before, they were wonderfully refreshed by their night's sleep. The weather was much more pleasant than it had been, and a brisk wind had driven off much of the smoke that still remained when they reached the Pratt farm as a reminder of the scourge of fire. So the conditions for walking were good, and Eleanor Mercer set a round, swinging pace as they started off. "I'll really be glad to get out of this burned district. It's awfully gloomy, isn't it, Bessie?" said Dolly. "Yes, especially when you realize what it means to the people who live in the path of the fire," answered Bessie. "Seeing the Pratts as they were when we came up has given me an altogether new idea of these forest fires." "Yes. That's what I mean. It's bad enough to see the forest ruined, but when you think of the houses, and all the other things that are burned, too, why, it seems particularly dreadful." "Tom Pratt told me that a whole lot of animals were caught in the fire, too--chipmunks, and squirrels, and deer. That seems dreadful." "Oh, what a shame! I should think they could manage to get away, Bessie. Don't you suppose they try?" "Oh, yes, but you see they can't reason the way human beings do, and a lot of these fires burn around in a circle, so that while they were running away from one part of the fire they might very easily be heading straight for another, and get caught right between two fires." Soon, however, they passed a section where the land had been cleared of trees for a space of nearly a mile, and, once they had travelled through it, they came to the deep green woods again, where no marring traces of the fire spoiled the beauty of their trip. "Ah, don't the woods smell good!" said Dolly. "So much nicer than that old smoky smell! I never smelt anything like that! It got so that everything I ate tasted of smoke. I'm certainly glad to get to where the fire didn't come." Now the ground began to rise, and before long they found themselves in the beginning of Indian Gap. The ground rose gradually, and when they stopped for their midday meal, in a wild part of the gap, none of the girls were feeling more than normally and healthfully tired. "Do many people come through here, Miss Eleanor?" asked Margery. "At certain times, yes. But, you, see, the forest fires have probably made a lot of people who intended to take this trip change their minds. In a way it's a good thing, because we will be sure to find plenty of room at the Gap House. That's where we are to spend the night. Sometimes when there's a lot of travel, it's very crowded there, and uncomfortable." "Is it a regular hotel?" "No, it's just a place for people to sleep. It's where the trail starts up Mount Sherman, and it's the station of the railroad that runs to the top of the mountain, too, for people who are too lazy to climb. There's a gorgeous view there in the mornings, when the sun rises. You can see clear to the sea." "Oh, can't we stop and see that?" "We haven't time to climb the mountain. If you want to go up on the incline railway, though, we can manage it. You get up at three o'clock in the morning, and get to the top while it's still dark, so that you can see the very beginning of the sunrise." There was not a dissenting voice to the plan to make the trip, and it was decided to take the little extra time that would be required. "After all," said Eleanor, "we can get such an early start afterward that it won't take very much time. And to-morrow we'll finish our tramp through the gap, and stop at Windsor for the night. Then the next day we'll take the train straight through to the seashore. I think really we'll have more fun, and get more good out of it if we spend the time there than if we go through with our original plan of doing more walking before getting on the train." "Yes. We've lost quite a little time already, haven't we?" said Margery. "Two whole days at Lake Dean, and two days more staying with the Pratts," said Eleanor. "That's four days, and one can walk quite a long distance in four days if one sets one's mind and one's feet to it." "Well, we certainly couldn't help the delay," said Margery. "At Lake Dean the fire held us--and I wouldn't think very much of any crowd that could see the trouble those poor people were in and not stay to help them." They slept well in the early part of that night in the rough quarters at the Gap House, and, while it was still dark, they were routed out to catch the funicular railway on its first trip of the day up Mount Sherman. At first, when they were at the top of the mountain, there was nothing to be seen. But soon the sky in the east began to lighten and grow pink, then the fog that lay below them began to melt away, and, as the sun rose, they saw the full wonder of the spectacle. "I never saw anything so beautiful in all my life!" exclaimed Bessie with a sigh of delight. "See how it seems to gild everything as the light rises, Dolly!" "Yes, and you can see the sea, way off in the distance! How tiny all the towns and villages look from here! It's just like looking at a map, isn't it?" "Well, it was certainly worth getting up in the middle of the night to see it, Bessie. And I do love to sleep, too!" "I'd stay up all night to see this, any time. I never even dreamed of anything so lovely." "We were very fortunate," said Eleanor, with a smile. "I've been up here when the fog was so thick that you couldn't see a thing, and only knew the sun had risen because it got a little lighter. I've known it to be that way for a week at a time, and some people would stay, and come up here morning after morning, and be disappointed each time!" "That's awfully mean," said Dolly. "I suppose, though, if they had never seen it, they wouldn't mind so much, because they wouldn't know what they were missing." "They never seemed very happy about it, though," laughed Eleanor. "Well, it's time to go down again, and be off for Windsor. And then to-morrow morning we'll be off for the seashore. We're to camp there, right on the beach, instead of living in a house. That will be much better, I think." CHAPTER IX A STARTLING DISCOVERY "Bessie, why are you looking so glum?" asked Dolly, as they started on the last part of their walk, taking the Windsor road. "Am I? I didn't realize I was, Dolly. But--well, I suppose it's because I'm rather sorry we're leaving the mountains." "I think the seashore is every bit as nice as the mountains. There are ever so many things to do, and I know you'll like Plum Beach, where we're going. It's the dandiest place--" "It couldn't be as nice as this, Dolly." "Oh, that seems funny to me, Bessie. I've always loved the seashore, ever since I can remember. And, of course, since I've learned to swim, I've enjoyed it even more than I used to." "You can't swim much in the sea, can you? Isn't the surf too heavy?" "The surf's good fun, even if you don't do any swimming in it, Bessie. It picks you up and throws you around, and it's splendid sport. But down at Plum Beach you can have either still water or surf. You see, there's a beach and a big cove--and on that beach the water is perfectly calm, unless there's a tremendous storm, and we're not likely to run into one of those." "How is that, Dolly? I thought there was always surf at the seashore." "There's a sand bar outside the cove, and it's grown so that it really makes another beach, outside. And on that there is real surf. So we can have whichever sort of bathing we like best, or both kinds on the same day, if we want." "Maybe I'll like it better when I see it, then. Because I do love to swim, and I don't believe I'd enjoy just letting the surf bang me around." "Why, Bessie, you say you may like it better when you see it? Haven't you ever been to the seashore?" "I certainly never have, Dolly! You seem to forget that I've spent all the time I can remember in Hedgeville." "I do forget it, all the time. And do you know why? It's because you seem to know such an awful lot about other places and things you never saw there. I suppose they made you read books." "Made me! That was one of the things Maw Hoover used to get mad at me for doing. Whenever she saw me reading a book it seemed to make her mad, and she'd say I was loafing, and find something for me to do, even if I'd hurried through all the chores I had so that I could get at the book sooner." "Then you used to like to read?" "Oh, yes, I always did. The Sunday School had a sort of library, and I used to be able to get books from there. I love to read, and you would, too, Dolly, if you only knew how much fun you have out of books." Dolly made a face. "Not the sort of books my Aunt Mabel wants me to read," she said decidedly. "Stupid old things they are! It's just like going to school all over again. I get enough studying at school, thanks!" "But you like to know about people and places you've never seen, don't you?" "Yes, but all the books I've ever seen that tell you about things like that are just like geographies. They give you a lot of things you have to remember, and there's no fun to that." "You haven't read the right sort of books, that's all that's the matter with you, Dolly. I tell you what--when we get back to the city, we'll get hold of some good books, and take turns reading them aloud to one another. I think that would be good fun." "Well, maybe if they taught me as much as you seem to know about places you've never seen I wouldn't mind reading them. Anyhow, books or no books, you're going to love the seashore. Oh, it is such a delightful place--Plum Beach." "Tell me about it, Dolly." "Well, in the first place, it isn't a regular seaside place at all. I mean there aren't any hotels and boardwalks and things like that. It's about ten miles from Bay City, and there they do have everything like that. But Plum Beach is just wild, the way it always has been. And I don't see why, because it's the best beach I ever saw--ever so much finer than at Bay City." "I'll like the beach." "Yes, I know you will. And because it's sort of wild and desolate, and off by itself that way, you can have the best time there you ever dreamed of. Last year we put on our bathing suits when we got up, and kept them on all day. You go in the water, you see, and then, if you lie down on the beach for half an hour, you're dry. The sun shines right down on the sand, and it's as warm as it can be." "I suppose that's why you like it so much--because you don't have the trouble of dressing and undressing." "It's one reason," said Dolly, who never pretended about anything, and was perfectly willing to admit that she was lazy. "But it's nice to have the beach to yourselves, too, the way we do. You see, when we get there we'll find tents all set up and ready for us." "Is there any fishing?" Dolly smacked her lips. "You bet there is!" she said. "Best sea bass you ever tasted, and about all you can catch, too! And it tastes delicious, because the fish down there get cooked almost as soon as they're caught. And there are lobsters and crabs--and it's good fun to go crabbing. Then at low tide we dig for clams, and they're good, too--I'll bet you never dreamed how good a clam could be!" "How about the other things--milk, and eggs, and all those?" "Oh, that's easy! There are a lot of farms a little way inland, and we get all sorts of fine things from them." "I wonder if Mr. Holmes will try to play any tricks on us down there, Dolly. He has about everywhere we've been since Zara and I joined the Camp Fire Girls, you know." "I'm hoping he won't find out, Bessie. That would be fine. I certainly would like to know why he is so anxious to get hold of you and Zara. I bet it's money, and that there's some secret about you." "Money? Why, he's got more than he can spend now! Even if there is a secret, I don't see how money can have anything to do with it." "Well, you remember this, Bessie: the more money people have, the more they seem to want. They're never content. It's the people who only have a little who seem to be happy, and willing to get along with what they have. How about your old Farmer Weeks?" "That's so, Dolly. He certainly was that way. He had more money than anyone in Hedgeville or anywhere near it, and yet he was the stingiest, closest fisted old man in town." "There you are!" "Still I think Mr. Holmes must be a whole lot richer than Farmer Weeks, or than all the other people in Hedgeville put together. And it doesn't seem as if there was any money he could make out of Zara or me that would tempt him to do what he's done." "Do you know what I've noticed most, Bessie, about the way he's gone to work?" "No. What?" "The way he has spent money. He's acted as if he didn't care a bit how much it cost him, if only he got what he wanted. And people in the city never spend money unless they expect to get it back." "Who's the detective now? You called me one a little while ago, but it seems to me that you're doing pretty well in that line yourself." "Oh, it's all right to laugh, but, just the same, I'll bet that when we get at the bottom of all this mystery, we'll find that the chief reason Mr. Holmes was in it was that he wanted to get hold of some information that would make it easy for him to get a whole lot more than it cost him." "Well, maybe you're right, Dolly. But I'd certainly like to know just what he has got up his sleeve." "I think he'll be careful for a little while now, Bessie. He never knew that Miss Eleanor had that letter he'd written to the gypsy. And it must have damaged him a lot to have as much come out about that as did." "I expect a lot of people who heard it didn't believe it." "Even if that's so, I guess there were plenty who did believe it, and who think now that Mr. Holmes is a pretty good man to leave alone. You see, that proved absolutely that he had really hired that gypsy to carry you off, and that is a pretty mean thing to do. And people must know by this time that if there was any legal way of getting you and Zara away from the Camp Fire and Miss Mercer, he would do it." "But he didn't get into any trouble for doing it, Dolly." "He's got so much money that he could hire lawyers to get him out of almost any scrape he got in, Bessie. That's the trouble. Those people at Hamilton were afraid of him. They know how rich he is, and they didn't want to take any chance of making him angry at them." "Yes, that's just it. And I'm afraid he's got so much money that a whole lot of people who would say what they really thought if they weren't afraid of him, are on his side. You see, he says that I'm a runaway, just because I didn't stay any longer with the Hoovers. And probably he can make a whole lot of people think that I was very ungrateful, and that he is quite right in trying to get me back into the same state as Hedgeville." "They'd better talk to Miss Eleanor, if he makes them think that. They'll soon find out which is right and which is wrong in that business. And if she doesn't tell them, I guess Mr. Jamieson will--and he'd be glad of the chance, too!" "Let's not worry about him, anyhow. I hope he won't find out where we are, too. We haven't seen or heard anything of him since we went back to Long Lake from Hamilton, so I don't see why there isn't a good chance of his letting us alone for a while now." They reached Windsor, the little town at the other end of Indian Gap, late in the afternoon, having cooked their midday meal in the gap. "I know the people in a big boarding-house here," said Eleanor, "and we'll be very comfortable. In the morning we'll take an early train, so that we can get to Plum Beach before it's too late to get comfortably settled. I've sent word on ahead to have the tents ready for us, but, even so, there will be a good many things to do." "There always are," sighed Dolly. "That's the one thing I don't like about camping out." "I expect really, if you only knew the truth, Dolly, it's the one thing you like best of all," smiled Eleanor. "That's one of the great differences between being at home, where everything is done for you, and camping out, where you have to look after yourself." "Well, I don't like work, anyhow, and I don't believe I ever shall, Miss Eleanor, no matter what it's called. Some of it isn't as bad as some other kinds, that's all." Eleanor laughed to herself, because she knew Dolly well enough not to take such declarations too seriously. "I've got some work for you to-night," she said. "I want you and Bessie to go to a meeting of the girls that belong to one of the churches here, and tell them about the Camp Fire. They found out we were coming, and they would like to know if they can't start a Camp Fire of their own. "And I think they'll get a better idea of things, and be less timid and shy about asking questions if two of you girls go than if I try to explain. I will come in later, after they've had a chance to talk to you two, but by that time they ought to have a pretty clear idea." "That's not work, that's fun," declared Dolly. "I'm glad you think so, because you will be more likely to be successful." And so after supper Bessie and Dolly went, with two girls who called for them, to the Sunday School room of one of the Windsor churches, ready to do all they could to induce the local girls to form a Camp Fire of their own. And, being thoroughly enthusiastic, they soon fired the desire of the Windsor girls. "They won't have just one Camp Fire; they'll have two or three," predicted Dolly, when she and Bessie were walking back to the boarding-house later with Eleanor Mercer. "They asked plenty of questions, all right. Nothing shy about them, was there, Bessie?" Bessie laughed. "Not if asking questions proves people aren't shy," she admitted. "I thought they'd never stop thinking of things to ask." "That's splendid," said Eleanor. "The Camp Fire is the best thing these girls could have. It will do them a great deal of good, and I was sure that the way to make them see how much they would enjoy it was to let them understand how enthusiastic you two were. That meant more to them than anything I could have said, I'm sure." "I don't see why," said Dolly. "Because they're girls like you, Dolly, and it's what you like, and show you like, that would appeal to them. I'm older, you see, and they might think that things that I would expect them to like wouldn't really please them at all." "What's the matter with you, Bessie?" asked Dolly suddenly, as they reached the house. She was plainly concerned and surprised, and Eleanor, rather startled, since she had seen nothing in Bessie to provoke such a question, looked at her keenly. "Nothing, except that I'm a little tired, I think." But Dolly wasn't satisfied. She knew her chum too well. "You've got something on your mind, but you don't want to worry us," she said. "Better own up, Bessie!" Bessie, however, would not answer. And in the morning she seemed to be her old self. Just as they were starting for the train, though, Bessie suddenly hung back at the door of the boarding-house. "Wait for me a minute, Dolly," she said. "I left a handkerchief in our room. I'll be right down. Go on, the rest of you; we'll soon catch up." She ran upstairs for the handkerchief. "I left it behind on purpose, Dolly," she explained, when she came down. "I wanted them to go ahead. Ah, look!" As they went along, with most of the girls fully a hundred yards ahead of them, a lurking figure was plainly to be seen following the girls. "It's Jake Hoover!" said Dolly excitedly. "I thought I saw him last night. That was why you thought something was wrong, Dolly," said Bessie. "But I wanted to make sure before I said anything." "That means trouble," said Dolly. CHAPTER X A MEETING--AND A CONVERSION "Trouble--he's always meant that every time we've seen him!" said Bessie bitterly. "How do you suppose he has managed to be away from home so much, Bessie?" "I don't know, Dolly, but I'm afraid he's got into some sort of trouble. I'm quite sure that Mr. Holmes and that lawyer, Mr. Brack, have got something against him--that they know something he's afraid they will tell." "Say, I'll bet you're right! You know, he must be an awful coward--and yet, the way he goes after you, he takes a lot of chances, doesn't he? It does look as if, no matter how much it may frighten him to do what he does, he's still more afraid not to do it." "Look out--get behind this tree! I don't want him to see us here if we can help it. It would be better if he thought he hadn't been noticed at all, don't you think?" "Yes. And it's a very good thing we saw him, Bessie. Now we know that we must look out for squalls at Plum Beach, and they don't know we're warned at all. So maybe it will be easier to beat them." "Look here, Dolly, isn't there another train to Plum Beach? A later one, that would get us there an hour or so after the other girls, if they go on this one?" "There certainly is, Bessie; but how can we wait for it? Miss Eleanor would be worried." "Oh, we'll have to let her know what we're going to do, of course. How soon does that train go?" "Not for half an hour yet. Miss Mercer wanted to be at the station very early so that all the baggage would surely be checked in time to go on the same train with us." "Well, that makes it easy, Dolly. I tell you what. I'll stay here, and follow very slowly, when Jake gets out of sight, so that he won't see me. And if you go right across the street, and cut across the lots there, you can get to the railroad station from the other side." "I know the way--I saw that last night, though not because I expected to do it." "All right, then. You take that way, and get hold of Miss Eleanor quietly. Better not let the others hear what you're saying, and keep your eyes open for Jake, too. But I don't believe he'll show himself in the station." "Do you think she'll let us do it?" "I don't see why not. We'll be perfectly safe. I'm sure Jake is here alone, and he wouldn't dare try to do anything to stop us here. He knows that he'd get into trouble if he did, and I don't think he's very brave, even in this new fashion of his unless some of the people he's afraid of are right around to spur him on. You remember how Will Burns thrashed him? He didn't look very brave then, did he?" "I should say not! All right, I'll tell her and see what she says. Then I'll get back to the boarding-house. You'll go there, won't you?" "No, I don't think that would be a good idea at all. The best thing for you to do is to wait for me right there in the station. The ticket agent is a woman, and I'm sure she'll let you stay with her until I come, if you get Miss Eleanor to speak to her. Miss Eleanor knows all the people here, and they all like her, and would do anything she asked them to do, if they could. "And it's easier for me to get to the station without being seen than to the boarding-house. Besides, I think it's right around the station that we'll have the best chance of finding out what they mean to do." "All right! I'll obey orders," said Dolly. "You're right, too, I think, Bessie." Jake Hoover, creeping along, was out of sight when Dolly made a swift dash across the street, and in a minute she had disappeared. Bessie knew that Dolly's movements, always rapid, were likely to prove altogether too elusive for Jake's rather slow mind to follow, and, moreover, she was not much afraid of detection, even should Jake catch a glimpse of her chum. Jake was sure that all the Camp Fire Girls were in front of him; he would not, therefore, be looking in the rear for any of them, especially for those he wanted to track down. Bessie had the harder task. She had to keep herself from Jake's observation until after the train had gone, in any case, and as much longer as possible. As she had told Dolly, she was not very much afraid of anything he might attempt against them, but she saw no use in running any avoidable risks. Once Jake was out of sight, she made her way slowly toward the station, prepared to make an instant dash for cover should she see Jake returning. The one thing that was likely to cause him to come back toward her, she figured, was the presence of Holmes or one of the other men who were behind him in the conspiracy, and she was taking the chance, of course, that one of these men was behind her, and a spectator of her movements. But she could not avoid that. If one of them was there he was, that was all, and she felt that by acting as she had decided to do, she had, at all events, everything to gain and nothing to lose. The road from the boarding-house to the station was perfectly straight for about three-quarters of a mile, and parallel with the railroad tracks. Then, when the road came to a point opposite the station, it came also to a crossroad, and, about a hundred yards down this crossroad was the station itself. Bessie reached that point without anything to alarm her or upset her plans, and there she was lucky enough to find a big billboard at the corner, which happened to be a vacant lot. Behind this billboard she took shelter thankfully, feeling sure that it would enable her to see what Jake was doing without any danger of being discovered by him. As she had expected, Jake did not enter the station. She had no sooner taken up her position in the shelter of the billboard than she was able to single him out from the men who were lounging about, waiting for the train. His movements were still furtive and sly, and Bessie had to repress a shudder of disgust. Such work seemed to bring out everything small and mean and sly in Jake's nature, and Bessie's thoughts were full of sympathy for his father. After all, Paw Hoover had always been good to her, and when she and Zara had run away from Hedgeville, he had helped them instead of turning them back, as he might so easily have done. It seemed strange to Bessie that so good and kind a man should have such a worthless son. Twice, as Bessie looked, she saw Jake approach one of the windows of the station building furtively, but each time he was scared away from it before he had a chance to look in. "Trying to make sure that I'm in there, and afraid of being seen at his spying," decided Bessie. "That's great! If he doesn't see me, he'll just decide that I must be there anyhow, and take a chance. It's a good thing he's such a coward. But I wonder what he thinks we'd do to him, even if we did see him?" She laughed at the thought. Never having had a really guilty conscience herself, Bessie had no means of knowing what a torturing, weakening thing it is. She could not properly imagine Jake's mental state, in which everything that happened alarmed him. Having done wrong, he fancied all the time that he was about to be haled up, and made to pay for his wrongdoing. And that, of course, was the explanation of his actions, when, as a matter of fact, he could have walked with entire safety into the station and the midst of the Camp Fire Girls. Soon the whistle of the train that was to carry the Camp Fire Girls to Plum Beach was heard in the distance, and a minute later it roared into the station, stopped, and was off again. Seeing a great waving of handkerchiefs from the last car, Bessie guessed what they meant. Miss Eleanor had agreed to her plan, and this was the way the girls took of bidding her good-bye and good luck. As soon as the train had gone Jake rushed into the station, and Bessie walked boldly toward it, a new idea in her mind. She had made up her mind that to be afraid of Jake Hoover was a poor policy. If the guess she and Dolly had made concerning his relations with those who were persecuting her was correct, Jake must be a good deal more afraid of them, or of what he had done, than she could possibly be of him, and Bessie knew that there should be no great difficulty in dealing very much as she liked with a coward. Moreover, the presence of a policeman at the station gave her assurance that she need fear no physical danger from Jake, and she felt that was the only thing that need check her at all. When she reached the station she looked in the window first, and saw Jake standing by the ticket agent's window. The ticket agent was also the telegraph operator, and Bessie saw that she was writing something on a yellow telegraph blank. Evidently Jake was sending a message, and Bessie knew that, while he could read a very little, Jake had always been so stupid and so lazy that he had never learned to write properly. The sight made her smile, because, unless her plans had miscarried completely, Dolly was inside the little ticket office, and must be hearing every word of that message! So she waited until Jake, satisfied, turned from the window, and then she walked boldly in. For a minute Jake, who was looking out of one of the windows in front toward the track, did not see her at all. In that moment Bessie got in line with the ticket window and, seeing Dolly, waved to her to come out. Then she walked over to Jake, smiled at his amazed face as he turned to her, and saluted him cheerfully. "Hello, Jake Hoover," she said. "Were you looking for me?" Jake's face fell, and he stared at her in comical dismay. "Well, I snum!" he said. "How in tarnation did you come to git off that there train, hey?" "I never was on it, Jake," said Bessie, pleasantly. "You just thought I was, you see. You don't want to jump to a conclusion so quickly." Jake was petrified. When he saw Dolly come out of the ticket office, puzzled by Bessie's action, but entirely willing to back her up, his face turned white. "You're a pretty poor spy, Jake," said Dolly, contemptuously. "I guess Mr. Holmes won't be very pleased when he gets your message at Canton, telling him Bessie went on that train and then doesn't find her aboard at all." "What's that?" asked Bessie, suddenly. "Is that the message he sent, Dolly?" "It certainly is," said Dolly. "Why, what's the matter, Bessie?" But Bessie didn't answer her. Instead she had raced toward a big railroad map that hung on the wall of the station, and was looking for Canton on it. "I thought so!" she gasped. Then she ran over to the ticket window, and spoke to the agent. "If I send a telegram right now, can it be delivered to Miss Mercer, on that train that just went out, before she gets to Canton?" she asked. The agent looked at her time-table. "Oh, yes," she said, cheerfully. "That's easy. I'll send it right out for you, and it will reach her at Whitemarsh which is only twenty-five miles away." "Good!" said Bessie, and wrote out a long telegram. In a minute she returned to Jake and Dolly, and the sound of the ticking telegraph instrument filled the station with its chatter. "He wanted to run away, Bessie," said Dolly. "But I told him it wasn't polite to do that when a young lady wanted to talk to him, so he stayed. That was nice of him, wasn't it?" "Very," said Bessie, her tone as sarcastic as Dolly's own. "Now, look here, Jake, what have you done that makes you so afraid of Mr. Holmes and these other wicked men?" Jake's jaw fell again, but he was speechless. He just stared at her. "There's no use standing there like a dying calf, Jake Hoover!" said Bessie, angrily. "I know perfectly well you've been up to some dreadful mischief, and these men have told you that if you don't do just as they tell you they'll see that you're punished. Isn't that true?" "How--how in time did you ever find that out?" stammered Jake. "I've known you a long time, Jake Hoover," said Bessie, crisply. "And now tell me this. Haven't I always been willing to be your friend? Didn't I forgive you for all the mean things you did, and help you every way I could? Did I ever tell on you when you'd done anything wrong, and your father would have licked you?" Bessie's tone grew more kindly as she spoke to him, and Jake seemed to be astonished. He hung his head, and his look at her was sheepish. "No, I guess you're a pretty good sort, Bessie," he said. "Mebbe I've been pretty mean to you--" "It's about time you found it out!" said Dolly, furiously. "Oh, I'd like to--" "Let him alone, Dolly," said Bessie. "I'm running this. Now, Jake, look here. I want to be your friend. I'm very fond of your father, and I'd hate to see him have a lot of sorrow on your account. Don't you know that these men would sacrifice you and throw you over in a minute if they thought they couldn't get anything more out of you? Don't you see that they're just using you, and that when they've got all they can, they'll let you get into any sort of trouble, without lifting a finger to save you?" "Do you think they'd do that, Bessie? They promised--" "What are their promises worth, Jake? You ought to know them well enough to understand that they don't care what they do. If you're in trouble, I know someone who will help you. Mr. Jamieson, in the city." "He--why, he would like to get me into trouble--" "No, he wouldn't. And if I ask him to help you, I know he'll do it. He can do more for you than they can, too. You go to him, and tell him the whole story, and you'll find he will be a good friend, if you make up your mind to behave yourself after this. We'll forget all the things you've done, and you shall, too, and start over again. Don't you want to be friends, Jake?" "Sure--sure I do, Bessie!" said Jake, looking really repentant. "Do you mean you'd be willing--that you'd be friends with me, after all the mean things I've done to you?" Bessie held out her hand. "I certainly do, Jake," she said. "Now, you go to Mr. Jamieson, and tell him everything you know. Everything, do you hear? I can guess what this latest plot was, but you tell him all you know about it. And you'll find that they've told you a great many things that aren't so at all. Very likely they've just tried to frighten you into thinking you were in danger so that they could make you do what they wanted." "I'll do it, Bessie!" said Jake. CHAPTER XI A NARROW ESCAPE Despite Dolly's frantic curiosity, Bessie drew Jake aside where there was no danger of their being overheard by any of the others in the station, and talked to him earnestly for a long time. Jake seemed to have changed his whole attitude. He was plainly nervous and frightened, but Dolly could see that he was listening to Bessie with respect. And finally he threw up his head with a gesture entirely strange to him, and, when Bessie held out her hand, shook it happily. "Here's Mr. Jamieson's address," said Bessie, writing on a piece of paper which she handed to him. "Now you go straight to him, and do whatever he tells you. You'll be all right. How soon will you start?" "There's a train due right now," said Jake, excitedly. "I'll get aboard, and as soon as I get to town I'll do just as you say, Bessie. Good-bye." "Good-bye, Jake--and good luck!" said Bessie warmly. "We're going to be good friends, now." "Well, I never!" gasped Dolly. She stared at Jake's retreating form, and then back to Bessie, as if she were paralyzed with astonishment. "Whatever does this mean, Bessie? I should think you would be pretty hard up for friends before you'd make one of Jake Hoover!" "Jake's been more stupid than mean, Dolly. And he's found out that he's been wrong, I'm sure. From this time he's going to do a whole lot for us, unless I'm badly mistaken. I'm sure it's better to have him on our side than against us." "I'm not sure of anything of the sort, Bessie. But do tell me what happened. Why did you send that telegram to Miss Eleanor? And what was in it?" "I sent it because if I hadn't she would have walked right into a trap--she and Zara. Maybe it was too late, but I hope not. And our staying behind here was a mighty lucky thing. If we hadn't had some warning of what Mr. Holmes and the others were planning, I don't know what would have happened! Zara and I would have been caught, I'm quite sure." "Don't be so mysterious, Bessie," begged Dolly. "Tell me what you found out, can't you? I'm just as excited and interested as you are, and I should think you would know it, too." "You'll see it all soon enough, Dolly. Let's find out how soon the next train comes." "In twenty minutes," said the ticket agent, in answer to the question. "And is it a through train--an express?" asked Bessie. "Have you a time-table? I'd like to see just where it stops." She got the time-table, and, after she had examined it carefully, heaved a sigh of relief. "The train doesn't stop at any place that isn't marked down for it on the time-table, does it?" she said, as she bought the tickets. "No, indeed. That's a limited train, and it's almost always on time. They wouldn't stop that except at the regular places for anyone." "That's all right, then," said Bessie. "Dolly, can't you see the point yet for yourself? Go and look at the map, and if you can't see then, why, I'm not going to tell you! If you're as stupid as all that, you deserve to wait!" Bessie laughed, but Dolly understood that the laugh was not one of amusement alone, but that Bessie was undergoing a reaction after some strain that had worried her more than she was willing to admit or to show. "I guess I'm stupid all right," she said, after she had looked at the map. "I don't know what you're driving at, but I suppose you do, and that makes it all right. I'm willing to do whatever you say, but I do like to know why and how things like that are necessary. And I don't think I'm unreasonable, either." "You're not," said Bessie, suddenly contrite. "But, Dolly dear, I don't want everyone here to know all about us, and the things that are happening to us. You won't mind waiting a little for an explanation, will you?" "Not when you ask that way," said Dolly, loyally. "But I don't like to have you act as if it were stupid of me not to be able to guess what it is. You wouldn't have known yourself, would you, if Jake Hoover hadn't told you when you two were whispering together?" "I knew it before that. That's one reason I was able to make Jake tell me what he did, Dolly. I suppose you don't like my making up with him, either, do you?" "Oh, no, I don't like it. But that doesn't make any difference. I daresay you've got some very good reason." "I certainly have, Dolly, and you shall know it soon, too. Listen, there's our train whistling now! We'll start in a minute or two." "Well, that's good. I hate mysteries. Do you know, Bessie, that if this train only makes one or two stops, we shall be at Plum Beach very soon after Miss Eleanor and the other girls get there?" "I'm glad of it, Dolly. Tell me, there isn't any station at Plum Beach, is there?" "No, we'll go to Bay City, and then go back on another train to a little station called Green Cove, and that's within a mile of the beach. It's on a branch railroad that runs along the coast from Bay City." Then the train came along, and they climbed aboard, happy in having outwitted the enemies of Bessie and Zara. Dolly did not share Bessie's enthusiasm over the conversion of Jake Hoover, though. "I don't trust him, Bessie," she said. "He may have really meant to turn around and be friends with us, but I don't think he can stick to a promise. I don't know that he means to break them, but he just seems to be helpless. You think he's afraid of Mr. Holmes and those men, don't you?" "Yes, and he as good as admitted it, too, Dolly." "Well, what I'm afraid of is that he will see them again, and that he'll do whatever the people he happens to be with tell him." "I suppose we've got to take that much of a chance, Dolly. We really haven't much choice. My, how this train does go!" "Why are you looking at your map and your time-table so carefully, Bessie?" "I want to be sure to know when we're getting near Canton, Dolly. When we do, you must keep your eyes open. You'll see something there that may explain a whole lot of things to you, and make you understand how silly you were not to see through this plot." Canton was a town of considerable size, and, though the train did not stop there, it slowed down, and ran through the streets and the station at greatly reduced speed. And as the car in which they were sitting went through the station Bessie clutched Dolly's arm, and spoke in her ear. "Look!" she said. "There on the platform! Did you ever see those men before?" Dolly gave a startled cry as her eyes followed Bessie's pointing finger. "Mr. Holmes!" she exclaimed. "And that's that little lawyer, Mr. Brack. And the old man with the whiskers--" "Is Farmer Weeks, of course! Do you see the fourth man standing with them? See how he pushes his coat back! He's a constable and he's so proud of it he wants everyone to see his badge!" "Bessie! Do you mean they were waiting here for you?" "For me and Zara, Dolly! If I had been on a train that stopped here--but I wasn't! And I guess Miss Eleanor must have got my telegram in time to hide Zara so that they didn't find her on the other train, too, or else we'd see something of her." Dolly laughed happily. Then she did a reckless thing, showing herself at the window, and shaking her fist defiantly as the car, with rapidly gathering speed, passed the disconsolate group on the station platform. Holmes was the first to see her, and his face darkened with a swift scowl. Then he caught sight of Bessie, and, seizing Brack's arm, pointed the two girls out to him, too. But there was nothing whatever to be done. The train, after slowing down, was already beginning to move fast again, and there was no way in which it could be stopped, or in which the group of angry men on the platform could board it. They could only stand in powerless rage, and look after it. Bessie and Dolly, of course, could not hear the furious comments that Holmes was making as he turned angrily to old Weeks. But they could make a guess, and Dolly turned an elfin face, full of mischievous delight, to Bessie. "That's one time they got fooled," she exclaimed. "I'm sorry they found out we were on this train, though," said Bessie, gravely. "It means that we'll have trouble with them after we get to Plum Beach, I'm afraid." "Who cares?" said Dolly. "If they can't do any better there than they've done so far on this trip, we needn't worry much, I guess." "Well, do you see what they were up to, now, Dolly?" Dolly wrinkled her brows. "I guess so," she said. "They meant to come aboard the train at Canton and try to get hold of you and Zara. But I don't see why--" "Why they should pick out Canton rather than any other station where the trains stop along the line?" "That's just it, Bessie. Why should they?" "That's the whole point, Dolly. Look at this map. Do you see the state boundaries? For just a little way this line is in the state Canton is in--and Canton is in the same state as Hedgeville!" "Oh!" gasped Dolly. "You were right, Bessie, I _was stupid_! I might have thought of that! That's why they had Jake there, and what his telegram was. But how clever of you to think of it! How did you ever guess it?" "I just happened to think that if we did go into that state, it would be easy for them to get hold of Zara and me, if they only knew about it beforehand. Because, you see, in that state Farmer Weeks is legal guardian for both of us, and he could make us come with him if he caught us there." "Well, I think it was mighty clever of you. Of course, when you had the idea, it was easy to see it, once you had the map so that you could make sure. But I never would have thought of it, so I couldn't have looked it up to make sure, because I wouldn't have thought there was anything to look up." "What I'm wondering," said Bessie, "is what Miss Eleanor did to keep them from getting Zara. If you ask me, that's the really clever thing that's been done to-day. I was dreadfully frightened when I decided that was what they were up to." "Well, your telegram helped," said Dolly. "If it hadn't been for that, they'd have been taken completely by surprise. Just imagine how they would have felt, if they'd looked up when their train stopped at Canton, and had seen Farmer Weeks coming down the aisle." "It would have been dreadful, wouldn't it, Bessie? Do you know, Miss Eleanor wasn't a bit anxious to have us stay behind? She was afraid something would happen, I believe. But it's certainly a good thing that you thought of doing it, and had your way." "I was afraid they'd try to play some sort of a trick, Dolly. That's why I wanted to wait. I couldn't tell what it would be, but I knew that if Jake was there it wouldn't do any harm to watch him and see what he did. I didn't expect to get him on our side, though. Before I talked to him, of course, I was really only guessing, but he told me all he knew about the plan. They hadn't told him everything, but with what I had guessed it was enough." "No one trusts him, you see, Bessie. It's just as I said." "Well, do you know, I shouldn't wonder if that was one reason for his being so untrustworthy, Dolly. Maybe if he finds that we are going to trust him, it will change him, and make him act very differently." "I certainly hope so, Bessie, but I'm afraid of him. I'm afraid that they will find out what we've done, and try to use him to trick us, now that we think he's on our side." "We'll have to look out for that, Dolly, of course. But I don't believe he's as black as he's painted. He must have some good qualities. Perhaps they'll begin to come out now." At Bay City, where they arrived comparatively early in the afternoon, they had a surprise, for Miss Eleanor and all the girls were at the station to meet them, including Zara, who looked nervous and frightened. "Oh, I'm so glad you've come here safely, Bessie," said Eleanor, flinging her arms about Bessie's neck. "Your train came right through, didn't it?" "Yes, and we saw Mr. Holmes and the rest of them on the platform at Canton," said Bessie, laughing. "Did they get aboard your train?" "Did they?" cried Eleanor. "They most certainly did, and when they couldn't find either you or Zara, they were so angry that I was afraid they were going to burst! I don't believe I ever saw men so dreadfully disappointed in my life." "How did you manage to hide Zara?" "That was awfully funny, Bessie. I found some friends of mine were on the train, travelling in a private car. As soon as I got your telegram, I went back to see them. They had a boy with them, who is just about Zara's size. So Zara dressed up in a suit of his clothes, and she was sitting in their car, with him, when they came aboard to look for her." "Did they look in that car?" "Yes. They had a warrant, or something, so they had a right to go everywhere on the train--and they did!" "I should think the people who didn't have anything to do with us must have been furious." "Oh, they were, but it didn't do them any good. They searched through the whole train, but Zara looked so different in boy's clothes that they never even seemed to suspect her at all. She kept perfectly still, you see, and after they had held us up for nearly an hour, we came on." "Oh, how mad they must have been!" "You ought to have seen them! It made us very late getting here, of course, and we missed the train we were to take to Green Cove. But I think we would have waited here, anyhow, until you came. I was very anxious about you, Bessie. What a clever trick that was! If it hadn't been for you, we would have been caught without a chance to do anything at all." "Bessie's made friends with Jake Hoover, too," said Dolly, disgustedly. "Tell Miss Eleanor about that, Bessie." "You did exactly the right thing," said Eleanor, when she had heard the story, much to Dolly's disgust. "I agree with Dolly that we will have to look out for him, just the same, but there is a chance that he may do what he promised. Anyhow, there's a lot to gain and very little to lose." CHAPTER XII PLUM BEACH On the way to Plum Beach, on the little branch line that carried the girls from Bay City to Green Cove, Eleanor was very thoughtful, and Bessie and Dolly were kept busy in telling the other girls of their experiences. They wanted to hear from Zara, too, just how she had escaped. "I don't see how you kept your face straight," said Dolly. "I know I would have burst right out laughing, Zara." "You wouldn't think so if you knew Farmer Weeks," said Zara, making a wry face. "I can tell you I didn't want to laugh, Dolly. Why, he was within a few feet of me, and looking straight at me! I was sure he'd guess that it was I." "He always looks at everyone that way--just as if they owed him money," said Bessie. "Nasty old man! I don't blame you for being nervous, Zara." "Oh, neither do I," said Dolly. "But it was funny to think of his being so near you and having no idea of it. That's what would have made me laugh." "It seems funny enough, now," admitted Zara, with a smile. "But, you see, I was perfectly certain that he did have a very good idea of where I was. I was expecting him to take hold of me any moment, and tell the constable to take me off the train." "I wonder how long this sort of thing is going to keep up," said Margery Burton, angrily. "Until you two girls are twenty-one?" "I hope not," laughed Bessie, and then she went on, more seriously, "I really do think that if Jake Hoover sticks to what he said, and takes our side, Mr. Jamieson is likely to find out something that will give him a chance to settle matters. You see, we've been fighting in the dark so far." "I don't see that we've been fighting at all, yet," said Margery. "They keep on trying to do something, and we manage to keep them from doing it. That's not my idea of a fight. I wish we could do some of the hitting ourselves." "So do I, Margery. And that's just what I think we may be able to do now, if we have Jake on our side. He must know something about what they've been doing. They couldn't keep him from finding out, it seems to me." "But will he tell? That seems to be the question." "Yes, that's it, exactly. Well, if he does, then we'll know why they're doing all this. You see, Mr. Jamieson can't figure on what they're going to do next, or how to beat them at their own game, simply because he doesn't know what their game is. They know just what they want to do, while we haven't any idea, except that they're anxious to have Zara and myself back where Farmer Weeks can do as he likes with us." "Well, it would be fine to be able to beat them, Bessie, but right now I'm more worried about what they will try to do next. This is a pretty lonely place we're going to, and they're so bold that there's no telling what they may try next." "That's so--and they know we're coming here, too. Jake told them that." "They would probably have found it out anyhow," said Dolly. "And there's one thing--he didn't try to warn them that you knew about what they meant to do at Canton, Bessie." "No, he didn't. And he could have done it very easily, too. Oh, I think we can count on Jake now, all right. He's pretty badly frightened, and he's worried about himself. He'll stick to the side that seems the most likely to help him. All I hope is that he will go to see Mr. Jamieson." "Do you think he will?" "Why not? Even if they get hold of him again, I think there will be time enough for him to see Mr. Jamieson first. And I've got an idea that Mr. Jamieson will be able to scare him pretty badly." "All out for Green Cove," called the conductor just then, appearing in the doorway, and there was a rush for the end of the car. "Well, here we are," said Eleanor. "This isn't much of a city, is it?" It was not. Two or three bungalows and seashore cottages were in sight, but most of the traffic for the Green Cove station came from scattered settlements along the coast. It was a region where people liked to live alone, and they were willing to be some distance from the railroad to secure the isolation that appealed to them. A little pier poked its nose out into the waters of the cove, and beside this pier was a gasoline launch, battered and worn, but amply able, as was soon proved, to carry all the girls and their belongings at a single load. "Thought you wasn't coming," said the old sailor who owned the launch, as he helped them to get settled aboard. "We missed the first connecting train and had to wait, Mr. Salters," said Eleanor. "I hope you didn't sell the fish and clams you promised us to someone else?" "No, indeed," said old Salters. "They're waitin' for you at the camp, ma'am, and I fixed up the place, too, all shipshape. The tents is all ready, though why anyone should sleep in such contraptions when they can have a comfortable house is more'n I can guess." "Each to his taste, you know," laughed Eleanor. "I suppose we'll be able to get you to take us out in the launch sometimes while we're here?" "Right, ma'am! As often as you like," he answered. "My old boat here ain't fashionable enough for some of the folk, but she's seaworthy, and she won't get stuck a mile an' a half from nowhere, the way Harry Semmes and that new fangled boat of his done the other day when he had a load of young ladies aboard." He chuckled at the recollection. But while he had been talking he had not been idle, and the _Sally S._, as his launch was called, had been making slow but steady progress until she was outside the cove and headed north. Soon, too, he ran her inside the protecting spot of land of which Dolly had spoken to Bessie, and they were in such smooth water that, even had any of them had any tendency toward seasickness, there would have been no excuse for it. In half an hour he stopped the engine, and cast his anchor overboard. He wore no shoes and stockings, and now, rolling up his trousers, he jumped overboard. "Hand me the dunnage first," he said. "I'll get that ashore, and then I'll take the rest of you, one at a time." "Indeed you won't," laughed Eleanor. "We're not afraid of getting our feet wet. Come on, girls, it's only two feet deep! Roll up your skirts and take off your shoes and stockings, and we'll wade ashore." She set the example, and in a very short time they were all safely ashore, with much laughter at the splashing that was involved. "Mr. Salters could run the _Sally S._ ashore, but it would be a lot of trouble to get her afloat again, and this is the way we always do here. It's lots of fun really," Eleanor explained. Soon they were all ashore, and inspecting the camp which had been laid out in preparation for them. "Real army tents, with regular floors and cots, these are," said Eleanor. "Sleeping on the ground wouldn't be very wise here. And there's no use taking chances. I'm responsible to the mothers and fathers of all you girls, after all, and I'm bound to see that you go home better than when you started, instead of worse." "I think they're fine," said Margery. "Oh, I do love the seashore! How long shall we stay, Miss Eleanor?" "I don't know," said the Guardian, a shade of doubt darkening her eyes. "You know, Margery"--she spoke in a low tone--"that seems to depend partly on things we can't really control. There seems to me to be something really quite desperate about the way Mr. Holmes and his friends are going for Bessie and Zara. "Maybe they will make trouble for us here. It is rather isolated, you know, and I can't help remembering that we're on the coast, and that a few miles away the coast is that of Bessie's state--the state she mustn't be in." "That's so," said Margery, gravely. "You mean that if they managed to get hold of Bessie or Zara, and took them out to sea and then landed them in that state they'd be able to hold them there?" "It worries me, Margery. The trouble is, you see, that once they're in that state, it doesn't matter how they were taken there, but they can be held. If Zara's father gets free, why, he would be able to get her back, I suppose. Mr. Jamieson says so. But there's no one with a better right to Bessie, so far as we know. I'm really more worried about her than about Zara." "We'll all be careful," promised Margery, with fire in her eye. "And I guess they'll have to be pretty smart to find any way of getting her away from us. I'll talk to the girls, and I'll try to be watching myself all the time." "I'm hungry," announced Dolly. "Just as hungry as a bear! Can't we have supper pretty soon, Miss Eleanor?" "Supper?" scoffed Miss Eleanor. "Why, we haven't had our dinner yet! But we'll have that just as soon as it's cooked. I've just been waiting for someone to say they were hungry. Dolly, you're elected cook. Since you're the hungry one, you can cook the dinner." "I certainly will! I'll get it all the sooner that way. May I pick out who's to help me, Miss Eleanor?" "That's the rule. You certainly can." "Then I pick out all the girls," announced Dolly. "Every one of you--and no shirking, mind!" She laughed merrily, and in a moment she had set every girl to some task. Even Margery obeyed her orders cheerfully, for the rule was there, and, even though Dolly had twisted it a bit, it was recognized as a good joke. Moreover, everyone was hungry and wanted the meal to be ready as soon as possible. "There's good water at the top of that path," said Eleanor, pointing to a path that led up a bluff that backed against the tents. "I think maybe we'll build a wooden pipe-line to bring the water right down here, but for to-day we'll have to carry it from the spring there." "Is there driftwood here for a camp fire, do you suppose, the way there was last year, Miss Eleanor?" asked one of the other girls. "I'll never forget the lovely fires we had then!" "There's lots of it, I'm afraid," said Eleanor, gravely. "Why are you 'afraid'?" asked Bessie, wonderingly. "Because all the driftwood, or most of it, comes from wrecked ships, Bessie. This beach looks calm and peaceful now, but in the winter, when the great northeast storms blow, this is a terrible coast, and lots and lots of ships are wrecked. Men are drowned very often, too." "Oh, I never thought of that!" "Still, some of the wood is just lost from lumber schooners that are loaded too heavily," said Eleanor. "And it certainly does make a beautiful fire, all red and green and blue, and oh, all sorts of colors and shades you never even dreamed of! We'll have a ceremonial camp fire while we're here, and it is certainly true that there is no fire half so beautiful as that we get when we use the wood that the sea casts up." "Don't they often find lots of other things beside wood along the coast after a great storm, Miss Eleanor?" "Yes, indeed! There are people who make their living that way. Wreckers, they call them, you know. Of course, it isn't as common to find really valuable things now as it was in the old days." "Why not? I thought more things were carried at sea than ever," said Dolly. "There aren't so many wrecks, Dolly, for one thing. And then, in the old days, before steam, and the great big ships they have now, even the most valuable cargoes were carried in wooden ships that were at the mercy of these great storms." "Oh, and now they send those things in the big ships that are safer, I suppose?" "Yes. You very seldom hear of an Atlantic liner being wrecked, you know. It does happen once in a great while, of course, but they are much more likely to reach the port they sail for than the old wooden ships. In the old days many and many a ship sailed that was never heard of, but you could count the ships that have done that in the last few years on the fingers of one hand." "But there was a frightful wreck not so very long ago, wasn't there? The Titanic?" "Yes. That was the most terrible disaster since men have gone to sea at all. You see, she was so much bigger, and could carry so many more people than the old ships, that, when she did go down, it was naturally much worse. But the wreckers never made any profit out of her. She went down in the middle of the ocean, and no one will ever see her again." "Couldn't divers go down after her?" "No. She was too deep for that. Divers can only go down a certain distance, because, below that, the pressure is too great, and they wouldn't live." "Stop talking and attend to your dinner, Dolly," said Margery, suddenly. "You pretended you were hungry, and now you're so busy talking that you're forgetting about the rest of us. We're hungry, too. Just remember that!" "I can talk and work at the same time," said Dolly. "Is everything ready? Because, if it is, so is dinner. Come on, girls! The clams first. I've cooked it--I'm not going to put it on the table, too." "No, we ought to be glad to get any work out of her at all," laughed Margery, as she carried the steaming, savory clams to the table. "I suppose every time we want her to do some work the rest of the time we're here, she'll tell us about this dinner." "I won't have to," boasted Dolly. "You'll all remember it. All I'm afraid of is that you won't be satisfied with the way anyone else cooks after this. I've let myself out this time!" It _was_ a good dinner--a better dinner than anyone had thought Dolly could cook. But, despite her jesting ways, Dolly was a close observer, and she had not watched Margery, a real genius in the art of cooking, in vain. Everyone enjoyed it, and, when they had eaten all they could, Dolly lay back in the sand with Bessie. "Well, wasn't I right? Don't you love this place?" she asked. "I certainly think I do," said Bessie. "It's so peaceful and quiet. I didn't believe any place could be as calm as the mountains, but I really think this is." "I love to hear the surf outside, too," said Dolly. "It's as if it were singing a lullaby. I think the surf, and the sighing of the wind in the trees is the best music there is." "Those noises were the real beginning of music, Dolly," said Eleanor. "Did you know that? The very first music that was ever written was an attempt to imitate those songs of nature." After the dishes were washed and put away, everyone sat on the beach, watching the sky darken. First one star and then another came out, and the scene was one of idyllic beauty. And then, as if to complete it, a yacht appeared, small, but beautiful and graceful, steaming toward them. Its sides were lighted, and from its deck came the music of a violin, beautifully played. "Oh, how lovely that is!" said Eleanor. "Why, look! I do believe it is going to anchor!" And, sure enough, the noise of the anchor chains came over the water. CHAPTER XIII THE MYSTERIOUS YACHT But, beautiful as the yacht undoubtedly was, the sight of it and the sound of the slipping anchor chains brought a look of perplexity and even of distress to Eleanor's eyes. "That's very curious," she said, thoughtfully. "There are no cottages or bungalows near here. Those people can't be coming here just for a visit, or they would take another anchorage. And it's a strange thing for them to choose this cove if they are just cruising along the coast." "There weren't any yachts here last year when we were camping," said Margery. "But it is a lovely spot, and it's public land along here, isn't it?" "No, not exactly. It won't be used for a long time, I expect, but it has an owner. An old gentleman in Bay City owns all the shore front along here for half a mile, and he has been holding on to it with the idea that it would get more valuable as time went on. Probably it will, too." "Well, he lets people come here to camp, doesn't he?" "Oh, yes. He's glad to have people here, I think, because he thinks that if they see how lovely it is, they will want to buy the land. I suppose perhaps these people on the yacht have permission from him to come here, just as we have. But I do wish they had waited until we had gone, or else that they had come and gone before we got here at all." "Perhaps they will just stay for the night," said Margery. "I should think that a small boat like that would be very likely to put in overnight, and do its sailing in the daytime. Probably the people on board of her aren't in a hurry, and like to take things easily." "Well, we won't find out anything about her to-night, I imagine," said Eleanor. "In the morning we'll probably learn what their plans are, and then it will be time to make any changes that are necessary in our own arrangements." "Do you mean you wouldn't stay here if they did, Miss Eleanor?" "I won't say that, Margery. We don't know who they are yet. They may be very nice people--there's no way of telling to-night. But if they turn out to be undesirable, we can move quite easily, I think. There are plenty of other beaches nearby where we'll be just as comfortable as we are here." "Oh, but I don't believe any of them are as beautiful as this one, Miss Eleanor." "Neither do I, Margery. Still, we can't always pick and choose the things we do, or always do what pleases us best." On the yacht everything seemed to be quiet. When the anchor had gone down, the violin playing ceased, and, though the girls strained their ears to listen, there was no sound of conversation, such as might reasonably have been expected to come across the quiet water. Still there was nothing strange about that. It might well be that everyone on board was below, eating supper, and in that case voices would probably not come to them. "I'd like to own that yacht," said Dolly, gazing at her enviously. "What a lot of fun you could have with her, Bessie! Think of all the places one could see. And you wouldn't have to leave a place until you got ready. Steamers leave port just as railroad trains pull out of a station, and you may have to go away when you haven't half finished seeing all the things you want to look at." "Maybe they'll send a boat ashore soon," said Margery, hopefully. "I certainly would like to see the sort of people who are on board." "So would I," said Eleanor, but with a different and a more anxious meaning in her tone. "I wish that man with the violin would start playing again," said Dolly. "I love to hear him, and it seems to me it's especially beautiful when the sound comes to you over the water that way." "Music always sounds best over the water," said Eleanor. "He does play well. I've been to concerts, and heard famous violin players who didn't play a bit better--or as well, some of them." And just at that moment the music came to them again, wailing, mournful, as if the strings of the violin were sobbing under the touch of the bow, held in the fingers of a real master. The music blended with the night, and the listening girls seemed to lose all desire to talk, so completely did they fall under the spell of the player. But after a little while a harsh voice on the deck of the yacht interrupted the musician. They could not distinguish the words, but the speaker was evidently annoyed by the music, for it stopped, and then, for a few minutes, there was an argument in which the voices of two men rose shrilly. "Well, I guess the concert is over," said Dolly, getting up. "Who wants a drink? I'm thirsty." "So am I!" came in chorus from half a dozen of those who were sitting on the sands. "Serve you right if you all had to go after your own water," said Dolly. "But I'm feeling nice to-night. I guess it's the music. Come on, Bessie--feel like taking a little walk with me?" "I don't mind," said Bessie, rising, and stretching her arms luxuriously. "Where are you going?" "Up the bluff first, to get a pail of water from that spring. After that--well, we'll see." "Just like Jack and Jill," said Bessie, as they trudged up the path, carrying a pail between them. "I hope we won't be like them and fall down," said Dolly. "I suppose I'd be Jack--and I don't want to break my crown." "It's an easy path. I guess we're safe enough," said Bessie. "It really hardly seems worth while to fix up that pipe-line Miss Eleanor spoke about." "Oh, you'll find it's worth while, Bessie. The salt air makes everyone terribly thirsty, and after you've climbed this path a few times it won't seem so easy to be running up and down all the time. There are so many other things to do here that it's a pity to waste time doing the same thing over and over again when you don't really need to." "I suppose that's so, too. It's always foolish to do work that you don't need to do--I mean that can be done in some easier way. If your time's worth anything at all, you can find some better use for it." "That's what I say! It would be foolish and wasteful to set a hundred men to digging when one steam shovel will do the work better and quicker than they can. And it's the same way with this water here. If we can put up a pipe in about an hour that will save two or three hours of chasing every day, whenever water is needed, it must be sensible to do it." They got the water down without any mishap, however, and it was eagerly welcomed. "It's good water," said Margery. "But not as good as the water at Long Lake and in the mountains." "That's the best water in the world, Margery," said Eleanor. "This is cold, though, and it's perfectly healthy. And, after all, that is as much as we can expect. Are you and Bessie going for a walk, Dolly?" "We thought we would, if you don't mind." "I don't mind, of course. But don't go very far. Stay near enough so that you can hear if we call, or for us to hear you if you should happen to call to us." Dolly looked startled. "Why should we want to call you?" she asked. "No reason that I can think of now, Dolly. But--well, I suppose I'm nervous. The way they tried to get hold of Bessie and Zara at Canton to-day makes me feel that we've got to be very careful. And there is no use taking unnecessary chances." "All right," said Dolly, with a laugh. "But I guess we're safe enough to-night, anyhow. They haven't had time to find out yet how Bessie fooled them. My, but they'll be mad when they do find out what happened!" "They certainly will," laughed Margery. "I wouldn't want to be in Jake Hoover's shoes." "I hope nothing will happen to him," said Eleanor, anxiously. "It would be a great pity for him to get into trouble now." "I think he deserves to get into some sort of trouble," said Dolly, stoutly. "He's made enough for other people." "That's true enough, Dolly. But it wouldn't do us any good if he got into trouble now, you know." "No, but it might do him some good--the brute! You haven't seen him when he was cutting up, the way I have, Miss Eleanor." "No, and I'm glad I didn't. But you say it might do him some good. That's just what I think it would not do. He has just made up his mind to be better, and suppose he sees that, as a reward, he gets himself into trouble. What is he likely to do, do you think?" "That's so," said Margery. "You're going off without thinking again, Dolly, as usual. He'd cut loose altogether, and think there wasn't any sort of use in being decent." "Well, I haven't much faith in his having reformed," said Dolly. "It may be that he has, but it seems too good to be true to me. I bet you'll find that he'll be on their side, after all, and that he'll just spend his time thinking up some excuse for having put them on the wrong track to-day." "I think that's likely to keep him pretty busy, Dolly," said Eleanor, dryly. "And that's one reason I really am inclined to believe that he'll change sides, and go to Charlie Jamieson, as Bessie advised him to do." "Well, if he does, it won't be because he's sorry, but because he's afraid," said Dolly. "If he can be of any use to us, why, I hope he's all right. I don't like him, and I never will like him, and there isn't any use in pretending about it!" Everyone laughed at that. "You're quite right, Dolly," said Margery. "When you dislike a person anyone who can see you or hear you knows about it. I'll say that for you--you don't pretend to be friends with people when you really hate them." "Why should I? Come on, Bessie, if we're going for a walk. If we stay here much longer Margery'll get so dry from talking that we'll have to go and get her some more water." "Let's go up the path and get on the bluff again," said Bessie. "I like it up there, because you seem to be able to see further out to sea than you can here." "All right. I don't care where we go, anyhow, and it is more interesting up there than on the beach, I think." The night was a beautiful one, and walking was really delightful. Below them the beach stretched, white and smooth, as far as the cove itself. At each end of the cove the bluff on which they were walking curved and turned toward the sea, stretching out to form two points of land that enclosed the cove. "They say this would be a perfect harbor if there was a bigger channel dredged in," said Dolly. "Of course it's very small, but I guess it was used in the old days. There are all sorts of stories about buried treasure being hidden around here." "Do you believe those stories, Dolly?" "Not I! If there was any treasure around here it would have been found ever so long ago. They're just stories. I guess those pirates spent most of the money they stole, and I guess they didn't get half as much as people like to pretend, anyhow." "It would be fun to find something like that, though, Dolly." "Well, Bessie King, you're the last person I would ever have expected even to think of anything so silly! You'd better get any nonsense of that sort out of your head right away. There's nothing in those old stories." "I suppose not," said Bessie, and sighed. "But in a place like this it doesn't seem half so hard to believe that it's possible, somehow. It looks like just the sort of place for romance and adventure. But--oh, well, I guess I'm just moonstruck. Dolly, look at that!" Her eyes had wandered suddenly toward the yacht, and now, from their higher elevation, they were able to see a small boat drawing away from her, on the seaward side, and so out of sight of the girls on the beach. "That's funny," said Dolly, puzzled. "I should think that if they were going to send a boat ashore she'd come straight in." "Let's watch and see what happens, Dolly." "You bet we will! I wouldn't go now until I knew what they were up to for anything!" "It's going straight out to sea, Dolly, and it's keeping so that the yacht is between it and the shore. It does look as if they didn't want to be seen, doesn't it?" "It certainly does! Look, there it goes through the little gap in the bar! See? Now it will be hidden from the people on shore--and it's going toward West Point, too. See, I'll bet they're going to make a landing there!" They hurried along the bluff, and in a few minutes they saw the boat graze the beach at the end of West Point. Three men jumped out and hauled the little craft up on the shore, and then they began to move inland, toward Bessie and Dolly. "We'd better work back toward the camp," said Dolly, excitedly. "It wouldn't do to have them see us--not until we know more about them." "I wonder if they'll come back this way, toward the camp? And why do you suppose they're acting that way? It seems very funny to me." "It does to me, too. I'm beginning to think Miss Eleanor had a good reason for being nervous, Bessie. I don't believe that yacht is here for any good purpose." "It's a good thing we came up this way, isn't it?" "It certainly is, if we can manage to find out something about them. I say, do you remember where the spring is? Well, right by it there's a mound, with a whole lot of bushes. I believe we could hide there, and be waiting as they come along." "Let's try it, anyhow. Maybe there's something we ought to know." They found it easy to hide themselves, and when, a few minutes later, the three men came along, they were secure from observation. "Do you think it's Mr. Holmes?" whispered Bessie, voicing the thought both of them had had. "It's just as likely as not! It's the sneaky way he would act," said Dolly, viciously. "They're pretty careful about the way they walk--see?" But then the men came into the range of their eyes, and the sigh of disappointment that rose from them was explained by Dolly's disgusted, "It's not Mr. Holmes, or anyone else I ever saw before." The men came nearer, and seemed to be looking down at the camp. "They're the ones! That's the outfit, all right," said one of them. "Well, it's easy to keep an eye on them." CHAPTER XIV A NIGHT ALARM Bessie and Dolly looked at one another. Holmes wasn't there, but who but Holmes or someone working for him could have any such sinister interest in keeping an eye on the camp as was implied by that sly remark? Evidently luck had favored them once more, and they had stumbled again on early evidence of another coming attack. But they took little time--could take little time, indeed--to think of the meaning of what they had heard. It was too important for them to find out as much as possible from these men. They dared not speak to one another; the men were so close that they were almost afraid that the sound of their own breathing would betray them. And, dark as it was, they could see that these were men of a type who would stop at little if they felt they were in danger of failure. They were big, burly, ugly-looking men, rough in speech and manner, and, though they masked their movements, and went about their business, whatever it might be, as quietly as possible, their quietness was furtive and assumed and by no means natural to them. "They won't run away to-night, Jeff," grumbled one of the men. "You ain't a-goin' to stay here and watch them, are you?" "No, I'm not--but you are," growled the one addressed as Jeff. "See here, my buck, the boss don't want any slip-up on this job--see? He's been stung once too often. I'm goin' back to the boat, but you and Tim will stay here till daylight--right here, mind you!" "Aw, shucks, that's a fine job to give us!" growled Tim. "Larry's got the right dope, Jeff. They won't run away to-night." "Listen here--who's giving orders here? What I say goes--do you get that? If you don't, I'll find a way to make you, and pretty quick, too. I don't want none of your lip, Tim." "What's the game, Jeff?" asked the man Larry, in milder tones. "We'll do as you say, all right, all right, but can't you tell a guy what's doin'?" "I don't know myself, boys, and that's a fact," said Jeff, seemingly mollified by this submission to his orders. "But the boss wants them two gals--and what he wants he gits, sooner or later." "Guess he does!" laughed Tim. "You said something that time, Jeff!" "There's money in it, I know that," Jeff went on. "Big money--though I'm blowed if I see where! But we'll get our share if we do our part." "I can use any that comes my way, all right," said Larry, with a smothered laugh. "Always broke--that's what I am!" "How about the morning, Jeff?" asked Tim. "We can't stay here when it gets to be light. They'd spot us in a minute." "Won't be any need then, Tim. We can keep an eye on them from the yacht. And the boss is apt to turn up here himself most any time." "Why not pull it off to-night, Jeff?" asked Larry. "It's a good chance, I'd say." "Ain't got my orders yet, Larry. As soon as the boss turns up there'll be plenty doing. Keep an eye out for a red light from the deck. That'll be a sign to watch out for anything that comes along. We may show it--we may not. But if we do, be lively." "All right," growled Tim. "But let's quit this nursemaid job as soon as we can, Jeff. We're good pals of yours--and this ain't no game for a grown man, you know that." "'Twon't be so bad," said Jeff, comfortingly. "Nights ain't so long--and you can take turns sleeping. It's all right as long as one of you stays awake." "So long, Jeff," said both the men who were to stay behind, then, in unison. "Good-night," answered Jeff. "I'll have a boat at the point for you at daylight. Good luck!" And he went off, quietly, walking easily, so that the noise of his footsteps would not reach those on the beach below. From the beach the voices of the girls rose faintly. Words could not be distinguished, but Bessie and Dolly could both guess that their prolonged absence must be beginning to give Miss Eleanor and the others some uneasiness. They were trapped, however, although they were in no real danger. The men who had been left on guard were between them and the path; they could not possibly pass them without arousing them, and they did not care to take the chance of making a wild dash for freedom unless it became absolutely necessary. Bessie weighed the chances. It seemed likely to her that she and Dolly, taking the two men by surprise, could slip by them and reach the beach safely. But if they did that, the men would know that their plans were known, and that their talk had been overheard, and that would be to throw away half of the advantage they had gained. It would be better a thousand times, Bessie felt, to wait, and take the faint chance that both men might go to sleep together, and so give them the chance to escape unseen. For some minutes the silence was unbroken save for the faint murmur of the voices from the beach. Then Larry spoke to his companion. "Say, Tim, don't think much of this game, do you?" he said. "Sure don't!" grunted Tim. "Just like Jeff, though. Takes the easy lay himself and don't care what he puts up to us." "Got any money?" "About five dollars. Why? Want to borrow it? Just as soon you had it as me! Can't spend it here, anyhow." "No. Wouldn't do me any good. Got lots of my own out on the yacht." "Wish there was a place near here where I could get a drink. Seems like I was choking to death." "Lots of water right by you," said Larry, with a hoarse laugh. "Help yourself--it's free!" "Water--pah!" snorted Tim. "That's not what I want, and you know it, Larry." "Say, come to think of it, there's an elegant little roadhouse a ways back in the country here, Tim. About half an hour there and back, I judge." Tim grunted uneasily. "Think it's safe?" he queried. "If Jeff got on to us--" "Shucks! What could he do? We ain't his hired hands." "The boss, though--suppose Jeff told him?" "He wouldn't, and how's he goin' to find out, anyhow? Nothin's goin' to happen to-night, you can bet on that. Come on, be a sport, Tim! We've got as much on Jeff as he's got on us, if it comes down to that, ain't we?" "I dunno. I'm kind of leery, when he told us to stick, Larry." "I thought you had more nerve, Tim. Didn't ever think you'd stand for no game like this. But, if you're afraid--" "Come on!" said Tim, angrily. "I'll show you if I'm afraid! I guess it's safe enough." "That's more like my old pal Tim. I knew you had nerve enough. Let's be movin'. The sooner we go, the sooner we'll be back. And we'll show who's afraid--eh, old sport?" "That's the stuff, Larry! Guess there ain't no one big enough to tell us what to do." And, with linked arms, they moved off. Bessie and Dolly, hardly able to believe in the good luck that left the way to the beach clear, held their breath for a moment. Then Bessie, seeing that Dolly was about to rise, whispered to her. "Not yet, Dolly," she said, tensely. "Wait till we're sure they can't see us. No use taking chances now." "All right, Bessie, but what luck! I was afraid we'd have to stay here until daylight, and I was wondering what Miss Eleanor and the girls would think!" "So was I. I'm afraid they're worried about us already. But it wasn't our fault, and it really is a good thing we heard them, isn't it? The 'boss' they're talking about must be Mr. Holmes, don't you think?" "I don't see who else it could possibly be. Come on, Bessie. I think it's time now, they're out of sight." Slowly and carefully, to take into account the off chance that Jeff, the other man, might have come back to see if his sentinels were faithful, they slipped across the path and made their way down. And at the bottom, as they reached the beach, Eleanor Mercer spied them, with a glad cry. "Oh, whatever kept you so long?" she exclaimed. "How glad I am to see you back safely! We couldn't imagine what on earth was keeping you." "You shouldn't have stayed so long," said Margery Burton. "We were just going to start out to look for you." "You wouldn't have had very far to go. We've been right at the top of the path for three-quarters of an hour," said Dolly, excitedly. "It wasn't our fault, really! We couldn't get here any sooner," said Bessie. "You see--" And, quietly, being less excited and hysterical than Dolly, she explained what they had discovered, and the trap in which they had allowed themselves to be caught. "We thought it was better to wait there than to let them know we had heard them," she ended. "You see, they think now that we haven't any suspicions at all, and that we'll be off our guard. Don't you suppose Mr. Holmes must be coming on board that yacht, Miss Eleanor?" "I certainly do," said Eleanor, her lips firmly set, and an angry gleam in her eyes. "You did exactly the right thing. It was better for us to be worried for a few minutes than to take any chance of spoiling all you'd found out." "What do you suppose they'll try to do now?" wondered Margery. "Oh, I'd like to find some way to beat them, so that they'd have to stop this altogether." "They'll go too far, some time," said Eleanor, indignantly. "Mr. Holmes seems to forget there is such a thing as the law, but if he doesn't look out he'll find that all his money won't save him from it. And I think the time is coming very soon. My father has some money, too, and I'm pretty sure he'll spend as much as he needs to to beat these criminals." "Can't we go away from here to-night, Miss Eleanor?" asked Dolly. "They said we'd never do that, and it might fool them." Everyone looked at Dolly in astonishment. It was a strange proposition to come from her, since she usually was the one who wanted to fight if there seemed to be any possibility of success. Now, however, she looked nervous. "I don't see how we can, Dolly," said Eleanor. "And, really, I don't believe there's any danger here. Mr. Holmes isn't on the yacht, and these men won't do anything until he is there to direct them. I shall telegraph to Mr. Jamieson in the morning, and he will probably come here. He can reach here by noon, and I think we will be all right here until then." Dolly said nothing more to her, but when she was alone with Bessie she expressed herself more freely. "I'm afraid of those men," she said, with a shiver. "I think they're far more dangerous than the gypsies were. Didn't you think, from the way they talked, that they would do anything if they thought they would get well paid for it?" "Yes, but we're warned, Dolly. It isn't as if we didn't have any idea, as they believe, that there is danger here. So I don't think we need to be afraid." On the beach, between the sea and the tents, the blaze of the camp fire flickered in the darkness, casting an uneven light on the beach. On the yacht all was still and peaceful. One by one her lights had gone out, until only the anchor lights, which she was required by law to show, remained. "They've gone to sleep on board the yacht," whispered Bessie. "That looks as if they didn't mean to do anything to-night, doesn't it, Dolly?" "I suppose so, Bessie. But I'm not satisfied." Neither, wholly, in spite of her reassuring words, was Eleanor. Had there been any way of moving from the camp that night, she would probably have taken it. But there seemed to be nothing for it but to wait there until morning, at least. "We'll stay here," she said, as good-nights were being exchanged, "but we'll set a guard for the night. Margery, I wish you and Mary King would take the first watch. You'll be relieved at one o'clock. You're not too tired, are you?" "No, indeed," said both girls. "I think I ought to take the watch. This is partly on my account," said Bessie. "Sleep first, and perhaps you can take the second spell, with Dolly," said Eleanor. "You've had a harder day than the rest of us, and you must be tired now." Bessie and Dolly were, indeed, very tired. The fact that the camp was not to be left unguarded while they slept seemed to reassure Dolly, and she and Bessie were soon sound asleep. Only the noise of the light surf disturbed the intense stillness, and that had a soothing, musical quality that made it far from a disturbance to those who slept. But that peace was to be rudely shattered before the first watch was over. It was just after midnight when a wild tumult aroused the camp, and Bessie and Dolly, springing to their feet, saw that the beach was as light as day--and that the light did not come from the camp fire. Confused and sleepy as they were, they saw the cause in a moment--the big living tent, in which meals were to be eaten in case of rainy weather, was all ablaze, and the wind that had sprung up during the night was blowing the sparks to the other tents, which caught fire as the girls, frightened and almost panic stricken, rushed out. For a moment there was no concerted effort, but then Eleanor took command of the situation, and in a moment a line had been formed, and pails full of water from the sea were being handed from one girl to another. The yacht had sprung into life at the first sign of the fire, and now, as the girls worked, they heard the sound of oars, as boats were hurriedly pushed ashore. In a minute a dozen men had joined them in their fight against the fire, and, thanks to this unexpected aid, one or two of the tents, which had been furthest from the one in which the blaze had started, were saved. The men from the yacht worked heroically, but their presence and their shouts created a new confusion. And in the midst of it Bessie, a pail of water in her hand, saw a man seize Zara and carry her, struggling, toward a boat. She was just about to cry out when a hand covered her mouth, and the next instant she was lifted in strong arms, carried to the boat, and pushed in. Then two men sprang aboard, and one held the girls, while the other pulled quickly toward the yacht. They were prisoners! CHAPTER XV DOLLY RANSOM MAKES GOOD "Keep still, and you won't be hurt!" commanded the man who held them. Bessie had no choice in the matter for his hand covered her mouth, and, even had she wished to do so, she could not have cried out. In a moment, too, looking toward Zara, she saw that she had fainted, and her own predicament was made worse than ever, since the ruffian who held her could now devote all his attention to her. So, utterly helpless, and almost ready to despair, Bessie had to submit to being carried up the little companion ladder that ran to the yacht's deck. As soon as she was on deck a handkerchief was slipped over her eyes, and, though she could hear the low murmur of voices, and was almost sure that one was that of Mr. Holmes, her arch enemy, she could not be positive. Her one hope now was that Dolly or some one of the others on the beach would have seen her abduction. But, even if they had, what could they do? "Suppose they did see," poor Bessie thought to herself; "they couldn't do anything. It would take a lot of strong men to come on board this yacht and get us off, and the girls wouldn't be able to do anything at all." She was not left long on the yacht's deck. Almost at once she was carried below, and in a few minutes she found herself in a cabin, where the handkerchief was taken from her eyes. The cabin was a pretty one, but Bessie was in no mood to appreciate that. She hated the sight of its luxury; all she wanted was to be back with the girls on the beach, no matter how great the discomfort after the fire might be. Zara, who had not yet revived, was brought down after her and laid on a sofa. Then she and Bessie were left alone with the big man who had carried Bessie from the beach. She thought that he was Jeff, the man who had left the two faithless sentinels to watch the path from the cliff. And she noticed, to her surprise, that, though his speech and manners were rough, there was a look about him that was not unkindly. "Now, see here, sis," he said, gently enough, "we don't aim to treat you badly here. You've run away from home, and that's not right. We're going to see that you get back to them as has the best right to look after you, but we don't want you to be uncomfortable." "How can I help it?" asked Bessie, indignantly. "Just you behave yourself and keep quiet, and you'll be all right," said Jeff. Bessie was sure of his identity now. "You'll have this pretty room here to yourselves, and you'll have lots to eat. It'll be better food than you got with that pack of chattering girls, too. We'll up anchor and be off pretty soon, and then you can come up on deck and have a good time. But as long as we're here, why, you'll have to stay below." Bessie got her first gleam of hope from that speech. If they stayed in Green Cove a little while, there was always the chance that something might happen. "You see, sis," said Jeff, with a grin, "after a while your folks there will find you're missing, and, like enough, they'll suspicion that we done it; took you off, I mean. 'Twouldn't make no great difference if they did know it," Jeff went on. "But the boss thinks it's just as well if we throw them off a bit--guess he wants to have some fun with them." "Who is your 'boss'?" asked Bessie, quickly. "I should think you would be ashamed of yourself, treating girls who can't fight back this way! Do you call yourself a man?" "Easy there, sis!" said Jeff, with a roar of laughter. "You can't make me mad. Orders is orders, you know, and you did wrong when you run away like you did. And I ain't tellin' you who the boss is. What you don't know won't hurt you--and that goes for your friends, too." He left them alone then, and a faint hope was left behind him. Now that she had the chance, Bessie turned her attention to Zara. There was water in the cabin, and in a few minutes she had revived her chum, and was able to tell her what had happened. Poor Zara seemed to be completely overcome. "Oh, Bessie, we haven't got a chance this time!" she said. "I'll have to go back and work for Farmer Weeks, and you--will they make you go back to Maw Hoover?" "Never say die, Zara! As long as the yacht stays in the cove there is a chance that we'll be rescued. That man didn't know it, but he'll never be able to make Miss Eleanor believe we're not on this yacht. Listen--what's that?" There was a sound of hasty footsteps outside, and Jeff came in hurriedly. He slipped back a panel at one side of the cabin, and revealed a little closet. "In there with you--both of you!" he said. "And I'm sorry, but you'll have to be quiet, and there's only one way." In a trice their hands and feet were bound, and handkerchiefs were stuffed into their mouths. Then they were pushed into the closet and the panel was slipped back into place. They were helpless. Unable to speak, or to beat hands or feet against the thin wood, there was no way in which they could make their presence known. And in a moment they knew the reason for this precaution. For, through the wood of the panel, wafer thin, they heard Miss Eleanor's voice. "You can't deceive me, sir!" they heard her say. "Those girls must be on this yacht, and I warn you that you had better give them up. Kidnapping is a serious offence in this state." "You can see for yourself they're not here, ma'am," said Jeff. "And I don't take this kindly at all, ma'am. Why, when I saw the fire in your camp, I went ashore with my men to try to help you--and now you make this charge against us." "I certainly do!" said Eleanor, with spirit. "I am quite sure that this is the only place where my girls can be, and I mean to have them back. As to the fire, you helped us, it is true. But I am as certain as I can be of anything that you had something to do with starting it before you tried to put it out!" "There's no use talking to you, ma'am, and I won't try it," said Jeff. "If you're crazy enough to believe anything like that, I could talk all day and you'd still believe it. Here's the yacht--you're welcome to go over her and see for yourself. You won't find the girls, because they're not aboard. That's a good reason, I guess." "Then let me see Mr. Holmes." "There you go again, ma'am! Didn't I tell you on deck that there's no such party aboard, and that I never even heard of him? If you're satisfied now, we'll be glad to have you go ashore, because I want to sail. I've got business down the coast." "I shall not go ashore until I have found my girls," said Eleanor. There were tears of baffled anger in her voice, and Bessie thrilled with indignant sympathy at the idea that she was within a few feet of her best friend without being able to let her know that she was there. "Then you'll be put ashore--gently, but firmly, as the books say," said Jeff. "You're dead right, ma'am, kidnappin' is a bad sort of business in this state, and I don't aim to give you a chance to say we carried you off with us against your will. Sail we will--and you'll stay behind. This is my boat, and I've got a right to put off anyone that is trespassin'." "You brute!" gasped Eleanor. "Don't you dare to touch me!" "Will you go of your own accord, then?" "I suppose I must," gasped Eleanor tearfully. "But you shall pay for this, you scoundrel! You're tricking me in some fashion, but you can't deceive me, and you can't keep the truth quiet forever." Then there was the sound of retreating footsteps, and a few minutes later Bessie and Zara were released by Jeff, who was grinning as if it had been a great joke. "Well, sis, we're off now!" he said. "Come on! I don't want to be hard on you. Come out here in the passageway, and you can have a look at the shore as we go off." He led them to the stern, and to the little cabin, in which was a porthole. Looking out, Bessie saw the beach indistinctly. The ruined tents were there, and several of the girls, in bathing suits. And, swimming slowly to the shore she saw a girl in a red cap, which, as she knew, belonged to Dolly. How she longed to be able to call to her! But Jeff was at her side, and she knew that the attempt would be useless, since he was watching her as if he had been a cat and she a mouse. A bell clanged somewhere below them, and the next moment there was a rumbling sound as the machinery was started. At the same moment there came the grinding of the anchor chains as they were raised. But the yacht did not move! Even after the anchor was up there was no movement except the throbbing of the whole vessel as the engines raced in the hold! Jeff's face grew black, and he turned toward the passage with a scowl. "What's wrong here?" he shouted, going to the door. At the same moment, seizing her brief chance, Bessie gave a wild scream, and saw, to her delight, that those on shore had heard it. In a moment she was pulled roughly from the porthole, and Jeff, his face savage and all the kindness gone out of it, scowled down at her. "Keep quiet, you little vixen!" he shouted. "Here, come with me!" At the foot of some steps that led up to the deck he left the two girls in the care of Larry, one of the two men she had seen the night before. "Keep them quiet," he commanded, as he sprang up the steps. "What's wrong, Larry; do you know?" "Something the matter with the propeller. Can't tell what," said Larry. And above, on the deck, there was a wild rushing about now. Orders were shouted to the engineers below; hoarse answers came back. The engines were stopped and started again. But still the yacht did not move. A grimy engineer came up and stood beside her. "Propeller's fouled," he said to Jeff. "We'll have to send a man overboard to clear it." "How long will that take?" roared Jeff. "Maybe an hour--if we're lucky." "You're a fine engineer, not to have the boat ready to start!" screamed Jeff, mad with rage. "You'll lose your berth for this!" "Guess I can get another," replied the engineer calmly. "It's been done on purpose and it's the business of the deck watch to keep the stern clear, not mine." With frantic haste a man was sent overboard. He dived and found the propeller. Bessie heard his report. The screw was twisted around with rope--knotted and tied so that, even with a knife he would have to make many descents to clear it. Without a diving suit it was impossible for the man to stay under water more than half a minute at a time, and, as it turned out, he was the only man on board who could dive at all. Jeff raged in vain. The work of clearing the propeller could not be hastened for all his bellowing, and the precious minutes slipped by while the diver worked. Each time that he came up for rest and air he reported a little more progress, but each time, too, as he grew tired, his period of rest was lengthened, while his time below the water was cut shorter. And then, when he had reported that two more trips would mend the trouble, there was a sudden bumping of boats against the yacht, on the shoreward side, which had been left without watchers, it seemed, and there was a rush of feet overhead. Bessie cried out in joy, and the next instant a dozen men tumbled down the steps and overpowered Larry. "Are you Bessie King?" asked their leader. "I've got a search warrant empowering me to search this yacht for you and one Zara Doe and take you ashore." "We're the ones! Take us!" pleaded Bessie. And, sobbing with joy, she went up the steps to the deck. There Jeff, furious but powerless in the grip of two men, watched her go over the side and into a small boat in which sat Eleanor, who threw her arms joyously about the recovered captives. Dolly was there, too, and she kissed and hugged Bessie as soon as Eleanor was done. "The men got here in time from Bay City," said Eleanor. "Thank Heaven! A few minutes more, and they would have been too late. I telephoned as soon as I could, and I knew the district attorney there was a friend of Charlie Jamieson. He came at once with his men." "The propeller was fouled. That's why they couldn't get away," said Bessie. "Wasn't that lucky?" Dolly snorted. "Luck nothing!" she said, perkily. "I swam out with a rope, and they never saw me! I was there, diving up and down, for half an hour. I thought they'd have a lovely time getting it clear when the knots I made had swollen up!" "Yes, it was Dolly who saved the day," said Eleanor. "Shall we row you ashore, ma'am, or do you want to see the rest of the fun on board?" asked one of the oarsmen. "Take us ashore, please. I'll hear all about it later," said Eleanor. And in five minutes the Camp Fire Girls were reunited. +---------------------------------------------------+ | Transcriber's Note | | | | Campfire as one word appears in the list of books | | and title page, whereas two words have been used | | throughout the rest of the book. Similar usage | | has been retained in this e-book. | +---------------------------------------------------+ 
28448	----	THE CAMPFIRE GIRLS OF ROSELAWN THE CAMPFIRE GIRLS OF ROSELAWN OR A STRANGE MESSAGE FROM THE AIR BY MARGARET PENROSE NEW YORK THE GOLDSMITH PUBLISHING CO PUBLISHERS Copyright By The Goldsmith Publishing Co. Printed in U. S. A. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. They Hear a Voice 1 II. A Road Mystery 11 III. Interest in Radio Spreads 19 IV. Stringing the Aerials 29 V. The Freckle-Faced Girl 39 VI. Something Coming 49 VII. The Canoe Trip 57 VIII. Carter's Ghost 66 IX. Henrietta Is Valiant 75 X. The Prize Idea 82 XI. Belle Ringold 89 XII. The Glorious Fourth 96 XIII. The Bazaar 106 XIV. Jealousy 113 XV. Can It Be Possible? 120 XVI. Spotted Snake, the Witch 127 XVII. Broadcasting 134 XVIII. A Mystery of the Ether 143 XIX. A Puzzling Circumstance 149 XX. Something Doing at the Stanleys' 156 XXI. A Great To-Do 163 XXII. Silk! 170 XXIII. Darry's Big Idea 178 XXIV. A Radio Trick 187 XXV. Just in Time 193 THEY HEAR A VOICE THE CAMPFIRE GIRLS OF ROSELAWN CHAPTER I THEY HEAR A VOICE "Oh, it's wonderful, Amy! Just wonderful!" The blonde girl in the porch swing looked up with shining eyes and flushed face from her magazine to look at the dark girl who swung composedly in a rocking chair, her nimble fingers busy with the knitting of a shoulder scarf. The dark girl bobbed her head in agreement. "So's the Sphinx, but it's awfully out of date, Jess." Jessie Norwood looked offended. "Did I ever bring to your attention, Miss Drew----" "Why don't you say 'drew' to my attention?" murmured the other girl. "Because I perfectly loathe puns," declared Jessie, with energy. "Good! Miss Seymour's favorite pupil. Go on about the wonder beast, Jess." "It is no beast, I'd have you understand. And it is right up to date--the very newest thing." "My dear Jessie," urged her chum, gayly, "you have tickled my curiosity until it positively wriggles! What is the wonder?" "Radio!" "Oh! Wireless?" "Wireless telephone. Everybody is having one." "Grandma used to prescribe sulphur and molasses for that." "Do be sensible for once, Amy Drew. You and Darry----" "That reminds me. Darry knows all about it." "About what?" "The radio telephone business. You know he was eighteen months on a destroyer in the war, even if he was only a kid. You know," and Amy giggled, "he says that if women's ages are always elastic, it was no crime for him to stretch his age when he enlisted. Anyhow, he knows all about the 'listening boxes' down in the hold. And that is all this radio is." "Oh, but Amy!" cried Jessie, with a toss of her blond head, "that is old stuff. The radio of to-day is very different--much improved. Anybody can have a receiving set and hear the most wonderful things out of the air. It has been brought to every home." "'Have you a little radio in your home?'" chuckled Amy, her fingers still flying. "Dear me, Amy, you are so difficult," sighed her chum. "Not at all, not at all," replied the other girl. "You can understand me, just as e-e-easy! But you know, Jess, I have to act as a brake for your exuberance." "Don't care," declared Jessie. "I'm going to have one." "If cook isn't looking, bring one for me, too," suggested the irrepressible joker. "I mean to have a radio set," repeated Jessie quite seriously. "It says in this magazine article that one can erect the aerials and all, oneself. And place the instrument. I am going to do it." "Sure you can," declared Amy, with confidence. "If you said you could rebuild the Alps--and improve on them--I'd root for you, honey." "I don't want any of your joking," declared Jessie, with emphasis. "I am in earnest." "So am I. About the Alps. Aunt Susan, who went over this year, says the traveling there is just as rough as it was before the war. She doesn't see that the war did any good. If I were you, Jess, and thought of making over the Alps----" "Now, Amy Drew! Who said anything about the Alps?" "I did," confessed her chum. "And I was about to suggest that, if you tackle the job of rebuilding them, you flatten 'em out a good bit so Aunt Susan can get across them easier." "Amy Drew! Will you ever have sense?" "What is it, a conundrum? Something about 'Take care of the dollars and the cents will take care of themselves?'" "I am talking about installing a radio set in our house. And if you don't stop funning and help me do it, I won't let you listen in, so there!" "I'll be good," proclaimed Amy at once. "I enjoy gossip just as much as the next one. And if you can get it out of the air----" "It has to be sent from a broadcasting station," announced Jessie. "There's one right in this town," declared Amy, with vigor. "No!" "Yes, I tell you. She lives in the second house from the corner of Breen Street, the yellow house with green blinds----" "Now, Amy! Listen here! Never mind local gossips. They only broadcast neighborhood news. But we can get concerts and weather reports and lectures----" Amy painfully writhed in her chair at this point. "Say not so, Jess!" she begged. "Get lectures enough at school--and from dad, once in a while, when the dear thinks I go too far." "I think you go too far most of the time," declared her chum primly. "Nobody else would have the patience with you that I have." "Except Burd Alling," announced Amy composedly. "He thinks I am all right." "Pooh! Whoever said Burd Alling had good sense?" demanded Jessie. "Now listen!" She read a long paragraph from the magazine article. "You see, it is the very latest thing to do. Everybody is doing it. And it is the most wonderful thing!" Amy had listened with more seriousness. She could be attentive and appreciative if she wished. The paragraph her chum read was interesting. "Go ahead. Read some more," she said. "Is that all sure enough so, Jess?" "Of course it is so. Don't you see it is printed here?" "You mustn't believe everything you see in print, Jess. My grandfather was reported killed in the Civil War, and he came home and pointed out several things they had got wrong in the newspaper obituary--especially the date of his demise. Now this----" "I am going to get a book about it, and that will tell us just what to do in getting a radio set established." "I'll tell you the first thing to do," scoffed Amy. "Dig down into your pocketbook." "It won't cost much. But I mean to have a good one." "All right, dear. I am with you. Never let it be said I deserted Poll. What is the first move?" "Now, let me see," murmured Jessie, staring off across the sunflecked lawn. The Norwood estate was a grand place. The house, with its surrounding porches, stood in Roselawn upon a knoll with several acres of sloping sod surrounding it and a lovely little lake at the side. There was a long rose garden on either side of the house, and groups of summer roses in front. Roses, roses, roses, everywhere about the place! The Norwoods all loved them. But there were more roses in this section of the pretty town of New Melford, and on that account many inhabitants of the place had gotten into the habit of calling the estates bordering the boulevard by the name of Roselawn. It was the Roselawn district, for every lawn was dotted with roses, red, pink, white, and yellow. The Norwoods were three. Jessie, we put first because to us she is of the most importance, and her father and mother would agree. Being the only child, it is true they made much of her. But Jessie Norwood was too sweet to be easily spoiled. Her father was a lawyer in New York, which was twenty miles from New Melford. The Norwoods had some wealth, which was good. They had culture, which was better. And they were a very loving and companionable trio, which was best. Across the broad, shaded boulevard was a great, rambling, old house, with several broad chimneys. It had once been a better class farmstead. Mr. Wilbur Drew, who was likewise a lawyer, had rebuilt and added to and improved and otherwise transformed the farmhouse until it was an attractive and important-looking dwelling. In it lived the lawyer and his wife, his daughter, Amy, and Darrington Drew, when he was home from college. This was another happy family--in a way. Yet they were just a little different from the Norwoods. But truly "nice people." When Amy Drew once gave her mind to a thing she could be earnest enough. The little her chum had read her from the magazine article began to interest her. Besides, whatever Jessie was engaged in must of necessity hold the attention of Amy. She laid aside the knitting and went to sit beside Jessie in the swing. They turned back to the beginning of the article and read it through together, their arms wound about each other in immemorial schoolgirl fashion. Of course, as Amy pointed out, they were not exactly schoolgirls now. They were out of school--since two days before. The long summer vacation was ahead of them. Time might hang idly on their hands. So it behooved them to find something absorbing to keep their attention keyed up to the proper pitch. "Tell you what," Amy suggested. "Let's go down town to the bookstore and see if they have laid in a stock of this radio stuff. We want one or two of the books mentioned here, Jess. We are two awfully smart girls, I know; we will both admit it. But some things we have positively got to learn." "Silly," crooned Jessie, patting her chum on the cheek. "Let's go. We'll walk. Wait till I run and see if Momsy doesn't want something from down town." "We won't ask Mrs. Drew that question, for she will be pretty sure to want a dozen things, and I refuse--positively--to be a dray horse. I 'have drew' more than my share from the stores already. Cyprian in the car can run the dear, forgetful lady's errands." Jessie scarcely listened to this. She ran in and ran out again. She was smiling. "Momsy says all she wants is two George Washington sundaes, to be brought home in two separate parcels, one blonde and one brunette," and she held up half a dollar before Amy's eyes. "Your mother, as I have always said, Jess, is of the salt of the earth. And she is well sugared, too. Let me carry the half dollar, honey. You'll swallow it, or lose it, or something. Aren't to be trusted yet with money," and Amy marched down the steps in the lead. She always took the lead, and usually acted as though she were the moving spirit of the pair. But, really, Jessie Norwood was the more practical, and it was usually her initiative that started the chums on a new thing and always her "sticktoitiveness" that carried them through to the end. Bonwit Boulevard, beautifully laid out, shaded with elms, with a grass path in the middle, two oiled drives, and with a bridle path on one side, was one of the finest highways in the state. At this hour of the afternoon, before the return rush of the auto-commuters from the city, the road was almost empty. The chums chatted of many things as they went along. But Jessie came back each time to radio. She had been very much interested in the wonder of it and in the possibility of rigging the necessary aerials and setting up a receiving set at her own house. "We can get the books to tell us how to do it, and we can buy the wire for the antenna to-day," she said. "'Antenna'! Is it an insect?" demanded Amy. "Sounds crawly." "Those are the aerials----" "Listen!" interrupted Amy Drew. A sound--a shrill and compelling voice--reached their ears. Amy's hand clutched at Jessie's arm and held her back. There was nobody in sight, and the nearest house was some way back from the road. "What is it?" murmured Jessie. "Help! He-e-elp!" repeated the voice, shrilly. "Radio!" muttered Amy, sepulchrally. "It is a voice out of the air." There positively was nobody in sight. But Jessie Norwood was practical. She knew there was a street branching off the boulevard just a little way ahead. Besides, she heard the throbbing of an automobile engine. "Help!" shrieked the unknown once more. "It is a girl," declared Jessie, beginning to run and half dragging Amy Drew with her. "She is in trouble! We must help her!" A ROAD MYSTERY CHAPTER II A ROAD MYSTERY Like a great many other beautiful streets, there was a poverty-stricken section, if sparsely inhabited, just behind Bonwit Boulevard. A group of shacks and squatters' huts down in a grassy hollow, with a little brook flowing through it to the lake, and woods beyond. It would not have been an unsightly spot if the marks of the habitation of poor and careless folk had been wiped away. But at the moment Jessie Norwood and her chum, Amy Drew, darted around from the broad boulevard into the narrow lane that led down to this poor hamlet, neither of the girls remembered "Dogtown," as the group of huts was locally called. The real estate men who exploited Roselawn and Bonwit Boulevard as the most aristocratic suburban section of New Melford, never spoke of Dogtown. "What do you suppose is the matter, Jess?" panted Amy. "It's a girl in trouble! Look at that!" The chums did not have to go even as far as the brow of the hill overlooking the group of houses before mentioned. The scene of the action of this drama was not a hundred yards off the boulevard. A big touring car stood in the narrow lane, headed toward the broad highway from which Jessie and Amy had come. It was a fine car, and the engine was running. A very unpleasant looking, narrow-shouldered woman sat behind the steering wheel, but was twisted around in her seat so that she could look behind her. In the lane was another woman. Both were expensively dressed, though not tastefully; and this second woman was as billowy and as generously proportioned as the one behind the wheel was lean. She was red-faced, too, and panted from her exertions. Those exertions, it was evident at once to Jessie and Amy, were connected with the capturing and the subsequent restraining of a very active and athletic girl of about the age of the chums. She was quite as red-faced as the fleshy woman, and she was struggling with all her might to get away, while now and then she emitted a shout for help that would have brought a crowd in almost no time in any place more closely built up. "Oh! What is the matter?" repeated Amy. "Bring her along, Martha!" exclaimed the woman already in the motor-car. "Here come a couple of rubber-necks." This expression, to Jessie's mind, marked the driver of the automobile for exactly what she was. Nor did the face of the fat woman impress the girl as being any more refined. As for the girl struggling with the second woman--the one called "Martha"--she was not very well dressed. But she looked neat and clean, and she certainly was determined not to enter the automobile if she could help it. Jessie doubted, although she had at first thought it possible, if either of these women were related to the girl they seemed so determined to capture. "What are they--road pirates? Kidnapers?" demanded Amy. "What?" The two chums stopped by the machine. They really did not know what to do. Should they help the screaming girl? Or should they aid the fleshy woman? It might be that the girl had run away from perfectly good guardians. Only, to Jessie's mind, there was something of the refinement that pertained to the girl lacking in the appearance of these two women. She was not favorably impressed by them. "What is the matter with the girl?" she asked the woman in the car. Although she said it politely, the woman flashed her a scowling glance and said: "Mind your own business!" "My!" gasped Amy at this, her eyes opening very wide. Jessie was not at all reassured. She turned to the fleshy woman, and repeated her question: "What is the matter with the girl?" "She's crazy, that's what she is!" cried the woman. "She doesn't know what is good for her." "I'll learn her!" rasped out the driver of the car. "Don't!" shouted the girl. "Don't let them take me back there----" Just then the fleshy woman got behind her. She clutched the girl's shoulders and drove her harshly toward the car with her whole weight behind the writhing girl. The other woman jumped out of the car, seized the girl by one arm, and together the women fairly threw their captive into the tonneau of the car, where she fell on her hands and knees. "There, spiteful!" gasped the lean woman. "I'll show you!" She hopped back behind the steering wheel. The fleshy woman climbed into the tonneau and held the still shrieking girl. The car started with a dash, the door of the tonneau flapping. "Oh! This isn't right!" gasped Jessie. "They are running away with her, Jess," murmured Amy. "Isn't it exciting?" "It's mean!" declared her chum with conviction. "How dare they?" "Why, to look at her, I think that skinny woman would dare anything," remarked Amy. "And--haven't--you seen her before?" "Never! She doesn't live around here. And that car is strange." The car had turned into the boulevard and headed out of town. When the girls walked back to the broad highway it was out of sight. It was being driven with small regard for the speed laws. "I guess you are right," reflected Amy. "I never saw that car before. It is a French car. But the woman's face----" "There was enough of that to remember," declared Jessie, quite spitefully. "I didn't mean the fat woman's face," giggled Amy. "I mean that the other woman looked familiar. Maybe I have seen her picture somewhere." "If my face was like hers I'd never have it photographed," snapped Jessie. "How vinegarish," said Amy. "Well, it was funny." "You do find humor in the strangest things," returned her chum. "I guess that poor girl didn't think it was funny." "Of course, they had some right to her," Amy declared. "How do you know they did? They did not act so," returned the more thoughtful Jessie. "If they had really the right to make the poor girl go with them, they would not have acted in such haste nor answered me the way they did." "Well, of course, it wasn't any of our business either to ask questions or to interfere," Amy declared. "I don't know about that, Amy," rejoined her chum. "I wish your brother had been here, or somebody." "Darry!" scoffed Amy. "Or maybe Burd Alling," and Jessie's eyes twinkled. "Well," considered Amy demurely, "I suppose the boys might have known better what to do." "Oh," said Jessie, promptly, "I knew what to do, all right; only I couldn't do it." "What is that?" "Stopped the women and made them explain before we allowed them to take the girl away. And I wonder where she was going. When and where did she run away from the women? Did you hear her beg us not to let them take her back--back----" "Back where?" "That is it, exactly," sighed Jessie, as the two walked on toward town. "She did not tell us where." "Some institution, maybe. An orphan asylum," suggested Amy. "Did you think she looked like an orphan?" "How does an orphan look?" giggled Amy. "I don't know any except the _Molly Mickford_ kind in the movies, and they are always too appealing for words!" "Somehow, she didn't look like that," admitted Jessie. "She fought hard. I believe I would have scratched that fat woman's face myself, if I'd been her. Anyway, she wasn't in any uniform. Don't they always put orphans in blue denim?" "Not always. And that girl would have looked awful in blue. She was too dark. She wasn't very well dressed, but her clothes and their colors were tasteful." "Aren't you the observing thing," agreed Amy. "She was dressed nicely. And those women were never guards from an institution." "Oh, no!" "It was a private kidnaping party, I guess," said Amy. "And we let it go on right under our noses and did not stop it," sighed Jessie Norwood. "I'm going to tell my father about it." Amy grinned elfishly. "He will tell you that you had a right, under the law, to stop those women and make them explain." "Ye-es. I suppose so. But a right to do a thing and the ability to do it, he will likewise tell me, are two very different things." "Wisdom from the young owl!" laughed Amy. "Well, I don't suppose, after all, it is any of our business, or ever will be. The poor thing is now a captive and being borne away to the dungeon-keep. Whatever that is," she added, shrugging her shoulders. INTEREST IN RADIO SPREADS CHAPTER III INTEREST IN RADIO SPREADS Over the George Washington sundaes at the New Melford Dainties Shop the girls discussed the mysterious happening on Dogtown Lane until it was, as Amy said, positively frayed. "We do not know what it was all about, my dear, so why worry our minds? We shall probably never see that girl again, or those two women. Only, that lean one--well! I know I have seen her somewhere, or somebody who looks like her." "I don't see but you are just as bad as I am," Jessie Norwood said. "But we did not come to town because of that puzzling thing." "No-o. We came to get these perfectly gorgeous sundaes," declared Amy Drew. "Your mother, Jess, is almost as nice as you are." "We came in to get radio books and buy wire and stops and all that for the aerials, anyway. Of course, I shall have to send for most of the parts of the house set. There is no regular radio equipment dealer in New Melford." "Oh, yes! Wireless!" murmured Amy. "I had almost forgotten that." They trotted across the street to the bookstore. Motors were coming up from the station now, and from New York. They waved their hands to several motoring acquaintances, and just outside Ye Craftsman's Bookshop they ran into Nell Stanley, who they knew had no business at all there on Main Street at this hour of the afternoon. Nell was the minister's daughter, and there were a number of little motherless Stanleys at the parsonage (Amy said "a whole raft of them") who usually needed the older sister's attention, approaching supper time. "Oh, I've a holiday," laughed Nell, who was big and strong and really handsome, Jessie thought, her coloring was so fresh, her chestnut hair so abundant, her gray eyes so brilliantly intelligent, and her teeth so dazzling. "Aunt Freda is at the house and she and the Reverend told me to go out and not to show myself back home for hours." "Bully-good!" declared Amy. "You'll come home to dinner with me, and we will spend the evening with Jess helping her build a radio thing so we can do without buying the New Melford _Tribune_ to get the local news." "Oh, Jess, dear, _are_ you going to have a radio?" cried Nell. "It's just wonderful. Reverend says he may have to broadcast his sermons pretty soon or else be without an audience." The pet name by which she usually spoke of her father, the Reverend Doctor Stanley, sounded all right when Nell said it. Nobody else ever called the good clergyman by it. But Nell was something between a daughter and a wife to the hard working Doctor Stanley. And she certainly was a thoughtful and "mothering" sister to the little ones. "But," Nell added, "you are too late inviting me to the eats, Amy, honey. It can't be done. I'm promised. Mr. Brandon and his wife saw me first, and I am to dine with them. Then they are going to take me in their car out to the Parkville home of their daughter--Oh, say! If your radio isn't finished, Jess, why can't you and Amy come with us? The Brandon car is big enough. And they tell me Mrs. Brandon's daughter has got a perfectly wonderful set at her home. They have an amplifier, and you don't have to use phones at all. Has your radio set got an amplifier, Jess?" "But I haven't got it yet," cried Jess. "I only hope to have it." "Then you and Amy come and hear a real one," said Nell. "If the Brandons won't mind. Will they?" "You know they are the loveliest people," said Nell briskly. "Mrs. Brandon told me to invite some young friends. But I hadn't thought of doing so. But I must have you and Amy. We'll be along for you girls at about seven-forty-five, new time." "Then we must hurry," declared Jess, as the minister's daughter ran away. "I'm getting interested," announced Amy. "Is this radio business like a talking machine?" "Only better," said her chum. "Come on. I know several of the little books I want to get. I wrote down the names." They dived down the four steps into the basement bookshop. It was a fine place to browse, when one had an hour to spare. But the chums from Roselawn were not in browsing mood on this occasion. They knew exactly what they wanted--at least, Jessie Norwood did--and somewhat to their surprise right near the front door of the shop was a "radio table." "Oh, yes, young ladies," said the clerk who came to wait upon them only when he saw that they had made their selections, "we have quite a call for books on that topic. It is becoming a fad, and quite wonderful, too. I have thought some of buying a radio set myself." "We're going to build one," declared Amy with her usual prompt assurance. "Are you? You two girls? Well, I don't know why you shouldn't. Lots of boys are doing so." "And anything a boy can do a girl ought to do a little better," Amy added. The clerk laughed as he wrapped up the several books Jessie had charged to her father's account. "You let me know how you get on building it, will you?" he said. "Maybe I can get some ideas from your experience." "We'll show 'em!" declared Amy, all in a glow of excitement. "And why do you suppose, Jess, folks always have to suggest that girls can't do what boys can? Isn't it ridiculous!" "Very," agreed Jessie. "Although, just as I pointed out a while ago, it would have been handy if Darry or Burd had been with us when we saw that poor girl kidnaped." "Of course! But, then, those boys are college men." She giggled. "And I wager Burd is a sea-sick college man just now." "Oh! Have they gone out in the _Marigold_?" cried Jessie. "They left New Haven the minute they could get away and joined the yacht at Groton, over across from New London, where it has been tied up all winter. Father insisted that Darry shouldn't touch the yacht, when Uncle Will died and left it to him last fall, until the college year was ended. We got a marconigram last night that they had passed Block Island going out. And _now_--well, Burd never was at sea before, you know," and Amy laughed again. "It has been rather windy. I suppose it must be rough out in the ocean. Oh, Amy!" Jess suddenly exclaimed, "if I get my radio rigged why can't we communicate with the _Marigold_ when it is at sea?" "I don't know just why you can't. But I guess the wireless rigging on the yacht isn't like this radio thing you are going to set up. They use some sort of telegraph alphabet." "I know," declared Jessie with conviction. "I'll tell Darry to put in a regular sending set--like the one I hope to have, if father will let me. And we can have our two sets tuned so that we can hear each other speak." "My goodness! You don't mean it is as easy as all that?" cried Amy. "Didn't you read that magazine article?" demanded her chum. "And didn't the man say that, pretty soon, we could carry receiving and sending sets in our pockets--maybe--and stop right on the street and send or receive any news we wanted to?" "No, I sha'n't," declared Amy. "Pockets spoil the set of even a sports skirt. Where you going now?" "In here. Mr. Brill sells electrical supplies as well as hardware. Oh! Amy Drew! There is a radio set in his window! I declare, New Melford is advancing in strides!" "Sure! In seven league boots," murmured Amy, following her friend into the store. Jessie had noted down the things she thought it would be safe to order before speaking to her father about the radio matter. Mrs. Norwood had cheerfully given her consent. Amy had once said that if Jessie went to her mother and asked if she could have a pet plesiosaurus, Mrs. Norwood would say: "Of course, you may, dear. But don't bring it into the house when its feet are wet." For the antenna and lead-in and ground wires, Jessie purchased three hundred feet of copper wire, number fourteen. The lightning switch Mr. Brill had among his electric fixtures--merely a porcelain base, thirty ampere, single pole double throw battery switch. She also obtained the necessary porcelain insulators and tubes. She knew there would be plenty of rope in the Norwood barn or the garage for their need in erecting the aerials. But she bought a small pulley as well as the ground connections which Mr. Brill had in stock. He was anxious to sell her a complete set like that he was exhibiting in the show window; but Jessie would not go any farther than to order the things enumerated and ask to have them sent over the next morning. The girls hurried home when they had done this, for it was verging on dinner time and they did not want to miss going with Nell Stanley and the Brandons to Parkville for the radio entertainment. Mr. Norwood was at home, and Jessie flew at him a good deal like an eager Newfoundland puppy. "It is the most wonderful thing!" she declared, as she had introduced the subject to her chum. She kept up the radio talk all through dinner. She was so interested that for the time being she forgot all about the girl that had been carried away in the automobile. Mr. Norwood had not been much interested in the new science; but he promised to talk the matter over with Momsy after their daughter had gone to the radio concert. "Anyhow," said Jessie, "I've bought the books telling how to rig it. And we're going to do it all ourselves--Amy and I. And Mr. Brill is going to send up some wire and things. Of course, if you won't let me have it, I'll just have to pay for the hardware out of my allowance." "Very well," her father said with gravity. "Maybe Chapman can find some use for the hardware if we don't decide to build a radio station." As they seldom forbade their daughter anything that was not positively harmful, however, there was not much danger that Jessie's allowance would be depleted by paying a share of the monthly hardware bill. Anyhow, Jessie as well as Amy, went off very gayly in the Brandon car with the minister's daughter. Mr. Brandon drove his own car, and the girls sat in the tonneau with Mrs. Brandon, who did not seem by any means a very old lady, even if she was a grandmother. "But grandmothers nowadays aren't crippled up with rheumatism and otherwise decrepit," declared Amy, the gay. "You know, I think it is rather nice to be a grandmother these days. I am going to matriculate for the position just as soon as I can." They rolled out of town, and just as they turned off the boulevard to take another road to Parkville, a big car passed the Brandon automobile coming into town. It was being driven very rapidly, but very skillfully, and the car was empty save for the driver. "What beautiful cars those French cars are," Mrs. Brandon said. "Did you see her, Jess?" cried Amy, excitedly. "Look at her go!" "Do you speak of the car or the lady?" laughed Nell Stanley. "She is no lady, I'd have you know," Amy rejoined scornfully. "Didn't you know her when she passed, Jess?" "I thought it was the car," her chum admitted. "Are you sure that was the woman who ran off with the girl?" "One of them," declared Amy, with confidence. "And how she can drive!" Naturally Mrs. Brandon and Nell wished to know the particulars of the chums' adventure. But none of them knew who the strange woman who drove the French car was. "She is not at all nice, at any rate," Jessie said emphatically. "I really wish there was some way of finding out about that girl they carried off, and what became of her." STRINGING THE AERIALS CHAPTER IV STRINGING THE AERIALS Parkville was reached within a short time. It was still early evening. The girls from Roselawn and their host and hostess found a number of neighbors already gathered in the drawing-room, to listen to the entertainments broadcasted from several radio stations. They were too late for the bedtime story; but from the cabinet-grand, like an expensive talking machine, the slurring notes of a jazz orchestra greeted their ears as plainly as though it were coming from a neighboring room instead of a broadcasting station many miles away. Amy confessed that it made her feet itch. She loved to dance. There was singing to follow, a really good quartette. Then a humorist told some of his own funny stories and an elocutionist recited a bit from Shakespeare effectively. The band played a popular air and the amused audience began singing the song. It was fine! "I'm just as excited as I can be," whispered Jessie to Nell and Amy. "Isn't it better than our talking machine? Why! it is almost like hearing the real people right in the room. And an amplifier of this kind is not scratchy one bit." "There is no static to-night," said Mr. Brandon, who overheard the enthusiastic girl. "But it is not always so clear." Jessie and Amy were too excited over this new amusement to heed anything that suggested "a fly in the ointment." When they drove home they were so full of radio that they chattered like magpies. "I would put up the aerials and get a set myself," Nell declared, "only we don't really need any more talking machines of any kind at our house. Dear me! I sometimes wonder how the Reverend can write his sermons, there is so much noise and talk all the time. I have tacked felt all around his study door to try to make it sound-proof. But when Bob comes in he bangs the outer door until you are reminded of the Black Tom explosion. And Fred never comes downstairs save on his stomach--and on the banisters--and lands on the doormat like a load of brick out of a dumpcart. Then Sally squeals so!" She sighed. "Nell Stanley," Amy said, "certainly has her own troubles." "I do not see how the doctor stands it," commented Mrs. Brandon sympathetically. "The Reverend is the greatest man in the world," declared Nell, with conviction. "He is wonderful. He takes the most annoying things so composedly. Why, you remember when he went to Bridgeton a month ago to speak at the local Sunday School Union? Something awfully funny happened. It would have floored any man but the Reverend." "What happened?" asked Amy. "I bet it was a joke. Your father, Nell, always tells the most delightful stories." "This isn't a story. It is so," chuckled Nell. "But I suppose that was why they asked him to amuse and entertain the little folks at one session of the Union. Father talked for fifteen minutes, all about Jacob's ladder, and those old stories. And not a kid of 'em went to sleep. "He said he was proud to see them so wide awake, and when he was closing he thought he would find out if they really had been attentive. So he said: "'And now, is there any little boy or any little girl who would like to ask me a question?' "And one boy called out: 'Say, Mister, if the angels had wings why did they walk up and down Jacob's ladder?'" "Mercy!" ejaculated Mrs. Brandon. "What could he say?" "That is it. You can't catch the Reverend," laughed Nell, proudly. "And nothing ever confuses him or puts him out. He just said: "'Oh, ah, yes, I see. And now, is there any little boy or any little girl who would like to answer that question?' And he bowed and slipped out." The laughter over this incident brought them into Roselawn, where Jessie and Amy got out, after thanking the kindly Brandons for the evening's pleasure. Nell lived a little further along, and went on with Mr. and Mrs. Brandon. "If I can find the time," called Nell Stanley, as the car started again, "I am coming over to see how you rig your aerials, Jessie." "If I am allowed to," commented Jessie, with a sudden fear that perhaps her father would find some objection to the new amusement. But this small fear was immediately dissipated when she ran in after bidding Amy good-night. She found her father and mother both in the library. The package of radio books had been opened, and Mr. and Mrs. Norwood was each reading interestedly one of the pamphlets Jessie had chosen at the bookshop. The three spent an hour discussing the new "plaything," as Mr. Norwood insisted upon calling it. But he agreed to everything his daughter wanted to do, and even promised to buy Jessie a better receiving set than Brill, the hardware man, was carrying. "As far as I can see, however, from what I read here," said Mr. Norwood, "a better set will make no difference in your plans for stringing the aerials. You and Amy can go right ahead." "Oh, but, Robert," said Mrs. Norwood, "do you think the two girls can do that work?" "Why not? Of course Jessie and Amy can. If they need any help they can ask one of the men--the chauffeur or the gardener, or somebody." "We are going to do it all ourselves!" cried Jessie, eagerly. "This is going to be our very owniest own radio. You'll see. We'll put the set upstairs in my room." "Wouldn't you rather have it downstairs--in the drawing-room, for instance?" asked her mother. "I know you, Momsy. You'll be showing it off to all your friends. And pretty soon it will be the family radio instead of mine." Mr. Norwood laughed. "I read here that the ordinary aerials will do very well for a small instrument or a large. It is suggested, too, that patents are pending that may make outside aerials unnecessary, anyway. Don't you mind, Momsy. If we find we want a nice, big set for our drawing-room, we'll have it in spite of Jessie. And we'll use her aerials, too." The next day Brill sent up the things Jessie had purchased, but the girls could not begin the actual stringing of the copper wires until the morning following. Ample study of the directions for the work printed in the books Jessie had selected made the chums confident that they knew just what to do. The windows of Jessie's room on the second floor of the Norwood house were not much more than seventy-five feet from the corner of an ornamental tower that housed the private electric plant belonging to the place. It was a tank tower, and water and light had been furnished to the entire premises from this tower before the city plants had extended their service out Bonwit Boulevard and through Roselawn. Jessie's room had been the nursery when Jessie was little. It was now a lovely, comfortable apartment, decorated in pearl gray and pink, with willow furniture and cushions covered with lovely cretonne, an open fireplace in which real logs could be burned in the winter, and pictures of the girl's own selection. Her books were here. And all her personal possessions, including tennis rackets, riding whip and spurs, canoe paddle, and even a bag of golf sticks, were arranged in "Jessie's room." Out of it opened her bedroom and bath. It was a big room, too, and if the radio was successful they could entertain twenty guests here if they wanted to. "But, of course, father is getting a set with phones, not with an amplifier like that one out at Parkville," Jessie explained to her chum. "If we want to use a horn afterward, we may. Now, Amy, do you understand what there is to do?" "Sure. We've got to get out our farmerette costumes. You know, those we used in the school gardens two years ago." "Oh, fine! I never would have thought of that," crowed Jessie. "Leave it to your Aunt Amy. She's the wise old bird," declared Amy. "I always did like those overalls. If I climb a ladder I don't want any skirt to bother me. If the ladder begins to slip I want a chance to slide down like a man. Do the 'Fireman, save my cheeld' act." "You are as lucid as usual," confessed her chum. Then she went on to explain: "I have found rope enough in the barn for our purpose--new rope. We will attach the end of the aerial wires with the rope to the roof of the old tower. It will enable us to make the far end of the aerials higher than my window--you see?" "Necessary point; I observe. Go ahead, Miss Seymour." "Please don't call me 'Miss Seymour,'" objected Jessie, frowning. "For the poor thing has a wart on her nose." "No use at all there. Not even as a collar-button," declared Amy. "All right; you are not Miss Seymour. And, come to think of it, I wonder if it was Miss Seymour I was thinking of last night when I thought that woman driving the kidnappers' car looked like somebody I knew? Do you think----?" "Oh! That horrid woman! I don't dislike Miss Seymour, you know, Amy, even if she does teach English. I think she is almost handsome beside that motor-car driver. Yes, I do." "Wart and all?" murmured Amy. But they were both too deeply interested in the radio to linger long on other matters. They laid out the work for the next morning, but did nothing practical toward erecting the wires and attendant parts that day. Amy came over immediately after breakfast, dressed in her farmerette costume, which was, in truth, a very practical suit in which to work. The girls even refused the help of the gardener. He said they would be unable to raise the heavy ladder to the tower window; and that was a fact. "All right," said the practical Jessie, "then we won't use the ladder." "My! I am not tall enough to reach the things up to you from the ground, Jess," drawled Amy. "Silly!" laughed her friend. "I am going up there to the top window in the tower. I can stand on the window sill and drive in the hook, and hang the aerial from there. See! We've got it all fixed on the ground here. I'll haul it up with another rope. You stay down here and tie it on. You'll see." "Well, don't fall," advised Amy. "The ground is hard." It had been no easy matter for the two girls to construct their aerial. The wire persisted in getting twisted and they had all they could do to keep it from kinking. Then, too, they wanted to fasten the porcelain insulators just right and had to consult one of the books several times. Then there came more trouble over the lead-in wire, which should have been soldered to the aerial but was only twisted tight instead. The girls worked all the forenoon. When one end of the aerial was attached properly to the tower, Amy ran in and upstairs to her chum's room and dropped a length of rope from one of the windows. Jessie came down from her perch and attached the house-end of the aerial to the rope. When Amy had the latter hauled up and fastened to a hook driven into the outside frame of Jessie's window, the antenna was complete. At that (and it sounds easy, but isn't) they got it twisted and had to lower the house-end of the aerial again. While they were thus engaged, a taxi-cab stopped out in front. Amy, leaning from her chum's window, almost fell out in her sudden excitement. "Oh, Jess! They've come!" she shouted. "What do you mean?" demanded Jessie. "We were not expecting anybody, were we?" "You weren't, but I was. I forgot to tell you," cried Amy. "They just went around Long Island and came up the East River and through Hell Gate and got a mooring at the Yacht Club, off City Island." "Who are you talking about?" gasped her chum, wonderingly. "Darry----" "Darry!" ejaculated Jessie with mixed emotions. She glanced down at her overalls. She was old enough to want to look her best when Darrington Drew was on the scene. "Darry!" she murmured again. "Yes. And Burd Alling. They telephoned early this morning. But I forgot. Here they come, Jess!" Jessie Norwood turned rather slowly to look. She felt a strong desire to run into the house and make a quick change of costume. THE FRECKLE-FACED GIRL CHAPTER V THE FRECKLE-FACED GIRL Of the two young fellows hurrying in from the boulevard one was tall and slim and dark; the other was stocky--almost plump, in fact--and sandy of complexion, with sharp, twinkling pond-blue eyes. Burdwell Alling's eyes were truly the only handsome feature he possessed. But he had a wonderfully sweet disposition. Darry Drew was one of those quiet, gentlemanly fellows, who seem rather too sober for their years. Yet he possessed humor enough, and there certainly was no primness about him. It was he who hailed Jessie on the ground and Amy leaning out of the window above: "I say, fellows! Have you seen a couple of young ladies around here who have just finished their junior year at the New Melford High with flying colors? We expected to find them sitting high and dry on the front porch, ready to receive company." "Sure we did," added Burd Alling. "They have taken the highest degree in Prunes and Prisms and have been commended by their instructors for excellent deportment. And among all the calicos, they are supposed to take the bun as prudes." Amy actually almost fell out of the window again, and stuck out her tongue like an impudent urchin. "A pair of smarties," she scoffed. "Come home and fret our ears with your college slang. How dare you!" "I declare! Is that Miss Amy Drew?" demanded Burd, sticking a half dollar in his eye like a monocle and apparently observing Amy for the first time. "It is not," said Amy sharply. "Brush by! I don't speak to strange young men." But Darry had come to Jessie and shaken hands. If she flushed self-consciously, it only improved her looks. "Awfully glad to see you, Jess," the tall young fellow said. "It's nice to have you home again, Darry," she returned. Amy ran down again then, in her usual harum-scarum fashion, and the conversation became general. How had the girls finished their high-school year? And how had the boys managed to stay a whole year at Yale without being asked to leave for the good of the undergraduate body? Was the _Marigold_ a real yacht, or just a row-boat with a kicker behind? And what were the girls doing in their present fetching costumes? "The wires!" cried Burd. "Is it a trapeze? Are we to have a summer circus in Roselawn?" "We shall have if you remain around here," was Amy's saucy reply. "But yon is no trapeze, I'd have you know." "A slack wire? Who walks it--you or Jess?" "Aw, Burd!" ejaculated Darry. "It's radio. Don't you recognize an aerial when you see it?" "You have a fine ground connection," scoffed Burd. "Don't you worry about us," Jessie took heart to say. "We know just what to do. Go upstairs again, Amy, and haul up this end of the contraption. I've got it untwisted." A little later, when the aerial was secure and Jessie went practically to work affixing the ground connection, Darrington Drew said: "Why, I believe you girls do know what you are about." "Don't you suppose we girls know anything at all, Darry?" demanded his sister from overhead. "You boys have very little on us." "Don't even want us to help you?" handsome Darry asked, grinning up at her. "Not unless you approach the matter with the proper spirit," Jessie put in. "No lofty, high-and-mighty way goes with us girls. We can be met only on a plane of equality. But if you want to," she added, smiling, "you can go up to my room where Amy is and pull that rope tauter. I admit that your masculine muscles have their uses." They were still having a lot of fun out of the securing of the aerials when suddenly Burd Alling discovered a figure planted on the gravel behind him. He swept off his cap in an elaborate bow, and cried: "We have company! Introduce me, Amy--Jess. This young lady----" "Smarty!" croaked a hoarse voice. "I don't want to be introducted to nobody. I want to know if you've seen Bertha." "Big Bertha?" began Burd, who was as much determined on joking as Amy herself. But Jessie Norwood, her attention drawn to the freckle-faced child who stood there so composedly, motioned Burd to halt. She approached and in her usual kindly manner asked what the strange child wanted. It really was difficult to look soberly at the little thing. She might have been twelve years old, but she was so slight and undernourished looking that it was hard to believe she had reached that age. She had no more color than putty. And her sharp little face was so bespatted with freckles that one could scarcely see what its real expression was. "Bertha who?" Jessie asked quietly. "What Bertha are you looking for?" "Cousin Bertha. She's an orphan like me," said the freckled little girl. "I ain't got anybody that belongs to me but Bertha; and Bertha ain't got anybody that belongs to her but me." Burd and Amy were still inclined to be amused. But Darry Drew took his cue from Jessie, if he did not find a sympathetic cord touched in his own nature by the child's speech and her forlorn appearance. For she was forlorn. She wore no denim uniform, such as Amy had mentioned on a previous occasion as being the mark of the usual "orphan." But it was quite plain that the freckle-faced girl had nobody to care much for her, or about her. "I wish you would explain a little more, dear," said Jessie, kindly. "Why did you come here to ask for your Cousin Bertha?" "'Cause I'm asking at every house along this street. I told Mrs. Foley I would, and she said I was a little fool," and the child made the statement quite as a matter of course. "Who is Mrs. Foley?" "She's the lady I help. When Mom died Mrs. Foley lived in the next tenement. She took me. She brought me out here to Dogtown when she moved." "Why," breathed Amy, with a shudder, "she's one of those awful Dogtown children." "Put a stopper on that, Amy!" exclaimed Darry, promptly. But the freckle-faced girl heard her. She glared at the older girl--the girl so much better situated than herself. Her pale eyes snapped. "You don't haf to touch me," she said sharply. "I won't poison you." "Oh, Amy!" murmured her chum. But Amy Drew was not at all bad at heart, or intentionally unkind. She flamed redly and the tears sprang to her eyes. "Oh! I didn't mean--Forgive me, little girl! What is your name? I'll help you find your cousin." "My name's Henrietta. They call me Hen. You needn't mind gushin' over me. I know how you feel. I'd feel just the same if I wore your clo'es and you wore mine." "By ginger!" exclaimed Burd Alling, under his breath. "There is philosophy for you." But Jessie felt hurt that Amy should have spoken so thoughtlessly about the strange child. She took Henrietta's grimy hand and led the freckled girl to the side steps where they could sit down. "Now tell me about Bertha and why you are looking for her along Bonwit Boulevard," said Jessie. "Do you wear these pants all the time?" asked Henrietta, suddenly, smoothing Jessie's overalls. "I believe I'd like to wear 'em, too. They are something like little Billy Foley's rompers." "I don't wear them all the time," said Jessie, patiently. "But about Bertha?" "She's my cousin. She lived with us before Mom died. She went away to work. Something happened there where she worked. I guess I don't know what it was. But Bertha wrote to me--I can read written letters," added the child proudly. "Bertha said she was coming out to see me this week. And she didn't come." "But why should you think----" "Lemme tell you," said Henrietta eagerly. "That woman that hired Bertha came to Foleys day before yesterday trying to find Bertha. She said Bertha'd run away from her. But Bertha had a right to run away. Didn't she?" "I don't know. I suppose so. Unless the woman had adopted her, or something," confessed Jessie, rather puzzled. "Bertha wasn't no more adopted than I am. Mrs. Foley ain't adopted me. I wouldn't want to be a Foley. And if you are adopted you have to take the name of the folks you live with. So Bertha wasn't adopted, and she had a right to run away. But she didn't get to Dogtown." "But you think she might have come this way?" "Yep. She's never been to see me since we moved to Dogtown. So she maybe lost her way. Or she saw that woman and was scared. I'm looking to see if anybody seen her," said the child, getting up briskly. "I guess you folks ain't, has you?" "I am afraid not," said Jessie thoughtfully. "But we will be on the lookout for her, honey. You can come back again and ask me any time you like." The freckle-faced child looked her over curiously. "What do you say that for?" she demanded. "You don't like me. I ain't pretty. And you're pretty--and that other girl," (she said this rather grudgingly) "even if you do wear overalls." "Why! I want to help you," said Jessie, somewhat startled by the strange girl's downright way of speaking. "You got a job for me up here?" asked Henrietta promptly. "I guess I'd rather work for you than for the Foleys." "Don't the Foleys treat you kindly?" Amy ventured, really feeling an interest in the strange child. "Guess she treats me as kind as a lady can when she's got six kids and a man that drinks," Henrietta said with weariness. "But I'd like to wear better clo'es. I wouldn't mind even wearing them overall things while I worked if I had better to wear other times." She looked down at her faded gingham, the patched stockings, the broken shoes. She wore no hat. Really, she was a miserable-looking little thing, and the four more fortunate young people all considered this fact silently as Henrietta moved slowly away and went down the path to the street. "Come and see me again, Henrietta!" Jessie called after her. The freckled child nodded. But she did not look around. Darry said rather soberly: "Too bad about the kid. We ought to do something for her." "To begin with, a good, soapy bath," said his sister, vigorously, but not unkindly. "She's the limit," chuckled Burd. "Hen is some bird, I'll say!" "I wonder----" began Jessie, but Amy broke in with: "To think of her hunting up and down the boulevard for her cousin. And she didn't even tell us what Bertha looked like or how old she is, or anything. My!" "I wonder if we ought not to have asked her for more particulars," murmured Jessie. "It is strange we should hear of another girl that had run away----" But the others paid no attention at the moment to what Jessie was saying. It was plain that Amy did not at all comprehend what her chum considered. The lively one had forgotten altogether about the unknown girl she and Jessie had seen borne away in the big French car. SOMETHING COMING CHAPTER VI SOMETHING COMING That afternoon Mr. Norwood brought home the radio receiving set in the automobile. The two girls, with a very little help, but a plethora of suggestion from Darry and Burd, proceeded to establish the set on a table in Jessie's room, and attach the lead-in wire and the ground wire. Jessie had bought a galena crystal mounted, as that was more satisfactory, the book said. After all the parts of the radio set had been assembled and the connections made, the first essential operation, if they were to make use of the invention at once, was to adjust the tiny piece of wire--the "cat's whisker"--which lightly rests on the crystal-detector, to a sensitive point. Jessie, who had read the instruction book carefully, knew that this adjustment might be made in several different ways. One satisfactory way is by the use of a miniature buzzer transmitter. "What are we going to hear?" Amy demanded eagerly. "How you going to tune her, Jess?" "As there are only three sets of head phones," grumbled Burd, "one of us is bound to be a step-child." "We can take turns," Jessie said, eagerly. "What time is it, Darry?" "It points to eight, Jess." "Then there is a concert about to start at that station not more than thirty miles away from here. We ought to hear that fine," declared the hostess of the party. "What is the wave length?" Amy asked. "Three-sixty. We can easily get it," and Jessie adjusted the buzzer a little, the phones at her ears. Eagerly they settled down to listen in. At least, three of them listened. Darry said he felt like the fifth wheel of an automobile--the one lashed on behind. "I shall have to get an amplifier--a horn," Jessie murmured. At first she heard only a funny scratchy sound; then a murmur, growing louder, as she tuned the instrument to the required wave length. The murmurous sound grew louder--more distinct. Amy squealed right out loud! For it seemed as though somebody had said in her ear: "--and will be followed by the Sextette from Lucia. I thank you." "We're just in time," said Burd. "They are going to begin the concert." String music, reaching their ears so wonderfully, hushed their speech. But Darry got close to his sister, stretching his ear, too, to distinguish the sounds. The introduction to the famous composition was played brilliantly, then the voices of the singers traveled to the little group in Jessie Norwood's room from the broadcasting station thirty miles away. "Isn't it wonderful! Wonderful!" murmured Amy. "Sh!" admonished her chum. When the number was ended, Burd Alling removed his head-harness and gravely shook hands with Jessie. "Some calico, you are," he declared. "Don't ever go to college, Jess. It will spoil your initiative." "You needn't call me by your slang terms. 'Calico,' indeed!" exclaimed Jessie. "Calico hasn't been worn since long before the war." "You might at least call us 'ginghams,'" sniffed Amy. "Wait!" commanded Jessie. "Here comes something else. You take my ear-tabs, Darry." "Wait a moment," cried Amy, who still had her phones to her ears. Then she groaned horribly. "It's a lecture! Oh! Merciful Moses' aunt! Here! You listen in, Darry!" "What's it all about?" asked her brother. "A talk on 'The Home Beautiful,'" giggled Burd, "by One of the Victims. Come on, Darry. You may have my phones too." As all three seemed perfectly willing to let him have their listening paraphernalia, Darry refused. "Your unanimity is poisonous," he said. "The Greeks bearing gifts." "Let's get a rain check for this," suggested Burd. "It will last only twenty minutes, according to the schedule," Jessie said, with a sigh. It was such a fine plaything that she disliked giving it up for a minute. They talked, on all kinds of subjects. The boys had had no time before to tell the girls about the _Marigold_. Just such another craft it was evident had never come off the ways! "And it is big enough to take out a party of a dozen," Darry declared. "Some time this summer we are going to get up a nice crowd and sail as far as Bar Harbor--maybe." "Why not to the Bahamas, Darry?" drawled his sister. "And there, too," said Darry, stoutly. "Oh, the _Marigold_ is a seaworthy craft. We are going down to Atlantic Highlands in her next. Burd's got a crush on a girl who is staying there for the summer," and he said it wickedly, grinning at his sister. "Sure," his chum agreed quickly, before Amy's tart tongue could comment. "She's my maiden aunt, and I've got a lot of things to thank her for." "And she can't read writing, so we have to go to see her," chuckled Darry. "Send us a snapshot of her, Darry," begged Jessie, not unwilling to tease her chum, for it was usually Amy who did the teasing. "I should worry if Burd has a dozen maiden aunts," observed Amy scornfully, "and they all knitted him red wristlets!" "How savage," groaned Darry. "Red wristlets, no less!" The girls had news to relate to the boys as well. The church society was going to have a summer bazaar on the Fourth of July and a prize had been offered by the committee in charge for the most novel suggestion for a money-making "stunt" at the lawn party. "I hope they will make enough to pay Doctor Stanley's salary," Darry said. "We want to raise his salary," Jessie told him. "With all those children I don't see how he gets on." "He wouldn't 'get on' at all if it wasn't for Nell," said Amy warmly. "She is a wonderful manager." The boys departed for City Island and the _Marigold_ the next morning; but they promised to return from their trip to Atlantic Highlands in season for the church bazaar. For the next few days Jessie and Amy were busy almost all day long, and evening too, with the radio. They even listened to the weather predictions and the agricultural report and market prices! The Norwood home never had been so popular before. People, especially Jessie's school friends, were coming to the house constantly to look at the radio set and to "listen in" on the airways. The interest they all took in it was amusing. "You see, Momsy," laughed Jessie, when she and her mother were alone one day, "if my radio set were downstairs here, I wouldn't have much use of it. Even old Mrs. Grimsby has been in twice to talk about it, and yesterday she came upstairs to try it." "But she won't have one in her house," Mrs. Norwood said. "I don't know--I didn't think of it before, Jessie. But do you suppose it is safe?" "Suppose what is safe, dear?" "Having all those wires outside the house? Mrs. Grimsby says she would not risk it." "Why not, for mercy's sake?" cried Jessie. "Lightning. When we had a shower yesterday I was really frightened. Those wires might draw lightning." "But, _dear!_" gasped Jessie. "Didn't I show you the lightning switch?" "Yes, child. I told Mrs. Grimsby about that. Do you know what she said?" "Something funny, I suppose?" "She said she wouldn't trust a little thing like that to turn God's lightning if He wanted to strike this house." "O-oh!" gasped Jessie. "What a dreadful idea she must have of the Creator. I'm going to tell Doctor Stanley that." "I guess the good doctor has labored with Mrs. Grimsby more than once regarding her harsh doctrinal beliefs. However, the fact that such wires may draw lightning cannot be gainsaid." "Oh, dear, me! I hope you won't worry Momsy. It can't be so, or there would be something about it in the radio papers and in those books. In one place I saw it stated that the aerials were really preventative of lightning striking the house." "I know. They used to have lightning rods on houses, especially in the country. But it was found to be a good deal of a fallacy. I guess, after all, Mrs. Grimsby has it partly right. Human beings cannot easily command the elements which Nature controls." "Seems to me we are disproving that right in this radio business," cried Jessie. "And it is going to be wonderful--just _wonderful_--before long. They say moving pictures will be transmitted by radio; and there will be machines so that people can speak directly back and forth, and you'll have a picture before you of the person you are speaking to." She began to laugh again. "You know what Amy says? She says she always powders her nose before she goes to the telephone. You never know who you may have to speak to! So she is ready for the new invention." "Just the same, I am rather timid about the lightning, Jessie," her mother said. THE CANOE TRIP CARTER'S GHOST CHAPTER VII THE CANOE TRIP Of course, Jessie Norwood and Amy Drew did not spend all their time over the radio set in Jessie's room. At least, they did not do so after the first two or three days. There was not much the girls cared to hear being broadcasted before late afternoon; so they soon got back to normal. Not being obliged to get off to school every day but Saturday and Sunday, had suddenly made opportunity for many new interests. "Or, if they are not new," Amy said decisively, "we haven't worn them out." "Do you think we shall wear out the radio, honey?" asked Jessie, laughing. "I don't see how the air can be worn out. And the radio stuff certainly comes through the air. Or do the Hertzian waves come through the ground, as some say?" "You will have to ask some scientist who has gone into the matter more deeply than I have," Jessie said demurely. "But what is this revived interest that you want to take up?" "Canoe. Let's take a lunch and paddle away down to the end of the lake. There are just wonderful flowers there. And one of the girls said that her brothers were over by the abandoned Carter place and found some wild strawberries." "M-mm! I love 'em," confessed Jessie. "Better than George Washington sundaes," agreed her chum. "Say we go?" "I'll run tell Momsy. She can play with my radio while we are gone," and Jessie went downstairs to find her mother. "I tell you what," said Amy as, with their paddles, the girls wended their way down to the little boathouse and landing. "Won't it be great if they ever get pocket radios?" "Pocket radios!" exclaimed Jessie. "I mean what the man said in the magazine article we read in the first place. Don't you remember? About carrying some kind of a condensed receiving set in one's pocket--a receiving and a broadcasting set, too." "Oh! But that is a dream." "I don't know," rejoined Amy, who had become a thorough radio convert by this time. "It is not so far in advance, perhaps. I see one man has invented an umbrella aerial-receiving thing--what-you-may-call-it." "An umbrella!" gasped Jessie. "Honest. He opens it and points the ferrule in the direction of the broadcasting station he is tuned to. Then he connects the little radio set, clamps on his head harness, and listens in." "It sounds almost impossible." "Of course, he doesn't get the sounds very loud. But he _hears_. He can go off in his automobile and take it all with him. Or out in a boat----Say, it would be great sport to have one in our canoe." "You be careful how you get into it yourself and never mind the radio," cried Jessie, as Amy displayed her usual carelessness in embarking. "I haven't got on a thing that water will hurt," declared the other girl. "That's all right. But everything you have on can get wet. Do be still. You are like an eel!" cried Jessie. "Don't!" rejoined Amy with a shudder. "I loathe eels. They are so squirmy. One wound right around my arm once when I was fishing down the lake, and I never have forgotten the slimy feel of it." Jessie laughed. "We won't catch eels to-day. I never thought about fishing, anyway. I want strawberries, if there are any down there." Lake Monenset was not a wide body of water. Burd Alling had said it was only as wide as "two hoots and a holler." Burd had spent a few weeks in the Tennessee Mountains once, and had brought back some rather queer expressions that the natives there use. Lake Monenset was several miles long. The head of it was in Roselawn at one side of the Norwood estate and almost touched the edge of Bonwit Boulevard. It was bordered by trees for almost its entire length on both sides, and it was shaped like a enormous, elongated comma. The gardener at the Norwood estate and his helper looked after the boathouse and the canoes. The Norwood's was not the only small estate that verged upon the lake, but like everything else about the Norwood place, its lake front was artistically adorned. There were rose hedges down here, too, and as the two girls pushed out from the landing the breath of summer air that followed them out upon the lake was heavy with the scent of June roses. The girls were dressed in such boating costumes as gave them the very freest movement, and they both used the paddle skillfully. The roomy canoe, if not built for great speed, certainly was built for as much comfort as could be expected in such a craft. Jessie was in the bow and Amy at the stern. They quickly "got into step," as Amy called it, and their paddles literally plied the lake as one. Faster and faster the canoe sped on and very soon they rounded the wooded tongue of land that hid all the long length of the lower end of the lake. "Dogtown is the only blot on the landscape," panted Amy, after a while. "It stands there right where the brook empties into the lake and--and it is unsightly. Whee!" "What are you panting for, Amy?" demanded her chum. "For breath, of course," rejoined Amy. "Whee! You are setting an awfully fast pace, Jess." "I believe you are getting over-fat, Amy," declared Jessie, solemnly. "Say not so! But I did eat an awfully big breakfast. The strawberries were so good! And the waffles!" "Yet you insisted on bringing a great shoe box of lunch," said her friend. "Not a _great_ shoe box. Please! My own shoes came in it and I haven't enormously big feet," complained Amy. "But we must slow down." "Just to let you admire Dogtown, I suppose?" said Jessie, laughing. "Well, it's a sight! I wonder what became of that freckle-faced young one." "I wonder if she found her cousin," added Jessie. "That was a funny game; for that child to go hunting through the neighborhood after a girl. What was her name--Bertha?" "Yes. And I have been thinking since then, Amy, that we should have asked little Henrietta some more questions." "Little Henrietta," murmured Amy. "How funny! She never could fill specifications for such a name." "Never mind that," Jessie flung back over her shoulder, and still breathing easily as she set a slower stroke. "What I have been thinking about is that other girl." "The lost girl, Bertha?" "No, no. Or, perhaps, yes, yes!" laughed Jessie. "But I mean that girl the two women forced to go with them in the motor-car. You surely remember, Amy." "Oh! The kidnaped girl. My! Yes, I should say I did remember her. But what has that to do with little Henrietta? And they call her 'Hen,'" she added, chuckling. "I have been thinking that perhaps the girl Henrietta was looking for was the girl we saw being carried away by those women." "Jess Norwood! Do you suppose so?" "I don't know whether I suppose so or not," laughed Jessie. "But I think if I ever see that child again I shall question her more closely." She said this without the first idea that little Henrietta would cross their way almost at once. The canoe touched the grassy bank at the edge of the old Carter place at the far end of the lake just before noon. An end of the old house had been burned several years before, but the kitchen ell was still standing, with chimney complete. Picnic parties often used the ruin of the old house in which to sup. It was a shelter, at least. "I've got to eat. I've got to eat!" proclaimed Amy, the moment she disembarked. "Actually, I am as hollow as Mockery." "Well, I never!" chuckled Jessie. "Your simile is remarkably apt. And I feel that I might do justice to Alma's sandwiches, myself." "Where's the sun gone?" suddenly demanded Amy, looking up and then turning around to look over the water. "Why! I didn't notice those clouds. It is going to shower, Amy, my dear." "It is going to thunder and lightning, too," and Amy looked a little disturbed. "I confess that I do not like a thunderstorm." "Let us draw up the canoe and turn it over. Keep the inside of it dry. And we'll take the cushions up to the old house," added Jessie, briskly throwing the contents of the canoe out upon the bank. "Ugh! I don't fancy going into the house," said Amy. "Why not?" "The old place is kind of spooky." "Spooks have no teeth," chuckled Jessie. "I heard of a ghost once that seemed to haunt a country house, but after all it was only an old gentleman in a state of somnambulism who was hunting his false teeth." "Don't make fun of spirits," Amy told her, sepulchrally. "Why not? I never saw a ghost." "That makes no difference. It doesn't prove there is none. How black those clouds are! O-oh! That was a sharp flash, Jessie, honey. Let's run. I guess the haunts in the old Carter house can't be as bad as standing out here in a thunder-and-lightning storm." "To say nothing of getting our lunch wet," chuckled Jessie, following the dark girl up the grassy path with her arms filled to overflowing. "Ah, dear me!" wailed Amy, hurrying ahead. "And those strawberries we came for. I am afraid I shall not have enough to eat without them." The ruin of the Carter house stood upon a knoll, several great elms sheltering it. The dooryard was covered with a heavy sod and the ancient flower beds had run wild with weeds. The place did have rather an eerie look. Most of the window panes were broken and the steps and narrow porch before the kitchen door had broken away, leaving traps for careless feet. The thunder growled behind them. Amy quickened her steps. As she had said, she shuddered at the tempest. What might be of a disturbing nature in the old farmhouse could not, she thought, be as fearsome as the approaching tempest. CHAPTER VIII CARTER'S GHOST On the broken porch of the abandoned house Amy stopped and waited for her chum to overtake her. When she looked back she cried out again. Forked lightning blazed against the lurid clouds. It was so sharp a display of electricity that Amy shut her eyes. Jessie, still laughing, plunged up the steps and bumped right into the sagging door. It swung inward, creakingly. Amy peered over her chum's shoulder. "O-oh!" she crooned. "Do--do you see anything?" "Nothing alive. Not even a rat." "Ghosts aren't alive." "Nothing moving, then," and Jessie proceeded to march into the rather dark kitchen. "Here's a table and some benches. You know, Miss Allister's Sunday School class picnicked here last year." "Oh, I've been here a dozen times," confessed Amy. "But always with a crowd. You know, honey, you are no protection against ghosts." "Don't be so ridiculous," laughed Jessie. She had put down the things she had brought up from the lakeside, and now turned back to look out of the open door. "Oh, Amy! It's coming!" There was a crash of thunder and then the rain began drumming on the roof of the porch. Jessie looked out. The clearing about the house had darkened speedily. A sheet of rain came drifting across the lake toward the hillock on which the house stood. "Do shut the door, Jessie," begged Amy Drew. "How ridiculous!" Jessie said again. "You can't shut the windows. There!" Another lightning flash blinded the girls and the thunder following fairly deafened them for the moment. But Jessie did not leave her post in the doorway. Something at the edge of the clearing--some rods away, at the verge of the thick wood--had impressed itself on Jessie's sight just as the lightning flashed. "Come away! Come away, Jess Norwood!" shrieked Amy. "Come here," commanded Jessie. "Look. Don't be foolish. See that thing moving down there by the woods? Is it a human being or an animal?" "Oh, Jessie! Maybe it is a ghost," murmured Amy. But her curiosity overcame her fears sufficiently for her to join Jessie at the doorway. Through the falling rain the chums were sure that something was moving down by the woods. "It's a dog," said Amy, after a moment. "It's a child," declared Jessie, with conviction. "I saw its face then." "Perhaps it is the Carter ghost," breathed Amy. "I never heard whether this haunt was a juvenile or an adult offender." "I guess you are not much afraid after all," said her chum. "Yes, it is a child. And it is getting most awfully wet." "Wait! Wait!" the girl from Roselawn cried. "Don't run away from me." Whether the child heard and understood her or not, it gave evidence of being greatly frightened. She covered her face with her hands and sank down on the wet sod, while the rain beat upon her unmercifully. There was no shelter here, and Jessie Norwood herself was getting thoroughly wet. In a calm moment that followed the child piped, without taking down her hands. "Are--are you the ha'nt?" "What a question!" gasped Jessie, and seized the crouching figure by the shoulder. "Do I feel like a ghost? Why, it's Henrietta!" The clawlike hands dropped from the freckled face. The little girl stared. "Goodness! I seen you before. You are the nice girl. You ain't a ghost." "But you are sopping wet. Come up to the house at once, child." "Ain't--ain't there ghosts there?" "If there are they won't hurt us," said Jessie encouragingly. "Come on, child. I am getting wet myself." But little Henrietta hung back stubbornly. "Mrs. Foley says ha'nts carry off kids. Like my Bertha was carried off." "We have some nice lunch," said Jessie, quickly. "You'll forget all about the silly ghosts when you are helping us eat that." This invitation and prospect overcame the fear of ghosts in Henrietta's mind. She began to trot willingly by Jessie's side. But already the rain had saturated the girl from Roselawn as well as the child from Dogtown. "Two more bedrabbled persons I never saw!" exclaimed Amy, when they arrived upon the porch. "Do come in. There is wood here and we can make a fire on the hearth. You can take off that skirt, Jess, and get it dry. And this poor little thing--well, she looks as though she ought to be peeled to the skin if we are ever to get _her_ dry." She hustled Henrietta into the house, but kindly. She even knelt down beside her and began to unfasten the child's dress after lighting the fire that she had herself suggested. "Spooks" were evidently wiped from Amy's memory; but she flinched every time it lightened, as it did occasionally for some time. "Say!" said the wondering Henrietta hoarsely. "I'm just as dirty as I was the other day. You don't haf to touch me." "Oh, dear me!" cried Amy. "This child is never going to forgive me for that. Won't you like me a little, Henrietta?" "Not as much as that other one," said the freckle-faced girl frankly. Jessie, who was taking off her own outer garments to hang before the now roaring fire, only laughed at that. "Tell us," she said, "why you think your cousin was carried off?" "That lady she lived with was awful mad when she came to Foleys looking for Bertha. She said she'd put Bertha where she wouldn't run away again for one while. That's what she said." "Oh, my dear!" exclaimed Amy suddenly. "Do you suppose--Child! did the woman come to your house----" "Foley's house. I ain't got a house," declared Henrietta. "Well, to Mrs. Foley's house in a big maroon automobile?" finished Amy. "No'm. Didn't come in a car at all. She came on foot, she did. She said Bertha was a silly to run away when nothing was going to hurt her. But she looked mad enough to hurt her," concluded the observant Henrietta. "Oh!" exclaimed Amy again. "Was she dark and thin and--and waspish looking?" "Who was?" asked the child, staring. "The woman who asked for Bertha," explained Jessie, quite as eagerly as her chum. "She wasn't no wasp," drawled Henrietta, with indescribable scorn. "She was big around, like a barrel. She was fat, and red, and ugly. I don't like that woman. And I guess Bertha had a right to run away from her." Jessie and Amy looked at each other and nodded. They had both decided that the girl, Bertha, was the one they had seen carried off in the big French car. "And you don't know what Bertha was afraid of?" asked Jessie. "I dunno. She just wrote me--I can read writing--that she was coming to see me at Foley's. And she never come." "Of course you did not hear anything about her when you searched up and down the boulevard the other day?" Amy asked. "There wouldn't many of 'em answer questions," said the child gloomily. "Some of 'em shooed me out of their yards before I could ask." Amy had undressed the child now down to one scant undergarment. She looked from her bony little body to Jessie, and Amy's eyes actually filled with tears. "Aren't you hungry, honey?" she asked the waif. "Ain't I hungry?" scoffed Henrietta. "Ain't I always hungry? Mrs. Foley says I'm empty as a drum. She can't fill me up. That's how I came over here to-day." "Because she didn't give you enough to eat?" demanded Amy, in rising wrath. "Aw, she'd give it me if she had it. But the kids got to be fed first, ain't they? And when you've got six of 'em and a man that drinks----" "It is quite understandable, dear," Jessie said, with more composure than her chum could display at the moment. "So you came over here----" "To pick strawberries. Got a pail half full down there somewhere. The thunder scared me. Then I saw youse two up here and I thought you was the Carter ha'nt sure enough." "Let's have some lunch," cried Amy quickly. She got up and began to bustle about. She opened the two boxes they had brought and set the vacuum bottle of hot cocoa on the bench. There were two cups and she insisted upon giving one of them to Henrietta. "I don't believe I could drink a drop or eat a morsel," she said to Jessie, when the latter remonstrated. "I feel as if I was in the famine section of Armenia or Russia or China. That poor little thing!" She insisted upon giving Henrietta the bulk of her own lunch and all the tidbits she could find in Jessie's lunchbox. The freckle-faced girl began systematically to fill up the hollow with which she was accredited. It was evident that the good food made Henrietta quite forget the so-called ha'nts. The rain continued to fall torrentially; the thunder muttered almost continually, but in the distance; again and again the lightning flashed. Jessie Norwood fed the fire on the hearth until the warmth of it could be felt to the farther end of the big old kitchen. She and Henrietta were fast becoming dried, and their outer clothing could soon be put on again. "I wonder if Momsy was scared when the storm broke," ruminated Jessie. "She thinks the aerial may attract lightning." "Nothing like that," declared Amy cheerfully. "But I wish we had a radio sending set here and could talk to her----" "Ow! What's that?" Even Henrietta stopped eating, looked upward at the dusty ceiling, and listened for a repetition of the sound. It came in a moment--a sudden thump--then the thrashing about of something on the bare boards of the floor of the loft over the kitchen. "O-oh!" squealed Amy, jumping up from the table. "What _can_ it be?" demanded Jessie Norwood, and her face expressed fear likewise. Henrietta took another enormous bite of sandwich; from behind that barrier she said in a muffled tone: "Guess it's the Carter ha'nt after all!" HENRIETTA IS VALIANT THE PRIZE IDEA CHAPTER IX HENRIETTA IS VALIANT Jessie Norwood tried to remember that she should set little Henrietta a good example. She should not show panic because of the mysterious noise in the loft of the abandoned Carter house. But as the thrashing sounds continued and finally the cause of it came tumbling down the enclosed stairway and bumped against the door that opened from the kitchen upon that stairway, Jessie screamed almost as loud as Amy. Amy Drew, however, ran out into the rain. Neither Jessie nor the little freckle-faced girl were garbed properly for an appearance in the open; not even in as lonely a place as the clearing about the old Carter house. To tell the truth, Henrietta kept on eating and did not at first get up from the table. "Aren't you scared, child?" demanded Jessie, in surprise. "Course I am," agreed the little girl. "But ha'nts chase you anywhere. They can go right through keyholes and doors----" "Mercy! Whatever it is seems determined to come through that door." "There ain't no keyhole to it," said Henrietta complacently. The banging continued at the foot of the stairs. Amy was shrieking for her chum to come out of the house. But Jessie began to be ashamed of her momentary panic. "I'm going to see what it is," she declared, approaching the door. "Maybe you won't see nothing," said Henrietta. "Mrs. Foley says that ha'nts is sometimes just wind. You don't see nothing. Only you feel creepy and cold fingers touch you and a chilly breath hits the back o' your neck." "I declare!" exclaimed Jessie. "That Mrs. Foley ought not to tell you such things." She looked about for some weapon, for the sounds behind the door panels seemed to suggest something very material. There was a long hardwood stick standing in the corner. It might have been a mop handle or something of the kind. Jessie seized it, and with more courage again walked toward the door. Bang, bang, thump! the noise was repeated. She stretched a tentative hand toward the latch. Should she lift it? Was there something supernatural on the stairway? She saw the door tremble from the blows delivered upon it. There was nothing spiritual about that. "Whatever it is----" To punctuate her observation Jessie Norwood lifted the iron latch and jerked open the door. It was dusky in the stairway and she could not see a thing. But almost instantly there tumbled out upon the kitchen floor something that brought shriek after shriek from Jessie's lips. "Hi!" cried Henrietta. "Did it bite you?" Jessie did not stop to answer. She seized her skirt drying before the fire and wrapped it around her bare shoulders as she ran through the outer door. She left behind her writhing all over the kitchen floor a pair of big blacksnakes. The fighting snakes hissed and thumped about, wound about each other like a braided rope. Probably the warmth of the fire passing up the chimney had stirred the snakes up, and it was evident that they were in no pleasant frame of mind. "What is it? Ghosts?" cried Amy Drew, standing in the rain. "It's worse! It's snakes!" Jessie declared, looking fearfully behind her, and in at the door. She had dropped the stick with which she had so valiantly faced the unknown. But when that unknown had become known--and Jessie had always been very much afraid of serpents--all the girl's valor seemed to have evaporated. "Mercy!" gasped Amy. "What's going on in there? Hear that thumping, will you?" "They are fighting, I guess," replied her chum. "Where's Hen?" "She's in there, too. She didn't stop eating." At that Amy began laughing hysterically. "She can't eat the snakes, can she?" she shrieked at last. "But maybe they'll eat her. How many snakes are there, Jess?" "Do you suppose I stopped to count them? Dozens, maybe. They came pouring out of that dark stairway----" "Where _is_ the child?" demanded Amy, who had come up upon the porch, and was now peering in through the doorway. The sounds from inside, like the beating of a flail, continued. Amy craned her head around the door jamb to see. "Goodness, mercy, child!" she shouted. "Look out what you are doing! You will get bitten!" The noise of the thrashing stopped. At least, the larger part of the noise. Henrietta came to the door with the stick that Jessie had dropped in her hand. "I fixed 'em," she said calmly. "I just hate snakes. I always kill them black ones. They ain't got no poison. And I shut the door so if there's any more upstairs they won't come down. You can come back to dinner." "Well, you darling!" gasped Jessie. Her chum leaned against the door jamb while peal after peal of laughter shook her. She could just put out her hands and make motions at the freckled little girl. "She--she--she----" "For pity's sake, Amy Drew!" exclaimed Jessie. "You'll have a fit, or something." "She--she didn't even--stop--chewing!" Amy got out at last. "Bless her heart! She's the bravest little thing!" Jessie declared, shakingly. "We two great, big girls should be ashamed." "I guess you ain't so much acquainted with snakes as I am," Henrietta said, sliding onto the bench again. "But I certainly am glad it wasn't Carter's ha'nt." "But," cried Amy, still weak from laughing, "it _was_ the ghost. Of course, those snakes had a home upstairs there. Probably in the chimney. And every time anybody came here to picnic and built a fire, they got warmed up and started moving about. Thusly, the ghost stories about the Carter house." "Your explanation is ingenious, at any rate," admitted Jessie. "Ugh! They are still writhing. Are you sure they are dead, Henrietta?" "That's the trouble with snakes," said the child. "They don't know enough to keep still when they're dead-ed. I smashed their heads good for 'em." But Amy could not bear to sit down to the bench again until she had taken the stick and poked the dead but still writhing snakes out of the house. The rain was diminishing now and the thunder and lightning had receded into the distance. The two older girls ate very little of the luncheon they had brought. It was with much amazement that they watched Henrietta absorb sandwiches, cake, eggs, and fruit. She did a thorough job. "Isn't she the bravest little thing?" Jessie whispered to her chum. "Did you ever hear the like?" "I guess that girl we saw run away with, was her cousin all right," said Amy. "How she did fight!" At that statement Jessie was reminded of the thing that had been puzzling her for some days. She began asking questions about Bertha, how she looked, how old she was, and how she was dressed. "She's just my cousin. She is as old as you girls, I guess, but not so awful old," Henrietta said. "I don't know what she had on her. She ain't as pretty as you girls. Guess there ain't none of our family real pretty," and Henrietta shook her head with reflection. "What happened to her that she wanted to leave that dreadful fat woman?" asked Amy, now, as well as her chum, taking an interest in the matter. "There wasn't a thing happened to her that I know of," said Henrietta, shaking her head again. "But by the way that lady talked it would happen to her if she got hold of Bertha again." "How dreadful," murmured Jessie, looking at her chum. "I don't see how we can help the girl," said Amy. "She has been shut up some place, of course. If I could just think who that skinny woman is--or who she looks like. But how she can drive a car!" "I think we can do something," Jessie declared. "I've had my head so full of radio that I haven't thought much about this poor child's cousin and her trouble." "What will you do?" asked Amy. "Tell daddy. He ought to be able to advise." "That's a fact," agreed Amy, her eyes twinkling. "He is quite a good lawyer. Of course, not so good as Mr. Wilbur Drew. But he'll do at a pinch." CHAPTER X THE PRIZE IDEA When the two girls paddled back up the lake after their adventure at the old Carter house, Henrietta squatted in the middle of the canoe and seemed to enjoy the trip immensely. "I seen these sort of boats going up and down the lake, and they look pretty. Me and Charlie Foley and some of the other boys at Dogtown made a raft. But Mr. Foley busted it with an ax. He said we had no business using the coal-cellar door and Mrs. Foley's bread-mixing board. So we didn't get to go sailing," observed the freckle-faced child. Almost everything the child said made Amy laugh. Nevertheless, like her chum, Amy felt keenly the pathos of the little girl's situation. Perhaps with Amy Drew this interest went no farther than sympathy, whereas Jessie was already, and before this incident, puzzling her mind regarding what might be done to help Henrietta and improve her situation. The girls paddled the canoe in to a broken landing just below the scattered shacks of Dogtown, and Henrietta went ashore. It was plain that she would have enjoyed riding farther in the canoe. "If you see us come down this way again, honey," Amy said, "run down here to the shore and we will take you aboard." "If Mrs. Foley will let you," added Jessie. "I dunno what Mrs. Foley will say about the strawberries. I told her I'd bring home some if she'd let me go over there. And here I come home without even the bucket." "It is altogether too wet to pick wild strawberries," Jessie said. "I wanted some myself. But we shall have to go another day. And you can find your bucket then, Henrietta." The chums drove their craft up the lake and in half an hour sighted the Norwood place and its roses. Everything ashore was saturated, of course. And in one place the girls saw that the storm had done some damage. A grove of tall trees at the head of the lake and near the landing belonging to the Norwood place was a landmark that could be seen for several miles and from almost any direction on this side of Bonwit Boulevard. As the canoe swept in toward the dock Amy cried aloud: "Look! Look, Jess! No wonder we thought that thunder was so sharp. It struck here." "The thunder struck?" repeated Jessie, laughing. "I _am_ thunderstruck, then. You mean----Oh, Amy! That beautiful great tree!" She saw what had first caught Amy's eye. One of the tallest of the trees was split from near its top almost to the foot of the trunk. The white gash looked like a wide strip of paper pasted down the stick of ruined timber. "Isn't that too bad?" said Amy, staring. But suddenly Jessie drove her paddle deep into the water and sent the canoe in a dash to the landing. She fended off skillfully, hopped out, and began to run. "What is the matter, Jess?" shrieked Amy. "You've left me to do all the work." "Momsy!" gasped out Jessie, looking back for an instant. "She was scared to death that the lightning would strike the house because of the radio aerial." Her chum came leaping up the hill behind her, having moored the canoe with one hitch. She cried out: "No danger from lightning if you shut the switch at the set. You know that, Jessie." "But Momsy doesn't know it," returned the other girl, and dashed madly into the house. She had forgotten to tell her mother of that fact--the safety of the closed receiving switch. She felt condemned. Suppose her mother had been frightened by the thunder and lightning and should pay for it with one of her long and torturing sick headaches? "Momsy! Momsy!" she cried, bursting into the hall. "Your mother is down town, Miss Jessie," said the quiet voice of the parlor maid. "She drove down in her own car before the storm." "Oh! She wasn't here when the lightning struck----" "No, Miss Jessie. And that was some thunder-clap! Cook says she'll never get over it. But I guess she will. Bill, the gardener's boy, says it struck a tree down by the water." "So it did," Jessie rejoined with relief. "Well, I certainly am glad Momsy wasn't here. It's all right, Amy," she called through the screen doors. "I am glad. I thought it was all wrong by the way you ran. Now let's go back and get our rugs and the rest of the junk out of the canoe. And, oh, me! Ain't I hungry!" Jessie ignored this oft-repeated complaint, saying: "We should have remembered about the bazaar committee meeting. Momsy would go to that. Do you know, Amy, she thinks she can get the other ladies to agree to have the lawn party out here." "Here, in Roselawn?" asked her chum. "Right here on our place." "How fine!" ejaculated Amy. "But, Jessie, I wish I could think of some awfully smart idea to work in connection with the lawn party. That lovely, lovely sports coat that Letterblair has in his window has taken my eye." "I saw it," Jessie admitted. "And the card says it goes to the girl under eighteen who suggests the best money-making scheme in unusual channels that can be used by the bazaar committee. Yes, it's lovely." "Let's put on our thinking-caps, honey, and try for it. Only two days more." "And if we win it, shall we divide the coat between us?" "No, we'll cast lots for it," said Amy seriously. "It is a be-a-utiful coat!" That evening after dinner Jessie climbed upon the arm of her father's big chair in the library, sitting there and swinging her feet just as though she were a very small child again. He hugged her up to him with one arm while he laid down the book he was reading. "Out with it, daughter," Mr. Norwood said. "What is the desperate need for a father?" "It is not very desperate, and really it is none of my business," began Jessie thoughtfully. "And that does not surprise me. It will not be the first time that you have shown interest in something decidedly not your concern." "Oh! But I am concerned about her, Daddy." "A lady in the case, eh?" "A girl. Like Amy and me. Oh, no! _Not_ like Amy and me. But about our age." "What is her name and what has she done?" "Bertha. Or, perhaps it isn't Bertha. But we think so." "Somehow, it seems to me, you have begun wrong. Who is this young person who may be Bertha but who probably is not?" Jessie told him about the "kidnaped" girl then. But it spilled out of her mouth so rapidly and so disconnectedly that it is little wonder that Mr. Norwood, lawyer though he was, got a rather hazy idea of the incident connected with the strange girl's being captured on Dogtown Lane. In fact, he got that girl and little, freckled Henrietta Haney rather mixed up in his mind. He found himself advising Jessie to have the child come to the house so that Momsy could see her. Momsy always knew what to do to help such unfortunates. "And you think there can be nothing done for that other girl?" Jessie asked, rather mournfully. "Oh! You mean the girl you saw put in the automobile and taken away? Well, we don't know her or the woman who took her, do we?" "No-o. Though Amy says she thinks she has seen somebody who looks like the woman driving the car before." "Humph! You have no case," declared Mr. Norwood, in his most judicial manner. "I fear it would be thrown out of court." "Oh, dear!" "If your little acquaintance could describe her cousin so that we could give the description to the police--or broadcast it by radio," and Mr. Norwood laughed. Jessie suddenly hopped down from the chair arm and began a pirouette about the room, clapping her hands as she danced. "I've got it! I've got it!" she cried. "Radio! Oh, Daddy! you are just the nicest man. You give me such fine ideas!" "You evidently see your way clear to a settlement of this legal matter you brought to my attention," said Mr. Norwood quite gravely. "Nothing like that! Nothing like that!" cried Jessie. "Oh, no. But you have given me such a fine idea for winning the prize Momsy and the other ladies are offering. I've got it! I've got it!" and she danced out of the room. BELLE RINGOLD THE GLORIOUS FOURTH THE BAZAAR CHAPTER XI BELLE RINGOLD Whether Jessie Norwood actually "had it," as she proclaimed, or not, she kept very quiet about her discovery of what she believed to be a brand new idea. She did not tell Amy, even, or Momsy. That would have been against the rules of the contest. She wrote out her suggestion for the prize idea, sealed it in an envelope, and dropped it through the slit in the locked box in the parish house, placed there for that purpose. It was not long to wait until the next evening but one. She rode down to the church in Momsy's car, an electric runabout, and waited outside the committee room door with some of the other girls and not a few of the boys of the parish, for there had been a prize offered, too, for the boy who made the best suggestion. "I am sure they are going to use my idea," Belle Ringold said, with a toss of her bobbed curls. Did we introduce you to Belle? By this speech you may know she was a very confident person, not easily persuaded that her own way was not always best. She not only had her hair bobbed in the approved manner of that season, but her mother was ill-advised enough to allow her to wear long, dangling earrings, and she favored a manner of walking (when she did not forget) that Burd Alling called "the serpentine slink." Belle thought she was wholly grown up. "They couldn't throw out my idea," repeated Belle. "What is it, Belle, honey?" asked one of her chums. "She can't tell," put in Amy, who was present. "That is one of the rules." "Pooh!" scoffed Belle. "Guess I'll tell if I want to. That won't invalidate my chances. They will be only too glad to use my idea." "Dear me," drawled Amy, laughing. "You're just as sure as sure, aren't you?" Miss Seymour, the girls' English teacher in school, came to the door of the committee room with a paper in her hand. A semblance of order immediately fell upon the company. "We have just now decided upon the two suggestions of all those placed in the box, the two prize ideas. And both are very good, I must say. Chippendale Truro! Is Chip here?" "Yes, ma'am," said Chip, who was a snub-nosed boy whose chums declared "all his brains were in his head." "Chip, I think your idea is very good. You will be interested to learn what it is, girls. Chip suggests that all the waitresses and saleswomen at the lawn party wear masks--little black masks as one does at a masquerade party. That will make them stand out from the guests. And the committee are pleased with the idea. Chip gets the tennis racket in Mr. Brill's show-window." "Cricky, Chip! how did you come to think of that?" demanded one of the boys in an undertone. "Well, they are going to be regular road-agents, aren't they?" asked the snub-nosed boy. "They take everything you have in your pockets at those fairs. They ought to wear masks--and carry guns, too. Only I didn't dare suggest the guns." Amid the muffled explosion of laughter following this statement, Miss Seymour began speaking again: "The girl's prize--the sports coat at Letterblair's--goes to Jessie Norwood, on whose father's lawn the bazaar is to be held on the afternoon and evening of the Fourth of July." At this announcement Belle Ringold actually cried out: "What's that?" "Hush!" commanded Miss Seymour. "Jessie has suggested that a tent be erected--her father has one stored in his garage--and that her radio set be placed in the tent and re-connected. With an amplifier the concerts broadcasted from several stations can be heard inside the tent, and we will charge admission to the tent. Radio is a new and novel form of amusement and, the committee thinks, will attract a large patronage. The coat is yours, Jessie." "Well, isn't that the meanest thing!" ejaculated Belle Ringold. "Did I hear you say something, Belle?" demanded Miss Seymour, in her very sternest way. "Well, I want to say----" "Don't say it," advised the teacher. "The decisions upon the prize ideas are arbitrary. The committee is responsible for its acts, and must decide upon all such matters. The affair is closed," and she went back into the committee room and closed the door. "Well, isn't she the mean thing!" exclaimed one of those girls who liked to stand well with Belle Ringold. "I am sure your idea was as good as good could be, Belle," Jessie said. "Only I happened to have the radio set, and--and everything is rigged right for my idea to work out." "Oh, I can see that it was rigged right," snapped Belle. "Your mother is on the committee, and the lawn party is going to be at your house. Oh, yes! No favoritism shown, of course." "Oh, cat's foot!" exclaimed Amy, linking her arm in Jessie's. "Let her splutter, Jess. We'll go to the Dainties Shop and have a George Washington sundae." "I am afraid Belle is going to be very unpleasant about this thing," sighed Jessie, as she and her chum came out of the parish house. "As usual," commented Amy. "Why should we care?" "I hate to have unpleasant things happen." "Think of the new coat," laughed Amy. "And I do think you were awfully smart to think of using your radio in that way. Lots of people, do you know, don't believe it can be so. They think it is make-believe." "How can they, when wireless telegraphy has been known so long?" "But, after all, this is something different," Amy said. "Hearing voices right out of the air! Well, you know, Jess, I said before, I thought it was sort of spooky." "Ha, ha!" giggled her chum. "All the spooks you know anything about personally are blacksnakes. Don't forget that." "And how brave that little Hen was," sighed Amy, as they sat down to the round glass table in the Dainties Shop. "I never saw such a child." "I was trying to get daddy interested in her and in her lost cousin--if that was her cousin whom we saw carried off," Jessie returned. "Come to think of it, I didn't get very far with my story. I must talk to daddy again. But Momsy says he is much troubled over a case he has on his hands, an important case, and I suppose he hasn't time for our small affairs." "I imagine that girl who was kidnaped doesn't think hers is a small affair," observed Amy Drew, dipping her spoon into the rich concoction that had been placed before her. "Oh, yum, yum! Isn't this good, Jess?" "Scrumptious. By the way, who is going to pay for it?" "Oh, my! Haven't you any money?" demanded Amy. "We-ell, you suggested this treat." "But you should stand it. You won the prize coat," giggled Amy. "I never saw the like of you!" exclaimed Jessie. "And you say I am not fit to carry money, and all. Have you actually got me in here without being able to pay for this cream?" "But haven't you any money?" cried Amy. "Not one cent. I shall have to hurry back to the parish house and beg some of Momsy." "And leave me here?" demanded Amy. "Never!" "How will you fix it, then?" asked Jessie, who was really disturbed and could not enjoy her sundae. "Oh, don't let that nice treat go to waste, Jess." "It does not taste nice to me if we can't pay for it." "Don't be foolish. Leave it to me," said Amy, getting on her feet. "I'll speak to the clerk. He's nice looking and wears his hair slicked back like patent leather. Lo-o-vely hair." "Amy Drew! Behave!" "I am. I am behaving right up, I tell you. I am sure I can make that clerk chalk the amount down until we come in again." "I would be shamed to death," Jessie declared, her face flushing almost angrily, for sometimes Amy did try her. "I will not hear of your doing that. You sit down here and wait till I run back to the church----" "Oh, you won't have to," interrupted Amy. "Here come some of the girls. We can borrow----" But the girl who headed the little group just then entering the door of the Dainties Shop was Belle Ringold. The three who followed Belle were her particular friends. Jessie did not feel that she wanted to borrow money of Belle or her friends. CHAPTER XII THE GLORIOUS FOURTH "Never mind," whispered Amy Drew quickly, quite understanding her chum's feelings regarding Belle and her group. "I'll ask them. It's my fault, anyway. And I only meant it for a joke----" "A pretty poor joke, Amy," Jessie said, with some sharpness. "And I don't want you to borrow of them. I'll run back to the church." She started to leave the Dainties Shop. Sally Moon, who was just behind Belle Ringold, halted Jessie with a firm grasp on her sleeve. "Don't run away just because we came in, Jess," she said. "I'm coming right back," Jessie Norwood explained. "Don't keep me." "Where you going, Jess?" drawled another of the group. "I've got to run back to the church to speak to mother for a moment." "Your mother's not there," broke in Belle. "She was leaving in her flivver when we came away. The committee's broken up and the parish house door is locked." "Oh, no!" murmured Jessie, a good deal appalled. "Don't I tell you _yes_?" snapped Belle. "Don't you believe me?" "Of course I believe what you say, Belle," Jessie rejoined politely. "I only said 'Oh, no!' because I was startled." "What scared you?" demanded Belle, curiously. "Why, I--I'm not scared----" "It is none of your business, Belle Ringold," put in Amy. "Don't annoy her. Here, Jessie, I'll----" The clerk who waited on them had come to the table and placed a punched ticket for the sundaes on it. He evidently expected to be paid by the two girls. The other four were noisily grouping themselves about another table. Belle Ringold said: "Give Nick your orders, girls. This is on me. I want a banana royal, Nick. Hurry up." The young fellow with the "patent leather" hair still lingered by the table where Jessie and Amy had sat. Belle turned around to stare at the two guilty-looking chums. She sneered. "What's the matter with you and Jess, Amy Drew? Were you trying to slip out without paying Nick? I shouldn't wonder!" "Oh!" gasped Jessie, flushing and then paling. But Amy burst out laughing. It was a fact that Amy Drew often saw humor where her chum could not spy anything in the least laughable. With the clerk waiting and these four girls, more than a little unfriendly, ready to make unkind remarks if they but knew the truth---- What should she do? Jessie looked around wildly. Amy clung to a chair and laughed, and laughed. Her chum desired greatly to have the floor of the New Melford Dainties Shop open at her feet and swallow her! "What's the matter with you, Amy Drew? You crazy?" demanded Belle. "I--I----" Amy could get no farther. She weaved back and forth, utterly hysterical. "If you young ladies will pay me, please," stammered the clerk, wondering. "I'd like to wait on these other customers." "I want my banana royal, Nick," cried Belle. The other three girls gave their orders. The clerk looked from the laughing Amy to the trembling Jessie. He was about to reiterate his demand for payment. And just then Heaven sent an angel! Two, in very truth! At least, so it seemed to Jessie Norwood. "Darry!" she almost squealed. "And Burd Alling! We--we thought you were at Atlantic Highlands." The two young fellows came hurrying into the shop. They had evidently seen the girls from outside. Darry grabbed his sister and sat her down at a table. He grinned widely, bowing to Belle and her crowd. "Come on, Jessie!" he commanded. "No matter how many George Washington sundaes you kids have eaten----" "'Kids'! Indeed! I like that!" exploded Amy. But her brother swept on, ignoring her objection: "No matter how many you have eaten, there is always room for one more. You and Amy, Jessie, must have another sundae on me." "Darry!" exclaimed Jessie Norwood. "I thought you and Burd went to his aunt's." "And we came back. That is an awful place. There's an uncle, too--a second crop uncle. And both uncle and auntie are vegetarians, or something. Maybe it's their religion. Anyway, they eat like horses--oats, and barley, and chopped straw. We were there for two meals. Shall we ever catch up on our regular rations, Burd?" "I've my doubts," said his friend. "Say, Nick, bring me a plate of the fillingest thing there is on your bill of fare." "In just a minute," replied the clerk, hopping around the other table to have Belle Ringold and her friends repeat their orders. Belle had immediately begun preening when Darry and Burd came in. That the two college youths were so much older, and that they merely considered Amy and Jessie "kids," made no difference to Belle. She really thought that she was quite grown up and that college men should be interested in her. "We had just finished, boys," Jessie managed to say in a low tone. "We had not even paid for our sundaes." Darry and Burd just then caught sight of the punched check lying on the table and they both reached for it. There was some little rivalry over who should pay the score, but Darry won. "Leave it to me," he said cheerfully. "Girls shouldn't be trusted with money anyway." "Oh! Oh!" gurgled Amy, choked with laughter again. "What's the matter with you, Sis?" demanded her brother. Jessie forbade her chum to tell, by a hard stare and a determined shake of her head. It was all right to have Darry pay the check--it was really a relief--but it did not seem to Jessie as though she could endure having the matter made an open joke of. The four settled about the little table. But the Ringold crowd was too near. Belle turned sideways in her chair, even before they were served, and, being at Darry's elbow, insisted upon talking to him. "Talk about my aunt!" said Burd Alling, grinning. "I'll tell the world that somebody has a crush on Sir Galahad that's as plain to be seen as a wart on the nose of Venus." "Of all the metaphors!" exclaimed Amy. Jessie feared that Belle would overhear the comments of Burd and her chum, and she hurried the eating of her second sundae. "I must get home, Darry," she explained. "Momsy has gone without me in her car and will be surprised not to find me there." "Sure," agreed Burd quickly. "We'll gobble and hobble. Can't you tear yourself away, Darry?" he added, with a wicked grin. Amy's brother tried politely to turn away from Belle. But the latter caught him by the coat sleeve and held on while she chattered like a magpie to the young college man. She smiled and shook her bobbed curls and altogether acted in a rather ridiculous way. Darry looked foolish, then annoyed. His sister was in an ecstasy of delight. She enjoyed her big brother's annoyance. She and Jessie and Burd had finished their cream. "Come on, Darry," Burd drawled, taking a hint from the girls. "Sorry you are off your feed and can't finish George Washington's finest product. I'll eat it for you, if you say so, and then we'll beat it." He reached casually for Darry's plate; but the latter would not yield it without a struggle. The incident, however, gave Darry a chance to break away from the insistent Belle. The latter stared at the two girls at Darry's table, sniffed, and tossed her head. "Yes, Mr. Drew," she said in her high-pitched voice, "I suppose you have to take the children home in good season, or they would be chastised." "Ouch!" exclaimed Burd. "I bet that hurt you, Amy." Darry had picked up both checks from the table. Belle smiled up at him and moved her check to the edge of her table as Darry rather grimly bade her good-night. He refused to see that check, but strode over to the desk to pay the others. "That girl ought to get a job at a broadcasting station," growled out Darry, as they went out upon the street. "I never knew before she was such a chatterbox. Don't need any radio rigging at all where she is." "Oh, wouldn't it be fun to get a chance to work at a broadcasting station?" Amy cried. "We could sing, Jess. You know we sing well together. 'The Dartmoor Boy' and 'Bobolink, Bobolink, Spink-spank-spink' and----" "And 'My Old Kentucky Blues,'" broke in Burd Alling. "If you are going to broadcast anything like that, give us something up to date." "You hush," Amy said. "If Jess and I ever get the chance we shall be an honor to the program. You'll see." That the two young fellows had returned so much earlier than had been expected was a very fortunate thing, Jessie and Amy thought. For their assistance was positively needed in the work of making ready for the Fourth of July bazaar on the Norwood place, they declared. There were only three days in which to do everything. "And believe me," groaned Burd before the first day was ended, "we're doing everything. Talk about being in training for the scrub team!" "It will do you good, Burdie," cooed Amy, knowing that the diminutive of Burd Alling's name would fret him. "You are getting awfully plump, you know you are." "I feel it peeling off," he grumbled. "Don't fear. No fellow will ever get too fat around you two girls. Never were two such young Simon Legrees before since the world began!" But the four accomplished wonders. Of course the committee and their assistants and some of the other young people came to help with the decorations. But the two girls and Amy's older brother and his friend set up the marquees and strung the Japanese lanterns, in each of which was a tiny electric light. "No candle-power fire-traps for us," Jessie said. "And then, candles are always blowing out." About all the relaxation they had during the time until the eve of the Fourth was in Jessie's room, listening to the radio concerts. Mr. Norwood brought out from the city a two-step amplifier and a horn and they were attached to the instrument. The third of the month, with the help of the men servants on the Norwood place, the tent for the radio concert was set up between the house and the driveway, and chairs were brought from the parish house to seat a hundred people. It was a good tent, and there were hangings which had been used in some church entertainment in the past to help make it sound proof. They strung through it a few electric bulbs, which would give light enough. And the lead wire from the aerials, well grounded, was brought directly in from overhead and connected with the radio set. "I hope that people will patronize the tent generously," Jessie said. "We can give a show every hour while the crowd is here." "What are you going to charge for admission?" Amy asked. "Momsy says we ought to get a quarter. But ten cents----" "Ten cents for children, grown folks a quarter," suggested Amy. "The kids will keep coming back, but the grown folks will come only once." "That is an idea," agreed Jessie. "But what bothers me is the fact that there are only concerts at certain times. We ought to begin giving the shows early in the afternoon. Of course, the radio is just as wonderful when it brings weather reports and agricultural prices as when Toscanini sings or Volburg plays the violin," and she laughed. "But----" "I've got it!" cried her chum, with sudden animation. "Give lectures." "What! You, Amy Drew, suggesting such a horrid thing? And who will give the lecture?" "Oh, this is a different sort of lecture. Tell a little story about the radio, what has already been done with it, and what is expected of it in the future. I believe you could do it nicely, Jess. That sort of lecture I would stand for myself." "I suppose somebody has got to attend to the radio and talk about it. I had not thought of that," agreed Jessie. "I'll see what the committee say. But me lecture? I never did think of doing that!" she proclaimed, in no little anxiety. CHAPTER XIII THE BAZAAR When she had talked it over with Momsy and Miss Seymour, however, Jessie Norwood took up the thought of the radio lecture quite seriously. Somebody must explain and manage the entertainment in the radio tent, and who better than Jessie? "It is quite wonderful how much you young people have learned about radio--so much more than I had any idea," said the school teacher. "Of course you can write a little prose essay, Jessie, get it by heart, and repeat it at each session in the tent, if you feel timid about giving an off-hand talk on the subject." "You can do it if you only think you can, Jessie," said her mother, smiling. "I am sure I have a very smart daughter." "Oh, now, Momsy! If they should laugh at me----" "Don't give them a chance to laugh, dear. Make your talk so interesting and informative that they can't laugh." Thus encouraged, Jessie spent all the forenoon of the Fourth shut up in her own room making ready for the afternoon and evening. She had already made a careful schedule of the broadcasting done by all the stations within reach of her fine radio set, and found that it was possible, by tuning her instrument to the wave lengths of different stations, to get something interesting into every hour from two o'clock on until eleven. Naturally, some of the entertainments would be more interesting or amusing than others; but as New Melford people for the most part were as yet unfamiliar with radio, almost anything out of the air would seem curious and entertaining. "Besides," Burd Alling said in comment on this, "for a good cause we are all ready and willing to be bunkoed a little." "Let me tell you, Mr. Smarty," said Amy, "that Jessie's lecture is well worth the price of admission alone. Never mind the radio entertainment." "I'll come to hear it every time," agreed Burd. "You can't scare me!" The radio had been carefully tried out in the tent the evening before. The boys had got the market reports and the early baseball scores out of the air on Fourth of July morning, before the bazaar opened. When Jessie came out after luncheon to take charge of the radio tent, she felt that she was letter perfect in the "talk" she had arranged to introduce each session of the wireless entertainment. No admission was charged to the Norwood grounds; but several of the older boys had been instructed to keep an oversight of the entire place that careless and possibly rough youngsters should do no harm. The Norwoods', like the Drews' was one of the show places of the Roselawn section of New Melford. Boys and girls might do considerable harm around the place if they were not under discipline. The girls and boys belonging to the congregation of Dr. Stanley's church were on hand as flower sellers, booth attendants, and waitresses. Ice-creams and sherbets were served from the garage; sandwiches and cake from the house kitchen, where Mrs. Norwood's cook herself presided proudly over the goodies. In several booths were orangeade, lemonade, and other soft drinks. The fancy costumes and the funny masks the girls and boys wore certainly were "fetching." That the masks were the result of a joke on Chip Truro's part made them none the less effective. Amy was flying about, as busy as a bee. Darry and Burd were at the head of the "police." Miss Seymour took tickets for the radio tent, and after the first entertainment, beginning at two o'clock, she complimented Jessie warmly on the success of her talk on radio with which the girl introduced the show. The lawns of the Norwood place began to be crowded before two o'clock. Cars were parked for several blocks in both directions. Special policemen had been sent out from town to patrol the vicinity. Dr. Stanley's smile, as he walked about welcoming the guests, expanded to an almost unbelievable breadth. The noisy and explosive Fourth as it used to be is now scarcely known. Our forefathers did not realize that freedom could be celebrated without guns and firecrackers and the more or less smelly and dangerous burning of powder. "Now," stated Burd Alling pompously, "we celebrate the name of the Father of his Country with a dish of fruit ice-cream. How are the mighty fallen! A George Washington sundae, please, with plenty of 'sundae' on it. Thank you!" Then he gave up twice the price that he would have had to pay at the Dainties Shop down town for the same concoction to the young lady in the Columbine skirt and the mask. "Young Truro had it right," grumbled Darry. "It's a hold-up." "But you know you like to be robbed for a good cause," chuckled Amy, who chanced to hear these comments. "And remember that Doctor Stanley is going to get his share out of this." "Right-o," agreed Burd. "The doctor is all right." "But we ought to pony up the money for his support like good sports," said Darry, continuing to growl. "You'd better ask him about that," cried Amy. "Do you know what the dear doctor says? He is glad, he says, to know that so many people who never would by any chance come to hear him preach give something to the support of the church. They are in touch with the church and with him on an occasion like this, when by no other means could they be made to interest themselves in our church save to look at the clock face in the tower as they go past." "Guess he's right there," said Burd. "I reckon there are some men on the boulevard whose only religious act is to set their watches by the church clock as they ride by to town in their automobiles." However and whatever (to quote Amy again), the intentions were that brought the crowd, the Norwood place was comfortably filled. The goodies were bought, the sale of fancy goods added much to the treasury, and a bigger thing than any other source of income was the admission to the radio shows. The children were not the most interested part of the audience in the tent. From two o'clock until closing time Jessie Norwood presided at eight shows. She sometimes faced almost the same audience twice. Not only did some of the children pay their way in more than once, but grown people did the same. Curiosity regarding radio science was rife. Doctor Stanley came more than once himself to listen. And the minister's boys wanted to take the radio set all apart between shows to "see how it went." "I bet we could build one our own selves," declared Bob Stanley. "I betcha!" agreed Fred. "Only, it will cost a lot of money," groaned the minister's oldest son. "You can do it for about ten dollars--if you are ingenious," said Jessie encouragingly. "Gee whiz! That's a lot of money," said Fred. The girl knew better than to suggest lending them or giving them the money. But she told them all the helpful things she could about setting up the radio paraphernalia and rigging the wires. "I guess Nell would help us," Bob remarked. "She's pretty good, you know, for a girl." "I like that!" exclaimed Jessie. Bob Stanley grinned at her impishly. In the evening when the electric lights were ablaze the Norwood lawns were a pretty sight indeed. People came in cars from miles away. It was surprising how many came, it seemed, for the purpose of listening to the radio. That feature had been well advertised, and it came at a time when the popular curiosity was afire through reading so much about radio in the newspapers. Among the hundreds of cars parked near by were those of several of the more prosperous farmers of the county. One ancient, baldheaded, bewhiskered agriculturist sat through three of the radio shows, and commented freely upon this new wonder of the world. "The telegraph was just in its infancy when I was born," he told Jessie. "And then came the telephone, and these here automobiles, and flying machines, and wireless telegraph, and now this. Why, ma'am, this radio beats the world! It does, plumb, for sure!" The surprise and the comments of the audience did not so much interest Jessie Norwood as the fact that the money taken in by the tent show would add vastly to the profit of the bazaar. "You sure have beaten any other individual concession on the lot," Amy told her at the end of the evening. "You know, Belle Ringold bragged that she was going to take in the most money at the orangeade stand, because it was a hot night. But wait till we count up! I am sure you have beaten her with the radio tent, Jess." JEALOUSY CAN IT BE POSSIBLE? CHAPTER XIV JEALOUSY Jessie Norwood had not much personal desire to "beat" either Belle Ringold or any other worker for the bazaar; but she confessed to a hope that the radio show had helped largely to make up the deficit in church income for which the bazaar had been intended. Miss Seymour had added up after each show the amount taken in at the door of the tent. Before the lights were put out and the booths were dismantled she was ready to announce to the committee the sum total of the radio tent's earnings. "Goody! That will beat Belle, sure as you live," Amy cried when she heard it, and dragged Jessie away across the lawn to hear the report of the sum taken from the cash-drawer under the orangeade counter. Groups of young people milled around the "concession" which served the delicious cooling drinks. "Walk right up, ladies and gentlemen--and anybody else that's with you--and buy the last of the chilled nectar served by these masked goddesses. In other words, buy us out so we can all go home." It was Darry Drew up on a stool ballyhooing for the soft drink booth. "Did you ever?" gasped the young collegian's sister. "He is helping that Belle Ringold. I am amazed at Darry!" "He is helping the church society," said Jessie, composedly. But she could easily believe that Belle had deliberately entangled Darry in this thing. He never would have chosen to help Belle in closing out her supply of orangeade. There she stood behind her counter, scarcely helping wait on the trade herself, but aided by three of her most intimate girl friends. Belle gave her attention to Darry Drew. She seemed to consider it necessary to steady him upon the stool while he acted as "barker." "Come away, do!" sniffed Amy to Jessie. "That brother of mine is as weak as water. Any girl, if she wants to, can wind him right around her finger." But Jessie did not wholly believe that. She knew Darry's character pretty well, perhaps better than Amy did. He would be altogether too easy-going to refuse to help Belle, especially in a good cause. Belle Ringold was very shrewd, young as she was, in the arts of gaining and holding the attention of young men. But Darry saw his sister coming and knew that Amy disapproved. He flushed and jumped down from the stool. "Oh, Mr. Drew! Darrington!" cried Belle, languishingly, "you won't leave us?" Then she, too, saw Amy and Jessie approaching. "Oh, well," Belle sneered, "if the children need you, I suppose you have to go." Burd, who stood by, developed a spasm of laughter when he saw Amy's expression of countenance, but Jessie got her chum away before there came any further explosion. "Never you mind!" muttered Amy. "I know you've got her beaten with your radio show. You see!" It proved to be true--this prophecy of Amy's. The committee, adding up the intake of the various booths, reported that the radio tent had been by far the most profitable of any of the various money-making schemes. By that time the booths were entirely dismantled and almost everybody had gone home. Belle and her friends had lingered on the Norwood veranda, however, to hear the report. It seemed that Belle had not achieved all that she had desired, although with the restaurant department, her stand had won a splendid profit. Of course, the money taken in at the radio tent was almost all profit. "She just thought of that wireless thing so as to make the rest of us look cheap," Belle was heard to say to her friends. "Isn't that always the way when we come up here to the Norwoods'? Jess skims the cream of everything. I'll never break my back working for a church entertainment again if the Norwoods have anything to do with it!" Unfortunately Jessie heard this. It really spoiled the satisfaction she had taken in the fact that her idea, and her radio set, had made much money for a good cause. She stole away from her chum and the other young people and went rather tearfully to bed. Of course, she should not have minded so keenly the foolish talk of an impertinent and unkind girl. But she could not help wondering if other people felt as Belle said she felt about the Norwoods. Jessie had really thought that she and Daddy and Momsy were very popular people, and she had innocently congratulated herself upon that fact. The morning brought to Jessie Norwood more contentment. When Momsy told her how the ladies of the bazaar committee had praised Jessie's thoughtfulness and ingenuity in supplying the radio entertainment, she forgot Belle Ringold's jealousy and went cheerfully to work to help clear up the grounds and the house. Her radio set was moved back to her room and she restrung the wires and connected up the receiver without help from anybody. When Mr. Norwood came home that evening both she and Momsy noticed at once that he was grave and apparently much troubled. Perhaps, if their thought had not been given so entirely to the bazaar during the last few days, the lawyer's wife and daughter would before this have noticed his worriment of mind. "Is it that Ellison case, Robert?" Mrs. Norwood asked, at the dinner table. "It is the bane of my existence," declared the lawyer, with exasperation. "Those women are determined to obtain a much greater share of the estate than belongs to them or than the testator ever intended. Their testimony, I believe, is false. But as the apportionment of the property of the deceased Mr. Ellison must be decided by verbal rather than written evidence, the story those women tell--and stick to--bears weight with the Surrogate." "Your clients are likely to lose their share, then?" his wife asked. "Unless we can get at the truth. I fear that neither of those women knows what the truth means. Ha! If we could find the one witness, the one who was present when the old man dictated his will at the last! Well!" "Can't you find her?" asked Momsy, who had, it seemed, known something about the puzzling case before. "Not a trace. The old man, Abel Ellison, died suddenly in Martha Poole's house. She and the other woman are cousins and were distantly related to Ellison. He had a shock or a stroke, or something, while he was calling on Mrs. Poole. It did not affect his brain at all. The physicians are sure of that. Their testimony is clear. "But neither of them heard what the old man said to the lawyer that Mrs. Poole sent for. McCracken is a scaly practitioner. He has been bought over, body and soul, by the two women. You see, they are a sporty crowd--race track habitues, and all that. The other woman--her name is Bothwell--has driven automobiles in races. She is a regular speed fiend, they tell me. "Anyhow, they are all of a kind, the two women and McCracken. As Ellison had never made a will that anybody knows of, and this affidavit regarding his dictated wishes is the only instrument brought into court, the Surrogate is inclined to give the thing weight. "Here comes in our missing witness, a young girl who worked for Mrs. Poole. She was examined by my chief clerk and admitted she heard all that was said in the room where Ellison died. Her testimony diametrically opposes several items which McCracken has written into the unsigned testament of the deceased. "You see what we are up against when I tell you that the young girl has disappeared. Martha Poole says she has run away and that she does not know where she went to. The girl seems to have no relatives or friends. But I have my doubts about her having run away. I think she has been hidden away in some place by the two women or by the lawyer." "Oh, Daddy!" exclaimed Jessie, who had been listening with interest. "That is just like the girl I tried to tell you about the other night--little Henrietta's cousin. _She_ was carried off by two women in an automobile. What do you think, Daddy? Could Bertha be the girl you are looking for?" CHAPTER XV CAN IT BE POSSIBLE? "What is this?" Mr. Norwood asked, staring at his eager daughter. "Have I heard anything before about a girl being carried away?" "Why, don't you remember, Daddy, about Henrietta who lives over in Dogtown, and her cousin, Bertha, and how Bertha has disappeared, and--and----" "And Henrietta is the champion snake killer of all this region?" chuckled Mr. Norwood. "I certainly have a vivid remembrance of the snakes, at any rate." "Dear me!" cried Momsy. "This is all new to me. Where are the snakes, Jessie?" "Gone to that bourne where both good and bad snakes go," rejoined her husband. "Come, Jessie! It is evident I did not get all that you wanted to tell me the other evening. And, it seems to me, if I remember rightly, you got so excited over your radio business before you were through that you quite forgot the snakes--I mean forgot the girl you say was run away with." "Don't joke her any more, Robert," advised Momsy. "I can see she is in earnest." "You just listen here, Daddy Norwood," Jessie cried. "Perhaps you'll be glad to hear about Bertha. She is little Henrietta Haney's cousin, and Henrietta expected Bertha to come to see her where she lives with the Foleys in Dogtown. "Well, the day that Bertha was expected, she didn't come. That was the day Amy and I first thought of building our radio. And when we were walking into town we heard a girl screaming in Dogtown Lane. So we ran in, and there was this girl being pulled into an automobile by two women." "What girl was this?" asked Mr. Norwood, quite in earnest now. "A girl you and Amy knew?" "We had never seen her before, Daddy. And I am not positive, of course, that she was Bertha, Henrietta's cousin. But Amy and I thought it might be. And now you tell about two women who want to keep a servant girl away from you, and it might be the same." "It might indeed," admitted Mr. Norwood thoughtfully. "Tell me what the two women looked like. Describe them as well as you can." Jessie did so. She managed, even after this length of time, to remember many peculiarities about the woman who drove the big car and the fleshy one who had treated the girl so roughly. Mr. Norwood exclaimed at last: "I should not be at all surprised if that were Martha Poole and Mrs. Bothwell. The descriptions in a general way fit them. And if it is so, the girl Jessie and Amy saw abused in that way is surely the maid who worked for Mrs. Poole." "Oh, Robert! can it be possible, do you think?" cried his wife. "Not alone possible, but probable," declared Robert Norwood. "Jessie, I am glad that you are so observant. I want you to get the little girl from Dogtown some day soon and let me talk with her. Perhaps she can tell me something about her cousin's looks that will clinch the matter. At least, she can tell us her cousin's full name, I have no doubt." "It's Bertha for a first name," said Jessie, eagerly. "And I supposed it was Haney, like Henrietta's." "The girl I am looking for is not named Haney, whatever her first name may be. Anyway, it is a chance, and I mean to get to the bottom of this mysterious kidnaping if I can, Jessie. Let me see this little Henrietta who kills snakes with such admirable vigor," and he laughed. It was, however, no inconsiderable matter, as Jessie well understood. In the morning she hurried over to the Drew house to tell Amy about it. Both had been interested from the very beginning in the mystery of the strange girl and her two women captors. There was something wrong with those women. Amy said this with a serious shake of her head. You could tell! And when, on further discussion, Jessie remembered their names--Poole and Bothwell--this fact brought out another discovery. "Bothwell! I never did!" ejaculated Amy Drew. "Why, no wonder I thought she looked like somebody I knew. And she drives a fast car--I'll say she does. Jess Norwood! where were our wits? Don't you remember reading about Sadie Bothwell, whose husband was one of the first automobile builders, and she has driven in professional races, and won a prize--a cup, or something? And her picture was in the paper." "That is the person Daddy refers to," Jessie agreed. "I did not like her at all." "Ho! I should say not!" scoffed Amy. "And I wasn't in love with the fat woman. So she is a race track follower, is she?" Then Amy giggled. "I guess she wouldn't follow 'em far afoot! She isn't so lively in moving about." "But where do you suppose they took Bertha--if it was Henrietta's cousin we saw carried off?" "Now, dear child, I am neither a seventh daughter of a seventh daughter nor----" "Nor one of the Seven Sleepers," laughed Jessie. "So you cannot prophesy, can you? We will go down to Dogtown this afternoon and see if Mrs. Foley will let us bring Henrietta back to see Daddy." "The child hasn't been up to see you at all, has she?" asked Amy. "Why, no." "Maybe the woman won't want her to come. Afraid somebody may take little Hen away from her. Did you see the child's hands? They have been well used to hard work. I have an idea she is a regular little slave." "Oh, I hope not. It doesn't seem to me as though anybody could treat that child cruelly. And she doesn't seem to blame Mrs. Foley for her condition." "Well, Hen knows how to kill snakes, but maybe she is a poor judge of character," laughed Amy. "I'll go with you and defend you if the Foley tribe attack in force. But let's go down in the canoe. Then we can steal the cheeld, if necessary. 'Once aboard the lugger!' you know, 'and the gal is mine'." "To hear you, one would think you were a real pirate," scoffed Jessie. At lunch time Nell Stanley had an errand in the neighborhood, and she dropped in at the Drew house. The three girls, Mrs. Drew being away, had a gay little meal together, waited on by the Drew butler, McTavish, who was a very grave and solemn man. "Almost ecclesiastic, I'll say," chuckled Nell, when the old serving man was out of the room. "He is a lot more ministerial looking than the Reverend. I expect him, almost any time, to say grace before meat. Fred convulsed us all at the table last evening. We take turns, you know, giving thanks. And at dinner last evening it was the Reverend's turn. "'Say, Papa,' Fred asked afterward--he's such a solemn little tike you have no idea what's coming--'Say, Papa, why is it you say a so-much longer prayer than I do?' "'Because you're not old enough to say a long one,' Reverend told him. "'Oh!' said Master Freddie, 'I thought maybe it was 'cause I wasn't big enough to be as wicked as you and I didn't need so long a one.' Now! What can you do with a young one like that?" she added, as the girls went off into a gale of laughter. But she had other news of her young brothers besides this. Bob and Fred were enamored of the radio. They were ingenious lads. Nell said she believed they could rig a radio set with a hair-pin and a mouse-trap. But she was going to help them obtain a fairly good set; only, because of the shortage of funds at the parsonage, Bob and Fred would be obliged themselves to make every part that was possible. So she drew from Jessie and from Amy all they knew about the new science, and Jessie ran across to her house and got the books she had bought dealing with radio and the installation of a set. Jessie and Amy got into their outing clothes when Nell Stanley had gone and embarked upon the lake, paddling to the landing at despised Dogtown. It was not a savory place in appearance, even from the water-side. As the canoe drew near the girls saw a wild mob of children, both boys and girls, racing toward the broken landing. "Why! What are they ever doing?" asked Jessie, in amazement, backing with her paddle. "Chasing that young one ahead," said Amy. They were all dressed most fantastically, and the child running in advance, an agile and bedrabbled looking little creature, was more in masquerade than the others. She wore an old poke bonnet and carried a crooked stick, and there seemed to be a hump upon her back. "Spotted Snake! Spotted Snake! Miss Spotted Snake!" the girls from Roselawn heard the children shrieking, and without doubt this opprobrious epithet referred to the one pursued. SPOTTED SNAKE, THE WITCH BROADCASTING CHAPTER XVI SPOTTED SNAKE, THE WITCH "What are they trying to do to that poor child?" repeated Jessie Norwood, as the crowd swept down to the shore. "Spotted snake! Spotted Snake!" yelled the crowd, and spread out to keep the pursued from running back. The hump-backed little figure with poke-bonnet and cane was chased out upon the broken landing. "She will go overboard!" shrieked Jessie, and drove in her paddle again to reach the wharf. Amy, who was in the bow sheered off, but brought the side of the canoe skillfully against the rough planks. "What are they doing to you, child?" Amy cried. "Goin' to drown the witch! Goin' to drown the witch!" shrieked the rabble in the rear. "Spotted Snake! Spotted Snake!" "It's little Henrietta!" screamed Jessie suddenly. "Oh, Amy!" Amy, who was strong and quick, reached over the gunwale of the canoe and seized upon the crooked figure. She bore it inboard, knocking off the old bonnet to reveal Henrietta's freckled little face. The cloak and the hump under it were likewise torn off and went sailing away on the current. "For pity's sake, Henrietta!" gasped Jessie. "Yes'm," said the child composedly. "Did you come to see me?" "Not expecting to see you in this--this shape," hesitated Jessie. Amy went off into a gale of laughter. She could not speak for a minute. Jessie demanded: "Who are those awful children, Henrietta?" "Part Foleys, some McGuires, two Swansons, the Costeklo twins, and Montmorency Shannon," was the literal reply. "What were they trying to do to you?" "Drown me," said Henrietta composedly. "But they ain't ever done it yet. I always manage to get away. I'm cute, I am. But once they most nearly burned me, and Mrs. Foley stopped _that_. So now they mostly try to drown the witch." "'The witch'?" murmured the amazed Jessie. "Yep. That's me. Spotted Snake, the witch. That's cause I'm so freckled. It's a great game." "I should say it was," marveled Jessie, and immediately Amy began to laugh again. "I don't see how you can, Amy," Jessie complained. "I think it is really terrible." "I don't mind it," said Henrietta complacently. "It keeps 'em busy and out from under their mothers' feet." "But they shriek and yell so." "That don't hurt 'em. And there's plenty of outdoors here to yell in. Where we moved from in town, folks complained of the Foleys because they made so much noise. But nobody ever complains here in Dogtown." As Amy said, when she could keep from laughing, it was a great introduction to Henrietta's home. They went ashore, and Henrietta, who seemed to have a good deal of influence with the children, ordered two of the boys to watch the canoe and allow nobody to touch it. Then she proudly led the way to one of the largest and certainly the most decrepit looking of all the hovels in Dogtown. Mrs. Foley, however, was a cheerful disappointment. She was, as Amy whispered, a "bulgy" person, but her calico wrapper was fairly clean; and although she sat down and took up her youngest to rock to sleep while she talked (being too busy a woman to waste any time visiting) she impressed the girls from Roselawn rather favorably. "That child is the best young one in the world," Mrs. Foley confessed, referring to "Spotted Snake, the Witch." "Sometimes I rant at her like a good one. But she saves me a good bit, and if ever a child earned her keep, Hen earns hers." Jessie asked about the missing cousin, Bertha. "Bertha Blair. Yes. A good and capable girl. Was out at service when Hen's mother died and left her to me. Something's wrong with Bertha, or she surely would have come here to see Hen before this." "Did Bertha Blair work for a woman named Poole?" Jessie asked. "That I couldn't tell you, Miss. But you take Hen up to see your father, like you say you want to. The child's as sharp as a steel knife. Maybe she'll think of something that will put him on the trace of Bertha." So they bore Spotted Snake away with them in the canoe, while the Dogtown gang shrieked farewells from the old landing. Henrietta had been dressed in a clean slip and the smartest hair ribbon she owned. But she had no shoes and stockings, those being considered unnecessary at Dogtown. "I believe Nell could help us find something better for this child to wear," Amy observed, with more thoughtfulness than she usually displayed. "What do you think, Jess? Folks are always giving the Stanleys half-worn clothes for little Sally, more than Sally can ever make use of. And Hen is just about Sally Stanley's size." "That might be arranged," agreed Jessie. "I guess you'd like to have a new dress, wouldn't you, Henrietta?" "Oh, my yes! I know just what I would like," sighed Henrietta, clasping her clawlike hands. "You've seen them cape-suits that's come into fashion this year, ain't you? _That's_ what I'd like." "My dear!" gasped Amy explosively. "I don't mind going barefooted," said Henrietta. "But if I could just have _one_ dress in style! I expect you two girls wear lots of stylish things when you ain't wearing sweaters and overall-pants like you did the other day. I never had anything stylish in my life." Amy burst into delighted giggles, but Jessie said: "The poor little thing! There is a lot in that. How should we like to wear nothing but second-hand clothes?" "'Hand me downs'," giggled Amy. "But mind you! A cape-coat suit! Can you beat it?" "I saw pictures of 'em in a fashion book Mrs. McGuire sent for," went on Henrietta. "They are awful taking." Little Henrietta proved to be an interesting specimen for the Norwood family that evening. Momsy took her wonted interest in so appealing a child. The serving people were curious and attentive. Mr. Norwood confessed that he was much amused by the young visitor. A big dictionary placed in an armchair, raised little Henrietta to the proper height at the Norwood dinner table. Nothing seemed to trouble or astonish the visitor, either about the food or the service. And Jessie and Momsy wondered at the really good manners the child displayed. Mrs. Foley had not wholly neglected her duty in Henrietta's case. And there seemed to be, too, a natural refinement possessed by the girl that aided her through what would have seemed a trying experience. Best of all, Henrietta could give a good description of her missing cousin. Her name was Bertha Blair, and that was the name of the girl Mr. Norwood's clerk had interviewed before she had been whisked away by Martha Poole and Sadie Bothwell. In addition, Mr. Norwood had brought home photographs of the two women, and both Jessie and Amy identified them as the women they had seen in Dogtown Lane, forcing the strange girl into the automobile. "It is a pretty clear case," the lawyer admitted. "We know the date and the place where the missing witness was. But the thing is now to trace the movements of those women and their prisoner after they drove away from Dogtown Lane." Nevertheless, he considered that every discovery, even a small one, was important. Detectives would be started on the trail. Jessie and Amy rode back to Dogtown in the Norwoods' car with the excited Henrietta after dinner, leaving her at the Foleys' with the promise that they would see her soon again. "And if those folks you know have any clothes to give me," said Henrietta, longingly, "I hope they'll be fashionable." CHAPTER XVII BROADCASTING Darry and Burd were planning another trip on the _Marigold_, and so had little time to give to the girl chums of Roselawn. Burd wickedly declared that Darry Drew was running away from home to get rid of Belle Ringold. "Wherever he goes down town, she pops up like a jack-in-the-box and tries to pin him. Darry is so polite he doesn't know how to get away. But I know he wishes her mother would lock her in the nursery." "It is her mother's fault that Belle is such a silly," scoffed Amy. "She lets Belle think she is quite grown up." "She'll never be grown up," growled out Darry. "Never saw such a kid. If you acted like her, Sis, I'd put you back into rompers and feed you lollipops." "You'd have a big chance doing anything like that to me, Master Darry," declared his sister, smartly. "Even Dad--bless his heart!--would not undertake to turn back the clock on me." Before the two young fellows left Roselawn again, they did the girls a favor that Amy and Jessie highly appreciated. It was done involuntarily but was nevertheless esteemed. Mark Stratford drifted up the Bonwit Boulevard in his big and shiny car and halted it in front of the Norwood place to hail Darry and Burd. "Here's the millionaire kid," called out Alling. "Know him, girls? He's quite the fastest thing that lingers about old Yale. Zoomed over the German lines in the war, stoking an airplane, although at that time he was only a kid. Mark Stratford. His family are the Stratford Electric Company. Oodles of money. But Mark is a patient soul." "'Patient'?" repeated Jessie, wonderingly, as she and Amy accompanied the young fellows down to the street. "Sure," declared Burd. "Most fellows would be impatient, burdened with so much of the filthy lucre as Mark has. But not he. He is doing his little best to spend his share." However, and in spite of Burd's introduction, Mark Stratford proved to be a very personable young man and did not look at all the "sport." Jessie considered that Burd was very probably fooling them about Mark. The young folks were talking like old friends in five minutes. In five minutes more they had piled into the car for a ride. Mark's car "burned up the road" so fast that in half an hour they came to Stratfordtown where the huge plant of the Electric Company lay, and on the border of which was the large Stratford estate. Jessie and Amy did not care anything about the beauties of the show place of the county. While riding over the girls had discussed one particular topic. And when Mark asked them where they wanted to go, or what they preferred to see, Jessie spoke out: "Oh, Mr. Stratford! take us to the plant and let us go into the radio broadcasting room. Amy and I are just longing to see how it is done." "Oh, _that!_" exclaimed Mark Stratford. "We're crazy about radio, Mr. Stratford," agreed Amy. "Some radio fiends, these two," said Darry. And he told his friend to what use the girls had already put Jessie's set for the benefit of the church bazaar. "If you girls want to see how it's done, to be sure I'll introduce you to the man in charge. Wait till we drive around there." Stratford was as good as his word. It was a time in the afternoon when the Electric Company's matinee concert was being broadcasted. They went up in the passenger elevator in the main building of the plant to a sort of glassed-in roof garden. There were several rooms, or compartments, with glass partitions, sound-proof, and hung with curtains to cut off any echo. The young people could stare through the windows and see the performers in front of the broadcasting sets. The girls looked at each other and clung tightly to each other's hand. "Oh, Amy!" sighed Jessie. "If we could only get a chance to sing here!" whispered Amy in return. It did not mean much to the boys. And Mark Stratford, of course, had been here time and time again. A gray-haired man with a bustling manner and wearing glasses came through the reception room and Mark stopped him. "Oh, Mr. Blair!" the collegian said. "Here are some friends of mine who are regular radio bugs. Let me introduce you to Miss Jessie Norwood and Miss Amy Drew. Likewise," he added, as the gentleman smilingly shook hands with the girls, "allow me to present their comrades in crime, Darry Drew and Burdwell Alling. These fellows help me kill time over at Yale, to which the governor has sentenced me for four years." "Mr. Blair?" repeated Jessie, looking sideways at her chum. "Mr. Blair?" whispered Amy, who remembered the name as well as Jessie did. "That is my name, young ladies," replied the superintendent, smiling. "You don't know anything about a girl of our age named Blair, do you, Mr. Blair?" Jessie asked hesitatingly. "I have no daughters," returned the superintendent, and the expression of his face changed so swiftly and so strangely that Jessie did not feel that she could make any further comment upon the thought that had stabbed her mind. After all, it seemed like sheer curiosity on her part to ask the man about his family. "Just the same," she told Amy afterward, when they were in the automobile once more, "Blair is not such a common name, do you think?" "But, of course, that Bertha Blair couldn't be anything to the superintendent of the broadcasting station. Oh, Jessie! What a wonderful program he had arranged for to-day. I am coming over to-night to listen in on that orchestral concert and hear Madame Elva sing. I would not miss it for anything." "Suppose we could get a chance to help entertain!" Jessie sighed. "Not, of course, on the same program with such performers as these the Stratford people have. But----" They happened to be traveling slowly and Mark overheard this. He twisted around in his seat to say: "Why didn't you ask Blair about it? You have no idea how many amateurs offer their services. And some of them he uses." "I'll say he does!" grumbled Burd. "Some of the singers and others I have listened in on have been punk." "Well, I'll have you know that Jessie and I wouldn't sing if we could not sing well," Amy said, with spirit. "Sure," agreed Burd, grinning. "Madame Elva wouldn't be a patch on you two girls singing the 'Morning Glories' Buns' or the 'Midnight Rolls'." "Your taste in music is mighty poor, sure enough, Burd," commented Darry. "Jessie sings all right. She's got a voice like a----" "Like a bird, I know," chuckled Alling. "That is just the way I sing--like a Burd." "I've heard of a bird called a crow," put in Mark Stratford, smiling on the two girl chums. Jessie thought he had a really nice smile. "That is what your voice sounds like, Alling. You couldn't make the Glee Club in a hundred and forty years." "Don't say a word!" cried Burd. "I'll be a long time past singing before the end of that term. Ah-ha! Here we are at Roselawn." They got out at the Norwood place and the girls insisted upon Mark coming in to afternoon tea, which Amy and Jessie poured on the porch. The chums liked Mark Stratford and they did not believe that he was anywhere near as "sporty" as Burd had intimated. Naturally, a fellow who had driven a warplane and owned an airship now and often went up in it, would consider the driving of a motor-car rather tame. As for his college record, Jessie and Amy later discovered that Mark was a hard student and was at or near the head of his class in most of his studies. "And he drives that wonderful car of his," said Amy, with approval, "like a jockey on the track." The girl chums did not forget the concert they expected to enjoy that evening, but Darry and Burd left right after dinner for the moorings of the _Marigold_ at City Island. They took Mark Stratford and some other college friends with them for a three days' trip on the yacht. Jessie and Amy were eager to see the _Marigold_; but their parents had forbidden any mixed parties on the yacht until either Mr. and Mrs. Drew, or Mr. and Mrs. Norwood could accompany the young people. That would come later in the summer. Amy ran over to the Norwood place before half past eight. The concert, Mr. Blair had told them, was to begin at nine. Jessie had learned a good deal about tuning in on the ether by this time; and there is no other part of radio knowledge more necessary if the operator would make full use of his set. "The bedtime story is just concluded, Amy," Jessie said when her chum came in. "Sit down. I am going to get that talk on 'Hairpins and Haricots' by that extremely funny newspaper man--what is his name?" "I don't know. What's in a name, anyhow?" answered her chum, lightly. Amy adjusted the earphones while her friend manipulated the slides on the tuning coil. They did not catch the first of the talk, but they heard considerable of it. Then something happened--just what it was Amy had no idea. She tore off the ear-tabs and demanded: "What _are_ you doing, Jess? That doesn't sound like anything I ever heard before. Is it static interference?" "It certainly is interference," admitted Jessie, trying to tune the set so as to get back upon the wave that had brought the funny talk about 'Hairpins and Haricots.' But it did not work. Jessie could not get in touch with the lecture. Instead, out of the ether came one word, over and over again. And that word in a voice that Jessie was confident must come from a woman or a girl: "Help! He-lp! He-e-lp!" Over and over again it was repeated. Amy who had put on her head harness again, snatched at her chum's arm. "Listen! Do you hear that?" she cried in an awed tone. A MYSTERY OF THE ETHER CHAPTER XVIII A MYSTERY OF THE ETHER Jessie knew that by carefully moving the slides on her tuning coil she could get into touch again with the talk to which she and Amy had been listening. But now the broadcasted cry for "Help!" seemed of so much importance that she wanted to hear more of this air mystery. "He-lp!" The word came to their ears over and over again. Then: "I am a prisoner. They brought me here and locked me in. There is a red barn and silo and two fallen trees. He-lp! Come and find me!" "For pity's sake, Jess Norwood!" shrilled Amy. "Do you hear that?" "I'm trying to," her chum replied. "Hush!" "It must be a hoax." "Wait!" They listened and heard it repeated, almost word for word. A red barn and a silo and two fallen trees. These points the strange voice insisted on with each repetition. "I can't believe it!" declared Amy. "It is a girl. I am sure it is a girl. Oh, Amy!" gasped Jessie. "Suppose it should be the girl whom we saw carried off by those two awful women?" "Bertha Blair?" "Yes. Of course, I suppose that is awfully far-fetched----" "Wait! Here it comes again," whispered Amy. "Come and find me! Help! I am a prisoner! The red barn and the silo with the two fallen trees." How many times this was repeated the girls did not know. Suddenly something cluttered up the airways--some sort of interference--and the mystery of the ether died away. No matter what Jessie did to the tuning coil she could not bring that strangely broadcasted message back to their ears. "What do you know about that?" demanded Amy, breathlessly. "Why--why," murmured her chum, "we don't know much of anything about it. Only, I am sure that was a girl calling. It was a youthful voice." "And I feel that it is Bertha Blair!" exclaimed Amy. "Oh, Jessie, we must do something for her." "How can we? How can we find her?" "A red barn with a silo and two fallen trees. Think of it! Did you ever see a place like that when you have been riding about the country?" "I--nev-er--did!" and Jessie shook her head despondently. "But there must be such a place. It surely is not a hoax," said Amy, although at first she had thought it was a joke. "And there is another thing to mark, Jess." "What is that?" "The place where this girl is kept a prisoner has a broadcasting station. You can't talk into a radio set like this. There has to be electric power and a generator, and all that--such as Mark Stratford showed us there at Stratfordtown." "Of course." "Then don't you think, Jessie, the fact that it is a broadcasting plant where the girl is imprisoned must narrow the inquiry a good deal?" "How clever you are, dear," declared Jessie. "But a red barn with a silo and two fallen trees! Why, Amy! we don't know in which direction to look. Whether to the north, south, east or west!" "No-o. I suppose----Oh, wait, Jess!" cried the excited Amy. "We don't really know where those women took that girl we saw carried off. They drove out the boulevard as far as we could see them. But, do you remember, we met that Mrs. Bothwell again in the big French car that very evening?" "When we went to Parkville with Nell and the Brandons!" Jessie said eagerly. "I remember she passed us. You pointed her out to me." "And she turned out of the very road we took to go to Parkville," said Amy, with confidence. "I believe that red barn with the silo must be over beyond Parkville." "It might be so," admitted her chum, thoughtfully. "I have never been through that section of the state. But Chapman knows every road, I guess." "Doesn't your father know the roads, too?" "But Daddy and Momsy have gone to Aunt Ann's in New York and will not be back to-night," Jessie explained. "Anyhow we couldn't go hunting around in the dark after this broadcasting station, wherever it is," Amy observed. "Of course not," her chum agreed, taking the harness off her head. "Come down to the telephone and I'll see if Chapman is in the garage." They ran downstairs, forgetting all about the radio concert they were to have heard, and Jessie called up the garage to which a private wire was strung. The chauffeur, who had served the Norwoods ever since they had had a car, answered Jessie's request quickly, and appeared at the side door. Amy was just as eager as Jessie to cross-question the man about a red barn with a silo. He had to ask the girls to stop and begin all over again, and---- "If you please, Miss Jessie," he added, widely a-grin, "either let Miss Amy tell me or you tell me. I can't seem to get it right when you both talk." "Oh, I am dumb!" announced Amy. "Go ahead, Jess; you tell him." So Jessie tried to put the case as plainly as possible; but from the look on Chapman's face she knew that the chauffeur thought that this was rather a fantastic matter. "Why, Chapman!" she cried, "you do not know much about this radio business, do you?" "Only what I have seen of it here, Miss Jessie. I heard the music over your wires. But I did not suppose that anybody could talk into the thing and other folks could hear like----" "Oh! You don't understand," Jessie interrupted. "No ordinary radio set broadcasts. It merely receives." As clearly as she could she explained what sort of plant there must be from which the strange girl had sent out her cry for help. "Of course, you understand, the girl must have got a chance on the sly to speak into the broadcasting horn. Now, all the big broadcasting stations are registered with the Government. And if secret ones are established the Government agents soon find them out. "It might be, if the people who imprisoned this girl are the ones we think, they may have a plant for the sending out of information that is illegal. For instance, it might have some connection with race track gambling. One of the women is interested in racing and the other in automobile contests. If the broadcasting plant is near a race course or an autodrome----" "Now you give me an idea, Miss Jessie!" exclaimed Chapman suddenly. "I remember a stock farm over behind Parkville where the barns are painted red. And there is a silo or two. Besides, it is near the Harrimay Race Course. I could drive over there in the morning, if you want to go. Mr. Norwood won't mind, I am sure." "Would you go, Amy?" Jessie asked, hesitatingly. "Sure! It's a chance. And I am awfully anxious now to find out what that mysterious voice means." A PUZZLING CIRCUMSTANCE SOMETHING DOING AT THE STANLEY'S CHAPTER XIX A PUZZLING CIRCUMSTANCE Jessie's parents being away, Amy ran home and announced her desire to keep her chum company and was back again before ten o'clock. There was not much to be heard over the airways after that hour. They had missed Madame Elva and the orchestra music broadcasted from Stratfordtown. "Nothing to do but to go to bed," Amy declared. "The sooner we are asleep the sooner we can get up and go looking for the mysterious broadcasting station. Do you believe that cry for help was from little Hen's cousin?" "I have a feeling that it is," Jessie admitted. "Maybe we ought to take Spotted Snake, the Witch, with us," chuckled her chum. "What do you say?" "I think not, honey. We might only raise hopes in the child's mind that will not be fulfilled. I think she loves her cousin Bertha very much; and of course we do not know that this is that girl whose cry for help we heard." "We don't really know anything about it. Maybe it is all a joke or a mistake." "Do you think that girl sounded as though she were joking?" was Jessie's scornful reply. "Anyway, we will look into it alone first. If Chapman can find the stock farm with the red barn----" "And there are two fallen trees and a silo near it," put in Amy, smiling. "Goodness me, Jess! I am afraid the boys would say we had another crazy notion." "I like that!" cried Jessie Norwood. "What is there crazy about trying to help somebody who certainly must be in trouble? Besides," she added very sensibly, "Daddy Norwood will be very thankful to us if we should manage to find that Bertha Blair. He needs her to witness for his clients, and Momsy says the hearing before the Surrogate cannot be postponed again. The matter must soon be decided, and without Bertha Blair's testimony Daddy's clients may lose hundreds of thousands of dollars." "We'll be off to the rescue of the prisoner in the morning, then," said Amy, cuddling down into one of her chum's twin beds. "Good-night! Sweet dreams! And if you have a nightmare don't expect me to get up and tie it to the bed-post." The next morning Chapman brought around the car as early as half past eight, when the girls were just finishing breakfast. "Don't eat any more, Amy," begged Jessie. "Do get up for once from the table feeling that you could eat more. The doctors say that is the proper way." "Pooh! What do the doctors know about eating?" scoffed Amy. "Their job is to tend to you when you can't eat. Why? honey! I feel lots better morally with a full stomach than when I am hungry." They climbed into the car and Chapman drove out the boulevard and turned into the Parkville road. It was a lovely morning, not too hot and with only a wind made by their passage, so that the dust only drifted behind the car. They passed the home of Mr. and Mrs. Brandon's daughter and saw the aerials strung between the house and the flagpole on the garage. "Keep your eyes open for aerials anywhere, Amy," said Jessie. "Of course wherever that broadcasting station is, the aerials must be observable." "They'll be longer and more important than the antenna for the usual receiving set, won't they?" eagerly asked Amy. "Of course." Then Jessie leaned forward to speak to Chapman, for they were in the open car. "When you approach the stock farm you spoke of, please drive slowly. We want to look over all the surroundings." "Very well, Miss Jessie," the chauffeur said. Passing through Parkville, they struck a road called a turnpike, although there were no ticket-houses, as there are at the ferries. It was an old highway sweeping between great farms, and the country was rolling, partly wooded, and not so far off the railroad line that the latter did not touch the race-track Chapman had spoken of. The car skirted the high fence of the Harrimay enclosure and then they ran past a long string of barns in which the racing horses were housed and trained for a part of the year. There was no meet here at this time, and consequently few horses were in evidence. "I like to see horses race," remarked Amy. "And they are such lovely, intelligent looking creatures. But so many people who have anything to do with horses and racing are such hard-faced people and so--so impossible! Think of the looks of that Martha Poole. She's the limit, Jessie." "Neither she nor Mrs. Bothwell is nice, I admit. But don't blame it on the poor horses," Jessie observed, smiling. "I am sure it is not their fault. Mrs. Poole would be objectionable if she was interested in cows--or--or Pekingese pups." Chapman turned up a hilly road and they came out on a ridge overlooking the fenced-in track. The chauffeur shifted his position so as to glance behind him at the girls, the car running slowly. "Now look out, Miss Jessie," he advised. "We are coming to the old Gandy stock farm. That's the roof of the house just ahead. Yonder is the tower they built to house the electric lighting plant like what your father used to have. See it?" "Yes, yes!" exclaimed Jessie. "But--but I don't see any aerials. No, I don't! And the red barn----" "There it is!" cried Amy, grabbing at her chum's arm. "With the silo at the end." The car turned a corner in the road and the entrance gate to the estate came into view. Up the well kept lane, beyond the rambling house of weathered shingles, stood a long, low barn and a silo, both of a dull red color. And on either side of the entrance gate were two broken willow trees, their tall tops partly removed, but most of the trunks still lying upon the ground where they had fallen. "Ha!" ejaculated the chauffeur. "Those trees broke down since I was past here last." "Do drive slower, Chapman," Jessie cried. But she drew Amy down when the girl stood up to stare at the barn and the tower. "There may be somebody on watch," Jessie hissed. "They will suspect us. And if it is either of those women, they will recognize you." "Cat's foot!" ejaculated Amy. "I don't see any signs of occupancy about the house. Nor is there anybody working around the place. It looks abandoned." "We don't know. If the poor girl is shut up here----" "Where?" snapped Amy. "Perhaps in the house." "Perhaps in the barn," scoffed her chum. "Anyway, every window of that tower, both the lower and the upper stories, is shuttered on the outside." "Maybe that is where Bertha is confined--if it is Bertha." "But, honey! Where is the radio? There is nothing but a telephone wire in sight. There is no wireless plant here." "Dear me, Amy! don't you suppose we have come to the right place?" The car was now getting away from the Gandy premises. Jessie had to confess that there was no suspicious looking wiring anywhere about the house or outbuildings. "It does not seem as though that could be the place after all. What do you think, Chapman?" she added, leaning forward again. "Don't you think that place looked deserted?" "It often does between racing seasons, Miss Jessie," the man said. "Whoever owns it now does not occupy it all the year." Suddenly Jessie sat up very straight and her face flamed again with excitement. She cried aloud: "Chapman! Isn't there a village near? And a real estate office?" "Harrimay is right over the hills, Miss Jessie," said the chauffeur. "Drive there at once, please," said the girl. "And stop at the office of the first real estate agent whose sign you see." "For goodness sake, Jess!" drawled Amy, her eyes twinkling, "you don't mean to buy the Gandy farm, do you?" CHAPTER XX SOMETHING DOING AT THE STANLEYS' Chapman drove the automobile down into Harrimay only ten minutes later. It was a pretty but rather somnolent place, just a string of white-painted, green-blinded houses and two or three stores along both sides of an oiled highway. It was a long ten-minute jitney ride from the railway station. "Perkins, Real Estate" faced the travelers from a signboard as they drove into the village. Chapman stopped before the office door, and the eager Jessie hopped out. "I'm coming, too! I'm coming, too!" squealed Amy, running across the walk after her. "Do be quiet," begged her chum. "And for once let me do the talking." "Oui, oui, Mademoiselle! As I haven't the least idea what the topic of the conversation will be, I can easily promise that," whispered Amy. A high-collared man with eyeglasses and an ingratiating smile arose from behind a flat-topped desk facing the door and rubbed his hands as he addressed the two girls. "What can I do for you, young ladies?" "Why, why----Oh, I want to ask you--" Jessie stammered. "Do you know who owns the farm over there by the track? The Gandy place?" "The old Gandy stock farm, Miss?" asked the real estate man with a distinct lowering of tone. "It is not in the market. The Gandy place never has been in the market." "I just wish to know who owns it," repeated Jessie, while Amy stared. "The Gandys still own it. At least old man Gandy's daughter is in possession I believe. Horse people, all of them. This woman----" "Please tell me her name?" "Poole, Martha Poole, is her name." "Oh!" cried Amy, seeing now what Jessie wanted. But Jessie shook her head at her chum warningly, and asked the man: "Do you know if Mrs. Poole is at the place now?" "Couldn't say. She comes and goes. She is always there when the racing is going on. It is supposed that some things that go on there at the Gandy place are not entirely regular," said the real estate man stiffly. "If you are a friend of Mrs. Poole----" "I am Jessie Norwood. My father, Mr. Robert Norwood, is a lawyer, and we live in the Roselawn section of New Melford." "Oh, ah, indeed!" murmured the real estate man. "Then I guess it is safe to tell you that the people around here do not approve of Mrs. Poole and what goes on at the Gandy place during the racing season. It is whispered that people there are interested in pool rooms in the city. You know, where betting on the races is conducted." "I do not know anything about that," replied Jessie, in some excitement. "But I thank you for telling me about Martha Poole." She seized Amy by the arm and hurried back to the automobile. "What do you think of that?" gasped Amy, quite as much amazed as was her chum. "I do wish Daddy was coming home to-day. But he isn't. Not until dinner time, anyway. I do believe, Amy Drew, that poor Bertha is hidden away somewhere at that farm." "But--but----how could she get at any sending station to tell her troubles to--to the air?" and Amy suddenly giggled. "Don't laugh. It is a very serious matter, I feel sure. If the poor girl actually isn't being abused, those women are hiding her away so that they can cheat Daddy's clients out of a lot of money." "Again I ask," repeated Amy, more earnestly, "_how_ could that girl, whoever she is, get to a sending station? We did not see the first sign of an aerial anywhere near that house and barn, or above the tower, either." "I don't know what it means. It is a mystery," confessed Jessie. "But I just _feel_ that what we heard over the radio had to do with that missing girl--that it was Bertha Blair calling for help, and that in some way she is connected with that red barn and the silo and the two fallen trees. We traced the place from her description." "So we did!" "And unless it is all a big hoax, somewhere near that place Bertha is held a prisoner. If that Martha Poole is in with some crooked people who break the state gambling law by radio, sending news of the races to city gambling rooms, she would commit other things against the law." "Oh!" cried Amy. "Both she and that Mrs. Bothwell look like hard characters. But there were no aerials in sight!" Jessie thought for a moment. Then she flashed at her chum: "Well, that might be, too. Some people string their aerials indoors. I don't know if that can be done at a sending station. But it may be. They are inventing new things about radio all the time. You know that, dear." "I know it," agreed Amy. "And if that broadcasting station up there at the Gandy farm is used for the sending of private racing information, in all probability the people who set it up would want to keep it secret." "I see! So they would." "It is not registered, you can make up your mind. And as it is only used much when the racing season is on at the Harrimay track, the Government has probably given it little attention." "Could they find it, do you think, Jessie?" asked her chum. "I have read that the Government has wonderful means of locating any 'squeak-box', as they call it, that is not registered and which litters up the airways with either unimportant or absolutely evil communications. These methods of tracing unregistered sending stations were discovered during the war and were proved thoroughly before the Government allowed any small stations to be established since." "Do you suppose the police knew that that woman was sending racing news to gambling rooms from up there at her farm?" "We don't know that she is. Mr. Perkins was only repeating gossip. And we did not see aerials up there." "But you say that maybe they could have rigging for the station without any aerials in the open?" "It might be. I am all confused. There certainly is a mystery about it, and Daddy Norwood ought to know at once. Oh, Chapman! That was thunder. We must hurry home." "Yes, Miss Jessie," said the chauffeur, looking up at the clouds that had been gathering. "I think I can get you home before it rains." He increased the speed of the car. They had circled around by another way than the Parkville road, and they came through the edge of New Melford. When the automobile shot into Bonwit Boulevard and headed toward Roselawn the first flash of lightning made the girls jump. Chapman stepped on the accelerator and the car shot up the oiled way. The thunder seemed to explode right overhead. Before the first peal rolled away there was another sharp flash. Although the rain still held off, the tempest was near. "Oh!" gasped Jessie, covering her eyes. "There's the church," said Amy. "We'll soon be home now." Even as she spoke another crackling stroke burst overhead. The green glare of it almost blinded them. The thunder shook the air. Jessie screamed. "See! See! Look at the parsonage!" she cried in Amy's ear. "Why, the boys must have already strung their wires and got a radio set established," said Amy. "Look at the window--that attic window!" Jessie exclaimed. "Don't you see what I see, Amy Drew?" "It's smoke!" said the other girl, amazed. "The house is afire! In the attic! That lightning must have struck there. It must have been led in by the wires, just as Momsy feared." "Then the boys never closed their switch!" cried Amy. "Oh! I wonder if Doctor Stanley or Nell knows that the house is on fire?" A GREAT TO-DO SILK DARRY'S BIG IDEA CHAPTER XXI A GREAT TO-DO "Chapman! Stop!" shouted Jessie. "We must tell them!" The chauffeur wheeled the car in toward the curb and stopped as quickly as he could. But it was some distance past the church and the parsonage. The girls jumped out and ran back. They saw Dr. Stanley come out on the porch from his study. He was in his house gown and wore a little black cap to cover his bald spot. It was a little on one side and gave the good clergyman a decidedly rakish appearance. "Come in here, children! Hurry! It is going to rain," he called in his full and mellow voice. "Oh, Doctor! Doctor!" Jessie gasped. "The fire! The fire!" "Why, you are not wet. Here come the first drops. You don't need a fire." "Nor you don't need one, Doctor," and Amy began to laugh. "But you've got one just the same." "In the kitchen stove. Is it a joke or a conundrum?" asked the smiling minister, as the two chums came up under the porch roof just as the first big drops came thudding down. "Upstairs! The radio!" declared the earnest Jessie. "Don't you know it's afire?" "The radio afire?" "The lightning struck it. Didn't you feel and hear it? The boys must have left the switch to the receiver open, and the lightning came right in----" "Come on!" broke in Amy, who knew the way about the parsonage as well as she did about her own house. "We saw the smoke pouring out of the window," and she darted in and started up the front stairway. "Why, why!" gasped the good doctor. "I can hardly believe Nell would be so careless." "Oh, it isn't Nell," Jessie said, following her chum. "It is the boys." "But she always knows what the boys are up to, and Sally, too," declared the minister, confident of his capable daughter's oversight of the family. The girls raced up the two flights. They smelled the smoke strongly as they mounted the second stairway to the garret. Then they heard voices. "They've got it right in the old lumber room, Jess!" panted Amy. "But why don't they give the alarm?" "Trying to put it out themselves. We ought to have brought buckets!" "There is no water on this floor!" Amy banged open the door of the big room in which they knew, by the arrangement of the outside wires, Bob and Fred must have set up the radio set. Amy plunged in, with Jessie right behind her. The room was unpleasantly filled with smoke. "Why don't you put it out?" shrieked Amy, and then began to cough. "Hullo!" Bob Stanley exclaimed out of the smother. "We want to put it in, not out. Hullo, Jess. You here, too?" "The fire! The smoke!" gasped Jessie. "Shucks," said Fred, who was down on his knees poking at something. "We can't have the windows open, for the rain is beating this way. We've got to solder this thing. Did you have trouble with yours, Jess?" "Sweetness and daylight!" groaned a voice behind them. Dr. Stanley stood in the doorway. He was a heavy man, and mounting the stairs at such a pace tried his temper as well as his wind. "Is _this_ what started you girls off at such a tearing pace? Why, the boys borrowed that soldering outfit from the plumber. It's all right." "I am so sorry we annoyed you," said Jessie, contritely. But Amy had begun to laugh and could say nothing. Only waved her hands weakly and looked at the clergyman, whose cap was much more over his ear than before. "Right in the middle of Sunday's sermon, young ladies," said the minister, with apparent sternness. "If that sermon is a failure, Amy and Jessie, I shall call on one of you girls--perhaps both of you--to step up into the pulpit and take my place. Remember that, now!" and he marched away in apparent dudgeon; but they heard him singing "Onward Christian Soldiers" before he got to the bottom of the upper flight of stairs. "But it certainly was a great to-do," murmured Jessie, as she tried to see what the boys were doing. She was able to advise them after a minute. But Amy insisted upon opening one of the windows and so getting more of the smoke out of the long room. "You boys don't even know how to make a fire in a fire-pot without creating a disturbance," she said. Nell came up from the kitchen where she had been consulting the cook about the meals, and Sally came tagging after her; of course, with a cookie in one hand and a rag doll in the other. "This Sally is nothing but a yawning cavity walking on hollow stilts," declared Nell, who "fussed" good-naturedly, just as her father did. "She is constantly begging from the cook between meals, and her eyes are the biggest things about her when she comes to the table." "Ain't," said Sally, shaking her curls in denial. "Ain't what?" asked Jessie. "Ain't--ain't _if you please_," declared the little girl, revealing the fact that her sister had tried to train her in politeness. When the girls stopped laughing--and Sally had finished the cookie--Nell added: "Aunt Freda came last night to dinner and we had strawberry fool. Cook makes a delicious one. And Sally could eat her weight of that delicacy. When I came to serve the dessert Sally was watching me with her eagle eye and her mouth watering. I spooned out an ordinary dishful, and Sally whispered: "'Oh, sister! is _that_ all I get?' "So I told her it was for Aunt Freda, and she gasped: "'What! All _that_?'" The boys got the thing they wanted soldered completed about this time, and Bob ran down the back way with the fire-pot. The rain began to lift. As Nell cheerfully said, a patch of blue sky soon appeared in the west big enough to make a Scotchman a kilt, so they could be sure that it would clear. Jessie and Amy walked home after seeing the Stanley boys' radio set completed. Their minds then naturally reverted to the adventures of the morning and what they had heard so mysteriously out of the ether the evening before. Jessie had warned her chum to say nothing to anybody about the mysterious prisoner and the stock farm over by Harrimay or of their suspicions until she had talked again with Mr. Norwood. Momsy came home that afternoon from Aunt Ann's, but Mr. Norwood did not appear. The Court was sitting, and he had several cases which needed his entire attention. He often remained away from home several days in succession at such times. "And one of the most important cases is that one he told us about," Momsy explained. "He is greatly worried about that. If he cannot find that girl who lived with Mrs. Poole----" "Oh, Momsy!" exclaimed Jessie, "let us find Daddy and tell him about what Amy and I heard over the radio. I believe we learned something about Bertha Blair, only we could not find her this morning." She proceeded to explain the adventure which included the automobile trip to Harrimay and the Gandy farm. Momsy became excited. It did not really seem to her to be so; but she agreed that Daddy Norwood ought to hear about it. When they tried to get him on the long distance telephone, however, the Court had closed for the day and so had the Norwood law office. He was not at his club, and Momsy did not know at which hotel he was to spend the night. There really seemed to be nothing more Jessie could do about the lost witness. And yet she feared that this delay in getting her father's attention would be irreparable. CHAPTER XXII SILK! Belle Ringold and Sally Moon came up to the Norwood place the next forenoon and found Jessie and Amy in a porch hammock, their heads together, writing a letter to Jessie's father. Jessie had tried to get Robert Norwood at his office right after breakfast, but a clerk had informed her that Mr. Norwood was not expected there until later. He would go direct to court from his hotel. "And they have no more idea where he went to sleep than Momsy had," Jessie had explained to her chum when Amy appeared, eager and curious. "He is so busy with his court work that he does not want to be disturbed, I know. But it seems to me that what we heard over the radio ought to be told to him." It was Amy who had suggested the writing of the letter and having it taken into town by Chapman, the chauffeur. The coming of Belle and Sally disturbed the chums in the middle of the letter. "Glad we found you here, Amy," said Belle. "You never are at home, are you?" "Only to sleep," confessed Amy Drew. "What seems to be the trouble, ladies? Am I not to be allowed to go calling?" "Oh, we know you are always gadding over here," said Sally, laughing. "You are Jessie's shadow." "Ha, ha! and likewise ho, ho!" rejoined Amy. "In this case then, the shadow is greater than the substance. I weigh fifteen pounds more than Jess. We'll have to see about that." "And I suppose your brother, Darrington, is over here, too?" asked Belle, her sharp eyes glancing all about the big veranda. "Wrong again," rejoined Amy, cheerfully. "But if you have any message for Darry you can trust me to deliver it to him." "Where is he?" "Just about off Barnegat, if his plans matured," said Amy composedly. "Oh!" cried Belle. "Did he go out on that yacht? And without taking any of us girls?" and she began to pout. "No mixed parties until the family can go along," Amy said promptly. "Jess and I, even, haven't been aboard the _Marigold_." "Oh, you children!" scoffed Belle. "I shouldn't think that Darry and Burd Alling and that Mark Stratford would want little girls tagging them. Why, they are in college." Belle really was a year older than the chums; but she acted, and seemed to feel, as though she were grown up. Amy stared at her with wide eyes. "Well, I like your nerve!" said she. "Darry's my brother. And I've known Burd Alling since he and Darry went to primary school. And so has Jess. I guess they are not likely to take strangers off on that yacht with them before they take Jess and me." Belle tossed her head and laughed just as though she considered Amy's heated reply quite childish. "Oh, dear me," she proclaimed. "To hear you, one would think you were still playmates, all making mud pies together. I don't know that you and Jess, Amy Drew, ever will be grown up." "Hope not, if we have to grow into anything that looks and acts like you," grumbled Amy. But Jessie tried to pour oil on the troubled waters. "Just what did you come for, Belle?" she asked. After all, she must play hostess. "Is it anything I can do for you?" "Some of us older girls are going to have a box party down at the Carter Landing on Lake Monenset the first moonlight night. Sally and I are on the committee of arrangements. We want to talk it over with Darrington and Burd and get them to invite Mark Stratford." "Humph! You'll have to use long distance or radio," chuckled Amy. "Now, don't interfere, Amy!" said Belle sharply. "Wait," Jessie said, in her quiet way. "Don't let us argue over nothing. The boys really are off on their boat. We do not know just when they are coming back. Why don't you write Darry a note and leave it at the house?" "Humph! I wonder if he'd get it?" snapped Belle, with her face screwed up as though she had bitten into something awfully sour. "Well! I like her impudence," muttered Amy, as Belle and Sally disappeared. "I don't see how her mother ever let her grow up." "It is not as bad as all that," her chum said gravely. "But it is awfully silly for Belle and those girls who go with her to be thinking of the boys all the time, and trying to get the older boys to show an interest in them. That is perfectly ridiculous." "You're right," said Amy, bluntly. "And Darry and Burd think that Belle is foolish." "Now, let's finish this letter to Daddy," Jessie said, hastily. "And then, oh, Amy Drew, I have an idea!" "Another idea?" cried her friend. "I don't know whether there is anything in it or not. But listen. Don't you think we might get Henrietta, take her over to the Gandy place, and look around again for Bertha?" "We-ell, I admit that kid has got sharp eyes. But how could she see into those buildings that are all shut up any better than we could when we were over there?" "You don't just get my idea, honey. If the girl who radioed her message, and which we heard, is Henrietta's cousin, she will know Henrietta's voice. And if Henrietta calls her from outside, maybe she can shout and we will hear her." "That is an idea!" exclaimed Amy. "It might work, at that." Then she laughed. "Anyway, we can give Hen a ride. Hen certainly likes riding in an automobile." "And Nell has got an almost new dress and other things for her. Let us go down to the parsonage and get them. And while Chapman goes to town with this letter we'll paddle around to Dogtown and get Henrietta." "Fine!" cried Amy, and ran home for her hat. A little later, when she had returned from the parsonage with the bundle and the chums were embarked upon the lake, Jessie said: "I hope the poor little thing will like this dress that Nell was so kind as to find for her. But, to tell the truth, Amy, it seems a little old for Henrietta." "Is it a cape-coat suit?" giggled her friend. "It is a little taffeta silk, and Nell said it was cut in a style so disgracefully freakish that she would not let Sally wear it. It was bought at one of those ultra-shops on Fifth Avenue where they have styles for children that ape the frocks their big sisters wear." "Let's see it," urged Amy, with curiosity. "Wait till you see it on Henrietta. There are undies, too, and stockings and a pair of shoes that I hope will fit her. But consider! Taffeta silk for a child like Henrietta." There could be no doubt that the girls from Roselawn were welcome when they landed at Dogtown and came to the Foley house. The greater number of the village children seemed to have swarmed elsewhere; but little Henrietta was sitting on the steps of the house holding the next-to-the-youngest Foley in her arms. "Hush!" she hissed, holding up an admonishing finger. "He's 'most gone. When he goes I'll lay him in that soap-box and cover him with the mosquito netting. Then I can tend to you." "The little, old-fashioned thing," murmured Amy. "It isn't right, Jess." Jessie understood and nodded. She was glad that Amy showed a certain amount of sympathy for Henrietta and appreciation of her. In a few moments the child was utterly relaxed and Henrietta got up and staggered over to the soap-box on wheels and laid the sleeper down upon a pillow. "He ought to sleep an hour," said little Henrietta, covering Billy Foley carefully so that the flies could not bite his fat, red legs. "I ain't got nothing to do now but to sweep out the house, wash the dishes in the sink, clean the clinkers out of the stove, hang out a line for clothes, and make the beds before Mrs. Foley and the baby get back. I can talk to you girls while I'm doing them things." "Landy's sake!" gasped Amy, horrified. But Jessie determined to take matters in her own hands for the time being, Mrs. Foley not being present. She immediately unrolled the bundle of things she had brought, and Henrietta halted on the step of the house, poised as though for flight, her pale eyes gradually growing rounder and rounder. "Them ain't for _me_?" "If they fit you, or can be made to fit you, honey," said Jessie. "Oh, the poor child!" exclaimed Amy softly, taking care that Henrietta should not hear her. "Silk!" murmured Henrietta, and sat down on the step again, put her arms out widely and squeezed the silk dress up to her flat little body as though the garment was another baby. "Silk!" repeated the poor little thing. "Miss Jessie! How good you are to me! I never did have a thing made of silk before, 'cepting a hair-ribbon. And I never had any too many of them." CHAPTER XXIII DARRY'S BIG IDEA When Mrs. Foley and the baby arrived home there stood upon the platform at the back door of the house a most amazing figure. She knew every child in Dogtown, and none of them had ever made such an appearance. She almost dropped the baby through amazement. "For love of John Thomas McGuire!" burst forth the "bulgy" woman, finally finding her voice. "What's happened to that child? Is it an angel she's turned into? Or is she an heiress, I dunno? Hen Haney! what's the meaning of this parade? And have you washed the dishes like I told you?" "You must forgive her, Mrs. Foley," Jessie said, coming down to meet the woman and taking the baby from her. "Go and see and speak to the child," she whispered. "She is so delighted that she has not been able to talk for ten minutes." "Then," said Mrs. Foley solemnly, "the wor-r-rld has come to an end. When Hen Haney can't talk----" But she mounted heavily to the platform. Little Henrietta stood there like a wax figure. She dared not move for fear something would happen to her finery. Every individual freckle on her thin, sharp face seemed to shine as though there was some radiance behind it. Absurd as that taffeta dress was for a child of her age, it seemed to her an armor against all disaster. Nothing bad (she had already acclaimed it to Amy and Jessie) could happen to her with that frock on. And those silk stockings! And the patent-toed shoes! And a hat that almost hid the child's features from view! "Well, well, well!" muttered the amazed Mrs. Foley. "If anybody had ever told me that you'd have been dressed up like--like a millionaire's kid! When I took you away from your poor dead mother and brought you out here, Hen Haney, to be a playfellow of me little Charlie, and Billy, and--and--Well, anyway, to be a playmate to them. Ha! You never cleaned out the stove-grate, did you?" She had looked into the kitchen and saw the dishes in the sink and the gaping stove hearth, and shook her head. Jessie thought it time to intercede for the little girl. "You must forgive her, Mrs. Foley, and blame me. I made her dress up in the things we brought. I was sure you would want to see her in her Sunday clothes." A deep sigh welled up from Henrietta's chest. "Am I going to sure-enough keep 'em to wear Sundays?" she asked. "If Mrs. Foley will let you," said the politic Jessie. "You can keep them very carefully. It is really wonderful how well they fit." "Sure," sighed Mrs. Foley, "she's better dressed than me own children." "But you told us your children were all boys," Amy put in quickly. "Aw, but a time like this I wish't I had a daughter," declared the woman, gazing at Henrietta almost tenderly. "What a sweet little colleen she might be if she had some flesh on her bones and something besides freckles to color her face. Yes, yes!" "I am awfully glad, Mrs. Foley," said Jessie quickly, "to see how much you approve of what we have tried to do for Henrietta. So I am bold enough to ask you to let us take her up to my house for over night. Momsy wants to see her in these new clothes, and----" "Well, if Mrs. Momsy--Or is it Mr. Momsy, I dunno?" "Why, Momsy is my mother!" "The like o' that now! And she lets you call her out o' name? Well, there is no understanding you rich folks. Ha! So you want to take little Hen away from me?" "Only for over night. It would be a little vacation for her, you know." Mrs. Foley looked back into the kitchen and shook her head. "By the looks o' things," she said, "she's been having a vacation right here. Well, she'll be no good for a while anyway, I can see that. Why, she can't much more than speak with them glad rags on her." "Come on," said Henrietta, and walked down the steps, heading toward the lake. Amy burst into laughter again, and even Mrs. Foley began to grin. "She's as ready to go as though you two young ladies was her fairy god-mothers. Sure, and maybe 'tis me own fault. I've been telling her for years about the Good Little People that me grandmother knew in Ireland--or said she knew, God rest her soul!--and she has always been looking for banshees and ha'nts and fairies to appear and whisk her away. She is a princess in disguise that's been char-r-rmed by a wicked witch. All them stories and beliefs has kept her contented. She's a good little thing," Mrs. Foley ended, wiping her eyes. "Go along with her and tell your Mrs. Momsy to be good to her." So they got away from Dogtown with flying colors. Henrietta sat, a little silk-clad figure, in the bottom of the canoe and shivered whenever she thought a drop of water might come inboard. "She ought to have worn her old clothes in the canoe," Amy suggested, but with dancing eyes. "O-o-oh!" gasped Henrietta, pleadingly. "It is going to take dentist's forceps to ever get the child out of that dress," chuckled Jessie. "I can see that." They got back to Roselawn in good season for dinner. Chapman had returned from town, but had not brought Mr. Norwood home. Jessie's father, it seemed, had left the courtroom early in the afternoon and had gone out of town on some matter connected with the Ellison case. That case, as Jessie and her mother feared, was already in the court. A jury had been decided upon, as the defendants, Mrs. Poole and Mrs. Bothwell, had been advised by McCracken, their lawyer, to demand a jury trial. The plaintiffs would have to get in their witnesses the next day. If Bertha Blair was ever to aid the side of right and truth in this matter, she must be found and brought to court. "And we don't know how to find her. If she is hidden away over there at that Gandy farm, how shall we ever find it out for sure?" wailed Jessie. "I hoped Daddy would get my letter and come and take charge of the search himself." "Your idea of taking Henrietta over there and letting her call Bertha is a good one," declared Amy stubbornly. "Aren't you going to do it?" "Yes. We'll drive over early. But it is only a chance." They could not interest Henrietta in her Cousin Bertha that evening, save that she said she hoped Bertha would come and see her before she had to take off the silk dress and the other articles of her gay apparel. She scarcely had appetite for dinner, although Momsy and Jessie tried their very best to interest Henrietta in several dishes that were supposed to appeal to a child's palate. Henrietta was polite and thanked them, but was not enthusiastic. She found a tall mirror in the drawing room and every time they missed her, Jessie tip-toed into that long apartment to see Henrietta posing before the glass. The child certainly did enjoy her finery. The suggestion of bedtime only annoyed Henrietta. But finally Jessie took her upstairs and showed her the twin beds in her own room, one of which the visitor was to occupy, and so gradually Henrietta came to the idea that some time she would have to remove the new clothes. They listened in on the radio that evening until late, using the amplifier and horn that Mr. Norwood had bought. Henrietta could not understand how the voices could come into the room over the outside wires. "I'll tell Charlie Foley and Montmorency Shannon about this," she confided to Jessie and Amy. "I guess you don't know them. But they are smart. They can rig one of these wireless things with wires, I bet. And then the whole of Dogtown will listen in." "Or, say! Maybe they won't let poor folks like those in Dogtown have radios? Will they?" "This is for the rich and poor alike," Jessie assured her. "Provided," added Amy, "that the poor are not too poor." They finally got Henrietta to bed. She went to sleep with the silk dress hanging over a chair within reach. After Amy had gone home Jessie retired with much more worriment upon her mind than little Henrietta had upon hers. Everybody was astir early about the Norwood and Drew places in Roselawn that next morning. At the former house Jessie and Henrietta aroused everybody. At the Drew place "two old salts," as Amy sleepily called them from her bedroom window, came rambling in from a taxi-cab and disturbed the repose of the family. "Where did you leave that _Marigold_?" the sister demanded from her window. "You boys go off on that yacht, supposedly to stay a year, and get back in forty-eight hours. You turn up like a couple of bad pennies. You----" "Chop it, Sis," Darry advised. "See if you can get a bite fixed for a couple of started castaways. The engine went dead on us and we sailed into Barnegat last night and all hands came home by train. Mark has the laugh on us." Fortunately the cook was already downstairs and Amy put on a negligee and ran down to sit with the boys in the breakfast room and listen to the tale of their adventures. "Oh! But," she said, after a while, "there's been something doing in this neighborhood, too. At least, our neighbors have been doing something. Do you know, Darry, Jess is bound to find that lost girl we were telling you about? Mr. Norwood goes into court to-day on that Ellison case, and he admits himself that he has very little chance of winning without the testimony of Bertha Blair." "Fine name," drawled Darry. "Sounds like a movie actress." "Let me tell you," Amy said eagerly. She related how she and Jessie had tried to find Bertha after hearing what they believed to be the lost girl's voice out of the air. Darry and Burd listened with increasing wonder. "What won't you kids do next?" gasped Darry. "I wish you wouldn't call us kids. You are as bad as Belle Ringold," complained his sister. "Is she hanging around here yet?" demanded Darry. "I don't want to see that girl. I know I'm going to say something unpleasant to her yet." "She is right after you, just the same," Amy said, suddenly giggling. She told about the coming moonlight box-party down the lake. "We'll go right back to the _Marigold_, Burd," said Darry promptly. "Home is no place for us. But tell us what else you did, Sis." When Amy had finished her tale her brother was quite serious. Particularly was he anxious to help Jessie, for he thought a good deal of his sister's chum. "Tell you what," he said, looking at Burd, "we'll hang around long enough to ride over to the stock farm with the girls, sha'n't we?" "What do you think you can do more than they have done?" asked Burd, with some scorn. "I have an idea," said Darry Drew slowly. "I think it is a good one. It even beats using that little Hen Haney for a bait. Listen here." And he proceeded to tell them. A RADIO TRICK CHAPTER XXIV A RADIO TRICK Jessie was of course delighted to see Darry and Burd in Amy's company when her chum appeared on the Norwood premises after breakfast. Jessie had dressed Henrietta, and the child was preening herself in the sun like a peacock. The boys scarcely recognized her. At once Burd Alling called her the Enchanted Princess. That disturbed little Henrietta but slightly. "I expect I am a 'chanted princess,'" she admitted gravely. "I expect I am like Cinderella. I know all about her. And the pumpkin and rats and mice was charmed, too. I hope I won't get charmed back again into my old clothes." "You could not very well help Mrs. Foley in that dress, Henrietta," Jessie suggested. "No. I suppose not. But if I could just find my cousin Bertha maybe I would not have to help Mrs. Foley any more. Maybe Bertha is rich, and we could hire somebody to take care of Billy Foley and to clean out the kitchen stove." She was more than eager to ride along with the others to look for Bertha Blair. As it chanced, Jessie did not have to call for Chapman and the Norwood car when the time to go came. For who should drive up to the house but Mark Stratford, who had come home with Darry and Burd from the yacht cruise and had driven over from Stratfordtown in his powerful car? It was a tight fit for the six in the racing car, but they squeezed in and drove out through the Parkville road while it was still early morning. Meanwhile Darry had explained his idea to the others, and they were all eager to view the surroundings of the Gandy stock farm. "If Bertha is there she'll know me if I holler; of course, she will," agreed little Henrietta. "But she never will know me by looking at me. Never!" "So she'll have to shut her eyes if she wants to know you, will she, kid?" chuckled Burd. There really did not seem to be any need for the child to call when the party stopped before the closed gate, for there was not any sign of occupancy of either the house or surrounding buildings. The shingled old house offered blank windows to the road, like so many sightless eyes. There were no horses in the stables, for the windows over the box-stalls were all closed. And the tower the girls had marked before seemed deserted as well. "Just the same, the voice spoke of the red barn and that silo and those two fallen trees there. Chapman says the trees must have fallen lately. And yet there isn't an aerial in sight, as we told you," said Jessie. "Let's look around," Darry said, jumping out, and Burd and Amy went with him. Mark turned around in the driver's seat to talk with Jessie. "You know, it's a funny thing that the girl's name should be Bertha Blair," the young man said. "I heard you folks talking about her before, and I said something about it to our Mr. Blair at the factory. He's had a lot of trouble in his family. Never had any children, he and his wife, but always wanted 'em." "His younger brother married a girl of whom the Blair family did not approve. Guess she was all right, but came from poor kind of folks. And when the younger Blair died they lost trace of his wife and a baby girl they had. Funny thing," added Mark. "That baby's name was Bertha--Bertha Blair. When I told the superintendent something about your looking for such a girl because of a law case, he was much interested. If you go over there again to the sending station, tell the superintendent all about her, Miss Jessie." "I certainly will," promised the Roselawn girl. "But we haven't even found Bertha yet, and we are not sure she is here." Darry and the others had entered the grounds surrounding the stock farm buildings and they were gone some time. When they came back even Amy seemed despondent. "I guess we were fooled, Jess," she said. "There is nobody here--not even a caretaker. I guess what we heard over the radio that time was a hoax." "I don't believe it!" declared Jessie. "I just _feel_ that Bertha Blair, little Henrietta's cousin, is somewhere here." "And maybe she can't get away," said Henrietta. "I'd like to help Bertha run away from that fat woman." "Let's take the kid in and let her call," suggested Burd. "Sure you didn't see any aerial, Darry?" Mark asked, showing increased interest in the matter. "Not a sign," said Drew, shaking his head. "That tower----" "Yes. It would make an ideal station. But I went all around it. I can't see the roof, for it is practically flat. And if what I suggested was there, we will have to get above the level of the roof to see it." Mark suddenly got out and opened his toolbox. He brought forth a pair of lineman's climbers. "Thought I had 'em here. I'll go up that telegraph pole and see what I can see," and he began to strap them on. "Good as gold!" cried Burd admiringly. "You have a head on you, young fellow." "Yes," said Mark dryly. "I was born with it." He proceeded to the tall telegraph pole and swarmed quickly up it. The others waited, watching him as he surveyed the apparently deserted place from the cross-piece of the pole. By and by he came down. "It's there, Darry," he said confidently. "Your big idea was all to the good. That folding wireless staff you use on the _Marigold_ is repeated right on the top of that tower. When they use the sending set they raise the staff with the antenna and--there you have it." "Oh! Then she's in the tower!" cried Amy. "At least, she was in the tower if she sent her message from this station," agreed Darry. "How shall we find out--how shall we?" cried Amy, excitedly. "If Mr. Stratford is quite sure that he sees the aerials upon that roof, then I am going to get the tower door open somehow," declared Jessie, with her usual determination. "It is there, Miss Jessie," Mark assured her. "Come on, Henrietta," said Jessie, helping the little girl to jump down from the car. "We are going to find your Cousin Bertha if she is here." "You are real nice to be so int'rusted in Bertha," said Henrietta. "I am interested in her particularly because Daddy Norwood needs her," admitted the older girl. "Come on now, honey. We'll go up to that tower building and you shout for Bertha just as hard as you can shout. She will know your voice if she doesn't know you in your new dress," and she smiled down at the little girl clinging to her hand. JUST IN TIME CHAPTER XXV JUST IN TIME It seemed as though if there really was anybody left in charge of the Gandy house and premises, such a caretaker would have appeared before this to demand of the party of young folks from Roselawn what they wanted. As Jessie Norwood walked up the lane, with little Henrietta by the hand and followed by Darrington Drew, she saw no person at any window or door. The tower might have been abandoned years before, as far as appearance went. But Mark Stratford's discovery seemed to make it plain that the tower was sometimes in use. Jessie noted that the tower stood on a knoll behind the house from which vantage the race track some quarter of a mile away might be seen. With good field glasses one might stand in the second story of the tower and see the horses running on the track. Then, if there was a sending radio set in the tower, the reports of races could be broadcasted in secret code to sets tuned to the one in the tower. Of course, if the radio instrument was so illegally used, it was only so used while the races were being held at the Harrimay Track. Then the folding aerials were raised and made use of. The cry for help that had been broadcasted and which Jessie and Amy had heard might have been sent out from this station some night when Martha Poole or her friends had neglected to shut off the aerial by dropping it flat upon the roof of the tower. The question now was, had Bertha stolen her way into the tower at that time, or was she held prisoner there? Evidently Martha Poole and Sadie Bothwell were determined to hold the girl until after the court had settled in their favor the Ellison will case. Jessie and those with her came to the foot of the tower. All the lower windows were boarded up and the door was tightly closed. There were shades at the upper windows, and they fitted tightly. "You call Bertha, honey," said Jessie. "Tell her we've come to let her out. Did you try that door, Darry?" "Not much! We don't want to be arrested for trying to commit burglary." "Shout for Bertha, Henrietta," commanded Jessie. Immediately the little girl set up a yell that, as Burd declared, could have scarcely been equaled by a steam calliope. "Bertha! Bertha Haney! Come out and see my new dress!" That invitation certainly delighted Amy and Burd. They sat in the car and clung to each other while they laughed. Little Henrietta's face got rosy red while she shouted, and she was very much in earnest. "Bertha! Bertha Haney! Don't you hear me? I got a new dress! And we've come to take you home. Bertha!" Suddenly the lower door of the tower opened a crack. An old, old woman, and not at all a pleasant looking woman, appeared at the crack. "What you want?" she demanded. "Go 'way! Martha Poole didn't send you here." Jessie spoke up briskly. "We've come to see Bertha. This is her little cousin. You won't refuse to let her see Bertha, will you?" "There ain't nobody here but a sick girl. She ain't to be let out. She ain't right in her head." "I guess that is what is the matter with you," said Darry Drew, sternly. He had come nearer, and now, before the woman could shut the door, he thrust his foot between it and the jamb. "We're going to see Bertha Blair. Out of the way!" He thrust back the door and the old woman with it. They heard a muffled voice calling from upstairs. Little Henrietta flashed by the guardian of the tower and darted upstairs. "Bertha! Bertha! I'm coming, Bertha! I got a new dress!" "You better go up and see what's doing, Jess," said Darry. "I'll hold this woman down here." Jessie was giggling, although it was from nervousness. "And I thought you did not want to be considered a burglar?" she said as she passed hastily in at the door. "Oh, well, we're in for it now," Darry called after her. "Be as quick as you can." Jessie found a door open at the top of the flight. Henrietta was chattering at top speed somewhere ahead. The rooms were dark, but when Jessie found the room in which Henrietta was, she likewise found a girl bound to a chair in which she sat, with a towel tied across her mouth which muffled her speech. "Here's Bertha! Here's Bertha!" cried Henrietta eagerly. Jessie had the girl free and the towel off in half a minute. She saw then that the prisoner was the girl she and Amy had seen carried away by Martha Poole and Sadie Bothwell, out of Dogtown Lane. "Oh, Miss! is this little Hennie? And have you come to take me away?" gasped Bertha. "Surely. Are you Bertha Blair?" "Yes, ma'am. Hennie calls me Bertha Haney. For I lived with her mom after my mother died. But my name's Blair." "My father is Robert Norwood, the lawyer," said Jessie swiftly. "He wants you to testify in court about what you heard when that old man made his will at Mrs. Poole's house." "Oh! You mean Mr. Abel Ellison? A gentleman came and asked me about that once, and then Mrs. Poole said I'd got to keep my mouth shut about it or she'd put me away somewhere so that I'd never get away." "So I ran away from her," said Bertha, "and tried to go to Dogtown and see Hennie and the Foleys. Why! wasn't you one of the girls, Miss, that saw Mrs. Poole putting me into that car?" "Yes," sighed Jessie. "I saw it, but couldn't stop it." "Well, they brought me right out here, and I've been here ever since. When Mrs. Poole isn't here that old woman comes and keeps me from running away." "But once," Jessie suggested, "you had a chance to try to send out a cry for help?" "There's a radio here. They used it one night. Then I tried to call for help over it. But they heard me and stopped it at once." "Just the same, that attempt of yours is what has brought us here to-day. I will tell you all about it later. Come, Bertha! We will get you away from here before Mrs. Poole comes. And we must take you to the city to see my father at once." As they left the tower and the ugly old woman, they heard the latter calling a number into the telephone receiver. She was probably trying to report the outrage to Mrs. Poole. "But the woman will never dare call the police," Darry assured Jessie. "You tell your father all about it, and he'll know what to do." "And we must see Daddy Norwood as soon as possible," the girl said. "I must take Bertha to him. The case is already in court." "I'll fix that for you, Miss Jessie," Mark Stratford said. "I can get you to town just as quickly as the traffic cops will let me--and they are all my friends." Darry considered that he should go, too. So they dropped Amy and little Henrietta, with Burd Alling, at Roselawn, and after a word to Momsy, started like the flight of an arrow in Mark's powerful car for New York. Jessie and Bertha Blair had never ridden so fast before. Mark Stratford knew his car well, and coaxed it along over the well-oiled roads of Westchester at a speed to make anybody gasp. But haste was necessary. They knew where the court was, and they arrived there just after the noon recess. Mrs. Norwood had reached her husband's chief clerk by telephone, and he had communicated the news to the lawyer. Mr. Norwood had dragged along the prosecution until the missing witness arrived. Then he introduced Bertha Blair into the witness chair most unexpectedly to McCracken and his clients. If Mr. Norwood's side of the argument needed any bolstering, this was supplied when Bertha was allowed to tell her story. The judge even advised the girl, or her guardians if she had any, that she had a perfectly good civil case against Martha Poole for imprisoning her in the tower on the Gandy farm. These matters, however, did not interest Jessie Norwood and her friends much. They had been able to assist Mr. Norwood in an important legal case, and naturally everybody, both old and young, was interested in Bertha Blair, the girl who had been imprisoned. Momsy said she would put on her thinking cap about Bertha's future. Meanwhile Bertha and little Henrietta went back to the Foleys for a while. Henrietta was bound to be the most important person of her age in all of Dogtown. No other little girl there was the possessor of such finery as she had. What Mark Stratford had said to Jessie about Superintendent Blair kept recurring to the Roselawn girl, and she felt that she should tell the man who had charge of the Stratford Electric Corporation radio program about the girl who had been rescued from the horsewoman. As we meet Jessie and Amy and Bertha and all their friends in another volume, called "The Radio Girls on the Program; Or, Singing and Reciting at the Sending Station," in all probability Jessie Norwood will do just that. "You girls," Darry Drew said to Jessie and Amy, "have got more radio stuff in your heads than most fellows I know. Why, you are as good as boys at it." "I like that!" exclaimed his sister. "Is there anything, I'd like to know, that girls can't beat boys at?" "One thing," put in Burd Alling solemnly. "What's that?" "Killing snakes," said Burd. "Wrong! Wrong!" cried Jessie, laughing. "You ought to see little Henrietta attack a flock of snakes. She takes the palm." "Think of it, a little girl like that going after snakes!" murmured Burd. "She must have nerve!" "She has," declared Jessie. "And she is as clever as can be, too, in spite of her odd way of expressing herself." "I wonder what they'll do about Bertha Blair," came from Darry. "She certainly had an adventure," observed Burd. "Maybe the movie people will want her--or the vaudeville managers. They often pick up people like that, who have been in the limelight." "I don't think Momsy will allow anything of that sort," returned Jessie. "I'm sure she and Daddy will think up something better." Suddenly Amy, who was resting comfortably in the porch hammock, leaped to her feet. "I declare! I forgot!" she cried. "Forgot what?" came in a chorus from the others. "Forgot that special concert to-day--that one to be given over the radio by that noted French soprano. You know who I mean--the one with the unpronounceable name." "Oh, yes!" ejaculated Jessie. "Let me see--what time was it?" She consulted her wrist watch. "I declare! it starts in five minutes." "Then come on and tune in. I've been thinking of that concert ever since it was advertised. Miss Gress, the music teacher, heard her sing in Paris and she says she's wonderful. Come on. Will you boys come along?" "Might as well," answered Darry. "We haven't anything else to do." "And I like a good singer," added Burd. In another moment all were trooping up to Jessie's pretty room where she had her receiving set. The necessary tuning in was soon accomplished and in a minute more all were listening to a song from one of the favorite operas, rendered as only a great singer can render it. And here, for the time being we will say good-bye to the Radio Girls of Roselawn. THE END CLASSIC SERIES Heidi By Johanna Spyri Treasure Island By Robert Louis Stevenson Hans Brinker By Mary Mapes Dodge Gulliver's Travels By Jonathan Swift Alice in Wonderland By Lewis Carroll Boys and girls the world over worship these "Classics" of all times, and no youth is complete without their imagination-stirring influence. They are the time-tested favorites loved by generations of young people. The Goldsmith Publishing Co. NEW YORK, N. Y. Books for GIRLS THE PEGGY STEWART SERIES By GABRIELLE E. JACKSON Against the colorful background of Annapolis and a picturesque southern estate, Gabrielle E. Jackson paints the human and lovely story of a human and lovely girl. Real girls will revel in this wholesome tale and its enchanting telling. Peggy Stewart at Home Peggy Stewart at School The Motor Girls Series By MARGARET PENROSE A dashing, fun-loving girl is Cora Kimball and she is surrounded in her gypsy-like adventures with a group of young people that fairly sparkle. Girls who follow their adventurous steps will find a continuing delight in their doings. In the series will be found some absorbing mysteries that will keep the reader guessing so that the element of supense is added to make the perusal thoroughly enjoyable. The Motor Girls On Tour At Lookout Beach Through New England On Cedar Lake On the Coast On Crystal Bay On Waters Blue At Camp Surprise In the Mountains Helen In the Editor's Chair By RUTHE S. WHEELER "Helen in the Editor's Chair" strikes a new note in stories for girls. Its heroine, Helen Blair, is typical of the strong, self-reliant girl of to-day. When her father suffers a breakdown and is forced to go to a drier climate to recuperate, Helen and her brother take charge of their father's paper, the Rolfe Herald. They are faced with the problem of keeping the paper running profitably and the adventures they encounter in their year on the Herald will keep you tingling with excitement from the first page to the last. The Goldsmith Publishing Company NEW YORK, N. Y. Books for GIRLS The Merriweather Girls Series By LIZETTE EDHOLM The Merriweather girls, Bet, Shirley, Joy and Kit are four fun-loving chums, who think up something exciting to do every minute. The romantic old Merriweather Manor is where their most thrilling adventures occur. The author has given us four exceptional titles in this series--absorbing mysteries and their solutions, school life, horseback riding, tennis, and adventures during their school vacations. EVERYGIRL'S SERIES Grouped in the Everygirl's Series are five volumes selected for excellence. Shirley Watkins, Caroline E. Jacobs and Blanche Elizabeth Wade contribute stories that are both fascinatingly real and touched with romance. Every girl who dips into one of these stories will find herself enthralled to the end. The S. W. F. Club--By Caroline E. Jacobs Jane Lends a Hand--By Shirley Watkins Nancy of Paradise Cottage--By Shirley Watkins Georgina Finds Herself--By Shirley Watkins THE PEGGY STEWART SERIES By GABRIELLE E. JACKSON Against the colorful background of Annapolis and a picturesque southern estate, Gabrielle E. Jackson paints the human and lovely story of a human and lovely girl. Real girls will revel in this wholesome tale and its enchanting telling. Peggy Stewart at Home Peggy Stewart at School The Goldsmith Publishing Company NEW YORK, N. Y. Books for GIRLS THE MERRIWEATHER GIRLS SERIES By LIZETTE EDHOLM The Merriweather girls, Bet, Shirley, Joy and Kit are four fun-loving chums, who think up something exciting to do every minute. The romantic old Merriweather Manor is where their most thrilling adventures occur. The author has given us four exceptional titles in this series--absorbing mysteries and their solutions, school life, horseback riding, tennis and adventures during their school vacations. The Merriweather Girls and the Mystery of the Queen's Fan The Merriweather Girls on Campers Trail The Merriweather Girls in Quest of Treasure The Merriweather Girls at Good Old Rock Hill CAMPFIRE GIRLS SERIES By MARGARET PENROSE These stories take in the activities of several bright girls who become interested in all present day adventures. Campfire Girls of Roselawn Campfire Girls on Program Campfire Girls on Station Island Campfire Girls at Forest Lodge EVERYGIRL'S SERIES Grouped in the Everygirl's Series are five volumes selected for excellence. Shirley Watkins, Caroline E. Jacobs and Blanche Elizabeth Wade contribute stories that are both fascinatingly real and touched with romance. Every girl who dips into one of these stories will find herself enthralled to the end. The S. W. F. Club----By Caroline E. Jacobs Jane Lends a Hand----By Shirley Watkins Nancy of Paradise College--By Shirley Watkins Georgina Finds Herself--By Shirley Watkins The Goldsmith Publishing Company NEW YORK, N. Y. 
15726	----	Proofreading Team. [Illustration: She turned--and looked up into the evil eyes of Farmer Weeks.] CAMP FIRE GIRLS SERIES, VOLUME II The Camp Fire Girls On the Farm or Bessie King's New Chum by JANE L. STEWART * * * * * THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY Chicago AKRON, OHIO New York MADE IN U.S.A. COPYRIGHT, MCMXIV BY THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING CO. * * * * * The Camp Fire Girls On the Farm CHAPTER I IN THE CITY "I never dreamed of such a lovely room, Zara, did you?" Bessie King, her eyes open with admiration and wonder, asked her chum the question in a room in the home of Eleanor Mercer, Guardian of the Manasquan Camp Fire, of the Camp Fire Girls. Both the girls were new members of the organization, and Bessie, who had lived all her life in the country, and had known nothing of the luxuries and comforts that girls in the city, or the luckier ones of them, at least, take almost as a matter of course, had found something new to astonish her in almost every hour since they had come to the city. "I've dreamed of it--yes," said Zara. "You see I've been in the city before, Bessie; and I've seen houses like this, and I've guessed that the rooms inside must be something like this, though I never lived in one. It's beautiful." "I almost wish we were going to stay here, Zara. But I suppose it will be nice when we go to the farm." Eleanor Mercer, who had been standing for a moment in the doorway, came in then, laughing merrily. She had overheard the remark, and Bessie was greatly distressed when she discovered it. "Oh, Miss Eleanor!" she exclaimed. "Please, please don't think I'm ungrateful. I want to do whatever you think is right--" "I know that, Bessie, and I know just what you were thinking, too. Well, you're going to have a surprise--I can promise you that. This farm isn't a bit like the farm you know about. I guess you know too much about one sort of farm to want ever to see another, don't you?" "Maybe there are different sorts of farms," admitted Bessie. "I don't like Paw Hoover's kind." Eleanor laughed again. She was a fresh, bright-cheeked girl, not so many years older than Bessie herself. One might guess, indeed, that she, as Guardian of her Camp Fire, didn't much more than manage to fulfill the requirement that Guardians, like Scoutmasters among the Boy Scouts, must be over twenty-one years of age. "Indeed there are different sorts of farms from that one, Bessie," she said. "You'll see a farm where everything is done the way it should be, and, while I think Paw Hoover's a mighty nice man, I've got an idea that on his farm everything is done just about opposite to the proper fashion." "When are we going, Miss Eleanor?" Zara asked that question. In the last few days a hunted look had left Zara's eyes, for with relief from certain worries she had begun to be happier, and she was always asking questions now. "I don't know exactly, Zara, but not right away. We want all the girls to go out together. We're going to have our next Council Fire at the farm. And some of them can't get away just now. But it will be fairly soon, I can promise you that. You like the country, don't you, Zara?" "Indeed I do, Miss Eleanor! Until they took my father away I was ever so happy there." "And just think, you're going to see him tomorrow, Zara! He's well, and as soon as he heard that you were here and safe, he stopped worrying. That was his chief trouble--he seemed to think more about what would happen to you than that he was in trouble himself." "I knew he'd be thinking about me," said Zara, "He always did, even when he had most to bother him." "I was sure he was a good father, Zara, when I heard you talk about him--and I've been surer of it than ever since I've had a chance to find out about him. My cousin, who's a lawyer, you know, is going to see that he is properly treated, and be says that Mr. Weeks, who tried so hard to make you stay behind and work for him, is at the bottom of all the trouble." Zara shuddered at the name. "How I hate that Farmer Weeks!" she exclaimed. Eleanor Mercer sighed and shook her head. She couldn't blame Zara for hating the man, and yet, as she well knew, the spirit in the little foreign girl that cherished hatred and ideas of revenge was bad--bad for her. But how to eradicate it, and to make Zara feel more charitable, was something that puzzled the Guardian mightily, was, as she foresaw, likely to puzzle her still more. She left the two girls together, then, to answer a call from outside the room. "I don't exactly _like_ Farmer Weeks myself," said Bessie, thoughtfully, when they were alone. "But what's the use of hating him, Zara?" "Why, Bessie! He made us run away from Hedgeville--he made me anyhow. And if he'd had his way, he'd have taken me back, and had me bound over to work for him just for board until I was twenty-one, if I hadn't starved to death first. You know what a miser he is." "Yes, that's true enough, Zara. But, after all, if it hadn't happened that way, we'd never have met Miss Eleanor and the Camp Fire Girls, would we? And you're not sorry for that, are you?" Zara's face, which had grown hard, softened. "No, indeed, Bessie! They're the nicest people I ever did know, except you. But, even after we were with them, and had started to come to the city with them, he caught me, and if it hadn't been for you following us and guessing where he'd put me, I'd be with him now." "Well, you're not, Zara. And you want to try to think of the good things that happen. Then you won't have time to remember all the bad things, and they won't bother you any more than if they'd never happened at all. Don't you see!" "Well, I'll try, Bessie. I guess they can't hurt us here, anyhow, or on the farm. I think we're going to have lots of fun on the farm." "I hope so, Zara. But I've often read about how jolly farms are--in books. In the books, you don't have to get up at four o'clock on the cold winter mornings to do chores, and you don't have to work all the time, the way I had to do for Maw Hoover." "I guess that was just because it was Maw Hoover, Bessie, and not because it was on a farm. She'd have been mean to you, and made you work all the time, just the same, if it had been a farm or wherever it was. I think it's people that make you happy or unhappy, not other things." "I guess that's about right, Zara. I'm awfully glad you're going to see your father in the morning. I bet he'll be glad to see you." "Bessie! Zara!" Miss Eleanor was calling from downstairs, and they ran to answer the call. "Come into the parlor," she said, as she heard them approaching. They obeyed, and found her talking to a tall, good looking young man, who smiled cheerfully at them. "This is my cousin, Charlie Jamieson, the lawyer, girls," said Miss Eleanor. "I've told him all about you, of course, and now he wants to talk to you." "I'm going to be your lawyer, you know," Charlie Jamieson explained. "Girls like you don't have much use for a lawyer, as a rule, but I guess you need one about as badly as anyone I can think of. So I'm going to take the job, unless you know someone better." "No, indeed," they chorused in answer, and both laughed when they saw that he was joking. "I wish about a thousand other people were as anxious as that to be my clients. Then maybe I'd make enough money to pay my office rent." "Don't you believe him, girls," said Eleanor, laughing, too. "He's one of the smartest young lawyers in this town, and he's busy most of the time, too. He always is, lately, when I want him to come to one of my parties or anything like that." "Well, let's be serious for a while," said Jamieson. "I'm going to try to help your father out of his trouble, Zara, and I'm finding it pretty hard, because he doesn't want to trust me, or tell me much of anything. Perhaps you'll be able to do better." Zara looked grave. "I don't know much," she said. "But I do know this. My father used to trust people, but they've treated him so badly that he's afraid to do it any more. Like Farmer Weeks--I think' he trusted him." "That's more than I'd do," said the lawyer, with a grin, "From all I've heard of him I wouldn't trust him around the corner with a counterfeit nickel--if I wanted it back. And--well, that sort of helps to get us started, doesn't it? You know why your father's in trouble? It's because they say he's been making bad money at that little house where you lived in Hedgeville." "He didn't!" said Zara. "I know he didn't!" "Well, the district attorney--he's the one who has to be against your father, you know--says that everyone in Hedgeville seems to think he did. And he says that where there's so much smoke there must be some fire; that if so many people think your father was crooked, they must be right. I told him that was unfair, but he just laughed at me." "You may have to be a witness, Zara," said Eleanor. "A witness?" said Zara, puzzled. "Yes. You may have to go to court, and tell them what you know. They'll ask you questions, though, and you'll just have to answer them, and tell the truth just as you know it." "Yes, that's why I'm here," said Jamieson, nodding his head. "You see, I may need you very badly and I want to make sure that they can't take you back to Hedgeville. You never saw anyone who told you that as long as your father couldn't look after you any more, you would have to stay with this Weeks, did you? A judge, I mean?" "No. But when Farmer Weeks caught me that time, and carried me away in his buggy, he said he was going to take me to Zebulon--that's the county seat, you know--and have everything fixed up. But Bessie got me away from him before that could happen, so it was all right." "And when he came after you at Pine Bridge--after you'd crossed the line into this state--the policeman there wouldn't let him touch you, would he?" "No. Farmer Weeks showed him a paper, with a big red seal on it, but the policeman said it was no good in this state." "That sounds all right. I guess they can't touch you. I had to make sure of that, you see. But, young lady, you want to be mighty careful. If they can get you over the state line, no matter how, they've got you. And I shouldn't be surprised if they tried just to kidnap you." Eleanor Mercer looked frightened. "Do you think there is any real danger, Charlie?" she asked. "I certainly do. And it's because I don't know just what it is they're after. There's something funny here, something we don't know about at all yet. Maybe her father could tell us, but he isn't ready to do it. And I don't blame him much. I guess, from all I've heard, that he's had about as bad a time here with spies and enemies as he could have had anywhere in Europe." "You hear that, Zara? You must be very careful. Don't go out alone, and if anyone tries to speak to you, no matter what they tell you, you pay no attention to them. If they keep on bothering you, speak to a policeman, if there's one around, and say that you want him to stop them from bothering you." "Good idea," said Charlie Jamieson. "And if you do have to speak to a policeman, you mention my name. They all know me, and I guess most of them like me well enough to do any little favor for a friend of mine." Then Jamieson turned to Bessie. "We've got to think about your case, too," he said. "Miss Mercer tells me that you don't know what's become of your father and mother. Just what do you know about them?" "Not very much," said Bessie, bravely, although the disappearance of her parents always weighed heavily on her mind. "When I was a little bit of a girl they left me with the Hoovers, at Hedgeville, and I lived with them after that. Maw Hoover said they promised to come back for me, and to pay her board for looking after me until they came, and that they did pay the board for a while. But then they stopped writing altogether, and no one has heard from them for years." "H'm! Where did the last letter they wrote come from?" "San Francisco. I've heard Maw Hoover say that, often. But that was years and years ago." "Well, that's better than nothing, anyhow. You see, the Hoovers wouldn't have known how to start looking for them, even if they'd been particularly anxious to do it." "And I don't believe they were," said Eleanor Mercer, indignantly. "They treated her shamefully, Charlie--made her work like a hired girl, and never paid her for it, at all. Instead, they acted, or the woman did, anyhow, just as if they were giving her charity in letting her stay there. Wasn't that an outrage?" "Lots of people act as if they were being charitable when they get a good deal more than they give," said the lawyer dryly. "Maw Hoover was always calling me lazy, and saying she'd send me to the poor-farm," said Bessie. "But it was she and Jake that made things so hard. Paw Hoover was always good to me, and he helped me to get away, too." "That's what I'm driving at," said Jamieson. "You had a right to go whenever you liked, if they hadn't adopted you, or anything like that. Really, all you were in their place was a servant who wasn't getting paid." "I knew she had a right to go," said Eleanor. "That's why I helped her, of course." "Then we're all right. If she'd really run away from someone who had a right to keep her, it would be harder. I might be able to prove that they weren't fit guardians, but that's always hard, and it's a good thing we don't need to do it. Hullo, what's the matter now?" "Look!" said Zara, who had risen, and was looking keenly at a figure across the street. "See, Bessie, don't you know who that is, even in those clothes?" Bessie followed her eyes, and started to her feet. "It's Jake Hoover!" she cried. "What can he want here?" CHAPTER II AN OLD ENEMY TURNS UP Startled and frightened by Bessie's cry, Eleanor jumped up and followed her to the window. "Well," said Eleanor, "I never saw him before, but I can't say I'm sorry for that. He looks mean enough to do all the things you've told us about him, Bessie." "Who is this Hoover? One of the people Bessie lived with, in Hedgeville?" asked Jamieson. "Yes; he's the son of the old farmer and his wife." "H'm!" said the lawyer. "Then evidently he knows where she has come. That looks bad." "Yes. You see, he was always his mother's pet," said Eleanor, "and I suppose he'll tell her all about the girls." "Let him! I guess it can't do any harm. I don't see how it can now, anyhow, unless he's in with this Weeks or someone we don't know anything about, who has some interest in this affair. That's one of the things that's going to give me trouble, I'm afraid." "What do you mean, Charlie?" "Just that there's so much I don't know. You see, there's something mighty queer loose here. I can see that. There's a mystery and we haven't the key. The chances are that the people we've got to fight know everything there is to be known, while we don't even know who they are, except this Weeks. And I'm not a bit sure about him." "I am, Charlie. If you'd seen him, and heard all about the way he acted, you'd know he was an enemy all right." "That's not just what I mean, Eleanor. I'm thinking that perhaps he isn't just making this fight on his own account; that maybe he's working for someone else." "I hadn't thought of that at all--" "No reason why you should! But it's my business to think of every little thing that may happen to have an influence on any case that I'm mixed up in, you see. And, as I understand it, this Weeks is pretty close--pretty fond of money, isn't he?" "He's a regular old miser, that's what he is!" said Zara, her eyes flashing. "There's a motive for him, you see. Someone might have a reason for wanting to keep Zara where they could get her easily, and if they offered Weeks a little money to get hold of her, I judge he'd do it fast enough." "But why shouldn't they try to get hold of her themselves, if that's what they want?" "There might be lots of reasons for that. They might want to keep out of it, so that no one would know they were doing it, you see. That would be one reason. And then this Weeks is a bit of a politician. He's got a good, strong pull in that county, I guess. Lots of men who have a little money saved up can get a pull. They lend money, and then they can make the men to whom they lend it do about as they like, by threatening to take their land away from them if they don't pay up their mortgages as soon as they're due. It's pretty bad business, but that's the way things are. I'm afraid we're going to have a lot of trouble, and until I know just what's what, I've got to do a lot of my work in the dark. But I'm going to do my best." "I know how Jake Hoover found I was here, I bet," said Bessie, who had been thinking hard. "How, Bessie?" "Well, you know General Seeley thought I'd frightened his pheasants and taken the eggs. And then, later, I found Jake was the one. General Seeley didn't punish him, but let him go with a warning." "He's too soft-hearted," commented Jamieson, angrily. "A lad like that ought to be sent to the reformatory--proper place for him!" "Well, anyhow," Bessie resumed, smiling at the young lawyer's vehemence, and at the look of approval that Zara shot at him, since she had felt just the same way about Jake, "he was turned away, and I guess he just hung around to see what I'd do, and where I'd go. I think he'd like to get even with me, if he could." "He'd better behave himself if he's going to stay around here," said Jamieson. "His mother won't be around to make people believe that he hasn't done anything wrong, and he won't find everyone as lenient and forgiving as General Seeley when he's caught in the act of doing something he can be sent to jail for. Not if I've got anything to say about it, he won't!" "I don't believe he'll be able to stay around here very long," said Bessie, pacifically. "It must cost him a lot of money to stay here in the city, and I don't know how he can manage that. Maw Hoover always gave him money whenever he wanted it, if she had it, but she never had very much." "That's good," said the lawyer. "We'll hope that he'll be starved out pretty soon, and have to go home. But I guess we'd better not count very much on that. He may find someone who's anxious enough to make trouble for you two to pay him to stay here for a while. He'd be pretty useful, I imagine." "I think we're foolish to do so much guessing," said Eleanor, suddenly. "You can know much better what to do when you've really found something out, Charlie. Now, listen. I was thinking of letting these two go to work for a little while before we went to the farm, so that they could earn some money for themselves." "Yes," said Bessie and Zara, in one breath, eagerly. "We're so anxious to do that. We mustn't keep on living here and taking charity--" But the lawyer shook his head vigorously. "Not right away," he said. "It's just because I'm doing so much guessing that we mustn't take any chances, Eleanor. You want to keep them close to you for a while. I spoke about that before Bessie saw our young friend Hoover, and I think so more than ever now. Don't you see that they're being spied on already?" "I certainly do," said Eleanor. "And I just want to do whatever is best for them. Bessie, you mustn't think you're getting charity when you stay here. You're here as my guests, and we love to have you--both of you." "That's right, Bessie," said Jamieson, smiling. "She means that, or she wouldn't say it. I can tell you you were mighty lucky when you ran into Eleanor the way you did." "We know that, Mr. Jamieson; we do, indeed!" "Nonsense!" said Eleanor, flushing, but not really displeased by the compliment, which was evidently sincere. "I believe anyone would have done just what I did." "I wish I had your faith in human nature, Eleanor, but I haven't and I know that mighty few people would have been willing to do it, even if they'd been able. You've got to remember that, too. Lots of people couldn't have done what you did. Well, I've got to be going." "You'll call for us tomorrow, though, won't you, Charlie, to take Zara to see her father?" "Yes, indeed. I won't fail you. He's looking forward to it, and I've got an idea, or I hope, at least, that when he finds I've kept my promise and brought Zara to see him, he'll feel more like trusting me." "I'm sure he will when I tell him how good you've been to us, Mr. Jamieson," said Zara. "Better not tell him about my goodness until I've done something beside talk, Zara. But I'm going to do my best anyhow, and I'm sure things will come out right in the end. Just keep smiling, be cheerful, and don't worry any more than you can help." From the porch they watched him walk off down the street. He carried himself like the athlete he was, and his broad shoulders and fine, free stride were those of a man who inspires confidence and trust, even in those who only see his back. "Look!" said Zara, suddenly. "Why is Jake Hoover going down that way? And isn't he acting queerly?" "Why, I believe he's following Mr. Jamieson!" said Bessie. "See, he keeps getting behind trees and things, and he's staying on the other side of the street. Whenever Mr. Jamieson turns, Jake hides himself." Eleanor frowned thoughtfully. "I think you're right, Bessie," she said. "And I know what I'm going to do. I'm going to telephone to his office and tell his clerk to slip out and meet him, so that he can warn him. He ought to know about that." She went in hurriedly to use the telephone. "I'm going upstairs to get my handkerchief," said Zara. "My, isn't it warm?" So Bessie was left alone on the piazza. She was afraid of Jake Hoover; afraid of the mischief he might do, that is. No longer was she afraid of him as she had been in the old days on the farm, when he had bullied her and made her the scapegoat for all the offences he could possibly load on her slim shoulders. One night in the woods, when Bessie, wrapped in a sheet and playing ghost, had frightened Jake and his mischievous friends away before they could terrify the Camp Fire Girls as they lay asleep, had taught Bessie that Jake was a coward. "It's Zara they're after--not me," Bessie thought to herself. "I've been out alone ever and ever so often, and there's no one here to hurt me. I'm going to go after Jake myself, and try to see what he's up to." At first Bessie's pursuit led her along the pleasant, tree-shaded streets of the suburb where the Mercers lived. Bessie had never been in the city before and all was strange to her. But here it seemed to her that the stories she had read of crowded streets must have been exaggerated, for she saw few people. Sometimes automobiles passed her, and delivery wagons, and a few children were playing here and there. But there were no high buildings, and it seemed almost as peaceful as it had around Hedgeville. But then gradually, as she went on, conditions changed. She crossed a street on which there ran a street car line, and there many people were passing. Still she managed to keep Jake Hoover in sight, and, though she could not always see Charlie Jamieson, she supposed that Jake could, and it was Jake she was following, after all. More than once Jake turned and looked behind him, and Bessie had to be constantly on her guard lest he discover her. At first it was easy enough to escape his eye--she had only to dodge behind a tree. But as she drew nearer and nearer to the business part of town the trees began to disappear. There was no more green grass between the pavement and the street itself; the pavements were narrower, and they were needed for the crowds that passed quickly along. But in those very crowds Bessie found a substitute for the trees. She felt that they would protect her and cover her movements, and she increased her pace, so that she could get nearer to Jake, and so run less risk of losing him in the crowd. No one paid any attention to her, and that seemed strange to Bessie, used to the curiosity of country folk regarding any stranger, although Zara, who knew more about city life, had told her that it would be so. She was grateful, anyhow; she wanted to be let alone. And evidently Jake was profiting by the same indifference. Her chase led her before long into the most thickly settled part of the city. Trolley cars clanged past her all the time now; the center of the street was full of vehicles of all sorts, and, as she hurried along, she was hard put to it to keep her feet, so great was the rush and the hurry of those with whom she shared the pavement. Then she came to a sort of central square, where all the business of the town seemed to be concentrated. On one side was a great building. Outside were cabs and newsboys, and Bessie recognized it as the station through which, with Eleanor Mercer and the rest of the Camp Fire Girls, she had come to the city. Bessie stopped at the curb, dazed and confused. Here she lost sight of Jake. After her long chase, that seemed bitterly hard. Had she only known what was coming, she would have been closer to him, but, as it was, she could only stand on the corner, looking helplessly about, on the off chance that she would again catch sight of his well-known figure. But luck was not with her. Even someone far better used to the bustle and confusion of the city might well have been at a loss. It was the luncheon hour, and from all the buildings hundreds of people were pouring out, making the streets seem fuller than ever. And it was not long before Bessie decided with a sigh that she must give up, and find her way home. She was afraid Eleanor Mercer would be worried and alarmed by her absence, and she determined to return as she had come, and as fast as she could. Still, on the way, surely she could peep into one of the beautiful store windows--and she did. For a moment she stood there, and then, suddenly, she felt a hand in her pocket. She turned to see whose it was--and looked up into the evil eyes of Farmer Weeks! "Stop her!" he cried. "She picked my pocket!" CHAPTER III AND AN OLD FRIEND HELPS Bessie gasped in sheer terror, and for a moment she couldn't open her mouth. Farmer Weeks, his weather-beaten face twisted into a grin of malice and dislike, stood looking down at her, his bony hand gripping her wrist. Even had it been in Bessie's mind to run away, she could not have done it. And, as a matter of fact, the shock of hearing his voice, of seeing him, and, above all, of being accused of such a thing, had deprived her for the moment of the use of her legs as well as of the power of speech. Then, while Farmer Weeks lifted his voice again, calling for a policeman, Bessie got a vivid and sharp lesson in the interest a city crowd can be induced to take in anything out of the ordinary, no matter how trifling. The pavement where they stood was densely crowded already. Now more people seemed to spring up from nowhere at all, and they were surrounded by a ring of people who pressed against one another, calling curious questions, all trying to get into the front rank to see whatever was to be seen. "Gosh all hemlock!" Farmer Weeks confided to the crowd. "They told me to look out fer them scalawags when I come to town, but I swan I didn't expect to see a gal like that tryin' to lift my wallet. No, sir! But they got to get up pretty early in the mornin' to fool me--they have that!" Even in her fright, Bessie divined at once what the old rascal was trying to do. He was playing the part of the green and unsuspicious countryman, the farmer on a trip, usually the easy prey of sharpers of all sorts, and he was doing it for a purpose--to win the sympathy of the crowd. In her new clothes Bessie looked enough like a city girl to pass for one easily, while Farmer Weeks wore old-fashioned clothes of rusty black, a slouch hat, and a colored handkerchief knotted about his neck in place of a scarf. He carried an old-fashioned cotton umbrella; too, a huge affair--a regular "bumbleshoot," and he was dressed to play the part. "Hey, mister, gimme a nickel an' I'll call a cop for you!" volunteered a small, sharp-faced boy, with a bundle of papers under his arm. Somehow he had managed to squirm through the crowd. Weeks looked at him reproachfully. "You call a constable--an' I'll give you the nickel when you come back with him," he said. In spite of her deplorable situation, Bessie wanted to laugh. It was so like Farmer Weeks, the miser, to be unwilling to risk even five cents without being sure that he would get value for his money! The boy darted off, and Bessie heard half a dozen of the crowd make remarks applauding the good sense of her supposed victim. "Ain't it too bad?" said Weeks tolerantly to the crowd, as he waited for a policeman, still clutching Bessie's hand tightly. "Who'd ever think a pretty young gal like her would try to rob an old man--hey?" "Never can tell, Pop," said a keen-eyed youth, who was standing near. His eyes darted nervously about from one face to another. "Them as you wouldn't suspect naturally is the worst, as a rule--it's so easy for them to make a get-away." Then the crowd gave way suddenly for a man in a blue uniform, but Bessie, still unable to say anything, saw at once it was not a policeman. But it was not until he was quite close to her that she recognized him with a little thrill of joy. And at the same moment he recognized her, too, as well as Farmer Weeks. It was Tom Norris, the friendly train conductor who had helped Zara and herself to escape to Pine Bridge, and out of the state in which Hedgeville was situated. "Come, come; what's this?" asked the train conductor sharply. "Let go of that girl's arm, you Weeks!" "What business is it of your'n!" asked Weeks, angrily. "You let her go," said Norris, with determination, "or I'll pretty soon show you what business it is of mine--I'll knock you down, white hair and all! You ought to be ashamed of yourself, pickin' on the girl this way!" He advanced, threateningly, and none of the crowd undertook to protect Weeks from his obvious anger. Norris was a big, strong man, and, for all his kindly ways, it was evident that he could fight well if he saw any reason for doing it. And now, it was plain, he thought the reason was excellent, and he was entirely ready to back up what he had to say with his sturdy fists. Weeks saw that plainly, and he had reason to fear the burly conductor. Quickly he released Bessie's wrist, and a moment later Norris would have had her out of the crush had not the arrival of another man in uniform created a diversion. This time it really was a policeman, and he came at the heels of the newsboy who had run after him. "Here's yer cop, mister! Now gimme the nickel!" said the boy shrilly to the farmer. "Run along! I never promised you no nickel," said Farmer Weeks, looking nervously at Norris. But at that the crowd, which had been disposed to side with him, transferred its sympathies suddenly to the cheated newsboy, who was pouring out a stream of angry words, the while he clung to Weeks' arm, demanding his money. Weeks soon saw that he had better not try to save a nickel, much as he valued it, and, reluctantly enough, he drew a purse from his trousers pocket and gave the boy his money, counting out five pennies. "Here, here; what's all this fuss about?" asked the policeman. He was responsible for keeping order on his post, and before Weeks could answer his question he drove the crowd away with sharp orders to move on and be quick about it. Then he turned back to the farmer, Bessie, and the conductor, who had taken Bessie's hand. "Now then, whose pocket was picked? Yours, young lady?" "No, consarn ye, mine!" said Farmer Weeks, angrily, as he heard the question. "And she done it, too--she's a slick one, she is! An' this fresh railroad man here was tryin' to help her get away. Like as not they work together, an' he was fixin' to have her give him half of what she got." Norris smiled at the policeman. "You know me, Mike," he said. "Think I'm in that sort of business?" "Begorra, an' I know ye're not!" said the policeman, indignantly. "Talk straight, now, you old rube, an' tell me what it is you're tryin' to say. What sort of a charge ye're after makin'?" "She put her hand in my pocket--an' she stole my wallet," said Farmer Weeks. "She's got it in her pocket now--her right-hand pocket!" "How do you know that?" asked the policeman, sharply. "How--why shouldn't I know? Look and see for yourself--" But there was no need. Bessie herself, tears in her eyes, plunged her hand into the pocket Weeks had named--and, to her consternation, the wallet came out in her hand. She stared at it in stupefaction. "I don't know how it got there! I never saw it before!" she exclaimed. "H'm! This looks pretty bad, Tom," said the policeman. "Is this young lady a friend of yours?" "She is that," said Tom, stoutly. "And I'll go bail for her anywhere. She never picked that old scalawag's pocket. I know him well, Mike, and I've never known any good of him. He never rides on my train without tryin' to beat the company out of the fare--uses every old trick you ever heard of. Many's the time I've had to threaten to put him off between stations before he'd fork over the money." But Mike, the policeman, looked doubtful, as well he might, and there was a gleam of evil triumph in the farmer's eyes. "Listen here!" said Tom, suddenly. "He says that's his wallet, and he's makin' enough fuss for it to have a thousand dollars inside. But when he paid the boy he took a purse from his pocket to get the money." "That's right. I seen him myself," said Mike, still scratching his head. "I'll just have a look inside that pocket-book." "Ye will not--that's my property!" said Farmer Weeks, reaching quickly for the wallet. But Mike was too quick for him, and in a moment he had opened the wallet, and could see that it was empty, except for a few torn pieces of paper, evidently put in it to stuff it out, and deceive people into thinking that it contained a wad of bills. "What sort of game are yez tryin' to put up on us here?" demanded the policeman, angrily. "Here, take yer book--" "She's as much guilty of theft as if there had been a hundred dollars in it," said Farmer Weeks, recovering from his dismay at the exposure of the trick. "You arrest her or I'll--" "What will yez do, ye spalpeen?" said the policeman. "If ye get gay wid me I'll run yez in--and don't be afther forgettin' that, either!" As he spoke he turned, angrily, to observe a small boy who was tugging at his sleeve. "Say, mister, say," begged the boy, "listen here a minute, will yer? I seen the old guy slip his purse into her pocket. She never took it." Tom's eyes, as he heard, lighted up. "By Gad, Mike, that's what he did!" he exclaimed. "Did you hear how ready he was to tell just which pocket she had it in? How'd he have known that--unless he put it there, eh?" "It's a lie!" stormed Farmer Weeks. "Here, are you going to lock that girl up as a thief or not?" "Indade and I'm not," said the officer, warmly. "Drop her wrist--quick!" He stepped forward as he spoke, and Weeks, seeing by the gleam in the Irishman's eye that he had gone too far, quickly released Bessie. As she moved away from him he stood still, red-eyed and trembling with rage. "An' what's more, you old scalawag," said the policeman, "I'm going to run _you_ in. Maybe you never heard tell of perjury, but it's worse than pickin' pockets, let me tell you." His heavy hand dropped to Weeks' shoulder, but he was too slow. With a yell of fright the old farmer, displaying an agility with which no one would have been ready to credit him, turned and dove headlong through the crowd. The policeman started to give chase, but Tom Norris restrained him. He was laughing heartily. "What's the use? Let him be, Mike," he said. "My, but it was as good as a play to see you handle him. Gosh! Watch the old beggar run, will you?" Indeed, Weeks was running as fast as he could, and, even as they watched him, he disappeared inside the station. "That's a good riddance. Maybe he'll go home and stay there," said the conductor. "He won't try his dirty tricks on you again," he added, turning to Bessie. "If he does, you'll have a friend in Mike, here." "True for you, Tom Norris!" said the policeman. "I'm glad ye turned up, boy. Ye saved me from makin' a fool of meself, I'm thinkin'. The old omadhoun! To think he'd put up a job like that on a slip of a girl, and him ould enough to be her father--or her grandfather!" "Well, I've helped you out again, haven't I?" said Tom Norris. "Are you living here in the city now? Suppose you tell me why old Weeks is so mean to you, now that we've the time." "I will, and gladly," said Bessie. "But I haven't so very much time. Can you walk with me as I go home?" So, with Tom Norris to look after her, Bessie began her trip back to the Mercer house, and, on the way, she told him the story of her flight from Hedgeville, and the adventures that had happened since its beginning. "I suppose I was foolish to go after Jake Hoover that way," she concluded, "but I thought I might be able to help. I didn't like to see him following Mr. Jamieson that way, when he was trying to be so nice to us." "Maybe you were foolish," said Tom. "But don't let it worry you too much. You meant well, and I guess there's lots of us are foolish without having as good an excuse as that." "Oh, there's Mr. Jamieson now!" cried Bessie, suddenly spying the young lawyer on the other side of the street. "I think I'd better tell him what's happened, don't you, Mr. Norris?" "I do indeed. Stay here, I'll run over. The young fellow with the brown suit, is it?" Bessie nodded, and Tom Norris ran across the street and was back in a moment with Jamieson, who was mightily surprised to see Bessie, whom he had left only a short time before at the Mercer house. He frowned very thoughtfully as he heard her story. "I'm not going to scold you for taking such a risk," he said. "I really didn't think, either, that it was you they would try to harm. I thought your friend Zara was the only one who was in danger." "I suppose they'd try to get hold of Miss Bessie here, though," said the conductor, "because they'd think she'd be a good witness, perhaps, if there was any business in court. I don't know much about the law, except I think it's a good thing to keep clear of." "You bet it is," said Jamieson, with a laugh. "That's fine talk, from a lawyer!" smiled Tom Norris. "Ain't it your business to get people into lawsuits?" "Not a bit of it!" said Jamieson. "A good lawyer keeps his clients out of court. He saves money for them that way, and they run less risk of being beaten. The biggest cases I have never get into court at all. It's only the shyster lawyers, like Isaac Brack, who are always going to court, whether there's any real reason for it or not." "Brack!" said Tom. "Why, say, I know him! And, what's more, this man Weeks does, too. Brack's his lawyer. I heard that a long time ago. Brack gets about half the cases against the railroad, too. Whenever there's a little accident, Brack hunts up the people who might have been hurt, and tries to get damages for them. Only, if he wins a case for them, he keeps most of the money--and if they lose he charges them enough so that he comes out ahead, anyhow." "That's the fellow," Jamieson said. "We'll get him disbarred sooner or later, too. He's a bad egg. I'm glad to know I've got to fight him in this case. If this young Hoover was following me, I'll bet Brack had something to do with it." "He was certainly following you," said Bessie. "Whenever you turned around he got behind a tree or something, so that you wouldn't see him." "He needn't have been so careful. He might have walked right next to me all the way into town, and I'd never have suspected him. As it happened, I wasn't going anywhere this morning--anywhere in particular, I mean. It wouldn't have made any difference if Brack had known just what I was doing. But I'm mighty glad to know that he is trying to spy on me, Bessie. In the next few days I'm apt to do some things I wouldn't want him to know about at all, and now that I'm warned I'll be able to keep my eyes and my ears open, and I guess Brack and his spies will have some trouble in getting on to anything I choose to keep hidden from them." "That's the stuff!" approved Tom. "I told Miss Bessie here she'd done all right. She meant well, even if she did run a foolish risk. And there's no harm done." "Well, we'd better hurry home," said Jamieson. "I don't want them to be worried about you, Bessie, so I'll take you home in a taxicab." The cab took them swiftly toward the Mercer house. When they were still two or three blocks away Jamieson started and pointed out a man on the sidewalk to Bessie. "There's Brack now!" he exclaimed. "See, Bessie? That little man, with the eyeglasses. He's up to some mischief. I wonder what he's doing out this way?" When they arrived, Eleanor Mercer, her eyes showing that she was worried, was waiting for them on the porch. "Oh, I'm so glad you're here!" she exclaimed. "I'm so sorry if you were worried about me, Miss Eleanor," said Bessie, remorsefully. "I wasn't, though," said Eleanor. "It's Zara! She's upstairs, crying her eyes out and she won't answer me when I try to get her to tell me what's wrong. You'd better see her, Bessie." CHAPTER IV A NEW DANGER Alarmed at this news of Zara, Bessie hurried upstairs at once to the room the two girls shared. She found her chum on the bed, crying as if her heart would break. "Why, Zara, what's the matter? Why are you crying?" she asked. But try as she might, Bessie could get no answer at all from Zara for a long time. "Have I done anything to make you feel bad? Has anything gone wrong here?" urged Bessie. "If you'll only tell us what's the matter, dear, we'll straighten it out. Can't you trust me?" "N--nothing's happened--you haven't done anything," Zara managed to say at last. "Surely nothing Miss Eleanor has said has hurt you, Zara? I'm certain she'd feel terrible if she thought you were crying because of anything she had done!" Zara shook her head vehemently at that, but her sobs only seemed to come harder than before. Bessie was thoroughly puzzled. She knew that Zara, brought up in a foreign country, did not always understand American ways. Sometimes, when Bessie had first known her, little jesting remarks, which couldn't have been taken amiss by any American girl, had reduced her to tears. And Bessie thought it entirely possible that someone, either Miss Eleanor, or her mother, or one of the Mercer servants, might have offended Zara without in the least meaning to do so. But Zara seemed determined to keep the cause of her woe to herself. Not all of Bessie's pleading could make her answer the simplest questions. Finally, seeming to feel a little better, she managed to speak more coherently. "Leave me alone for a little while, please, Bessie," she begged. "I'll be all right then--really I will!" So Bessie, reluctantly enough, had to go downstairs, since she understood thoroughly that to keep on pressing Zara for an explanation while she was in such a nervous state would do more harm than good. "Could you find out what was wrong?" asked Eleanor anxiously when Bessie came down. Charlie Jamieson was still with her on the porch, smoking a cigar and frowning as if he were thinking of something very unpleasant. He was, as a matter of fact. He was changing all his ideas of the case in which Eleanor's encounter with the two girls had involved him, since, with Brack for an opponent, he knew only too well that he was in for a hard fight, and if, as he supposed, the opposition was entirely without a reasonable case, a fight in which dirty and unfair methods were sure to be employed. Bessie shook her head. "She wouldn't tell me anything--just begged me to leave her alone and said she'd be all right presently," she answered. "I've seen her this way before and, really, there's nothing to do but wait until she feels better." "You've seen her this way before, you say?" said Jamieson, quickly. "What was the matter then? What made her act so? If we know why she did it before, perhaps it will give us a clue to why she is behaving in such a queer fashion now." Bessie hesitated. "She's awfully sensitive," she said. "Sometimes, when people have just joked with her a little bit, without meaning to say anything nasty at all, she's thought they were angry at her, or laughing at her for being a foreigner, and she's gone off just like this. I thought at first--" "Yes?" said Eleanor, encouragingly, when Bessie stopped. "Don't be afraid to tell us what you think, Bessie. We just want to get to the bottom of this strange fit of hers, you know." "Well, it seems awfully mean to say it," said poor Bessie, "when you've been so lovely to us, but I thought maybe someone had joked about her in some way. You know she sometimes pronounces words in a funny fashion, as if she'd only read them, and had never heard anyone speak them. In Hedgeville lots of people used to laugh at her for that. I think that's why she stopped going to school. And I thought, perhaps, that was what was the matter--" "It might have happened, of course," said Eleanor, "and without anyone meaning to hurt her feelings. I'd be very careful myself, but some of the other people around the house wouldn't know, of course. But, no, that won't explain it, Bessie. Not this time." "Are you sure, Eleanor!" asked Jamieson. "Positively," she answered. "Because, after you went off, she was out here with me for quite a long time. Then I was called inside, and I'm quite sure no one from the house saw her at all after that until I found her crying. She'd been outside on the porch all the time--" "Aha!" cried Jamieson, then. "If no one in the house here talked to her, someone from outside must have done it. Listen, Bessie. She wouldn't go off that way just from brooding, would she, just from thinking about things?" "No, I'm quite sure she wouldn't, Mr. Jamieson. She's felt bad two or three times since we left Hedgeville, when she got to thinking about her father's troubles, and everything of that sort. But she's always told me about it and it hasn't made her feel just as she seems to now, anyhow." "Well, then, can't you see? No one here said anything to her, so it must have been someone who isn't in the house--someone who spoke to her after you left her out here alone, Eleanor. And I know who it was, too!" "That nasty looking man you pointed out to me as we were coming along with Mr. Norris?" cried Bessie. "Yes, indeed--Brack!" said Jamieson. "He's just the one who would do it, too! Oh, I tell you, one has to look out for him! He's as mean as a man could be and still live, I guess. I've heard of more harsh, miserable things he's done than I could tell you in a week. Whenever he's around it's a warning to look out for trouble. Suppose you go up to her, Bessie, and see if mentioning his name will loosen her tongue." But just as she was entering the house Zara, with only her reddened eyes to show that she had been crying at all, came out on the porch. "I'm ever so ashamed of myself, Miss Eleanor," she said, smiling pluckily. "I suppose you think I'm an awful cry-baby, but I was just feeling bad about my father and everything, and I couldn't seem to help it." Bessie looked at Zara in astonishment. To the eyes of those who didn't know her as well as Bessie, Zara might seem to be all right, but Bessie could see that her chum was still frightened and weak. She wondered why Zara was acting, for acting she was. She meant that Miss Mercer and everyone should think that her fit of depression had been only temporary, and that now everything was all right. And Bessie, loyal as ever, decided to help her. But when Charlie Jamieson took his leave again to go back to his office and his interrupted work, he looked at her keenly and when he started to go he took Bessie by the hand playfully and pulled her off the porch, and out of sight of the others. "Listen," he said, earnestly, "there's something more than we know about or can guess very easily the matter with your friend, Bessie. She's been frightened--badly frightened. And it's dollars to doughnuts that it's that scoundrel Brack who's frightened her, too. Keep your eyes on her--see that she doesn't get a chance to speak to him or anyone else alone." "Do you think there's any danger of his coming back?" asked Bessie, alarmed by his serious tone. "I don't know, Bessie, but I do know Brack. And I've found out this much about him. He's like a rabbit--he'll fight when he's driven into a corner. And the time he's most dangerous is when he seems to be beaten, when it looks as if he hadn't a leg to stand on." "Do you think he's beaten now, Mr. Jamieson?" "No, I don't! And just because he's the man he is. If it were anyone else, I'd say yes, because I don't see what they can expect to do. But you can depend upon it that Brack has some dirty trick up his sleeve, and from all you tell me of this man Weeks, he's the same sort of an ugly customer. So you keep your eyes open, and if anything happens to worry you, call me up right away. Get me at my office if it's before five o'clock; after that, call up this number." He wrote down a telephone number on a slip of paper and handed it to Bessie. "That's the telephone at my home, and if I'm not there myself ask for my servant, Farrell. He'll be there, and he'll manage to get word to me somehow, no matter where I am." "Oh, I do hope I shan't have to bother you, Mr. Jamieson." "Don't you worry about that. That's what I'm here for, to be bothered, as you call it, if there's any need of me. Remember that you can't do everything yourself--and you may only get into trouble yourself without really helping if you try to do it all. So call on me if there's any need. And, whatever you do, don't let Zara go out of the house alone on any pretence. Remember that, will you?" "I certainly will, Mr. Jamieson. You're awfully good to us, and I know Zara would be grateful, too, if she were herself. She will be as soon as all this trouble is over." "I know that, Bessie. Don't you fuss around being grateful to me until I've really done something for you. You know, you're the sort of girl I like. You've got pluck, and you don't get discouraged, like so many girls--though Heaven knows you've had enough trouble to make you as nervous as any of them." "I get awfully frightened. Indeed, I do!" "Of course you do, but you've got pluck enough to admit it. Remember this: the real hero is the man who does what's right, and what he knows he ought to do, even if he's scared so that he's shaking like a leaf. Any fool can do a thing if it doesn't frighten him to do it, and he doesn't deserve any special credit for that. The real bravery is the sort a man shows when he goes into battle, for instance, and wants to turn around and run as soon as he hears the bullets singing over his head." "I'm sure I would want to do just that--" "But you wouldn't! That's the point, you see. And you always think things are going to be all right. That's fine--because about half the time we can control the things that happen to us. If we think everything will come right in the end, we can usually make them work out our way. But if we start in thinking that nothing is going to be right, why, then we're licked before we begin, and there's not much use trying at all. Now, you didn't say Zara would feel differently _if_ things came out right. You said she would _when_ everything was straightened out. And that's the spirit that wins. Try to put some more of it into her, and try to make her tell you what happened, too." But all of Bessie's efforts to win Zara's confidence that day were in vain. Zara, however, seemed to be all right. She was brighter and livelier than she had been since Bessie had known her. All day long she laughed and burst into little snatches of song, and Miss Mercer was delighted. Nevertheless Bessie wasn't satisfied, and she kept a close watch on Zara all day. It seemed time wasted, however. Zara made no attempt to keep away from her; seemed anxious, indeed, to be with her chum, that they might talk over their plans for winning enough honors as Camp Fire Girls to become Fire-Makers. Had Bessie's eyes and her perceptions been less keen she would have thought her first idea, the one she shared with Charlie Jamieson, a mistaken one. But more than once, when Zara thought she was unobserved, and was therefore off her guard, Bessie saw the corners of her mouth droop and a wistful look come into her eyes. There was fear in those eyes, too, though of what, Bessie could not imagine. It was long after midnight that night when Bessie was aroused, she scarcely knew how. Some instinct led her to turn on the light--and she could scarcely repress a scream when she saw that Zara's bed was empty! CHAPTER V STRANGE SUSPICIONS For a moment she stood in the middle of the room, dazed, wondering what could have happened. The door was closed. Bessie rushed to it, and looked out, but there was no sign of Zara in the hall. She listened intently. The house was silent, with the silence that broods over a well regulated house at night, when everyone is or ought to be asleep. But then there was a noise from outside--a noise that came through the windows, from the street. Bessie rushed back into the room and over to the window. She knew now that the noise she heard was the same one that had awakened her. And, looking out of the window, Bessie saw what had made the noise--a big, green automobile, that, even as she looked, was gliding slowly but with increasing speed away from the Mercer house. She stood rooted to the spot, unable to cry out, or to make a move. But somehow, though she could never explain afterward how it happened, since the importance of it did not strike her at all at the time, Bessie managed to get a mental photograph of one thing that was to prove important in the extreme--the number of the automobile, plainly visible in the light of the tail lamp that shone full upon it. The figures were registered in her brain as if she had studied them for an hour in the effort to memorize them--4587. Then, when the car was out of sight around the corner, Bessie's power of movement seemed to be restored to her as mysteriously as it had been taken away. Her first impulse was to cry out and arouse the household. But the futility of that soon struck her, and she remembered what Charlie Jamieson had said. If anything happened, if she was frightened, she was to call on him. And certainly something _had_ happened. Of her alarm there could be no doubt. She was shaking like a leaf, as if she were exposed to a cold wind, although the night was hot and even sultry. Swiftly she sought for and found the telephone number the lawyer had written down for her. Then, in her bare feet, lest she make a noise and arouse the whole household, she crept downstairs to reach the telephone. "Oh, I do hope they won't see me or hear me," she breathed to herself. "There's nothing they can do, and maybe, if I get hold of Mr. Jamieson at once, we can have Zara back before they know she's gone." At that hour of the night it was hard work to get the connection she wanted, and Bessie chafed at the delay, knowing that every moment might be precious, were Zara in real danger. But she got the number at last, after Central had tried to convince her no one would answer at such a time. "What's happened? Has something gone wrong?" Jamieson asked anxiously as soon as he recognized her voice. "Oh, I'm terribly afraid it has--and it was all my fault! I was asleep, Mr. Jamieson--and Zara's gone!" "By herself, or don't you know?" "I don't know positively, but I think she was taken off in a big automobile. But, Mr. Jamieson, I think she wanted to go!" "Why, what makes you think that?" "She's taken all the things that were given to her. And then, she got out so quietly that I didn't hear her. If anyone had carried her away, they'd have waked me up, I'm sure." "That's bad--if she went away of her own accord. Makes it harder to find her, harder to get her back." "What shall we do, Mr. Jamieson? You will try to get her back, won't you, even if she did go with them willingly?" "Yes, yes, of course! I'll come out right away. Better not tell the others yet, if you haven't done it already." Then Bessie told him about the automobile, and the number she had seen. "Oh, that's different!" he exclaimed. "There's no use my coming to the house then--not right away, at least. I'll find out whose car that is right away--and then perhaps we'll be able to get a clue more quickly. Someone is almost sure to have noticed that number, you see. Policemen have a way of keeping their eyes on car numbers as late as this, just on the chance that there may be something wrong about people who are chasing around in this town when they ought to be in bed. You go back to sleep, if you can. I'll let you know as soon as there's something new." "I don't see how I can sleep, Mr. Jamieson. Isn't there something I can do, please? That would make me feel ever so much better, I'm sure." "I know, I know! But there isn't a thing you can do to-night. There's precious little I can do, for that matter, myself. You get some rest, so that you'll be fresh and strong in the morning. No telling what may turn up then; and we may need you to do a whole lot. Got to keep yourself in condition, you know. Remember that, always. That's the way to help. Good-night! I'm going to hurry out now and see what I can find out about that car." So Bessie went back to her room, and, knowing that the lawyer had given her good advice when he had urged her to rest, she tried hard to go to sleep again. But trying to sleep and actually doing it are very different, and Bessie tossed restlessly for the remainder of the night. The sun, shining through her window in the early morning, was the most welcome of all possible sights, and she got up and dressed, glad that the night of inactivity was over, and that the time for action, if action there was to be, was at hand. Eleanor was shocked and frightened when she heard what had happened. "I'm sorry you didn't wake me, Bessie," she said. "It must have been dreadful for you, waiting for morning all alone up there. We could have talked, anyhow, and sometimes that helps a good deal." "Well, I didn't see any use in spoiling the night for you and I'd have stayed awake anyhow, I think, even if I hadn't been alone. So there was no use keeping you up and awake, too." "I'll telephone at once and see if anything has been found out, Bessie. Then we'll know better what to do. But I'm afraid there's not much that we can do--not just now." Jamieson was not in his office, or at his home, when Eleanor telephoned. But when she stopped to think she realized that he was almost certain to be busy in his search for some clue to the missing girl. "Come with me. Let's go down town," she said to Bessie. "I want to get some things for you, anyhow, and anything is better than sitting around the house here, just waiting for news. That's terrible. Don't you think so?" "Yes, indeed. But suppose some news came when we were out?" "Oh, we can easily telephone to the house and then, if there should be a message, we can get it right away, you see. I'll tell them here to write down any message that comes, and we'll telephone every fifteen minutes or so." "Shall we see Mr. Jamieson while we're down town?" "Yes, we will. That's a good idea. It will save his time, too, and there may be something he wants us to do." So they started. Eleanor wanted to walk. But before they had gone very far a big automobile drew up along the sidewalk, and a cheery, pleasant man, middle aged, with a smiling face, and white hair, though he seemed too young for that, hailed them. "Hello, Miss Mercer!" he said: "Jump in, won't you? I'll take you wherever you want to go. I've got lots of time--nothing in the world to do, and I'm lonely." "Why, thank you very much, Mr. Holmes," said Eleanor, smiling at him. "This is my new friend, Bessie King, Mr. Holmes. Mr. Holmes is one of our family's oldest and best friends." "Well, well, this is very nice!" he said. "I'd better be careful, though, or I'll have all the young fellows in town down on me, when they see an old codger like me driving two pretty young ladies around. Where shall we go, eh?" "If you're really not in a hurry, Mr. Holmes," said Eleanor, "I wish you would take us down town by the long way around. I'd like Bessie to see the river and the Kent Bridge." "Splendid!" said Mr. Holmes. "That's fine! You see, they say I'm a back number, now that I don't know how to run my store any more. I guess they're right, too. I just seem to be in the way when I go down there. So I stay away as long as I can find anything else to do." Eleanor laughed, but Bessie somehow felt that the jovial words didn't ring true. There was a strange look in the eyes of their kindly host, and despite her attempts to convince herself that she was foolish, she didn't like him. But she enjoyed the ride thoroughly. He took them out of the town, and then, skirting the suburbs by a beautiful road, approached the heart of the business section by a new road that Bessie had not seen before. But then, though he had said, and, indeed, proved, that he was in no hurry, Mr. Holmes began to increase the speed of his car. "He's going very fast if he's not in a hurry," suggested Bessie, sure that the driver could not hear in the rush of the wind made by the car's speed. Eleanor laughed merrily. "He always does everything in a hurry," she said. "This is the fastest car in town, and before automobiles got so popular, Mr. Holmes had the fastest horses. He just likes to go quickly. That's why his business was so successful, they say." Just then the car stopped, and Holmes, laughing, turned to them. "I heard that," he said. "After all, what's the harm? It would have taken you an hour to get down town if you'd walked all the way, wouldn't it, Miss Eleanor?" She nodded. "All right, then, I'll get you there as soon as that, and have time for a bit of a spin in the country, as well. We'll go pretty fast, so just put on these goggles, young ladies, and you'll have no trouble getting specks in your eyes. I'll do the same. I really intended to drive slowly today--that's why I haven't got mine on. But somehow, when I get a wheel between my hands, I can't drive slowly; it isn't in me, somehow!" He handed them their goggles, and then put on his own, and changed his soft hat, which had two or three times threatened to blow off, for a cap that would stay on in any wind. And, as he faced them, Bessie had all she could do to suppress a sharp cry of amazement, and she was more than thankful for the goggles that partly concealed her start of surprise and dismay. For the sight of Holmes, thus equipped, had recalled something that seemed in a way, at least, to explain her feeling of distrust and dislike. Eleanor saw that Bessie was troubled, even though Holmes was ignorant of the sensation he had caused, and, as soon as the car was moving at high speed again, she leaned over close. "What is it, Bessie! What startled you so?" "I'll tell you later, Miss Eleanor," whispered Bessie. "I'm not sure enough yet--really I'm not! But as soon as I am, I'll tell you all I know." Mr. Holmes was as good as his word. He brought them into the central part of the town just at the time he had promised, and sprang out to open the door of the tonneau for them. "Must you really go now?" he said, dejectedly. "You'll be leaving me all alone, you know. Can't you finish your shopping, and then let me run you out to Arkville for luncheon?" "You speak as if it were just across the street," laughed Eleanor. "And you know, Bessie, it's really fifty miles or more away, and it's actually over the state line. It's in your old state--the same one Hedgeville is in. But it's in a different direction, and it's even further from Hedgeville than we are here, I guess. Isn't it, Mr. Holmes?" "I'd have to know just where Hedgeville is to answer that, Miss Mercer. And I've never been there nor even traveled through it, so far as I can remember. I'll look it up on my road map, though, if you like--" "Oh, no, please don't bother to do that. It's not of the slightest importance." "Then we shall have to put off Arkville to another day, you think, Miss Mercer?" "I'm afraid so, really. We've a good deal to do today, and there are reasons that I won't bother you with for our having to be in town. Thank you ever so much for the ride." "Yes, thank you ever so much," echoed Bessie. They were near Charlie Jamieson's office, and, as the car turned and disappeared in the mass of traffic, Bessie clutched Eleanor's arm. "Oh, do come quickly, Miss Eleanor, please! Look at this. Don't you think we ought to tell Mr. Jamieson about it right away?" She held out a piece of ribbon, torn and stained. It was not large, but there was enough of it to identify it easily. And, as Eleanor looked at it, she remembered faintly having seen it before. "What is that? Where did you find it?" she asked, puzzled. "It's the ribbon Zara wore in her hair, and I found it in the car. It fell on the floor when he opened the door for us to get out--it must have been caught there. And do you remember, we got in on the other side, so that that door wasn't opened then?" Eleanor looked more puzzled than ever. "I don't see how that can be Zara's ribbon," she protested. "What would she have been doing in Mr. Holmes' car? It's just an accident, Bessie. It's just a coincidence that that ribbon should be there. It might have belonged to someone else--I'm sure it did, in fact." "Oh, please, please, I know!" said Bessie. "Won't you let me tell Mr. Jamieson about it!" "Oh, yes, course, but he'll say just what I do, Bessie. You mustn't let this affect you so that you get nervous and hysterical, Bessie. That's not the way to help Zara." They were walking toward the building in which Jamieson's offices were located, and Bessie was hurrying their progress as much as she could. "I don't like Mr. Holmes. I'm afraid of him," she said. "I know that sounds dreadful, but it's true--" "Why, Bessie, how absurd!" she exclaimed. "I've known him for years and years, and he's one of the nicest, kindest men in town." "But, Miss Eleanor, do you remember when you asked him about Hedgeville, he said he'd never been there?" "Yes, and I thought, as soon as I asked him, that he would probably have to tell me just that. Hedgeville's out of the way. You never saw automobile parties on trips going through, did you?" "No, we didn't. About the only people who came there in automobiles came to see someone--and usually Farmer Weeks." "There, you see!" "But, Miss Eleanor, Mr. Holmes knows all about Hedgeville! He's been there ever so many times! I thought this morning, as soon as he stopped to talk to you, that I'd seen him before somewhere, but I wasn't sure." "Why, what do you mean? Are you sure now?" "Yes, I was sure the minute he put on those goggles and his cap. He's driven to Hedgeville a lot in the last year. The last time wasn't more than three weeks ago, and he was in that same car, and wore the same cap and goggles." Eleanor stopped, looking very thoughtful. "I think you must be mistaken, Bessie," she said. "There's no reason why he shouldn't tell us if he'd ever been there, and he certainly couldn't have forgotten it if he's been there as often as you say. Can't you see that! What object could he have in trying to deceive us?" "I don't know. I can't guess that unless--well, I can tell you who it was he saw when he was there--every time. It was Farmer Weeks. And I think he was there the day before they took Zara's father away. I'm not sure, but I think so." "If you could be certain," said Eleanor, doubtfully, "that would make it different, Bessie. We'll tell Mr. Jamieson, and see what he thinks. But I'm sure you must be mistaken." CHAPTER VI A SUDDEN TURN Jamieson was in his office when they entered. "Well, I wondered where you two were!" he exclaimed, by way of greeting. "I tried to get you on the telephone a couple of times, but I supposed you were probably on your way here." "We telephoned before we left the house, but we understood that you would be busy," said Eleanor. "So we started to walk into town, and Mr. Holmes saw us, and took us for a ride in his car. I hope it hasn't made any difference--that you didn't want us? Have you found out anything, Charlie?" "No, it didn't make any difference," said the lawyer, gloomily. "As for finding out things, well, I have, and I haven't! There's no trace of Zara, but there's other news." "What is it?" "Well, it's mighty queer, I'll say that for it. When I went to see Zara's father this morning, he refused to see me--sent out word that he didn't want me to act as his lawyer any more. He's got another lawyer, and who do you suppose it is?" The two girls stared at him, surprised and puzzled. "Brack!" exclaimed Jamieson. "What do you know about that for a mess, eh? If half of what I believe is right, Brack's his worst enemy. He's hand in glove with the people who are responsible for all his trouble, and yet here he goes and gets the scoundrel to act as his lawyer!" "Oh, what a shame!" said Eleanor, indignantly. "And he wouldn't even see you to explain?" "Absolutely not! I tried to get them to let me in, and I sent him an urgent message, telling him it was of the utmost importance for us to have a talk, but I couldn't budge him." Eleanor was flushed with resentment. "Well, that settles it!" she said, indignantly. "If people don't want to be helped, one can't help them. He and Zara will just have to look out for themselves, I guess. Bessie, don't you think Zara must have gone with those people in the car willingly?" "Yes, I do," said Bessie. "But--" "Then I think she and her father are an ungrateful pair, and they deserve anything that happens to them! I'm certainly not going to worry myself about them any more, and I should think you would drop the whole thing, Charlie Jamieson, and attend to your own affairs!" "Hold on! You're going a bit too fast, Eleanor," he said, laughing lightly. "Let's see what Bessie thinks about it." Bessie, who had flushed too, but not with anger, when Eleanor thus gave her resentment full play, was glad of the chance to speak. "I do think Zara went off willingly and of her own accord," she said. "I'm sure of that, because she couldn't have been taken away without my hearing something." "Well, then," began Eleanor, "doesn't that prove--" "But if Zara was willing to go off that way, I believe it's because she thought she was doing the right thing," Bessie went on, determinedly. "Someone must have seen her and told her something she believed, though perhaps it wasn't true." "Of course!" said Jamieson, heartily, "That's what I've thought from the start, and don't you see who it probably was? Why, Brack! He was in the neighborhood yesterday morning and he must have seen her. He might have told her anything--any wild story. You see, we are pretty much in the dark about this affair yet. We don't know why these people are so keen after Zara's father, or why they've put up this job on him. So I don't think I'll get mad and drop it just because Zara and her father have probably been fooled into acting in a way that would seem likely to irritate me." Eleanor was regretful at once. "Oh, you're ever so much more sensible than I am, Charlie," she said. "It made me angry to think they were acting so when all we wanted was to help them, and I lost my temper." "I suspect that that is just what Brack hoped I would do, Eleanor. And it makes me all the more determined to stick to the case. You see, I'm actually lawyer for Zara's father still, and unless I consent to a change of lawyers, he'll have trouble putting Brack in my place. Brack knows that, too, if he doesn't--and he knows, also, that I know one or two things about him that make it a good idea for him to be careful, unless he wants to be disbarred." "Then you'll keep on working and you'll try to find out what's become of Zara, too?" "Yes. I looked up the number that Bessie saw--the number of that car. And it's just as I thought. They were careful enough to use a false number. There's no such number recorded as the one that was on the car." "But don't you suppose you can find anyone who saw it before they had a chance to change the numbers?" "I'm working on that line now, but we haven't got any reports yet. I've gone to see the district attorney--the one who looks after the counterfeiting cases as well as the other, who's just in charge of local affairs. And I've convinced them that there's something very queer afoot here. Judge Bailey, who will prosecute Zara's father for counterfeiting, agrees with me that it looks as if a case had been worked up against him by someone who wants to make trouble for him, and he's pretty mad at the idea that anyone would dare to use him in such a crooked game. So we'll have a friend there, if I can get any evidence to back our suspicions." Suddenly Eleanor remembered what Bessie had thought of Mr. Holmes, her suspicion that she had seen him in Hedgeville, and the incident of finding Zara's ribbon. And she made Bessie tell the lawyer her story. He laughed when he heard it, much to Bessie's distress. "I don't think very much of that idea," he said. "Mr. Holmes is one of our wealthiest and most respected citizens. He'd never let himself or his car be mixed up in such a business. And I'm sure he doesn't know Brack, and has never had anything to do with him." "But it is Zara's ribbon! I'm positive of that," insisted Bessie. "And he's the same man I saw at Farmer Weeks' place in Hedgeville, too." "No, no; I'm afraid you're mistaken, Bessie." "But the ribbon--why should that be in his car?" "Let me see it." She handed him the ribbon, and he looked at it carefully. "Why, that doesn't seem to be very promising evidence, Bessie," he said. "I suppose you could find ribbon like that in any dry goods store almost anywhere. Thousands of girls must have pieces just like it. Even if it is just the same as the one Zara wore, that doesn't prove anything. You'd have to have more evidence than that. However, I'll keep it in mind. You never can tell what's going to turn up, and I suppose it's easily possible to imagine stranger things than Mr. Holmes being mixed up in this affair. Well, you can depend upon it that everything possible is being done, and no one could do more than that. I wish I knew more, that's all." So did Bessie, and she was thinking hard as they left his office and made their way toward some of the shops in which, the day before, she had so longed to be. Feminine instinct has more than once proved itself superior to masculine logic, and although both Jamieson and Eleanor seemed inclined to laugh at her, Bessie felt that she was right--that Mr. Holmes, in some queer way, was intimately concerned in the web in which she and Zara seemed to be caught. She couldn't pretend to explain, even to herself, the manner in which he might be affected, but of the main fact she was sure. She knew that her memory had not deceived her; she had seen the man in Hedgeville. And the fact that he had deliberately lied about that seemed to her good evidence that he had something to conceal. He knew Farmer Weeks. And in some fashion Farmer Weeks was intimately bound up with the affairs of Zara and her father. Everything that had happened since their flight from Hedgeville proved that beyond the shadow of a doubt. He had run great risks to get Zara back; although he was such a notorious miser, he had spent a good deal of money. And he was mixed up with Brack. Suddenly a thought came to Bessie. Zara's father! He must know. And if he did, wasn't there a chance that he might be willing to talk to her, if she could only manage to see him? He distrusted Charlie Jamieson evidently, since he had refused to talk to him just when the lawyer had been sure that he was going to get some facts that would throw light on the mystery. But with Bessie he might well take a different stand. He had seen her in the country; he knew that she was a friend of Zara. "Miss Eleanor," said Bessie, quickly, "I've got an idea and I wish you would let me talk to Mr. Jamieson about it. Will you, please--and by myself? You're angry still at Zara and her father, and perhaps you'd think I was all wrong." "I'm not exactly angry, Bessie," said Eleanor. "I was hurt, but I'm beginning to see that very likely I am wrong, and that they were honestly mistaken, not deliberately ungrateful. At any rate, if Charlie Jamieson can stand the way Zara's father treats him, I guess I don't need to worry about it." "Then may I go?" "Yes, and hurry, or you'll find that he's left his office. You won't be long, will you?" "No, indeed; only a few minutes. Will you be here in this store, Miss Eleanor, when I come back?" "Yes, I'll meet you at the ribbon counter." "Thank you, thank you ever so much, Miss Eleanor! I'll hurry just as much as I can, and I certainly won't be long." Then she was off, and luckily enough she found that the lawyer had not yet gone. He listened to her suggestion with a smile. "By George," he said, when she had finished, "maybe you've hit the right idea, Bessie, at that! I'm afraid I can't manage it today, but I'll take you to the jail myself in the morning, and see that you get a chance to talk to him. I doubt if he'll say anything, he's either obstinate or badly frightened. But it's worth the chance, if you don't mind going to the jail to see him. It's not a very nice place, you know." Bessie laughed. "I'd do worse than that if I thought I could help Zara, Mr. Jamieson," she said. "Do you know I've got the strangest feeling that she's in trouble? It's just as if I could hear her calling me and as if she were sorry for leaving us, and wanted to be back." Jamieson smiled grimly. "I think the chances are that she's feeling just about that way," he said. "She certainly ought to be--if we're at all near to guessing the people she's gone with. They won't treat her as well as the Mercers, I'll be bound." "That's what I'm afraid of, too," said Bessie. Then thanking him for his promise she made her way to the street, and started to go back to the store where she had left Eleanor. But she was intercepted. And, to her amazement, the person who checked her, as she was walking swiftly along the crowded street, was Jake Hoover. "'Lo, Bessie," he said shamefacedly, as she started with surprise at the sight of him. "Say, you're pretty in them new clothes of your'n. I'd never 'a' known you." "I wish you hadn't, then," said Bessie, with spirit. "I'm through with you, Jake Hoover! You won't have me around home any more, to take the blame for all your wickedness. When things happen now they'll know whose fault it is--and maybe they'll begin to think that you may have done some of the things I used to get punished for, too." "Aw, now, don't get mad, Bessie," he said, trying to pacify her. "This here's the city--'tain't Hedgeville! Maybe I was mean to you sometimes back home, Bessie, but I was jest jokin'. Say, Bess, here's a gentleman wants to talk to you. He's a lawyer an' a mighty smart man. An' he thinks he knows somethin' about your father and mother." Another figure had loomed up beside that of Jake, and Bessie was hardly surprised to find that it was Brack who was leering at her. "He's right. I know something about them," he said. "There's precious little old Brack don't know, my dear--an' that's a fact you can bet your last dollar on." He chuckled, and made a movement as if he intended to take Bessie's hand, but she brushed his claw-like hand away with a motion of disgust. "I haven't got time to be talking to you now," she said, decisively. "If you know anything you think I ought to be told, tell it to Mr. Jamieson." "Oh, ho, tell it to him, eh!" he said. "Maybe you'd better be careful, girl! Maybe you wouldn't like everyone to know why your parents had to run away and leave you in such a hurry. Maybe they're in prison, and deserve to be. How'd you like to have people hear that, eh!" "I wouldn't like it, but I don't believe it's true!" said Bessie, scornfully. "Not for a minute!" And she pressed on, but Brack followed and walked close beside her. "Remember this--you'll never see them again, except through me," he said, malevolently. CHAPTER VII OFF TO THE FARM The next morning Bessie was doomed to be disappointed. She had looked forward confidently to seeing Zara's father, and had come to believe that there was a good chance for her to clear away some of the mystery that hung so heavily over Zara's affairs, even though she made no great progress toward straightening out her own confused ideas regarding herself and the reason for the disappearance of her parents. But, instead of the telephone call to Jamieson's office, for which she had waited with poorly concealed impatience from breakfast until nearly noon, she had a visit from Jamieson himself. The lawyer looked discouraged. "Bad news, Bessie," he said, as soon as he saw her. She was waiting for him on the porch, and her eyes lighted with eagerness as soon as she saw him coming. "They've stolen a march on me." "Why, how do you mean? Won't I be able to see Zara's father, after all?" "Not just yet. Brack is cleverer than I thought. He's got a lot of political pull, and he got hold of a judge I thought was above stooping to anything wrong. So he was able to get this judge to sign an order putting him in my place as lawyer for Zara's father. The only way you can see the prisoner now is for Brack to give you permission, and if I know Brack, that's the last thing he'll do." Bessie showed her discouragement. "I'm afraid you're right there," she said. "I saw him yesterday, after I left you." "You did? Whew! There's something queer here, Bessie. Now, try to remember just what was said and tell me all about it." It was not hard for Bessie, guided by a few questions from Jamieson, to do that, and in a few moments she had supplied him with a complete review of her interview with the shyster, Brack, He nodded approvingly when she had finished. "You did just right," he said, cheerfully. "I guess Mr. Brack won't get much change out of you, Bessie. There's one thing sure, you managed to acquire a lot of sense while you lived in Hedgeville. The sort we call common sense, though I don't know why, because it's the rarest sort of sense there is. Keep on acting just like that when people ask you questions and try to get you to tell them things." "Do you think anyone else is likely to do that, Mr. Jamieson?" "You can't tell. I'm all in the dark, you see. This thing acts just like a Chinese puzzle. They're simple enough when you know how to fit the pieces together, and you wonder why they ever stumped you. But until you do guess them--" He stopped, with a comical shrug of his shoulders to indicate his helplessness and his bewilderment, and Bessie laughed. Then Eleanor came out, and the story of Brack's shrewdness had to be told to her. "What are you going to do now?" she asked. Jamieson threw up his hands with a laugh. "Wait--and keep my eyes open," he said. "I'm going to act as if I'd lost all interest in the case. That may fool Brack. Our best chance now, you see, is to wait for the other side to make a mistake. They've made some already; the chances are they'll do it again. Then we can nab them. What I want to do is to make them think they're quite safe, that they needn't be afraid of us any more." "You won't need Bessie, then, right away?" "No. Really, she worries me. I feel as if she weren't safe here. They seem to be afraid of her, and I wouldn't put it past them to try to get hold of her and keep her where she can't do any talking until they've done what they want to do." "But, Charlie, they must know that she's told us everything she knows already. Why should they want to take her away now?" "If I knew that I could answer a lot of other questions, too. But here's a guess. Suppose she knows something without knowing at all what it means, or how important it is? That might easily be. She might be able to clear up the whole mystery with some single, seemingly unimportant remark. They may have good reason to know she hasn't done it yet, but they may also be afraid that, at any time, she will entirely by accident give away their whole game. And I've got an idea that if their game ever is exposed, someone will be in danger of going to jail. See? I'd like to figure out some good safe place for Bessie, where she'd be out of the way of all their tricks." Eleanor clapped her hands. "Then I've got the very place!" she said. "This business has upset the plans I'd made, but now I'm going to take my Camp Fire Girls down to dad's farm in Cheney County. You laughed at me when I was made a Camp Fire Guardian, Charlie, but you're going to see now what a fine thing the movement is." "I didn't mean to laugh at you, Eleanor," he said, contritely. "And I got over doing it long ago, anyhow. I used to think this Camp Fire thing was a joke--just something got up to please a lot of girls who wanted to wear khaki skirts and camp out because their brothers had joined the Boy Scouts and told them what a good time they were having." "That's just like a man," said Eleanor, quietly triumphant. "None of you think girls can do anything worth while on their own account. The Camp Fire Girls didn't imitate the Boy Scouts, and they're not a bit like them, really. We haven't anything against the Boy Scouts, but we think we're going to do better work among girls than even the Scout movement does among boys. Well, anyhow, we're going down to the farm, and Bessie shall go along. If anyone tries to kidnap her while she's with the girls, they'll have a hard time. We stick together, let me tell you, and Wohelo means something." "You needn't preach to me, Eleanor," said the lawyer, laughing. "You converted me long ago. I'll stand for anything you do, anyhow. You're all right--you've got more sense than most men. It's a pity there aren't more girls like you." "That's rank flattery, and it isn't true, anyhow," laughed Eleanor. "But if I am any better than I used to be, it's because I've learned not to think of myself first all the time. That's what the Camp Fire teaches us, you see. Work, and Health, and Love, that's what Wohelo means. And it means to work for others, and to love others, and to bring health to others as well as to yourself. Come down to the farm while we're there, and you'll see how it works out." Jamieson got up. "I probably will," he said, smiling as he held out his hand in farewell. "I'll have to come down to consult my client, you see." "And you'll let us know if there's any news of Zara, Mr. Jamieson, won't you?" said Bessie. "I love the idea of going to the farm, but I rather hate to leave the city when I don't know what may be happening to Zara." "You can't help her by staying here," said the lawyer, earnestly. "I'm quite sure of that. And I really think she's all right, and that she's being properly treated. After all, it's pretty hard to carry a girl like Zara off and keep her a prisoner against her will. It would be much better policy to treat her well, and keep her contented. It's quite plain that she thought she was going with friends when she went, or she would have made some sort of a row. And their best policy is to keep her quiet." "But they didn't act that way before we got away from Hedgeville--clear away, I mean," said Bessie. "Farmer Weeks caught her in the road, you know, and locked her in that room the time that I followed her and helped her to get away through the woods." "Yes, but that was a very different matter, Bessie. In that state Weeks had the law on his side. The court was ready to name him as her guardian, and to bind her over to him until she was twenty-one. In this state neither he nor anyone else, except her father, has any more right to keep her from going where she likes than they have to tell me what I must do--as long as we obey the law and don't do anything that is wrong." "Then you think she's well and happy?" "I'm quite sure of it," said Jamieson heartily. "This isn't some foreign country. It's America, where there are plenty of people to notice anything that seems wrong or out of the ordinary; And if they were treating Zara badly, she'd be pretty sure to find someone who would help her to get away." "Yes, this is America," said Bessie, thoughtfully. "But you see, Zara has lived in countries where things are very different. And maybe she doesn't know her rights. After all, you know, she thinks her father hasn't done anything wrong, and still she's seen him put in prison and kept there. What I'm afraid of is that she'll get to think that this is just like the countries she knows best, and be afraid to do anything, or try to get help, no matter what they do." "Well, we mustn't borrow trouble," said Jamieson, frowning slightly at the thoughts Bessie's words suggested to him. "We can't do anything more now, that's sure. Have a good time, and stop worrying. That's the best legal advice I can give you right now." Once her mind was made up, Eleanor acted quickly. The outing at her father's farm, which was not at all like the Hoover farm in Hedgeville of which Bessie King had such unpleasant memories, was one that had long been promised to her girls, and she herself had been looking forward to going there. The troubles of Bessie and Zara had almost led her to abandon the idea of going there herself, and she had arranged for a friend to take her place as Guardian for a time. Now, however, she sent word to all her girls, and that very evening they met at the station and took the train for Deer Crossing, the little station that was nearest to the farm. "They'll meet us in the farm wagons," said Eleanor, when the girls were all aboard. "So we'll have a ride through the moonlight to the farm--the moon rises early to-night, you know." It was a jolly, happy ride in the train, and Bessie, renewing her acquaintance with the Camp Fire Girls, who had seemed to her and Zara, when they had first seen them, like creatures from another world, felt her depression wearing off. They had a car to themselves, thanks to the conductor, who had known Eleanor Mercer since she was a little girl, and as the train sped through the country scenes that were so familiar to Bessie, the girls laughed and talked and sang songs of the Camp Fire, and made happy plans for walks and tramps in the country about the farm. "It's just like the country around Hedgeville, Miss Eleanor," said Bessie, as the Guardian stopped beside the seat she shared with her first chum among the Camp Fire Girls, Minnehaha. "The houses look the same, and the stone fences, and--oh, everything!" "I wonder if you aren't a little bit homesick, down in your heart, Bessie?" laughed Miss Mercer. "Come, now, confess!" "Perhaps I am," said Bessie, wonderingly. "I never thought of that. But it's just for the country, and the cows and the animals, and all the things I'm used to seeing. I wouldn't go back to Maw Hoover's for anything." "You shan't, Bessie. I was only joking," said Eleanor, quickly. "I know just how you feel. I've been that way myself. When you get away from a place you begin very quickly to forget everything that was disagreeable that happened there, and you only remember the good times you had. That's why you're homesick." "We'll be able to take walks and go for straw rides here, won't we, Wanaka?" asked Minnehaha. She used Eleanor's fire name, Wanaka, just as Minnehaha was her fire name; her own was Margery Burton. "You'll have to, if you expect to be in fashion," laughed the Guardian. "And you shall learn to milk cows and find eggs and do all sorts of farm work, too. I expect Bessie will want to laugh often at you girls. You see, she knows all about that sort of thing, and you'll all be terrible greenhorns, I think." "I ought to know about a farm," said Bessie. "I lived on one long enough. And I don't see why I should laugh at the rest of the girls. They know more about the city now than I ever will know. I've been there long enough to find that out, anyhow." Just then the conductor put his head inside the door, and called "Deer Crossing!" As the train slowed up, all the girls made a rush for their bags and bundles, and five minutes later they were standing and watching the disappearing train, waving to the amused conductor and trainmen, who were all on the platform of the last car. Then the train disappeared around a curve, and they had a chance to devote their attention to the two big farm wagons that were waiting near the station, each with its team of big Percherons and its smiling driver. The drivers were country boys, with fair, tousled hair, and both wore neat black suits. At the sight of them Eleanor burst into a laugh. "Why, Sid Harris--and you, too, Walter Stubbs!" she cried. "This isn't Sunday! What are you doing in your store clothes, just as if you were on your way to church?" Both the boys flushed and neither of them had a word to say. "Did you get mixed up on the days of the week!" Eleanor went on, pitilessly. All the girls were enjoying their confusion, and black-eyed Dolly Ransom, the tease of the party, laughed aloud. "I bet they never saw so many girls together before, Miss Eleanor," she said, with a toss of her pretty head. "That's why they're so quiet! They probably don't have girls in the country." "Don't they, just!" said Eleanor, laughing back at her. "Wait until you see them, Dolly. They'll put your nose out of joint, the girls around here. If you think you're going to have it all your own way with the boys out here, the way you do so much at home, you're mistaken." Dolly tossed her head again. She looked at the confused, blushing boys on the wagons, who could hardly be expected to understand that Dolly was only teasing them, and wanted nothing better than a perfectly harmless flirtation. "They're welcome to boys like those," she said airily. "I'll wait until I get home, Miss Eleanor." Then she turned away, and Eleanor, her face serious for a moment, turned to Bessie. "She'll wait until she's grown up, too, if I've got anything to say about it," she said. "Bessie, when Zara comes back, of course you'll be with her mostly. But I wish you'd make a friend of Dolly Ransom,--a real friend. Her mother's dead, and she has no sisters." "I hope I can," said Bessie, simply. "I like her ever so much." CHAPTER VIII A NEW CHUM The farm was nearly five miles from the station, and the two big wagons made slow time with the heavy loads, especially as the roads were still muddy from a recent downpour. But none of the Camp Fire Girls seemed to mind the length of the trip. Now that she was actually out in the heart of it, Bessie found that the country was not as much like that around Hedgeville as it had seemed to be from the train windows. The fields were better kept; there were no unpainted, dilapidated looking houses, such as those of Farmer Weeks and some of the other neighbors of the Hoovers in Hedgeville whom she remembered so well. Neat fences, well kept up, marked off the fields, and, even to Bessie's eyes, although she was far from being an agricultural expert, the crops themselves looked better. She spoke of this to Eleanor. "These aren't just ordinary farms," Eleanor explained. "My father and some other men who have plenty of money have bought up a lot of land around here, and they are working the farms, and making them pay just as much as possible. My father thinks it's a shame for so many boys and young men, whose fathers own farms, to go rushing off to the city and work in stores and factories. And they started out to find out why it was that way. They're business men, you see and as soon as they really began to think about it they found out what was wrong." "Why the boys went to the city?" asked Bessie. "I should think that would be easy to see! It was around Hedgeville. Why, on a farm, the work never is done. It's work all day, and then get up before daylight to start again. And even Paw Hoover, who had a good farm, was always saying how poor he was, and how he wished he could make more money." "I'll bet he was always buying new land, though," said Eleanor, looking wise. "Yes, he was," admitted Bessie. "He always said that if he could get enough land he'd be rich." "He probably had too much as it was, Bessie. The trouble with most farmers is that they don't know how to use the land they have, instead of that they haven't enough. They don't treat the soil right, and they won't spend money for good farm machinery and for rich fertilizers. If they did that, and studied farming, the way men study to be doctors or lawyers, they'd be better off. How many acres did Paw Hoover have? Well, it doesn't matter, but I'll bet that my father gets more out of one acre on his farm than Paw Hoover does out of two on his. You see, the man who's in charge of the farm went to college to study the business, and he knows all sorts of things that make a farm pay better." "Paw Hoover was talking about that once, saying he wished he could send Jake to college to study farming. But Maw laughed at him, and Jake couldn't have gone, anyhow. He was so stupid that he never even got through school there in Hedgeville." "I suppose he is stupid," said Eleanor. "But after all, Bessie, when a boy doesn't get along well in school it doesn't always mean that it's his fault. He may not be properly taught. Sometimes it's the school's fault, and not the pupil's." "Other people got along all right," said Bessie. She wasn't quite prepared to say a good word for Jake Hoover yet. He had caused her too much trouble in the past. "Why," she went on, "I used to have to do his lessons for him all the time. He just wouldn't study at home, Miss Eleanor, and in school he was so big, and such a bully, that most of the teachers were afraid of him." "That just shows they weren't good teachers, Bessie. No good teacher is ever afraid of a bully. She has plenty of people to back her up if she really needs help. I don't say Jake Hoover is any better than he ought to be, but from all you tell me, part of his trouble may be because he hasn't been properly handled. But let's forget him, anyhow. Look over there. Do you see that white house on top of the hill?" "Against the sun, so that it's sort of pink where the sun strikes it?" said Bessie. "Yes, what a lovely place!" "Well, that's where we're going," said Eleanor. "But--but that doesn't look a bit like a farmhouse!" said Bessie, surprised. "I thought--" "You thought it would be more like the Hoover farm, didn't you?" laughed Eleanor. "Well, of course that's only our house, and Dad built a nice one, on the finest piece of land he could find, because we were going to spend a good deal of time there. There's electric light and running water in all the rooms and we're just as comfortable there as we would be in the city." "It's beautiful, but really, Miss Eleanor, I don't believe most farmers could afford a place like that, even if they were a lot better off than Paw Hoover--" "They could afford a lot of the comforts, Bessie, because they don't cost half as much as you'd think. The electric light, for instance, and the running water. The light comes from power that we get from the brook right on the farm, and it costs less than it does to light the house in the city. And the water is pumped from the well by a windmill that cost very little to put up. You see, there's a big tank on the roof, and whenever there's a wind, the mill is started to running and the tank is filled. Then there's enough water on hand to last even if there shouldn't be enough wind to turn the mill for two or three days, though that's something that very seldom happens. If all the farmers knew how easily they could have these little comforts, and how cheap they are, I believe more of them would put in those conveniences." "Oh, how much easier it would have been at Hoover's if we'd had them!" sighed Bessie. "There we had to fill the lamps every day, and every bit of water we used in the house had to be drawn at the well and carried in pails. It was awfully hard work." "You see, Maw Hoover didn't have such an easy time, Bessie," said Eleanor. "She had all that work about the house to do for years and years. She didn't need to be so mean to you, but, after all, she might have been nicer if she'd had a pleasanter life. It's easy to be nice and agreeable when everything is easy, and everything goes right, but when you have to work hard all the time, if you're a little bit inclined to be mean, the grind of doing the same thing day after day, year after year, seems to bring the meanness right out. I've seen lots of instances of that, and I'm perfectly sure that if I were a farmer's wife, and had to work like a slave I'd be a perfect shrew and there'd be no living with me at all." They turned in from the road now, the wagon in which Bessie and Eleanor rode in the lead, and came into a pretty avenue that led up a gentle grade to the ridge on which the house was built. There were trees at each side to provide shade in the hot part of the day, and for a long distance on each side of the trees there were well kept lawns. "My father likes a place to be beautiful as well as useful," said Eleanor, "so he had those lawns made when we built the house. All the farmers in the neighborhood thought it was an awful waste of good land, but since then some of them have come to see that if they ever wanted to sell their places people would like them better if they were pretty, and they've copied this place a good deal in the neighborhood. "We're very glad, because right now Cheney County is the prettiest farming section anywhere around, and the crops are about the best in the state, too. So, you see, we seem to have shown them that they can have pretty places and still make money. And sometimes those lawns are used for grazing sheep, so they're useful as well as ornamental." Then in a few minutes they were at the house, and the smiling housekeeper, whom Eleanor introduced to the girls as Mrs. Farnham, greeted them. "Come right in," she said, heartily. "There's supper ready and waiting--fried chicken, and corn bread, and honey, and creamed potatoes, and fresh milk, and apple pie and--" "Stop, stop, do, Mrs. Farnham!" pleaded Eleanor. "You'll make me so hungry that I won't want to wash my hands!" And the supper, when they came to it, was just as good to taste as it was to hear about. Everything they ate, it seemed, came from the farm. No store goods were ever used on the table in that house. And Bessie, used to a farm where chickens, except when they were old and tough, were never eaten, but kept for sale, wondered at the goodness of everything. That night, although it was not part of the plan, there was an informal camp fire, held about a blazing pyre of logs. But it did not last long, for everyone was tired and ready indeed for the signal that Eleanor gave early by lifting her voice in the notes of the good-night song, _Lay Me to Sleep in Sheltering Flame_. Bessie, rather to her surprise, found that she was not to room with Margery Burton, or Minnehaha, as she had expected, but was to share a big room, under the roof, with Dolly Ransom, the merry, mischievous Kiama, as she was known to her comrades of the fire. "Do you mind if I snore?" asked Dolly promptly, when they were alone together. "Because I probably shall, and everyone makes such a fuss, and acts as if it was my fault." "I'm so tired I shan't even hear you," said Bessie, with a laugh. "Snore all you like, I won't mind!" Dolly looked surprised, and pouted a little. "If you don't mind, there's no use doing it," she said, after a moment, and Bessie laughed again at this unconscious confession. "I thought you couldn't help it," she said with a smile. Dolly looked a little confused. "I can't sometimes, when I've got a cold," she said. "But they go on so about it then that I have sometimes tried to do it, just to get even." "You're a tease, Kiama," said Bessie, merrily, "and I guess it's that that you can't help. But go ahead and try to tease me as much as you like. I won't mind." "Then I won't do it," decided Dolly, suddenly. "It's fun teasing people when they get mad, but what's the use when they think it's a joke?" Bessie had seen little of Dolly in the first days of her acquaintance with the Manasquan Camp Fire, but now, as they appraised one another, knowing that they were to be very intimate during their stay on the farm, Bessie decided that she was going to like her new friend very much. Not as much as Zara, probably--that would be natural, for Zara was Bessie's first chum, and her best, and Bessie's loyalty was one of her chief traits. But she was not the sort of a girl who can have only one friend. Usually girls who say that mean that they can have only one close friend at a time, and what happens is that they have innumerable chums, each of whom seems to be the best while the friendship lasts. Bessie wanted to be friendly with everyone, and what Eleanor had begun to tell her about Dolly made her think that perhaps the mischief maker of the Camp Fire was lonely like herself. "You're just like me--you haven't any mother or sister, have you?" said Dolly, after they were both in bed. Bessie was glad of the darkness that hid the quick flush that stained her cheeks. Since she had talked with Brack she was beginning to feel that there was something shameful about her position, although, had she stopped to think, she would have known that no one who knew the facts would blame her, even if her parents had behaved badly in deserting her. And, as a matter of fact, Bessie clung to the belief that her parents had not acted of their own free will in leaving her so long with the Hoovers. She thought, and meant to keep on thinking, that they had been unable to help themselves, and that some time, when good fortune came to them again, she would see them and that they would make up to her in love for all the empty, unhappy years in Hedgeville. "Yes, I'm like you, Dolly," she answered, finally. "I don't know what's become of my parents. I wish I did." "I know what's become of mine," said Dolly, her voice suddenly hard--too hard for so young a girl. "My mother's dead. She died when I was a baby. And my father doesn't care what becomes of me. He lives in Europe, and once in a while he sends me money but he doesn't seem to want to see me, ever." "Where do you live, Dolly?" asked Bessie. "Oh, with my Aunt Mabel," said Dolly. "You'll see her when we go back to town for I'm going to have you come and visit me if you will. She's an old maid, and she's terribly proper, and if ever I start to have any fun she thinks it must be wicked, and tries to make me stop. But I fool her--you just bet I do!" They were quiet for a minute, and then Dolly broke out again. "I don't believe Aunt Mabel ever was young!" she said fiercely. "She doesn't act as if she'd ever been a girl. And she seems to think I ought to be just as sober and quiet as if I were her age--and she's fifty! Isn't that dreadful, Bessie!" "I think you'd have a hard time acting as if you were fifty, Dolly," said Bessie, honestly, and trying to suppress a laugh but in vain. "You don't, do you?" "Of course not!" said Dolly, giggling frankly, and seemingly not at all hurt because Bessie did not take the recital of her troubles more seriously. "Aunt Mabel would like you, I don't mean that you're stiff and priggish like her, but you seem quieter than most of the girls, and more serious minded. I bet you like school." "I do," laughed Bessie. "But I like vacations too, don't you? This is the first time I ever really had one, though. I've always had to work harder in summer than in winter before this." "I think that's dreadful, Bessie. Listen! You know all about farms, don't you? Let's go off by ourselves to-morrow and explore, shall we?" "Maybe," said Bessie. "We'll see what we're supposed to do." "All right! I'm sleepy, too. Bother what we're supposed to do, Bessie! Let's do what we like. This is vacation, and you're supposed to do what you like in vacation time. So you see it's all right, anyhow. We can do what we like and what we're supposed to do both. That's the way it ought always to be, I think." "They'd say we ought to want to do what we're supposed to do, you know, Dolly. That's the safe way. Then you can't go wrong." "Well--but do you always want to do what you're supposed to do?" "I'm afraid not. Good-night!" "Good-night!" CHAPTER IX A STRANGE MEETING Breakfast on the farm was just such another meal as supper had been. Again Bessie wondered at the profusion of good things that, at the Hoovers, had always been kept for sale instead of being used on the table. There was rich, thick cream, for instance, fresh fruit and all sorts of good things, so that anyone whose whole acquaintance with country fare was confined to what the Mercer farm provided might well have believed all the tales of the good food of the farm. Bessie knew, of course, without ever having thought much about it, that on many American farms, despite the ease with which fresh fruits and vegetables are to be had, a great deal of canned stuff is used. "Bessie," said Eleanor, after breakfast, "this is rather different from the Hoovers, isn't it?" "It certainly is," agreed Bessie. "Well, of course it isn't possible right now, Bessie, but I've been thinking that some time, when Maw Hoover has gotten over her dislike for you, you may be able to teach her and some of the other farm women in Hedgeville how much more pleasant their lives could be." Bessie looked surprised. "Why, I don't believe I'll ever dare go back there," she said. "I believe Maw Hoover would be willing to put me in prison if she could for setting that barn on fire. I'm sure she thinks I did it. She wouldn't believe it was Jake, with his silly trick of trying to frighten me with those burning sticks." "She'll find out the truth some time, Bessie, never fear. And think about what I said. One of the great things this Camp Fire movement is trying to do is to make women's lives healthier and happier all over the country. And I don't believe that we've thought half enough of the women on the farms so far. You've made me realize that." "But there are lots and lots of Camp Fires in country places, aren't there, Miss Eleanor? I read about ever so many of them." "Yes, but not in the sort of country places I mean. There are Camp Fires, and plenty of them, in the towns in the country, and even in the bigger villages. But the places I'm thinking of are those like Hedgeville, where all the village there is is just a post office and two or three stores, where the people come in from the farms for miles around to get their mail and buy a few things. You know how much good a Camp Fire would do in Hedgeville, but it would be pretty hard to get one started." Bessie's eyes shone. "Oh, I wish there was one!" she cried. "I know lots of the girls on the farms there would love to do the things we do. They're nice girls, lots of them, though they didn't like me much. You see, Jake Hoover used to tell his maw lies about me, and she told them to her friends, and they told their girls--and they believed them, of course. I think that was one reason why I couldn't get along very well with the other girls." "I think that's probably the real reason, Bessie, just as you say. But if you go back you can make it different, I'm sure. You needn't be afraid of Jake Hoover any more, I think, especially after what he did at General Seeley's." "Killing that poor pheasant? Wasn't that a mean thing for him to do? They used to say he did some poaching, sometimes, around Hedgeville, but then about everyone did there, I guess. But I didn't think he'd ever try to catch such beautiful birds as the ones General Seeley had." "I could forgive him for killing the bird much more easily than for trying to get you blamed for doing it, Bessie. But let's change the subject. How did you and Dolly Ransom get along?" Bessie smiled at the recollection of the stream of questions she had had to answer from her new roommate. "She's great!" she said, enthusiastically. "I think we're going to be fine friends, Miss Eleanor." "I hope so. There isn't a bit of real harm in Dolly, but she's mischievous and loves to tease, and I'm afraid that some time she'll go too far and get herself into trouble without meaning to at all." "She doesn't like her aunt, Miss Eleanor--the one she lives with now that her father's away so much." Miss Mercer made a wry face. "Miss Ransom's lovely in many ways," she said, "but she doesn't understand young girls, and she seems to think that Dolly ought to be just as wise and staid and sober as if she were grown up. I think that is the chief reason for Dolly's mischief. It has to have some way to escape, and she's pretty well tied down at home. So I overlook a lot of her tricks, when, if one of the other girls was guilty, I'd have to speak pretty severely about it. Well, here she is now! Go off with her if you like, Bessie." "Oh, Miss Mercer, what do we have to do this morning?" shouted Dolly as soon as she saw Bessie and the Guardian. "What you like until after lunch, Dolly. Then perhaps we may want to arrange to do something all together--have a cooking lesson, or learn something about the farm. We'll see. But you and Bessie might as well go over the place now and get acquainted with it. Bessie can probably find her way about easier than you city girls." "Oh, I'm so glad!" cried Dolly. "Come on, Bessie! I bet we can have lots of sport." So they went off, and, though Bessie wanted to see the great barn in which the horses were kept, Dolly wanted to go toward the road at the entrance of the place, and Bessie yielded, since the choice of direction didn't seem a bit important then. "I saw one of those boys who drove us up last night going off this way," Dolly explained, guilelessly, "and, Bessie, he looked ever so much nicer in his blue overalls than he did in that horrible, stiff, black suit he was wearing last night." "You shouldn't laugh at his clothes. They're his very best, Dolly. The overalls are just his working clothes, and you'd hurt his feelings terribly if he knew that you were laughing at the store clothes. He probably had to save up his money for a long time to buy them." "Oh, well, I don't care! I wonder if there's any place around here where you can buy ice-cream soda? I'm just dying to have some." "I thought you were going without soda and candy for a month to get an honor bead, Dolly." "Oh, bother! I was, but it was too hard. I got a soda when I'd gone without for two weeks, and I never thought of the old honor bead until I'd begun to drink it. So that discouraged me, and I gave it up." "But don't you feel much better when you don't eat candy and drink sodas between meals?" "I don't know--maybe I do. Yes, I guess I do. But they taste so good, Bessie!" "Well, I'm afraid you'll have to do without the soda here." Dolly was still really leading the way, and now, her eyes on a blue clad figure, she decided to leave the avenue of trees that led to the road and cut across a field. "Don't you love the smell of hay, Bessie?" asked Dolly. "I think it's fine. That's one of the things I like best about the country, and being on a farm." "I guess I know it too well to get excited about it, Dolly. You see, I've lived on a farm almost all my life, and so things like that aren't new to me. But it is lovely and, yes, I do believe I've missed it, there in the city." "Wouldn't you rather live in the city, though?" "Yes, because I wasn't happy where I was in the country, and in the city I've had everything to make me happy. I suppose you'd rather live in the country, though?" "No, indeed! I like to hear the city noises at night, and to see all the people. And I like to go to the theatre, when my aunt lets me go to a matinee, and to the moving picture shows, and everything like that. Don't you love the movies?" "I never went, so I don't know." "Not really? You don't mean they haven't even got a moving picture place In Hedgeville? I never heard of such a thing!" Bessie laughed. "Moving pictures are pretty new, Dolly. No one could go to them until a little while ago, no matter where they lived, or how much money they had. And I guess people got along all right without them." "Yes, but they had to get along without lots of things until they were invented--telephones and electric lights, and lots and lots of useful things like that. But you wouldn't expect us to get along without them now, would you?" "I guess it's only the things we know about that we really need, Dolly. If we don't know about a lot of these modern things, we keep right along getting on without them. Like Hedgeville--the only man there who has a telephone is Farmer Weeks." "Yes," said Dolly triumphantly, "and he's got more money than all the rest of the people in the place put together, hasn't he!" Bessie laughed. "And all this just because you want an ice-cream soda! What will you do if you really can't have one, Dolly?" "I don't know! I'm just hankering for one--my mouth is watering from thinking about it!" "We might ask this boy. Miss Eleanor said his name was Stubbs, Walter Stubbs." Bessie smiled to herself as she saw how surprised Dolly was trying to seem at the discovery that they had come to the part of the field where Walter was working. He was red to the ears, but Bessie could tell from the way he was looking at Dolly that the city girl, with her smart clothes and her pretty face, had already made a deep impression on the farm boy. Now as the two girls approached, he looked at them sheepishly, standing first on one foot, and then on the other. "Do you work all the time?" Dolly asked him, impishly, darting a look at Bessie. "Cal'late to--most of the time," said Walter. "Don't you ever have any fun? Don't you ever meet a couple of girls and treat them to ice-cream soda, for instance?" "Oh, sure!" said Walter. "Year ago come October Si Hinkle an' I, we went to the city for the day with the gals we was buzzin' then an' we bought 'em each an ice-cream sody." "Did you have to go to the city to do that?" said Dolly. "Sure! Ain't no place nigher'n that. Over to Deer Crossin' there's a man has lemon pop in bottles sometimes, but he ain't got no founting like we saw in the city, nor no ice-cream, neither." Dolly was a picture of woe and disappointment. "Tell yer what, though," said Walter, bashfully. "Saturday night there's a goin' to be an ice-cream festival over to the Methodist Church at the Crossing, an' I'm aimin' ter go, though my folks is Baptists. I'll treat yer to a plate of ice-cream over there." "Will you, really?" said Dolly, brightening up and looking as pleased as if the ice-cream soda she wanted so much had suddenly been set down before her in the field. "I sure will," said Walter, hugely pleased. "Say, they play all sorts of games over there--forfeits an' post office an'--" Bessie had to laugh at Dolly's look of mystification. "Come on, Dolly," she said. "We mustn't keep Walter from his work or he'll be getting into trouble. We can see him again some time when he isn't so busy." And as they walked off she told Dolly about the country games the boy had spoken of--games in which kissing played a large part. "The country isn't as nice as I thought," said Dolly dolefully. "I'm so thirsty, and there's no place to buy even sarsaparilla!" "Maybe not, but I can show you something better than that for your thirst, Dolly. See that rocky place over there, under the trees! I'll bet there's a spring there. Let's find out." Sure enough, there was a spring, carefully covered, and a cup, so that anyone working in the fields could get water, and even Dolly had to admit that no ice-cream soda had ever quenched her thirst as well. "What delicious water!" she exclaimed. "Where's the ice?" "There isn't any, silly!" laughed Bessie. "It's cold like that because it comes bubbling right up out of the ground." "I bet that's just the sort of water they sell in bottles in the city, because it's so much purer than the city water," said Dolly. "But that's an awfully little spring, Bessie." "The basin isn't very big, but that doesn't mean that there isn't always plenty of water. You see, no matter how much you take out, there's always more coming. See that little brook? Well, this spring feeds that, and it runs off and joins other brooks, but there's always water here just the same. Of course, in a drought, if there was no rain for a long time, it might dry up, but it doesn't look as if that ever happened here." "Well, it is good water, and that's a lot better than nothing," said Dolly. "Come on! We started for the road. Let's go down and sit on the fence and watch the people go by." So they made their way on through the field until they came to the road, and there they sat on the fence, enjoying some apples that Bessie had pronounced eatable, after several attempts by Dolly to consume some from half a dozen trees that would have caused her a good deal of pain later. Two or three automobiles passed as they sat there, and Dolly looked at their occupants enviously. "If we had a car, Bessie," she said, "we could get to some place where they sell ice-cream soda in no time, and be back in plenty of time for lunch, too. I wish some friend of mine would come along in one of those motors!" None did, but, vastly to Bessie's surprise, they had not been there long before a big green touring car that had shot by them a few minutes before so fast that they could not see its occupants at all, came back, doubling on its course, and stopped in the road just before them. And on the driver's seat, discarding his goggles so that Bessie could recognize him, was Mr. Holmes--the man who had taken her and Miss Mercer for a ride, and whom she felt she had so much reason to distrust! "This is good fortune! I'm very glad indeed to see you," he said, cordially, to Bessie. "Miss King, is it not--Miss Bessie King, Miss Mercer's friend? Won't you introduce me to the other young lady!" CHAPTER X A FOOLISH PROCEEDING Reluctantly enough, Bessie yielded to his request. If she had known how to avoid introducing Holmes to Dolly, she would have done it. But she was not old enough, and not experienced enough, to understand how to manage such an affair. Had there been occasion, Miss Eleanor, of course, could have snubbed a man and still been perfectly polite while she was doing it. But Bessie had not reached that point yet. "Are you staying down here together? How very pleasant!" said Holmes. "This seems to be a beautiful place from the road, but of course one can't see very much from an automobile." "We're down here with our Camp Fire--a lot of the girls," explained Dolly, hurriedly. "Miss Mercer is Guardian of the Camp Fire, and this is her father's farm. It is a nice place, but it's dreadfully slow. Just fancy, there isn't a place anywhere around where we can even get an ice-cream soda!" "Dolly!" said Bessie, in a low voice, reproachfully. "You mustn't--" "What a tragedy!" said Holmes, laughing. "Oh, of course, you don't know what it is to have a craving for soda and not be able to get it!" said Dolly, pouting. "So you laugh at me--" Holmes was all regret in a moment. "My dear Miss Dolly!" he protested. "I wasn't laughing at you at all--really I wasn't! I was smiling at the idea of there being such a primitive place in a civilized country. Really, I was! And I'm sure it is a tragedy. I believe I'm as fond of ice-cream soda as you, if I am such an old fellow. And, after all, though it seems so tragic, it's easily mended, you know. I happen to remember passing a most attractive looking drug store in a town about five miles back, and that's no ride at all in this car. Jump in, both of you, and I'll run you there and back in no time!" "Oh, that's awfully kind of you, but I really think we shouldn't," stammered Dolly, who had meant, as soon as she saw that Holmes knew Bessie, to get that invitation. "Of course we shouldn't, Dolly," said Bessie, irritated, since she saw through Dolly's rather transparent little scheme at once. "It's very kind of you, Mr. Holmes, but we mustn't think of troubling you so much. Dolly doesn't really want an ice-cream soda at all; she just thinks she does, and she's much better off without it." "Oh, come, that's very unkind, Miss Bessie! I can see that your friend is really suffering for a strawberry ice-cream soda. And you mustn't talk as if I would be taking any trouble. I'm just riding around the country aimlessly, for want of something better to do. I'm not going anywhere in particular, and it doesn't matter when I get there or if I never get there at all. I'm just a useless man, too old to work any longer. Surely you won't refuse to let me make myself useful to a young lady in distress?" "Oh," said Dolly. "Really, is that so, Mr. Holmes? Wouldn't it be a dreadful amount of trouble to you? Of course, if that's so, and you really want us to come--" "Nonsense, Dolly!" said Bessie, severely. "We can't go, and we must be getting back to the house. Thank you ever so much, Mr. Holmes--and good-morning!" But Dolly was not to be deprived of her treat so easily. "I think you're very rude, Bessie!" she said, bridling. "That may be the proper way to act in the country where you came from, but it's not the way we do things in the city at all. Thank you very much, Mr. Holmes, and I shall be very pleased to accept your kind invitation, if you're sure it's not troubling you." "There you are, Miss Bessie!" said Holmes, heartily. "Now, you won't be so unkind as to let Miss Dolly come with me alone, will you? She's coming, and I think you'd better change your mind and come, too." Poor Bessie was in a quandary. She knew that Miss Mercer, even though she had laughed at her suspicions of Mr. Holmes, would not approve of such a prank as this; but she knew, also, that Dolly, inclined to be defiant and to resent the exercise of any authority, would not be moved by that argument. And, in the presence of Holmes, she could hardly tell Dolly the story of Zara's disappearance and her own suspicions concerning the part that Holmes, or, at least, his car, had played in it. Neither, she felt, could she let Dolly go alone. The chances were that Holmes meant no harm, but she knew that Miss Eleanor had put Dolly in her charge in a measure, and she felt responsible for her new chum. So, displeased as she was, Bessie climbed into the car after Dolly, who had already taken her place in the tonneau, and in a moment they were off, taking the road that led away from Deer Crossing. Holmes only smiled as she got in the car, but before he put on his dust glasses Bessie was sure that she saw a look of triumph in his eyes, as if he had succeeded beyond his hopes in some plan he had formed. Bessie did not at all relish the prospect of the little adventure upon which Dolly's whim had launched her, but she decided to take it with a good grace, since, now that she was in the car, she had to see it through. Once the car was under way, going fast, Mr. Holmes had to devote all his attention to driving, and, as it was a large one, there was so much noise the two girls could talk without being heard. "I suppose you're awfully mad at me," said Dolly, in a whisper, looking at Bessie's stern face. "Oh, Bessie, I couldn't help it! He was so nice about it, and it was such a lovely chance to tease you! I do try to be good, but every time I see a chance to do anything like that I just can't seem to help it." "I asked you not to. You could see I didn't want to go, Dolly. And if we're going to be friends, you oughtn't to force me into doing things I don't want to do." "Oh Bessie, you're not going to be mean about it, and keep on being angry? You won't tell Miss Eleanor, will you? She'd send me home--I know she would!" "I won't tell her, and I'm not going to be angry, either, Dolly. But I'm very much afraid you'll be sorry yourself before we get back to the farm, and I don't see how Miss Eleanor can help finding out, because I'm pretty sure Mr. Holmes isn't going to get us back in time for lunch." "Why, Bessie, he said he would--he promised! Don't you think he means to keep his word?" "I hope so, Dolly, but he told me something once that wasn't so, and--oh, well, let's not worry about it now, anyhow. I can't explain everything to you now, there isn't time. It's a lovely ride, isn't it? We might as well enjoy ourselves, now that we're in for it." "That's what I say, Bessie. There's no use crying over spilt milk, is there? And I guess it will be all right. I think he's awfully nice, I don't see why you don't like him." "You will when you know as much as I do, Dolly, I'm afraid. But we won't talk any more about that. Oh, look, there is a town, right here! We're coming into it now, do you see? Probably this is the place Mr. Holmes meant he was going to bring us to." But Bessie's fears were redoubled a minute or so later, when the car, without slackening speed at all, shot through a street that was lined with shops, two or three of which, as they could see, were drug stores with ice-cream soda signs that they could easily read even from the fast moving car. Looking at Bessie as if she were already a little frightened and sorry, Dolly leaned over and touched Mr. Holmes on the shoulder. "Aren't you going to stop here?" she asked, "I'm sure those are awfully nice looking stores Mr. Holmes." He slowed up the car at once, and turned to them with a pleasant smile. "Oh, this isn't the place I meant at all," he said. "I don't know anything about the stores here. The place I was thinking of is much better, and it's not very far away. Besides, it's early yet, and I think we ought to have as much of a ride as we can, don't you?" Dolly looked dubious. One glance at Bessie had show her that her chum was not prepared to accept this explanation. But they had no choice, for Holmes, seeming to take their assent to his plan for granted, had turned on full power, and the car was roaring out into open country again, but now in a direction almost at right angles to its former course. They were traveling due west, and Bessie, without anything definite to alarm her, felt herself growing more and more nervous with the passing minutes. She felt that something was wrong. Her distrust of Holmes, save for so much of it as was due to his statement that he had never been in Hedgeville, when she herself had seen him there, was almost wholly instinctive, but Bessie knew that instinct is sometimes a better guide than reason, and she began to regret Dolly's impulsive action in getting into the car more and more. Still, as matters stood, there was nothing to do but wait and see what was to happen. After all, no matter what might come, she would not be utterly unprepared. She was expecting trouble of some sort, and she knew that the worst blows are those that are unexpected, just as the worst lightning is that which flashes from a clear sky. Suddenly, as the car approached a little country store, at a crossroads, and looking as though no one ever went there to buy anything, Holmes slowed up again. "This isn't the place you mean, is it?" asked Dolly, smartly. "If it is, I must say I think those stores you wouldn't stop at are much nicer!" Holmes laughed back at her. He seemed to have taken a great fancy to her, spoiled and pert though she was. "No, indeed," he said, "but I happened to see by that blue sign that they have a telephone inside, and I just remembered, after we passed through that last village, that I ought to telephone a message to a friend of mine in the city. So, if you don't mind, I'll leave you in the car while I run in and telephone. It won't take me a minute, then we'll be on our way again." Then he got out, and cutting off the motor, stepped into the store. In a moment Bessie was ready to take advantage of the opportunity that chance and his carelessness offered her. "You keep perfectly still, Dolly," she said, earnestly. "I know it isn't supposed to be nice to listen to what you're not meant to hear, but I think this is a time when I've got a right to try to find out what I can. I may not be able to do it at all, but I'm going to do my best to listen to Mr. Holmes while he's sending that message and find out all I can about it. Do you see that window at the side of the store? Well, there's just a chance, I believe, that the telephone inside may be near the window. If it is, I may be able to find out what he's doing." And, without giving Dolly a chance to protest, or even to voice her surprise, Bessie slipped from the car and ran lightly to the side of the ramshackle old building that served as a store. Crouching down there, she was able to hear what Holmes, inside, was saying, as she had hoped. And the very first words she heard sent a thrill through her, and banished any lingering regrets she might have had at playing the part, usually so dishonorable, of eavesdropper. "Hello! Hello!" she heard him saying. "What's the matter, Central? I want Hedgeville--number eight, ring five. Can't you get that!" Bessie did not know the number, but very few people in Hedgeville had a telephone, and that in itself was suspicious. She waited while Holmes, expressing his impatience volubly, amid sympathetic chuckles from the audience inside the store, got his connection. "Hello! Hello! Is that you, Weeks?" she heard him say, at last, and it was all she could do, when she heard the name of the man who had proved himself such a determined enemy to Zara and herself, to keep from betraying herself with a cry. "Yes, yes, this is Holmes! Where am I? Oh, ten miles from nowhere! You wouldn't know the place if I were to tell you. What you want to know is where I'm going to be an hour from now. What? Tell you! Well, that's what I'm trying to do! Listen a little and don't ask so many questions. I'm going to be in an automobile at Jericho. Know where that is?" He waited, evidently listening to Weeks. "Yes, that's right. You'll be there, eh? You've got the papers? Well, don't leave them at home. We don't want any mistake about this. I had a lot of luck, didn't expect to be able to do it so soon, or so easily. I'll tell you about that later. Jericho, then. You won't be late? And an hour from now. This is risky work, Weeks. If you make any of your fool breaks this time, you'll hear from me. Well, good-bye!" As he said good-bye Bessie slipped back to the automobile, and when Holmes came out, all bluff good-nature, only Bessie's heightened color showed that anything out of the ordinary had happened to her. As soon as she returned, Dolly began to hurl question after question at her, but Bessie refused to answer. "Keep quiet, Dolly!" she urged. "I'll tell you all about it when I can, but this isn't the time to talk. You don't want to let Mr. Holmes know what I was doing, do you? Well, please keep quiet, then!" Of course, if Holmes planned to do anything wrong, he would not have revealed his plans boldly to the loafers in the store who had been listening to his telephone conversation. Bessie understood that what he had said probably meant more to Farmer Weeks than it could to her or any casual listener. But, even so, there was plenty to disturb her in what she had heard. Evidently the danger point was Jericho, and she tried hard to remember what she had ever heard about that place. It was a little town, she thought, not far from Hedgeville--and, then, suddenly, she got a clue to the whole plot. She realized why the change in their direction had worried her. They were going toward Hedgeville, back toward the section of the country from which she and Zara had escaped with so much difficulty on account of Farmer Weeks's vindictive pursuit. And she remembered, too, Charlie Jamieson's warning about crossing the state line. That, then, was what Holmes meant to do--get her into the state where, although she did not understand exactly how, she was in danger of being deprived of her liberty for a time at least. It would be easy enough, in the automobile. State lines are not well marked along country roads. Even now she might have crossed that imaginary boundary that spelled the difference between safety and peril for her. "Listen to me, Dolly," she whispered, when she had finished revolving her thoughts. "I don't know what's going to happen, but I'm sure that Mr. Holmes is trying to get me back to the people I had to run away from in Hedgeville. You remember--you know what happened when we were on our way to General Seeley's place, when that man caught Zara and carried her off?" Dolly nodded, greatly excited. "So you can see that I may get into a lot of trouble, Dolly. You'll help me, won't you?" "Of course I will! And I'm awfully sorry for getting you into it in the first place, Bessie." "Don't worry about that! I'm going to forget about it. But now remember that you must do just as I say for the next hour or so, even if you don't understand why. I don't know yet what Mr. Holmes is going to do, and so I can't make any plans ahead. I'll just have to try to do the best I can to fool him when he shows his hand, and it may be that the only way I can do it is with your help." "I'll help you, Bessie. I won't be silly again." CHAPTER XI A DARING MOVE For some time, then, Holmes drove the car in what Bessie soon saw to be an aimless fashion. The morning was nearly done, and Bessie, used to guessing at the time from the sun, knew that it was very near noon. Holmes seemed to be doubling on his tracks, and to be driving in what resembled a circle, as if he were chasing his own tail, and at last Bessie determined to speak to him and try to make him show his hand. The suspense of waiting for something to happen was making her nervous. She felt that even the realization of her fears would be welcome, since then, at least, she could do something. "Mr. Holmes," she said, "I really think you'd better be taking us back. It's very late, and I'm afraid Miss Mercer will be worried about us." "Not she!" said Holmes, cheerfully. "The fact is, I've rather lost my way, and those stupid men at that store where we stopped did not seem to be able to do much toward setting me right. So, knowing that we might be late, I took the liberty of telephoning to Miss Mercer and said that, if she didn't mind, I'd take you two to luncheon somewhere and bring you back in the afternoon." Bessie gasped at the cool daring of the way in which he told the lie. But then she reflected, just in time to keep her from taxing him with having told an untruth, that he knew nothing of her eavesdropping, and therefore thought it was safe to tell her anything he liked. "Oh!" she said. "I--I didn't know you'd done that. You said you were going to send a message to a friend--" "Well, I flatter myself that Miss Mercer and I are friends," said Holmes, smiling. "Why don't you cheer up, Miss Bessie? It's all right--really it is! You ought to know that I wouldn't get you into trouble with Miss Mercer for the world. Why, I'm old enough to be your father!" "But if you're lost, how do you know where you're going?" asked Bessie, sticking to her guns. "I don't know, of course--not exactly, that is. But I know that if I keep on going this way I'll come to some place here we can get a nice luncheon. This is pretty thickly settled country around here, you know, and it's used a lot by automobile parties. So we're sure to find some sort of a place soon. They have them wherever they think they can persuade motorists to stop and spend their money." "If Miss Mercer knows where we are and said it was all right for us to stay it must be all right, Bessie, mustn't it?" asked Dolly, who had overheard what they were saying. "Oh, I'm so glad, Bessie! That shows you were mistaken, doesn't it, and that it wasn't so wicked of me to get you to come?" "Hush, Dolly!" said Bessie, in a whisper. "I can't let Mr. Holmes know it now, of course, but don't you remember that I heard him while he was telephoning, when he thought I was safe here in the car, and out of sight and sound of him? He didn't telephone to Miss Mercer at all. He's just saying he did, because he thinks he can fool me and make me believe anything he says. I heard what he telephoned, and he never even called up the farm!" Even Dolly was a little scared at that. It never occurred to her to doubt what Bessie said. Somehow, people seemed always to be ready to believe her. And, remembering the way Holmes had declared that he had spoken with Miss Mercer, Dolly began to realize that Bessie was right, and that there must be something underhanded about Holmes. Bessie, although she was sorry that Dolly had to be frightened in such a fashion, was glad of the fact just the same, because it meant that she could depend upon Dolly now to obey her, no matter what she told her to do. As a matter of fact, it seemed to Bessie that fear was about the only thing that did drive Dolly, who, if she thought the consequence would not be too unpleasant, usually managed to have her own way as decidedly as she had done in regard to accepting the offer of Holmes to take them to a place where they could get her much coveted ice-cream soda. Bessie, remembering what she had heard Holmes say about meeting Farmer Weeks in an hour, began now to keep her eyes open, and she soon discovered that they had ceased their aimless driving about, and were traveling along what was evidently a highroad, since it showed the marks of many wheels and hoofs. And a glance at the sun was enough, too, to let her know that the crisis of this silly adventure was approaching, since nearly an hour had elapsed since she had overheard the conversation. And, sure enough, just as she had expected, it was not long before Bessie saw that the houses along the road were closer and closer to one another, and a few moments later the tall, white steeple of a church and the smoke from the chimneys of a small town made it plain that they were approaching a town--most likely Jericho. "Well, well, I know this place," said Holmes, turning to speak to them. "It's Jericho, and it's in your own state, Miss Bessie. Didn't you tell me that you used to live in Hedgeville? That's not so very far from here." There was a strange look in his eyes as he looked fixedly at Bessie, and now she no longer had any doubt that he meant mischief, and that it behooved her, if she wanted to escape from the trap into which she was being led, to have all her wits about her. As they entered the town she kept her eyes open, but there was no sign of Farmer Weeks. He was late, and Bessie was glad of that, since, now that she could guess what she must face, every added minute of safety and freedom from interference was so much clear gain. A plan was forming in her head, a wild, reckless sort of plan, but still one that offered some chance, at least, of getting out of a very disagreeable position. "Hungry!" asked Holmes, turning to them as he slowed the car near the railroad station. "Well, we'll have some lunch in just a minute. I'm just going in here to make some inquiries about the roads and I'll be right back." Bessie's eyes followed him into the station, and then, just as she had done before, she slipped from the car as soon as he was inside, following him cautiously, but feeling that there was less danger than there had been at the store, since here, if she were surprised, she could explain that she felt cramped from the long ride, and had gotten out of the car to restore her circulation. Then, peeping inside, she saw Holmes talking eagerly, and, as she thought, angrily, to Jake Hoover! "He'll be here soon--jes' as soon as he can get here," she heard Jake say. And she heard Holmes's angry reply, and nothing more, since that was enough, and more than enough, to confirm her fears and make her understand that if she was to get out of this trap she must make a move at once. And now, knowing perfectly well the risk she was running, she sped back to the car, and climbed aboard, but in the front seat, where Holmes had been sitting, and not next to Dolly, in her own proper place. For her plan was nothing more nor less than to get away in Holmes's own car! Bessie had never driven an automobile in her life, and she knew as little, almost, as it was possible for anyone to know about them. But she felt that all the sacrifices she had endured so far would be made useless unless she got away, and, moreover, she was sure now that Zara would need her help more than ever. And if she could only get a little distance away from Holmes, she was sure that she and Dolly would be able to elude him. So, doing exactly what she had seen Holmes do, she threw in the clutch, and, with nervous, trembling hands on the wheel of the big car, guided it as it gathered speed and moved across the railroad tracks. From the moment when the idea of making her escape in this fashion had first entered her mind, Bessie had watched Holmes and every move he made like a cat, determined to be able to do as he did if the emergency arose. And now her remarkable ability to do things that required, the skilled use of her hands stood her in good stead. The car was a silent one at low speed, and it had gone nearly a hundred feet before Holmes realized that something was wrong, and came running out of the station, followed by the wide-eyed Jake Hoover. And Bessie increased her start while he stood there, too stunned with amazement even to cry out. By the time he had gathered his wits enough to begin shouting and running after his car, pursuit was hopeless, and Bessie, afraid any minute of having an accident, was running the car, still slowly, but too fast for anything but another car to overtake it, out along the road that led out of Jericho. Dolly had screamed when she saw what Bessie meant to do, but after that she had been too frightened even to speak. But when they were out of range of Holmes's shouts and angry cries she regained her courage enough to lean over and speak to Bessie. "Oh, Bessie, do stop!" she begged. "We might run into someone, or be run into ourselves. This is awfully dangerous, I know!" "So do I know that," said Bessie. "But we had to do something, Dolly, and this was the only thing I could think of to do, though I didn't want to. But we're not going to stay in the car, don't worry! Do you see that lane that comes into the road just beyond that big oak tree? Well, I'm going to turn up there, and leave the car so that they can find it. I don't want to steal the car, you know." Bessie managed the turn successfully, and, frightened as she was, even the few minutes that she had spent in driving the car had thrilled and exhilarated her. She ran slowly up the lane, and when the main road was hidden by a curve, she stopped the car and got out. "There!" she said. "Dolly, if I only knew more about running it, I'd like to go back to the farm in the car. It would serve Mr. Holmes right if we did, you know, for he was trying to play a mighty mean trick on me. I wonder if I'll ever be able to learn to drive a car like that? I'd love to be able to, and to have one of my own to drive!" "How are we going to get home?" wailed poor Dolly. "Oh, Bessie, what an awful fool I've been! And now I'm hungry and tired, and we're lost, and miles from the farm, and Miss Eleanor will be furious at me!" "Cheer up, Dolly! We'll get home all right. And I'll see that Miss Eleanor understands all right. She won't be angry. She'll probably tell you that you've been punished enough when we get back. I don't know about getting anything to eat, though. We can't do that around here. All we want to do now is to get away from here." Then suddenly she had an idea. "I'm not going to steal his nasty old car," said Bessie, "but I am going to borrow something that ought to be in it, and that's a map! Anyone who travels around as much as he does must have maps that show the roads, and, as long as he has got us into this mess, I don't see why we shouldn't take something from his car to help us out of it. I'll send it back to him as soon as we get to the farm. Here--let's see--yes, here's a whole lot of little maps." "Let me see, Bessie. I've seen those maps before. I bet I can find the right one that we want in a jiffy. Yes, here it is!" "All right. Let's get off in the woods here and look at it, Dolly. We don't want to stay near the car, because they'll soon find that we turned up this lane, and they'll come looking for the machine and for us. So we want to be off where they can't see us. I'd hate to be caught again right now after taking such a chance with that automobile!" "But you didn't act as if you were taking a chance, Bessie. I thought you were the bravest girl I'd ever seen--" "Nonsense, Dolly! I was just as frightened as you were--more frightened, I guess. I didn't know whether what I was doing was right or not, and I was afraid every second I'd push the wrong thing, or touch something with my foot, and start it going as fast as it could." "Well, when I'm frightened, I show it, and I don't do things that I'm afraid of. Someone told me once that to do something you were really afraid to do was really the bravest thing--braver than if you're not afraid when other people would be." "Well, I was afraid, and the only reason I started that car was because I was more afraid to stay there than to run the car, Dolly. So I guess we needn't worry much about my having been brave. It was simply a question of which I was the most afraid of--the car or Mr. Holmes. Here, this is a nice spot. We can sit down on this old log, and there's enough sunlight coming down through the trees for us to see the map." They sat down together on the trunk of a fallen tree, and put their heads together over the map. "Here's Jericho, and here, see, Dolly, that's the railroad we crossed. Here's the road--and, yes, here's the lane we came up. It's a good thing we didn't try to go much further, isn't it? That star at the end means that it stops and just runs into the woods. I expect they use it for bringing out the trees after they're cut in the winter." "Well, I'm glad we know just where we are, but how are we going to get back, Bessie? That's the chief thing, it seems to me. Don't you think so?" "I've got a little money with me," said Bessie, thoughtfully. "If we can walk until we get to a railroad station--not the one at Jericho, of course,--I think we ought to be able to get back that way very easily. Let's look up Deer Crossing and see if that railroad doesn't run near somewhere." Bessie took the map then, and she found that Jericho was in the same state as Hedgeville, just as she had suspected. She did not know what the Hoovers had done, and whether they had obtained any papers giving them control of her, as Farmer Weeks had done in the case of Zara, but she was pretty sure that if she were caught in their state Farmer Weeks would find some way of keeping her there, and of preventing her from getting back to Miss Mercer and her friends of the Camp Fire Girls. "Mr. Holmes took an awful roundabout way to get here, Dolly," said Bessie, when she had finished looking at the map. "But he didn't really bring us so very far away. If we were riding in an automobile, I don't think it would take us more than an hour to get back. But, as we haven't got a car, here's the best thing for us to do. We can follow this lane, except that we'd better walk through the woods instead of going back to the lane, and come out on another main road about two miles away. That will take us over here"--she pointed to a place on the map--"and there we can get a trolley car to this station. There'll be a train to take us to Deer Crossing from there, and then we can get home easily. Of course, we don't know how the trains run, and we may have to wait a long time for one, but it's the best thing to do, I'm sure." "Well, we'd better start right away, I guess," said Dolly, stoutly. "I'm an awfully slow walker in the woods, Bessie. I'm not used to them. But I'll hurry as much as ever I can for I've given you trouble enough already today." The woods were very quiet, and Bessie was rather surprised at the absence of signs of life--human life, that is. Of squirrels and chipmunks and birds there were plenty, but it seemed strange to her that in so thickly settled a part of the country so much land should be left covered with woods. But it was good for their purpose, since she was sure that Holmes would have complained that his car was stolen, and he would not, of course, have told people the reason Bessie's seemingly mad action. Nor would their word be likely to be taken against his. So the thing for them to do was to escape observation. And until just before the woods began to clear, they seemed likely to do so. But then there was a shock for Bessie, for, right in front, she suddenly heard Jake Hoover's voice. CHAPTER XII FRIENDS IN NEED Bessie clutched Dolly's arm and drew her back just in time, for Dolly, growing enthusiastic at the sight of the road, had been about to spring forward with a cry of joy. "That's Jake Hoover, the boy who used to bully me and tried to frighten us when we were all in camp. Do you remember, Dolly? We mustn't let him see us! He's in with Mr. Holmes and Farmer Weeks, and I'm really more afraid of him than I am of Mr. Holmes. He hates me, anyhow, and he'd do anything he could to hurt me, I believe." They crouched down behind some bushes then, and worked their way forward cautiously, making as little noise as possible, until they could see the road and so have a chance to find out what Jake was doing in that neighborhood. At first Bessie, who was in the van, did not see Jake, and, looking hastily up and down, she found that there were no houses in sight and that they had struck a lonely and solitary part of the road. Then she heard Jake's voice again, and, answering him, Mr. Holmes's. "It's like looking for a needle in a haystack," growled Holmes. "If old Weeks had got to Jericho on time, we'd have saved all this trouble." "He was doing his best, mister," said Jake. "But he had to take the train. He can't ride a bicycle, like me, and a horse and buggy would have taken him a long time. The old man done his best. 'Tweren't his fault he was late." "Well, no use crying over spilt milk," said Holmes. "You'd better walk down this road until you come to the trolley line. Watch that. I think they'll try to get aboard the car there and get to the railroad that way. That would get them back to Deer Crossing, you see. Once they're out of this state, we can't touch Bessie, and the little baggage knows it. She's too clever for her own good. If they had been coming out this way they would be here by now, I think. But I had an idea they'd strike through the woods. They wouldn't follow the lane where they left my car, because they would know very well that we'd be watching that." "An' Bessie can find her way through any woods you ever seen," said Jake Hoover, gloomily. "Used ter run away from maw at home that-away, an' we never could find her till she got good an' ready to come home an' take her lickin'." Dolly grinned at Bessie. "Good for you!" she whispered. "Did you really do that, Bessie? You're a good sport, after all! I never thought you'd be disobedient." Bessie smiled. "Listen!" she whispered. "We mustn't talk yet." "What'll I do if they come to the trolley line?" asked Jake. "Catch Bessie and hold her," said Holmes. "Don't pay any attention to the other one, of course. We've nothing to do with her, and we don't want to be bothered by her. She's a silly, brainless little thing, anyway." Bessie's hand sought Dolly's and held it tight. And Bessie, looking at her chum's face, saw that it was red with anger and mortification. It was a harsh blow to Dolly's pride in herself, and her belief in her own power to charm everyone she saw. "Never mind, Dolly! You're not what he calls you, and we both know it," whispered Bessie. "Don't get angry! Remember that he's furious because we slipped out of his hands, that's all. I don't believe he really means that at all. He isn't silly enough to believe it, I'm sure of that." "I bet I'll make him feel sorry he ever said that, just the same," vowed Dolly, clenching her fist. "I'd like to pull his hair out for him, the nasty, mean liar!" "Well, we've got to think of getting away from them before we can do that," said Bessie. "And it's not going to be as easy as I thought, either, Dolly, because if they watch that trolley line, I don't see how we're going to get aboard without being seen. Jake Hoover is going down this road, you see." "Well, why don't we just strike the trolley at another place?" "That isn't so easy, either, Dolly, because that trolley doesn't run along the road there. It goes through the fields, like a regular railroad, and it only stops at certain places. There isn't a trolley station marked for a mile or so either side of the one on this road, and I don't see how we can get to the nearest ones, either. I don't know the country around here well enough to do much wandering in the woods. You have to know your way about to do that, especially if you're in a hurry to get anywhere." "Sh--listen!" said Dolly, holding up her finger. "Well, you understand, then?" said Holmes, in the road below. "Take this road until you come to the trolley line, and wait there for the girls to come along. If Bessie comes, grab her, and don't let her get away from you. I'll go to the railroad station where they'll have to change for the train to Deer Crossing, in case they manage to reach it in some other fashion, and old Weeks will stay on guard in Jericho. Now, don't make any mistakes. Remember, I know some things about you that you don't want others to find out, young man, and I've got a habit of punishing people who fail when they are working for me." "I ain't noticed that you reward them much when they do things," grumbled Jake. "It's a poor rule that don't work both ways, mister. You say you'll punish me if I don't make good; how about payin' me if I do?" "We'll talk about that when you've accomplished something, my young friend," said Holmes, with an ugly laugh. "It seems to me that you ought to be pretty grateful to me for not having split on you before this, though. If I told all I know about you, I guess you'd be in the state reformatory now--and I'm not sure that it wouldn't be a good place for you. Eh?" "Stow that, you!" snarled Jake. "I could tell a few things about you if I wanted to. This stunt you pulled off this morning is pretty nigh to bein' kidnappin'--know that?" Bessie touched Dolly on the arm. "Oh, I do hope they keep on quarreling," she whispered. "That is our very best chance to escape from them, Dolly. If they get to fighting between themselves, it's going to be much harder for them to do anything to us. They'll distrust one another, and we may be able to fool them." But Holmes evidently saw that, too. When he spoke again, his voice was good-natured, and he had resumed his chaffing, easy tone. "Don't go up in the air that way, Jake," he said. "I was only trying to string you a little, trying to make you mad. I wouldn't give you away; never fear that. You'll do your best, I know. And you'll find that you'll get your reward, all right, too, if you make a good job of this. We've got one of them. Now we want the other, and I'll feel safe. So go ahead now and don't waste any more time. Take your bicycle and make the best time you can to that trolley station." "I got a right to hold her, haven't I?" asked Jake, a little dubiously, as Bessie thought. "Sure you have!" said Holmes, impatiently. "I've told you that, haven't I? Weeks has got papers from the court making him her guardian, just as he did in the case of that other girl." "All right," said Jake. And he got on his bicycle and rode off, while Holmes walked back along the road, and they heard him, a minute later, cranking up his automobile, which he had evidently found and taken around by another road. The information, unintentionally given to her by Holmes, that Weeks was her legal guardian, made Bessie shiver. She was more afraid of the miserly old farmer than of anyone she had ever seen, and the idea of being subject to his authority for any length of time filled Bessie with dread. He hated her already; she knew that she would be far less happy in his care than she had ever been at the Hoovers', where, sometimes, it had seemed to her that the limit of discomfort and severe treatment had been reached. So, if Bessie had needed anything to spur her determination to escape from the trap into which poor Dolly had so innocently led her, this accidental discovery of what her fate was to be would have been enough. But as she pondered, she could not, for the time, see what was to be done. "Bessie," said Dolly, when they had been quiet for several minutes, "is that Jake Hoover as stupid as he looks!" "He's not very bright, Dolly. He's cunning, like some animals, and that makes him seem cleverer than he is. But I think that he really just acts by instinct most of the time, and that that's one reason he's so mean." "Well, have you thought of any way of getting back to the farm except by the trolley?" "No--o. The only thing I did think of was that you might go ahead. They wouldn't bother you, I guess. They'd be afraid to, you see, because you've got a lot of friends and relatives who'd make an awful fuss if they tried to bother you. Then I could stay here, and you could tell Miss Eleanor, and she'd get Charlie Jamieson, or someone to come after me here in an automobile--" "I think that's too risky, Bessie. They'd guess that I knew where you were, and if they're ready to take such big chances to get hold of you, they might carry me off and keep me somewhere for a few days--long enough to keep me from taking word to Miss Eleanor and bringing help to you. And you see you wouldn't know why they didn't come, and, oh, no, I think we'd better not try anything like that!" "It would be risky, Dolly, and I know it as well as you do. But I don't see what else we're going to do. I hate to see you mixed up with my troubles--it isn't fair. I think I'd better just let them catch me, and take a chance of getting away afterward--" "Bessie King, do you think I'd let you anything like that? Whose fault is it that you're in this trouble? Mine, isn't it? Well, we're going to stick together! I'm certainly not going to let you get into more trouble just for the sake of saving me from sharing it. And I've got an idea, anyhow. Jake Hoover looks to me as if one could fool him pretty easily. He doesn't know what I look like, does he?" "I don't suppose he does, Dolly. I don't see how he could. But what's that got to do with it?" "Just you wait and see! If you had any plan, Bessie, I wouldn't want to suggest anything, because I think you're a lot cleverer than I am. But I have fooled boys before now, just for fun, and I think maybe I can do it this time, when I've really got a good reason for doing it. These woods along the road here aren't very thick so let's walk along, and follow the road, until we come in sight of the trolley. Then we'll see what it's like where the trolley comes along, and maybe we'll he able to fool Mr. Jake Hoover, the horrid thing! I think he must be a dreadful coward to persecute a girl the way he does you. You never did anything to him, did you?" "No, but he never liked me from the time he was a little boy. He was always trying to get me into trouble with Maw Hoover. I don't know why he hates me so, but he certainly does." "Well, he doesn't hate you half as much as I hate him, I promise you that, Bessie! And I've usually managed to get even with the people I hate, if it wasn't too much trouble. I'm hungry now, and thirsty, and it's his fault--partly. I'm going to get even with him for that." Bessie was surprised to find that Dolly seemed to have conquered her nervousness and her fear of the strange situation in which she was placed. A little while before she had seemed almost on the verge of a collapse, and Bessie had been afraid that her chum, unused to hardships of any sort, and to roughing it, as country girls almost all learn to do from the time they are very small, was going to break down. But now Dolly seemed to be as resolute and as unafraid as Bessie herself, and the knowledge naturally cheered Bessie, since it assured her that she would not have to bear the burden alone. So they started, as Dolly had suggested, walking along through the woods, perhaps a hundred feet back from the road. They could not be seen themselves, but, by moving to the side of the little rise or bank along the road from time to time, they were able to see what was going on. For most of the distance they were unable to see anything at all. The road seemed to be little used, and they passed only one house on the way to the trolley station. They had warning of their approach to the trolley some time before it was in sight, too, when they heard the wires singing as a car passed along. "Now we're getting near the place," said Dolly, happily. "Oh, but it's going to be fun, Bessie! You're just going to let me run things now for a little while, for a change. I've got a splendid plan--and I'll tell you about it in good time." As they neared the trolley line the woods began to get somewhat thinner, and Dolly grew nervous. "I hope the ground isn't too clear around the track, Bessie," she said. "That wouldn't be good for my plan at all." But her fears were groundless, for, as it turned out, the trolley line ran right through the woods on their side of the road, although on the other side the trees had all been cleared away. Soon they saw a little shed, and a bench outside. And on the bench, watching the road in the direction from which they had come, sat Jake Hoover. "Now, listen," said Dolly. "Jake doesn't know me, you see, and I'm going right out there and talk to him. I bet he'll be glad to talk to me, too, and I'll keep him busy, so that you can sneak over the tracks and get to the other side. Then you wait there until you hear a car coming. See? And when it comes, get on from the other side. I'll be holding Jake's attention, and I don't believe he'll ever see you at all. I'll get aboard, too, and you can manage so that he won't be able to see you on the car. Even if he does, I don't believe the men would let him touch you, but he won't, until the car begins to move, and then it will be too late." "But, Dolly, do you think you can keep Jake Hoover quiet? Suppose he knows you, he'd suspect right away that I was in the neighborhood. And then there's another thing. Mr. Holmes may have told him what sort of clothes you are wearing." "I never thought of that, Bessie. That's so. Oh, I know! You change dresses with me, right here. He's so stupid that he'd never think of our doing that, I know." "That's a good idea, Dolly. I do think it may work." So, in the shadow of the trees they changed dresses, and then, while Bessie advanced toward the track cautiously and as quietly as possible, with her training in the woods, Dolly went back, and appeared presently walking carelessly along toward the trolley station. Jake looked at her suspiciously, and she smiled at him. "Oh, hello!" she said, cheerily. "You waiting for a car, too? How soon does the next one come along?" "About two minutes," said Jake. He was eyeing her clothes, and evidently suspected nothing after that scrutiny. "That's good! I was afraid I'd miss that car. Oh, you're not going, are you? That's your bicycle, isn't it?" "Naw, I'm not goin'--got to stay here. Say, why don't you wait here and talk to a feller?" "I might," smiled Dolly. The car was really coming--it rounded a curve just then, and came in, slowing up. Dolly saw Bessie get aboard, but Jake was looking at her. "No, I guess I can't," she said then. And she sprang aboard, just as the car moved off. CHAPTER XIII AT THE ELEVENTH HOUR The two girls fell into one another's arms on the car, laughing almost hysterically as it moved away. Looking back, Dolly saw Jake Hoover, a stupid look in his round eyes, staring after them. "Bessie! Let him see you!" she begged. "I want him to know how he was fooled! I bet he's just the sort of boy to go around saying what poor things girls are, and how little use he has for them!" Bessie stood up on the back platform, and Jake saw her. The sight seemed to drive him frantic. They saw him waving his arms, and faintly heard his shrieks of anger as he saw his prey slipping away. But he was helpless, of course; there was no way in which he could chase the car, and he had sense enough, at least, to realize that. "You're quite right about him, Dolly," said Bessie, laughing so hard that there were tears in her eyes. "He always did go around saying that girls were no good and that he couldn't see why any of the fellows wanted to have anything to do with them!" "He's the sort that always does, Bessie, and it's because the girls won't have anything to do with them. He was pleased enough when I started talking to him, and awfully bashful, too, just like a silly calf. That's all he really is, anyhow, Bessie. But it's a good thing he's as silly as he is, because he's so mean that if he were clever, he could make a frightful nuisance of himself." "I think he'll have a bad time when Mr. Holmes and Farmer Weeks find out that he let us get away, Dolly. I don't know what sort of a hold they've got on him, but it was easy to tell there was something, from the way Mr. Holmes spoke." "Yes, indeed! And Mr. Holmes meant just what he said when he threatened him, too. The only reason he pretended afterwards that he was joking was so that Jake wouldn't be too frightened to do anything, don't you think so?" "Yes, I do, Dolly. I wonder if Miss Eleanor and Mr. Jamieson will believe that I was right about Mr. Holmes now? They laughed at me before when I said that I wouldn't trust him, and was so sure that he had something to do with Zara's being carried off--" "Why, what's that, Bessie? I hadn't heard of that at all." "Oh, I forgot! You don't know about that, do you? Well, this is a good chance to tell you." So Bessie told Dolly something of the strange and involved affair of Zara and her father, and of Zara's mysterious disappearance from the Mercer house in the middle of the night. "I'll bet they fooled her, just the way Mr. Holmes fooled me," said Dolly, excitedly. "He looks so nice, and he's so smooth and clever, and he talks to you as if he wanted to be your best friend. I don't believe they carried her off. I think they fooled her, so that she was willing to go with them." "That's just what I think, Dolly, and this business today makes me worry about her more than ever. I think we ought to try to get her away from them and back with us just as soon as we can." "I suppose they wanted you because you know too much," said Dolly, thoughtfully. "They probably thought that you would try to get Zara away from them." "I think there's more than that, though, Dolly," said Bessie, her eyes shining with excitement. "I don't know what it is, but I've just got a sort of funny feeling that they know something about me that I don't know, and that they don't want me or my real friends to find out. I'm going to be just as careful as I can be, anyhow. Have you got that map we took from the car? I want to see just where this car will take us." Dolly produced the map, and they bent their heads over it. No one on the car seemed to be paying much attention to them. There were only two or three passengers, and Bessie thought they had not seen the manner in which they had boarded the car. But the conductor, coming around for fares, had noticed that there was something out of the ordinary about their presence. He was smiling when he held out his hands for the fare. "Gave that young feller the slip pretty neatly back there where you got aboard," he remarked. "Which of you was he after? Don't blame him much--pretty young ladies like you!" "Oh, he's just a stupid boy! We didn't want him riding with us," said Dolly, "so we tried to make him think we weren't coming on this car, and then jumped aboard when it was too late for him to follow us." "I saw you--I saw you," chuckled the conductor. "So did Hank. He's my motorman, and the best one on the line. That's why he started the car to goin' so quickly. Lots of excitement around this way this morning." "How's that?" asked Bessie. "Oh, there was a city feller over to Jericho kickin' that a couple of girls had stolen his automobile. Me, I don't believe it--didn't like his looks. Serves him right, I say, if they did." Bessie was afraid that Dolly would betray them by a laugh, but nothing of the sort happened. It was quite plain that the conductor never thought of connecting them with the two girls Holmes had charged with the theft of the car. But, even so, the knowledge that he had made such an accusation publicly worried Bessie. She did not know much of the law, and she was afraid that she and Dolly might possibly have rendered themselves liable to arrest by taking the car, even though they had abandoned it almost at once, and Holmes had recovered it undamaged. In that case, she feared getting out of the state might not save them. They might, for all she knew, be arrested and taken back to Jericho, where she would be in the power of Weeks. However, she decided not to worry much about that, and when she mentioned her fears, Dolly laughed at them. "People in glass houses can't afford to throw stones," she said, sagely. "Look here, Bessie, he might be able to make people believe that he had a right to catch you, if he was acting for this nasty old Farmer Weeks. But they haven't any right to touch me, and I believe they could make a lot of trouble for Mr. Holmes for carrying me off. I remember that they sent a man to prison for a long time not long ago for carrying off a child that lived near us. I guess Mr. Holmes won't be very anxious to go to law about his old car." "Well, look here, Dolly, we're not quite out of the woods yet, you know. Here's the station where we have to get out to catch the train for Deer Crossing. It's marked Tecumseh. And it's a funny thing, but the railroad is in the other state, and the trolley car stops in this one. Do you see? When we get off the car we'll still be in this state, but it won't take more than a minute to cross the line. Mr. Holmes told Jake he'd be waiting there, so we must look out." "Oh, Bessie, are you sure? Wouldn't it be dreadful to have escaped this far, and then be caught just when everything seemed to be all right? I'd rather have been held up by Jake Hoover, I do believe! And I thought everything was all right now." "Well, there's no use getting discouraged. We're much better off than we were when we were in the car, Dolly, and we got out of that mess. So we might as well try to think that we'll be all right, anyhow. Oh, I just thought of something! Is there a station on this trolley line before we come to Tecumseh?" They looked eagerly at the map, but disappointment was their lot. There was no station between the one where they had boarded the car and Tecumseh. But Dolly had an idea again, just as they had about decided that they would have to take their chances with Holmes at Tecumseh. "Doesn't this car ever slow down at all between stations?" she asked the conductor, smiling and looking as attractive as she could. "Well, that depends," said the conductor, returning the smile. "If a passenger's got a pull with me or the motorman, it might. Why?" "Because if we go to Tecumseh, we'll only have to walk back nearly half a mile to that road that crosses the track. Couldn't you let us off there, Mr. Conductor?" "Well, I don't run the car," he said, with a smile. "But I'll talk to Hank, the motorman. Never knew him to refuse anything a lady asked yet." He walked to the front of the car, and returned a moment later. "Hank says he's got to stop at that road today," he reported, with a grin. "It's against the rules, you know, to make stops except at stations, or to let passengers off. But the car has to stop sometimes, just the same, and if you should happen to drop off, I won't see you--I won't be looking. You move back to the door, and be ready, and I'll stay up in front with Hank. Then I won't be to blame, you see, if you should happen to get off when the car stops." "Thank you ever so much," said the two girls, together. "It's awfully good of you--" "Don't be thanking me," grinned the conductor. "The car'll be stopping by accident like, and how should I know what you're going to do? Well, good luck to you!" They had not long to wait before the grinding of the brakes warned them that the time was at hand, and in a few moments they stood beside the track and waved their hands cheerily to the conductor, who, with an expression of mock surprise on his face, had come out on the back platform, and pretended to wonder how they had got off the car. "Now I think it ought to be easy," said Bessie, greatly relieved. "You see, Mr. Holmes will be watching the car. He probably knows all about this line, and wouldn't think of our being able to get off and walk. So what we want to do is to follow this road here and then turn east at the first crossroads. That will bring us to the railroad track, and we can cross it, and work down to the station at Tecumseh, and be safe all the way. We'll cross the state line this side of the railroad, and then we'll be all right." Dolly began to sing for sheer happiness. "We're awfully lucky, Bessie," she cried. "I'm ever so glad that things seem to be coming out all right. If they'd caught you, I would always have blamed myself and thought it was all my fault." "Well, even if it was partly your fault in the beginning, Dolly, I never would have got away from Jake Hoover without you, I'm sure of that. So you needn't worry any more." "It's awfully good of you to say so, Bessie. There's one thing--I'm not going to be silly any more, the way I was about those ice-cream sodas this morning. And I think--yes, I will--I'll promise you right now not to have any soda or any candy between meals for a month. You think they're bad for me, don't you?" "I think they must be, Dolly, or the Camp Fire Girls wouldn't give honor beads for doing without them. I've never had much of anything like that myself, you see, so I don't really know." "Well, I won't take them, anyhow. Oh, Bessie, but I'm hungry! I'd give all the ice-cream sodas I ever ate for a big piece of beefsteak right now! Aren't you hungry, too? I should think you'd be starved." "I am pretty hungry, but I was so excited I'd forgotten about it, I guess. Why did you remind me?" "Well, maybe there'll be a store at Tecumseh, so that we can get something to eat." "Here's the crossroad, Dolly. Now we want to turn east. I don't think we'll need to walk very far--three-quarters of a mile, maybe, and about as much more back toward Tecumseh when we're once beyond the railroad." "I suppose it's safe to walk along the road here?" "I think so, and the fields are open on both sides, anyhow, so it's a case of Hobson's choice. We'd be seen just as easily if we walked in the fields, and perhaps the people who own them would get after us, too. And I think we've got troubles enough on our hands without looking for any more." "That's certainly true, Bessie. Yes, we'll have to stick to the road. Anyhow, we left Jake back at the trolley station, and he's probably still there, trying to puzzle out how we got away. And Mr. Holmes ought to be at Tecumseh. Farmer Weeks was to stay in Jericho, so I think we've really found a safe road at last!" It seemed so, certainly. They met a few people and they were mostly driving, and Bessie was hoping for a ride. But everyone they met seemed to be going in the opposite direction, and they had crossed the railroad tracks before a cart finally overtook them. By that time, of course, they were ready to turn and follow the tracks to Tecumseh, so the cheerful offer of a ride from the farmer who was driving had to be declined. "Oh, Dolly, we're really safe at last!" exclaimed Bessie. "They can't touch me in this state so we can sit down and rest if we want to." "But I don't want to, Bessie. I'd rather hurry along to Tecumseh and get a train just as soon as we can. Wouldn't you? I think Miss Eleanor must be awfully worried about us by this time." "Bessie!" said Dolly, suddenly. "Look, isn't that cloud of dust on the road there coming this way? It looks like someone on a bicycle." It was. It was Jake Hoover, scorching along toward them, and as he approached them they could see a look of triumph on his face. He was up with them in a moment, and, jumping off his wheel, seized Bessie, who was too terrified to move. "Got yer, ain't I?" he shouted, savagely exultant. "Thought you was mighty smart, foolin' me, didn't yer? Well, we'll see!" "Don't you dare touch her! She's not in your state any more," stormed Dolly, stamping her foot. "She soon will be," he said, and picked Bessie, who was no match for him, though she struggled, up in his arms. He started to walk back in the direction he had come, leaving his bicycle in the road where it had fallen. But now Dolly, seeing Bessie treated so roughly, seemed to turn into a little wildcat. With a furious cry she sprang at Jake, and began hitting him with her fists, scratching him, pulling his hair and attacking him so vigorously that he cried out with surprise and pain. He dropped Bessie and turned to protect himself, and Dolly drew off at once. "Run, Bessie, run! He'll never catch you!" she cried. And as Jake darted off in pursuit of Bessie, who seized the chance to escape, Dolly picked up a stone and smashed the bicycle with it. "There, now! He'll never catch us on foot, and he can't ride any more," she cried. "Come on, Bessie!" CHAPTER XIV THE ENEMY CHECKMATED Bessie had eluded the furious Jake easily enough. Amazed by Dolly's onslaught, he had been too surprised to move quickly in any case, and, when he saw her trying to ruin his bicycle, he was diverted from Bessie and, shouting furiously, ran toward her with the idea of saving his wheel. So it was no trick at all for the two girls, light on their feet and graceful in their movements, to avoid the shambling, ungainly, overgrown boy, who, smarting from the pain of the scratches Dolly had inflicted, ran after them blindly. Moreover, they had not gone very far when a farmer's boy came along, driving a surrey. He was laughing at the antics of Jake, and when he saw the two girls, he stopped his horses. "Say, is that big lout trying to catch you two?" he asked. "He certainly is!" said Dolly. "Are you going to let him do it?" "You bet your life I'm not!" said the boy, getting down from the surrey quickly. "Just you watch those horses, and you'll see what I do to him. We don't think much of fellers who hit girls in these parts." Jake was coming along puffing and blowing, and when he saw the two girls he gave a cry of triumph. But the farmer's boy checked that quickly, and gave him something else to shout about. "Here, you big bully, what are you trying to do?" he demanded, setting himself squarely in Jake's path. "Get outer my way!" stormed Jake. "That young one there smashed my wheel, and the other one is wanted--she's wanted by the officers--she stole a automobile and set my pop's barn on fire--" "That's a likely story--I don't think!" sneered the farmer's boy. "Get back now! Leave them alone, do you hear? If you try to touch them again, I'll knock you into the middle of next week--" But Jake was too enraged to be afraid, as in his sober senses he certainly would have been. And rashly he made a quick leap forward, and tried to get out of the way of the big young fellow who was between him and the girls. There wasn't any fight; it would not be fair to dignify what followed with such a name. Jake was knocked down by the first blow; he tried to get up, and was promptly knocked down again. That brought him to his senses. "Had enough?" asked his conqueror, simply. And Jake, lying in the dust at his feet, sobbing, and trying to pull himself together, stammered out, "Yes!" "All right! Get up, and go over there by the side of the road and sit down. And if you know what's good for you, you'll stay there, too, or else turn around and go where you came from. If you follow us you'll get into trouble--more than you're in now, and that seems to be about all you can handle, judging from the looks of you." Then he turned away contemptuously, and went back to Dolly and Bessie, who were watching him admiringly. "Isn't he splendid--so brave and strong?" cried Dolly. "It's a good thing for us he came along," said Bessie. "Jake is strong enough to hurt us or do anything he likes to us, but I always knew that he couldn't do anything against a boy his own size. I wish they hadn't had to fight, but in a case like this it's all right, because it's the only thing to do." "Well, I like a boy who can fight when he has to," said Dolly, stoutly. "I haven't any use for sissies, and I think that's all Jake really is, for all his bluster." "Well, I guess he won't bother you much more," said their champion, when he returned to the surrey. "I'm only going as far as Tecumseh, but I'll be glad to give you a ride that far if you want to go." "We do indeed," said Bessie. "And we're ever so much obliged to you for saving us from that fellow and for offering us the ride too. Do you know when we can get a train at Tecumseh for Deer Crossing?" "Right soon now," said the boy. "It's due most any minute but I'll get you there in time. That's the train I'm going to meet--got to take some summer boarders from the city out to pop's place. My name's Bill Burns. My pop's got a farm over that way"--he pointed with his whip--"about two miles." Bessie and Dolly told him their names then, and he asked where they were staying at Deer Crossing. "Mercer Farm, huh?" he said, when they had told him. "I got a cousin works over there--fellow by the name of Walter Stubbs. Do you know him?" "Yes, indeed," said Bessie, with a smiling look at Dolly. "We saw him this morning. Dolly thinks a lot of him." "Oh, is that so?" said Bill Burns. He looked at Dolly, then bent over and whispered to Bessie, "He's welcome to her." Then he spoke aloud again. "I may be running over to see Walt one of these days. He and I are pretty good friends--for cousins. Seems to me he told me somethin' about an ice-cream festival over there at the Methodist Church. I might run over to that." "I wish you would," said Bessie, laughing. "All the girls are going, I'm sure--all our Camp Fire Girls." "What, more of you girls!" said Bill, seeming to be surprised. "Yes, indeed. There are a whole lot over at the farm. They'll be glad to see you, especially when we tell them how good you were to us, and how you saved us from that nasty Jake Hoover." "Oh, I just enjoyed beating him," said Burns. "Wish he'd put up more of a fight, though. I'd have licked him just the same, but it would have been more like a real fight. Well, I don't hear that train yet, and the station's just around that next bend. Not much of a place--Tecumseh. Hasn't any right to such a fine name, I think." The prospect when they rounded the turn in the road bore out his slur on the village of Tecumseh. It wasn't much of a place--scarcely more than the village part of Hedgeville, as Bessie saw. The station was there, and two or three stores and a post office. But Bessie and Dolly were more interested in the man who was sitting gloomily, watch in hand, on the station steps. It was Holmes, and his face, when he saw them, was a picture. "Well, how in the world did you get here?" he asked, angrily. "That was a fine trick you played on me, running off, and leaving me to worry about you! You might have been killed." "I like your nerve!" exclaimed Dolly, before Bessie could answer, surprised by the cool way in which Holmes tried to shift the blame to their shoulders. "Look here, Mr. Holmes, we know all about you, and why you took us on that ride. You wanted to get Bessie into the state where she came from, so that Farmer Weeks could keep her there!" A look of black anger swept across his face, handsome enough when he did not let his real character stand revealed. "Yes, there's no use trying to deceive us any more with your smooth talk, Mr. Holmes," said Bessie. "I listened to what you said over the telephone, and we heard you telling Jake Hoover how to catch us when we went to take the trolley, too." "Yes," countered Dolly. "If you had been as smart as you thought you were, you could have caught us then--we were within a few feet of you while you were talking to him." "Well, I'm near enough to catch you now!" said Holmes, and he made a grab for Bessie, and caught her just as she started to run away. He began dragging her across the tracks and toward the state line, but Bill Burns came out of the post office at that moment. "Here, you let her alone!" he shouted, springing forward, and Holmes dropped Bessie's arm to ward off the blow that Burns aimed at him. "What are you butting in for?" he snarled, "Want to get yourself in jail?" "Never you mind what I want to do," said Burns. "Don't you try to touch either of those girls again! If you do, you'll find that I can hit you as hard as you ever was hit in your life. And if I ever get into jail, you won't be the one to put me there, either--I'll bet money on that!" There might have been more argument, but just then the whistle of the approaching train sounded, and a moment later it had drawn into the station, separating the two girls and Burns from Holmes very effectually. Bessie and Dolly sprang up the steps at once, and turned to wave good-bye to Bill Burns, who had helped them so splendidly. He stood below, grinning at them, and waving his hand, and as they began to move out of range he called out cheerily to them: "Well, I'll be over to see Walt pretty soon. Don't forget what I look like!" "We certainly won't," Bessie answered. Then they went inside, and sank gratefully and happily into the first empty seat they saw. They were still hungry, but at least they were safe now from the pursuit of Holmes and Jake Hoover, and they were so grateful for that that they were entirely willing to let their hunger be forgotten. And they had not been seated more than a minute, when Bessie, at least, had new cause for feeling happy, for a man's voice sounded in her ear, and she looked up in surprise to see Charlie Jamieson, the lawyer, bending over them. "Well, what are you doing here?" he exclaimed. They told him as quickly as they could, both girls joining in the story, and his eyes grew grave as he listened. "Well, I owe you an apology, Bessie," he said, when they had finished their tale. "I certainly thought you were all off about Holmes, and I'm still puzzled to account for his being mixed up in this. But there's no doubt that he is, from what you tell me--none at all! He's a hard man to have to fight, too. You did mighty well to get rid of him as well as you did. You left him back there at Tecumseh, eh? Well, I'll just have a look, in case he got on the train when you weren't looking." He walked through the train, and in a few minutes he was back, looking more serious than ever. "That's just what he did," he said. "He's up there in the smoking car, looking as if he'd lost his last friend this morning. He's a hard man to shake off, and a bad man to have against you. That's always been his reputation, and I guess you two will be ready to believe that after what you've seen of him today. I'm going to sit down and do some thinking now, before we get to Deer Crossing. It's a lucky thing I happened to decide to run out this afternoon, and it was just accident. I found I had a little time to myself, and I wired to Miss Mercer that I would come out and spend the night and see how the Camp Fire Girls were getting along." "I thought maybe she'd sent word to you when Dolly and I weren't at the farm for lunch," said Bessie. "I'm afraid she's worried about us." "She probably is, and if she hadn't known I was coming anyhow she would probably have sent for me. Well, you'd better rest up a bit now, Bessie. We may not be through with Mr. Holmes yet." "He wouldn't dare try to do anything to me now, when you're here, Mr. Jamieson!" "No, I don't believe he would. But that's not exactly what I meant, He's through with us--for the day. But we're not through with him. We may have a chance to get even and do something to him, just by way of a change. I think he needs a lesson to show him that we're a match for him, after all." Then he went off, explaining that he had to be alone to think out a problem. But they hadn't figured out what his plan might be when he returned to them, chuckling mightily. "I've got it, I believe," he said. "Holmes acted as if you had treated him badly, didn't he, when you took his car? As if he was hurt by your thinking that he didn't mean to do just what he said?" "Yes," said Bessie. "Then we'll pretend to believe it, Miss Mercer and I. You needn't, of course. That wouldn't fool him for a minute. But he'll probably try to make us think he's all right, and that's just what I want. Oh, we've got him now, I think! I hope Miss Mercer will be at the station. I can't explain my plan now, but you'll be in it, and then you'll see. I'm going up to talk to him now." So Bessie and Dolly, sadly puzzled, and unable to see what the lawyer was driving at, saw the two men get off the train at Deer Crossing. Jamieson rushed over to Miss Mercer and spoke to her for a minute, and then Eleanor, laughing, held out her hand to Holmes, and turned to the two girls with a smile. "Why, how silly you were," she said, "to think that Mr. Holmes meant to be anything but kind! You mustn't get such nonsensical ideas. Mr. Holmes, just to prove that you don't bear any malice, you must let me drive you out to the farm for dinner. No, I really won't let you refuse. I insist. There's plenty of room in the car--the chauffeur will go back in one of the farm wagons, and Charlie will drive." Holmes glanced once at Bessie triumphantly but he was careful not to betray himself. "I'm afraid I oughtn't to impose on you, Miss Mercer," he said. "But really, since you're so pressing--well, I shall be most happy to come." CHAPTER XV THE TABLES TURNED When they arrived at the farm, after the swift run in the Mercer car, Miss Mercer took Holmes out on the big back piazza, and Bessie and Dolly, under the watchful eyes of Jamieson, made up for their long fast. It was nearly five o'clock in the afternoon when they reached the dining-room, and Jamieson laughed as he saw them eat. "You'll spoil your appetites for dinner," he said, as he saw Dolly making away with the cold meat and bread and milk that had been provided for them. "I don't care!" she answered. "It couldn't taste half as good as this, no matter what it was. But now you're not going to keep on being mean? You'll tell us why you and Miss Eleanor are being so nice to Mr. Holmes?" "Not yet," he said. "But you'll know soon enough. It isn't just because we like the pleasure of his company, I can tell you that. Mr. Holmes is in for one of the worst surprises of his life before I get through with him, unless I fall down pretty hard. And I don't expect to. I'll tell you one thing, though. All you girls are going for a straw ride tonight, and Mr. Holmes is going to be along, too. He doesn't know it yet, and he won't know, even after we start, just where we're going." "It's a lucky thing Miss Eleanor has taken part in amateur theatricals sometimes," he continued. "She was half wild with anxiety about you two, and she was ready to give you the worst scolding you ever listened to. But I told her what I wanted her to do just in that one minute there at the station, and she played up splendidly, so that I don't believe Holmes suspects that we're on to him at all. She's mad with curiosity, too, and I bet she's dying to get hold of me and make me tell her all about it. "Well, I've got to get ready for what's coming after dinner. Run along upstairs, you two, and try to sleep for an hour or so." "You won't leave us behind?" said Dolly, anxiously. "I'd leave you in a minute, you minx, but I couldn't get Bessie without waking you up too, I suppose, and I need her, so you'll have to come along. If you see the other girls don't tell them what's happened. Make them wait until tomorrow." "All right," said Bessie. "Come along, Dolly! I _am_ tired. It will feel good to get a little nap." The reaction from the strain of their experiences made it easy for them to get to sleep as soon as they were lying down, and both were still sleepy when a knock at the door awakened them, It was quite dark, and the moon was shining. Outside they found two wagons, one much larger than the other, filled with straw. "This is fine fun," said Holmes, who was standing with Miss Mercer and Jamieson: "A regular old-fashioned straw ride, eh?" "Well, pile in!" said Jamieson, who was acting as master of ceremonies. "Holmes, get in there beside Miss Mercer. Bessie, you and Dolly get in there, too. We want to keep an eye on you, so that you don't get into any more mischief. Come on, now, all you girls get aboard the other wagon--and off you go!" Then he climbed aboard himself, and began to take up the song that had already been started in the other wagon, one of the favorites of the Camp Fire Girls. So it was a jolly party that soon passed out of the tree-lined avenue of the Mercer farm and began driving along the road, away from Deer Crossing. The smaller and lighter wagon took the lead and they passed along quietly for some time--quietly as far as incident is concerned, that is, for there was nothing quiet about the merry, happy girls in the big wagon. They made the night resound with their songs and laughter, and Bessie wondered a little why she and Dolly were kept where they were, instead of being sent with the other girls. But she said nothing, and she knew that she would find out presently. For her and Dolly there was a peculiar thrill in the ride, and a delightful one, too, for they knew from what the lawyer had told them that there was a surprise preparing for Holmes, and it was exciting to try to guess what it might turn out to be. Nor was the explanation very long delayed. They had driven for a mile, perhaps, when the driver, obeying a quiet order from the lawyer, who had taken a seat beside him, turned off the main road, and they found themselves in a narrow lane, where there would not be room to pass should they meet any sort of a vehicle. "Pretty narrow quarters, Jamieson," said Holmes. "Are you sure you know where you're going?" "Yes, I know," said Jamieson, with a laugh. "Don't you? I thought you knew this part of the country so well, Holmes." "I? No, I scarcely know it at all, as a matter of fact. That's how I got lost this morning when I took these young ladies for a drive and got myself into their bad graces." "My mistake! I thought you did know it." Jamieson bent over then and spoke again to the driver, and in a moment they made another turn, but this time into a private road. Bessie thought she heard a startled exclamation from Holmes, but she was not sure. Then she looked around. "What a horrid place!" exclaimed Miss Mercer. "Look how it's been allowed to run down. Oh, I know where we are! This is the old Tisdall place. No one has lived here for years. That's why it looks so neglected." "Right!" said Jamieson. "Doesn't that house look creepy, through the trees, with the moonlight on it? I thought this would be a fine place to come and tell ghost stories." This time there was no mistake about Holmes's angry exclamation. "Look here, what do you think you're doing? What right have you to bring this crowd in here, Jamieson?" Charlie looked at him in surprise--a surprise that Bessie knew instinctively was assumed. "Oh, strictly speaking, I suppose we're trespassing," he said. "But this has always been common property--for years, at least. The owners don't pay any attention to the place. They won't mind our coming here, even if they find out." "Well, I object--" But Holmes stifled the remark before anyone save Bessie and Jamieson heard it. And Bessie began to understand, and to thrill with a new, scarcely formed idea. She began to have a glimmering of Jamieson's plan, and she saw how cleverly Holmes had been induced to walk into the trap that had been set for him. No matter how much he knew about this mysterious place, and how unwilling he might be to let them explore it, whatever his reason, he could not protest now without revealing plainly that he had been lying before. And, moreover, he could not be at all sure that it was not pure accident that had led Jamieson to select it as their destination. Holmes was between two fires. If he let the ride go on, he faced discovery of something he was trying to keep secret; if he tried to stop it short, or to divert it to some other spot, he was sure to arouse suspicions that, by the merest luck, as he supposed, his treatment of Bessie and Dolly had not aroused. So he did what most people would do in the same circumstances; he kept still, and trusted to his luck to carry him through. "Oh, I see," he said, finally. "You're going to stop in the grounds and have a picnic, or something like that, eh? That's fine--that will be great sport." "That's what I thought," said Charlie Jamieson, innocently, but Bessie was sure that he had winked at her. The wagons drove up, however, to the very front of the crumbling old house. "Everybody out!" called Jamieson. "Here Holmes, where are you going? Stay with us, man! The fun is just going to begin." For he had seen Holmes trying to slip off to the back of the house, and, smiling, he had seized the retired merchant's arm. "Here's something I want you to hear," he said. "Eleanor, start the girls to singing that song I like so much--that 'Wohelo for Aye' song, you know." In a moment the clear voices were raised in the most famous of all the Camp Fire Songs, and Holmes, with a savage wrench, got himself free. But it was too late. For, as the first notes rose, a window above was flung open, and a voice that Bessie knew as well as she did her own joined in the chorus. In a moment the singing stopped, and every pair of eyes was turned up, to see Zara leaning from a window! "Oh, Bessie--Miss Mercer--please take me away from here! I'm so frightened!" "The game's up, Holmes," said Jamieson, in a changed voice. "Did you really think we'd take your word against those two girls you treated so shamefully today? Come on, now, I'm not going to stand for any nonsense! Will you take me upstairs to where you've got Zara hidden? You played a cool game, and you thought you could get away with it because you were so respectable. But we've got a complete case against you. It was in your automobile that Zara was taken from Miss Mercer's house, and as soon as you played that trick today I was sure that you had had a hand in the game." Holmes looked at him darkly. His face was working with anger, but he evidently saw that the game was up, as Jamieson said. "I guess you win--this time," he said at last, coolly enough. "But remember, I haven't been beaten very often. And you don't know what's back of this. If you knew when you were well off, you'd keep out of this, Jamieson. There'd be something in it for you--" "Don't try to bribe me," said Jamieson, with a gesture of disgust. "It's no use. I win, as you say. There may be a next time--but I'm not afraid of you, Holmes. Take me up there right now." "Oh, all right," said Holmes. And three minutes later Zara was in Bessie's arms, while Holmes looked on, sneering. "I'll not deny that you did a pretty clever job here," he said. "How did you find out about this house?" "I happened to be searching some records yesterday, and I saw, quite by accident, the deed recording your purchase of this property," Jamieson answered. "That didn't mean much--until I heard of the way you acted to-day. Then, of course, I put two and two together, and decided you got hold of this place to keep Zara hidden. "You knew there was a good chance that we could upset that order making old Weeks her guardian, and I knew, of course, that she hadn't been produced in court in the other state. Pretty risky work, Holmes. Now get out. You can stay here, of course, or you can walk to the station. There won't be room for you with us, I'm sorry to say." "Oh, I'm so glad to get away," Zara sobbed. "I thought it was best to go. They told me that I wouldn't be taken back to Farmer Weeks, and that my father wanted me to go with them. They had a note from him, and he said he didn't quite understand but that he was sure Mr. Holmes was his friend, and would look after me properly. And they said Bessie would be in danger as long as I stayed with her. That is really why I went." "But it's all right now, Zara," Eleanor Mercer said, soothingly. "We'll look after you now, Didn't they treat you well here?" "Oh, it was horrid, Miss Eleanor! They kept me locked up in that room, and I never saw anyone at all, except one old woman, who was deaf, and couldn't understand me. She brought my meals, but of course I couldn't talk to her." "He was afraid to trust anyone she could talk to, of course, or who could answer questions if anyone happened to come here. That explains why the people inside didn't pay any attention to all the noise we made as we drove up. That was the one thing I was afraid of, and I couldn't figure out any way to avoid that risk." "But why did you bring Mr. Holmes along?" "So that he wouldn't get here before we did and get her away, Eleanor. That was why I had to make him think we swallowed that ridiculous story of his, too. Well, Dolly, will you forgive me now for not telling you before? Wasn't the surprise worth waiting for?" "That--and getting Zara back. Of course it was," said Dolly happily. "Oh, Zara, we're going to have such good times on the farm now!" "On the farm, yes," said Jamieson, dryly. "But no straying into the road! And you'd better see that half a dozen of them are always together, Eleanor. Mr. Holmes isn't the sort to be content with one licking. He'll come back for more, or else I'm mightily mistaken in my man." Then they all climbed into the wagons again, and how they did laugh at the disconsolate figure of Mr. Holmes, whom they passed, trudging slowly and unhappily toward Deer Crossing. Jamieson looked at his watch. Then he laughed merrily. "He'll have to wait until half past five in the morning for the milk train to take him back to the city," he said. "I don't envy him. There isn't much to do at Deer Crossing." 
11664	----	THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS DO THEIR BIT OR, OVER THE TOP WITH THE WINNEBAGOS By HILDEGARD G. FREY AUTHOR OF The Camp Fire Girls Series A. L. BURT COMPANY Publishers New York 1919 THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS SERIES A Series of Stories for Camp Fire Girls Endorsed by the Officials of the Camp Fire Girls Organization By HILDEGARD G. FREY The Camp Fire Girls in the Maine Woods or, The Winnebago's Go Camping The Camp Fire Girls at School or, The Wohelo Weavers The Camp Fire Girls at Onoway House or, The Magic Garden The Camp Fire Girls Go Motoring or, Along the Road That Leads the Way The Camp Fire Girls Larks and Pranks or, The House of the Open Door The Camp Fire Girls on Ellen's Isle or, the Trail of the Seven Cedars The Camp Fire Girls on the Open Road or, Glorify Work The Camp Fire Girls Do Their Bit or, Over The Top With the Winnebago's THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS DO THEIR BIT CHAPTER I A DREAM COMES TRUE The long train, which for nearly an hour had been gliding smoothly forward with a soothing, cradling motion of its heavy trucked Pullmans, and a crooning, lullaby sound of its droning wheels, came to a jarring stop at one of the mountain stations, and Lieutenant Allison wakened with a start. The echo of the laugh that he had heard in his dream still sounded in his ears, a tantalizing, compelling note, elusive as the Pipes of Pan, luring as a will-o'-the-wisp. Above the bustle of departing and incoming passengers, the confusion of the station and the grinding of the wheels as the train started again that haunting peal of laughter still rang in his ears, still held him in its thrall, calling him back into the dream from which he had just awakened. Still heavy with sleep and also somewhat light-headed--for he had been traveling for two days and the strain was beginning to tell on him, although the doctors had at last pronounced him able to make the journey home for a month's furlough--he leaned his head against the cool green plush back-rest and stared idly through half-closed eyelids down the long vista of the Pullman aisle. Then his pulses gave a leap and the blood began to pound in his ears and he thought he was back in the base hospital again and the fever was playing tricks on him. For down in the shadowy end of the aisle there moved a figure which his sleep-heavy eyes recognized as the Maiden, the one who had flitted through his weeks of delirium, luring him, beckoning him, calling him, eluding him, vanishing from his touch with a peal of silvery laughter that echoed in his ears with a haunting sweetness long after she and the fever had fled away together in the night, not to return. And now, weeks afterward, here she stood, in the shadowy end of a Pullman aisle, watching him from afar, just as she had stood watching in those other days when he and the fever were wrestling in mortal combat. He had known her years before he had the fever. Somewhere in his dreamy, imaginative boyhood he had read the Song of Hiawatha, and his glowing fancy had immediately fastened upon the lines which described the Indian girl, Minnehaha, Laughing Water, daughter of the old arrow-maker in the land of the Dacotahs: "With him dwelt his dark-eyed daughter, Wayward as the Minnehaha, With her moods of shade and sunshine, Eyes that smiled and frowned alternate, Feet as rapid as the river, Tresses flowing like the water, And as musical a laughter; And he named her from the river, From the waterfall he named her, Minnehaha, Laughing Water." The image thus conjured up remained in his mind, a tantalizing vision, until at last he found himself filled with a desire to find a maiden like the storied daughter of the ancient arrow-maker in the land of the Dacotahs, dark-eyed, slender as an arrow, sparkling like the sunlight on the water, with laughter like the music of the Falls. Sometimes he saw her in his dreams, and through the long weeks in the hospital at the aviation camp when he had the fever she was with him constantly, beckoning, calling, luring him back to life when he was about to slip over the edge into the bottomless abyss, her laughter ringing in his ears after she had vanished into the mists. Then one night she and the fever had fled hand in hand and after that he could not recall her image, though her memory still tantalized him. Not until today, when the soothing motion of the long Pullman car and the lullaby droning of the wheels had lulled him to sleep with his elbow on the windowsill and his head resting on his thin, transparent hand, did she come back to him in a dream. In that daytime nap he had suddenly heard her laughter ring out and with flying footsteps followed the sound, hoping to come upon her at every turn, but just when he was about to overtake her the train stopped with a jerk and startled him back into consciousness, with the echo of her laughter still ringing in his ears. And now, when his pursuit had been vain and her luring laughter had died away in his ears, she came back and stood in the shadowy end of the aisle, watching him with large, luminous eyes, just as she used to come and watch him wrestle with the fever. Breathless, he looked at her, waiting for her to vanish, but she did not. Then it came to him that he might go to her, might reach her this time before she fled. But something lay on his shoulder, something that weighed him down and kept him from moving, kept him from rising and going to her. He tried to shake it off, but it remained. He tried again, keeping his eyes on her all the time. Then the long vista of green plush seats leading to her was blotted out and he found himself gazing into a dusky countenance, while an unctuous voice murmured in his ear: "How you feelin', Looten't? Gettin' light-headed, wasn't you? Here's the milk you ordered for two o'clock. Just drink it now, Looten't, and you'll feel all right." Robert Allison mechanically reached out his hand for the glass of milk which the solicitous porter held out to him and dutifully drank it, while the porter hovered over him like an anxious hen, clucking out a constant stream of encouraging remarks. The porter and the glass finally disappeared down the aisle, and Robert Allison, now wide awake and flooded with returning energy, remembered with a whimsical smile the illusion that had overtaken him at midday. He glanced boldly down the aisle to assure himself that his mind was now free from phantoms. The heavy foliage along the mountainside, through which they had been passing, and which had created a twilight atmosphere in the car, had given way to wide open fields, and the long corridor was flooded from end to end with glaring June sunlight. Robert Allison caught his breath with a start and dug his thumb-nail into the palm of his hand to make sure he was awake. For the illusion of a moment ago was not an illusion at all; she was a flesh and blood girl; she had left her shadowy foothold in the far end of the car and was coming down the aisle toward him. Spellbound, he waited as she approached, slim as a fawn, erect as an arrow, moving as lightly as the ripples that danced upon the surface of the river along whose banks they were rolling. Whether or not she was the image of the vision in his fever dream he would never be table to tell, for already the dream phantom was fading from his mind and the reality taking its place; the Laughing Water of his boyhood fancy had come to life in the person of this slim young girl who was moving down the aisle toward him. Stupidly he had thought she was coming directly to him, and he experienced a shock of surprise when she passed him with no more than a casual glance. Even with her indifferent passing a thrill seemed to go through him; his blood began to sing in his veins, and through his mind there flashed again the lines which had stirred his boyhood fancy years ago: "She the moonlight, starlight, firelight, She the sunshine of her people, Minnehaha, Laughing Water!" CHAPTER II IN THE TRAIN Sahwah the Sunfish came tripping blithely down the Pullman aisle to rejoin the Winnebagos after a sojourn on the platform with the brakeman, whom she left exhausted with answering questions. When Sahwah traveled she traveled with all her might and there was nothing visible to the naked eye that she did not notice, inquire about, and store up for future reference. She observed down to the last nail wherein a Pullman differed from a day coach; she found out why the man ran along beside the train at the stations and hit the wheels with a hammer; why the cars had double windows; what the semaphore signals indicated; why the east-bound freight trains were so much more heavily loaded than the west-bound; she noticed that there were no large steamboats running on the Susquehanna, although it looked like a very large river; she counted the number of times they crossed the river on the run through the Alleghenies; she noticed the different varieties of trees that grew along the mountain sides; she scrutinized every passenger in the car and tried to guess who they were, what their business was and where they were going. Sahwah's mind was like a photographic plate; everything she looked at became imprinted there as upon a negative, accurate in every detail. Like the Elephant's Child, Sahwah was full of 'satiable curiosity, and her inquisitive trunk was always stretched out in a quivering search for information. The brakeman, an amiable personage, was interested in her thirst for knowledge of railway affairs, and answered her innumerable questions in patient detail until his head began to buzz and he began to feel as though he were attached to a suction pump. "Goodness gracious, child, what do you think I am, an encyclopedia?" he exploded at last, and sought refuge in the impenetrable regions at the forward end of the long train. Sahwah, deprived of her source of information, turned to join her traveling companions, Gladys and Hinpoha and Migwan, up in the other end of the car. She stood for a moment at the water cooler, looking down the car at the people facing her and indulging in her favorite pastime of trying to read their faces. The car was crowded with all kinds of people, from the stately, judicial-looking man who sat in front of the Winnebagos to a negro couple on their honeymoon. There was a plentiful sprinkling of soldiers throughout the car and one or two sailors. Sahwah looked at them with eager interest and classified their different branches of service by the color of the cord on their hats. One Artillery, three Infantry, one Ambulance Corps and one Lieutenant of Aviation, she checked off, after a long and careful scrutiny of the last one, whose insignia puzzled her at first. A porter brushed by her as she stood there with a glass of milk in his hand. Sahwah watched the progress of the milk idly, and the porter stopped beside the Lieutenant of Aviation with it. The lieutenant seemed to be asleep, for the porter had to shake him before he became aware of his existence. Just then Hinpoha caught Sahwah's eye and motioned her to come back to her seat, and Sahwah went tripping down the aisle to join her friends. She glanced casually at the young lieutenant as she passed him; he was staring fixedly at her and she dropped her eyes quickly. A little electric shock tingled through her as she met his eyes; he seemed to be about to speak to her. "Probably mistook me for someone else and thought he knew me," Sahwah thought to herself, and dismissed him from her mind. "Where have you been all this while?" asked Hinpoha with a perspiring sigh, laboriously "knitting backward" across the length of the needle in vicious pursuit of a stitch that should have been eliminated in the process of decreasing for the heel turn. "Pursuing knowledge," replied Sahwah merrily, settling herself in the seat beside Hinpoha, facing Migwan and Gladys. The four girls were on their way to spend the summer vacation with their beloved Guardian, Nyoda, at her home in Oakwood, the little town in the hills of eastern Pennsylvania where she had lived since her marriage to Andrew Sheridan--"Sherry"--the summer before. Sherry was in France now with the Engineers, and Nyoda, lonesome in the huge old house to which she had fallen heir at the death of her last relative, old Uncle Jasper Carver, had invited the Winnebagos to come and spend the summer with her. Vacation had begun inauspiciously for the Winnebagos. To their great disappointment Katherine wrote that she was not coming east after all; she was going to remain in Chicago with Miss Fairlee and help her with her settlement work there. They had rejoiced so at the first news of her coming and had so impatiently awaited the time of her arrival that the disappointment when it came was much harder to bear than if they had never looked forward to her coming. As Sahwah remarked, she had her appetite all fixed for Katherine, and nothing else would satisfy her. The news about Katherine had only been one of a series of disappointments. Hinpoha had been called home the week before college closed officially, to attend the funeral of Dr. Hoffman, Aunt Phoebe's husband, whose strenuous work for his "boys" in the military camp during the past year had been too much for his already failing strength, and Aunt Phoebe, worn out with the strain of the last months, had announced her intention of closing the house and going to spend the summer with a girlhood friend on the Maine coast. Hinpoha had the choice of going with her or spending the summer with Aunt Grace, who had a fractured knee and was confined to an invalid's chair. Migwan had come home from college with over-strained eyes and a weak chest and had been peremptorily forbidden to spend the vacation devouring volumes of Indian history as she had planned, and had a lost, aimless feeling in consequence. Sahwah, thanks to the unceasing patriotic activities of Mrs. Osgood Harper during the previous winter, found herself unexpectedly in possession of a two months' vacation while her energetic employer recuperated from her season's labors in a famous sanatorium. As Sahwah had not expected a vacation and had made no plans, she found herself, as she expressed it, "all dressed up and no place to go." For Gladys's father, head over heels in the manufacture of munitions, there would be no such glorious camping trip as there was the summer before, and Mrs. Evans refused to go away and leave him, so Gladys had the prospect of a summer in town, the first that she could recollect. "I can't decide which I shall do," sighed Hinpoha plaintively to the other three, who had foregathered in the library of the Bradford home one afternoon at the beginning of the summer. "I know Aunt Phoebe would rather be alone with Miss Shirley, because her cottage is small, and it would be dreadfully dull for me besides; but Aunt Grace will be laid up all summer and she has a fright of a parrot that squawks from morning until night. Oh, dear, why can't things be as they were last year?" Then had come Nyoda's letter: DEAREST WINNEBAGOS: Can't you take pity on me and relieve my loneliness? Here I am, in a house that would make the ordinary hotel look like a bandbox, and since Sherry has gone to France with the Engineers it's simply ghastly. For various reasons I do not wish to leave the house, but I shall surely go into a decline if I have to stay here alone. Can't you come and spend your vacations with me, as many of you as have vacations? Please come and amuse your lonesome old Guardian, whose house is bare and dark and cold. Sahwah tumbled out of her chair with a shout that startled poor Mr. Bob from his slumbers at her feet and set him barking wildly with excitement; Migwan and Gladys fell on each other's necks in silent rapture, and Hinpoha began packing immediately. Just one week later they boarded the train and started on their journey to Oakwood. Sahwah sat and looked at the soldiers in the car with unconcealed envy. Her ever-smouldering resentment against the fact that she was not a boy had since the war kindled into red rage at the unkindness of fate. She chafed under the restrictions with which her niche in the world hedged her in. "I wish I were a man!" she exclaimed impatiently. "Then I could go to war and fight for my country and--and go over the top. The boys have all the glory and excitement of war and the girls have nothing but the stupid, commonplace things to do. It isn't fair!" "But women _are_ doing glorious things in the war," Migwan interrupted quickly. "They're going as nurses in the hospitals right at the front; they're working in the canteens and doing lots of other things right in the thick of the excitement." "Oh, yes, _women_ are," replied Sahwah, "but _girls_ aren't. Long ago, in the days before the war, I used to think if there ever _would_ be a war the Camp Fire Girls would surely do something great and glorious, but here we are, and the only thing we can do is knit, knit, knit, and fold bandages, and the babies in the kindergarten are doing _that_. We're too _young_ to do anything big and splendid. We're just schoolgirls, and no one takes us seriously. We can't go as nurses without three years' training--we can't do _anything_. There might as well not _be_ any war, for all I'm doing to help it. Boys seventeen years old can enlist, even sixteen-year-old ones, and go right to the front, but a girl sixteen years old isn't any better off than if she were sixteen months. I'm nearly nineteen, and I wanted to go as a stenographer, but they wouldn't consider me for a minute. Said I was too young." Sahwah threw out her hands in a tragic gesture and her brow darkened. "It's a shame," Hinpoha agreed sympathetically. "In books young girls have no end of adventures in war time, girls no older than we; they catch spies and outwit the enemy and save their lovers' lives and carry important messages, but nothing like that will ever happen to us. All we'll ever do is just stay at home peacefully and knit." Hinpoha gave an impatient jerk and the knitting fell into her lap with a protesting tinkle of needles, while the stitch which she was in the act of transferring slipped off and darted merrily away on an excursion up the length of the sock. Hinpoha threw up her hands in exasperation. "That's the third time that's happened in an hour!" she exclaimed in a vexed tone. "I hope the soldiers appreciate how much trouble it is to keep their feet covered. I'd rather fight any day than knit," she finished emphatically. "Here, let me pick up the dropped stitches for you," said Migwan soothingly, reaching over for the tangled mess of yarn. "You're getting all tired and hot," she continued, skilfully pursuing the agile and elusive dropped stitches down the grey woolen wake of the sock and bringing them triumphantly up to resume their place in the sun. "It takes me an age to get a pair of socks done for the Red Cross," Hinpoha grumbled on, "and they're as cross as two sticks if you drop a single stitch! That woman down at headquarters made the biggest fuss about the last pair I brought in, just because I'd slipped a stitch in the wrong place--it hardly showed a bit--and because one sock was an inch longer than the other. War isn't a bit like I thought it would be," she sighed plaintively, with a vengeful poke at the knitting, which Migwan had just restored to her. Poor romantic Hinpoha, trying to sail her ship of rosy fancies on a sea of stern reality, and finding it pretty hard sailing! Leaning back against the green plush of the train seat, which set off like an artist's background the burnished glory of her red curls, and dreaming regretfully of the vanished days when chivalry rode on fiery steeds and ladies fair led much more eventful lives than their emancipated great-granddaughters, it never occurred to her--nor to the rest of the Winnebagos either, for that matter--that romance might have become up to date along with science and the fashions, and that in these modern days of speed and efficiency High Adventure might purchase a ticket at the station window and go faring forth in a Pullman car. So Hinpoha dreamed dreams of the way she would like things to happen and built airy castles around the Winnebagos as heroines; but little did she suspect that another architect was also at work on those same castles, an architect whose lines are drawn with an indelible pencil, and whose finished work no man may reject. Hinpoha did not resume her knitting again. She opened her hand bag and drew forth her mirror, and propping it up against her knee, proceeded to arrange the curls that had escaped from their imprisoning pins and were riding around her ears. Then she put the mirror back and drew out a bottle of hand lotion and examined the stopper. She slipped it in and out several times and then idly dropped a few violet petals from the bunch at her belt into the bottle, shaking it about to make them whirl, and then holding it still to watch them settle. "It looks as though you were telling fortunes," remarked Sahwah, watching the petals alternately whirl and sink, "like tea leaves, you know." Hinpoha brightened at once and animation came back into her face. Better than anything else under the sun, Hinpoha loved to tell fortunes. "Do you want me to tell yours, Sahwah?" she asked eagerly. Sahwah agreed amiably; she did not care two straws about fortune-telling herself, but she knew Hinpoha's hobby and willingly submitted to countless "readings" of her future, in various ways, by the ardent amateur seeress. Hinpoha shook the bottle energetically, and then watched intently as the petals gradually ceased whirling and came to rest at the bottom of the bottle. "There is a stranger coming into your life," she began impressively, "awfully thin, and light." "Like the syrup we had on our pancakes in the station this morning," murmured Migwan. Sahwah and Gladys giggled; Hinpoha frowned. "All right, if you're going to laugh at me," she began. "Go on, we'll be good," said Migwan hastily. "Tell us some more about the light-haired stranger. Please tell us when he is coming into her life, so we can be there to see." "He has already come," announced Hinpoha, after thoughtfully squinting into the bottle. "News to me," laughed Sahwah, amused at the seriousness with which Hinpoha delivered her revelations. "Oh, I know who it is," she continued, giggling. "It's the brakeman. He was a Swede, with the yellowest hair you ever saw. He was awfully skinny, too. He was very polite, and told me everything he knew, and then went away to find out some more." Migwan and Gladys shouted; Hinpoha pouted and snatched up the bottle, shaking it with offended vigor, setting the petals whirling madly and breaking up the "cast" of Sahwah's fortune. "There was another man, too," she announced, with a don't-you-wish-you'd-waited air, "but I won't tell you about him now. He was awfully queer, too; he was there twice, and once he was dark and once he was light!" "How do you know it was the same one?" inquired Gladys curiously. "Because it _was_," replied Hinpoha knowingly. "Maybe he faded," suggested Sahwah, giggling again. "No, he didn't," replied Hinpoha mysteriously, "because he was light _first_ and dark _afterward_!" Hinpoha's voice rang out like an oracle, and the judicial-looking man in the seat ahead of them turned around and surveyed the four with a smile of amusement on his face. "That man's laughing at us," said Sahwah, feeling terribly foolish. "Quit telling fortunes, Hinpoha. It's all nonsense, anyhow." "Maybe _you_ think it's nonsense," returned Hinpoha in an offended tone, "but they do come true, lots of times. Do you remember, Gladys, the time I told you you were going to get a letter from a distance, and you got one from France the very next day?" "Yes," replied Gladys, "and do you remember the time you predicted I was going to flunk math at midyears and I took the prize?" "And do you remember the light man that came into _your_ life, Hinpoha?" said Sahwah slily. Hinpoha turned fiery red at this reference to Professor Knoblock and looked out of the window in confused silence. Sahwah realized that she was figure-skating on thin ice when she mentioned that subject and forebore to make any further remarks. A strained silence fell upon the four. Migwan cast about in her mind for a topic of conversation that would relieve the tension. "Has anyone heard from Veronica lately?" she asked. "I haven't heard from her for several months," replied Sahwah, "but I suppose she's still in New York. She must be doing great things with her music. She's given a concert already." "It's queer about Veronica," continued Sahwah musingly. "Although she wasn't with us so much I seem to miss her more and more as time goes on. I often dream I hear her playing her violin." Sahwah's admiration for Veronica had never waned, although Veronica had never had what Sahwah described as a "real emotional case" on her. "Veronica's an alien enemy now," said Gladys in an awed tone. "Do you think she'll be _interred_?" asked Hinpoha anxiously. Sahwah gave a little scream of laughter. "_In-terned,_ not _interred_," she corrected. "I hope Veronica isn't ready to be buried yet." "Well, _interned_, then," answered Hinpoha, a little piqued at Sahwah's raillery. "You don't need to call the attention of the whole car to the fact that I made a little mistake. Did you see that officer over there turn around and look when you laughed? He's looking yet, and he probably heard what you said, and is laughing at me in his mind." Sahwah involuntarily turned around and her eyes met those of the slim, fair-haired youth in the uniform of a lieutenant of aviation, sitting several seats beyond them on the other side of the car. For some unaccountable reason she again felt suddenly shy and dropped her eyes, while a little feeling of wonder stole over her at her own embarrassment. Up until that moment, unexplained feelings had been totally unknown in Sahwah's wholesome and vigorous young life. There had been nothing bold or offensive about the stranger's glance, yet there was a certain curious intentness about it that filled Sahwah with a strange confusion, a vague stirring within her of something unfamiliar, something unknown. Outwardly there was nothing remarkable about him, nothing to distinguish him from the thousands of other lads in khaki that were to be seen everywhere one went, erect, trim, lovably conceited. Why, then, should the heart of Sahwah the Sunfish suddenly flutter at this casual meeting of the eyes with the man across the way, and why did she turn sharply around and look out of the window? Then a curious thing happened. The sunlight, which was so bright it was making the others squint and draw the curtains, suddenly seemed to Sahwah to be darkened, while a nameless fear stole into her heart and oppressed her with a sense of lurking danger, of hovering calamity. Only for a minute it lasted, and then she was herself again and the sunshine struck into her eyes with intolerable splendor. She shook herself slightly and turned her attention to Hinpoha, who was speaking. "Wouldn't it be dreadful if Veronica were to be interned?" Hinpoha was saying. "Veronica won't be interned," said Sahwah with an air of authority. "It's only the Germans who are being watched so carefully, and have to register with the police, and all that. Veronica isn't a German citizen, she's a Hungarian. She will be perfectly safe. Her uncle is an American citizen and is very patriotic; he was on the last Liberty Loan committee." "I wonder how she feels about things?" said Gladys musingly. "Her father was in the Austrian army, you remember, and died fighting, and her mother died when their town was taken by the Russians, and Veronica just barely escaped with her own life. Their home was burned and they lost everything they had. Veronica would be very wealthy if it hadn't been for the war. It would be only natural for her to feel bitter toward the side that had brought suffering to her family." "But that was in the early days of the war, before so many things had happened," said Sahwah, "and before Veronica had ever seen America. She's crazy about America. She certainly wouldn't feel bitter toward the Americans because the Russians burned their town and killed her father, would she?" "Poor Veronica," said Gladys softly. "She's in a hard position and I don't envy her. I love her dearly, even if her country _is_ our enemy." "Shucks!" exclaimed Sahwah. "Veronica isn't to blame because her country is at war. _She_ isn't our enemy. Anyway," she added, "I don't believe that the Hungarians are as bad as the Germans. They aren't spies like the Germans are. Why, lots of Hungarians are fighting right in our own army! Probably if Veronica's father had come to America years ago he would be doing the same thing now. Anyway, Veronica's here now, and she's glad she _is_ here, and I don't think it's right to treat her coldly just because she's an 'alien enemy.'" "Maybe she's still loyal to her own country, though," said Hinpoha, "and if the chance ever came to help Hungary's cause she'd feel in duty, bound to do it. She has such intense feelings about things, you know. She'd be quite willing to die for any cause she believed in." "Shucks!" said Sahwah again. "Your romantic notions make me tired sometimes, Hinpoha. Veronica's not going to die for Hungary's cause, and she isn't likely to die for any other cause either, any more than we are." "But we'd be _willing_ to die for America's cause, wouldn't we?" demanded Hinpoha, with rising excitement. "We certainly would!" replied Sahwah, with a fine flash from her brown eyes. "Well, if we'd be perfectly willing to die for _our_ country's cause, why wouldn't Veronica be willing to die for _hers_?" demanded Hinpoha triumphantly. "What I meant mostly," said Sahwah, skillfully diverting a discussion that was becoming decidedly heated, "was that none of us are likely to get a chance to die for our country, and neither is Veronica going to get a chance to die for hers, or do anything else for it, even if she were willing to. She's just a schoolgirl like ourselves and nobody would think of asking her to do anything." "That's the trouble," sighed Hinpoha discontentedly. "We're just girls, and the only thing we'll ever get to do is just knit, knit, knit, and there's no glory in that. That's the only 'bit' we'll ever be able to do." The other three echoed her sigh and reflected sadly upon their circumscribed sphere, and Sahwah's dream of being another Joan of Arc flickered out into darkness. Then she brightened again as her thoughts took a new turn. "Well, there's one thing we have to be thankful for," she said feelingly. "If we can't help to make history, we won't have to learn it, either. We're past the history part of school. But just think what the pupils will have to learn in the years to come--and the names of all those battles that are being fought every day now, and the unpronounceable names of all those cities in Europe, and all the different generals. It was hard enough to keep the Civil War generals straight, and there were only _two_ sets of them--think of having to remember all the American and English and French and Italian and Russian ones, to say nothing of the German! Why, it will be such a chore to study history that the pupils won't have time to study anything else! People always look at little babies and say how fortunate they are; when they grow up the war will be over and everything lovely again, but I always think, 'Poor things, wait until they have to study history!' How lucky we are to be living through it instead of having to learn it out of books!" All the while Sahwah was talking, Hinpoha had been watching with undisguised interest a man who sat in the seat directly across the aisle from them, who, with an artist's sketching pad on his knee, was drawing caricatures with a thick black pencil. Hinpoha, clever artist that she was herself, took a lively interest in anyone else who could draw, and from the glimpses she could get of the sketches being made across the aisle, she recognized the peculiar genius of the artist. She attracted the attention of the other three, and they too watched in wonder and with ever-growing interest. The artist finally looked up, saw the four eager pairs of eyes fastened on him, and nodding in a friendly way, handed his sketch-book across the aisle. "Would you like to see them?" he asked genially, his eye lingering on Hinpoha's glory-crowned head with artistic appreciation. He himself looked like the typical artist one sees in pictures. His hair was long and wavy and his blond beard was trimmed in Van Dyke fashion. Hinpoha nearly burst with admiration of him, and when he became aware of her existence and offered to show his sketches she was in a flutter of joy. "Oh, may we?" she exclaimed delightedly, taking the book from his hand. "Oh, lookee!" she squealed in rapture to the other girls. "Did you ever see anything so quaint?" The others looked and also exclaimed in wonder and delight. There were pictures of trains running along on legs instead of wheels, of houses and barns whose windows and doors were cunningly arranged to form features, of buildings that sailed through the air with wings like birds'; of drawbridges with one end sticking up in the air while an enormously fat man sat on the other end; of ships walking along on stilts that reached clear to the bottom of the ocean! "Oh, aren't they the most fascinating things you ever saw?" cried Sahwah, enraptured. Utterly absorbed, she did not see the lieutenant of aviation gather up his things to leave the train at one of the way stations; was not aware that he paused on his way out and looked at her for a long, irresolute minute and then went hastily on. The last page in the book of sketches had not been reached when the train came to a stop right out in the hills, between stations. "What's the matter?" everybody was soon asking. Heads were popped out of windows and there was a general rush for the platforms, as the sounds outside indicated excitement of some kind. "Two freight trains collided on the bridge and broke it down," was the word that passed from mouth to mouth. "The train will be delayed for hours." Dismayed at the long wait in store for them, the Winnebagos sat down in their seats again, prepared to make the best of it, when the judicial-looking gentleman who had been sitting in front of them came up and said, "Pardon me, but I couldn't help overhearing you girls talking about going to Oakwood. I am going to Oakwood myself--I live there--and I know how we can get there without waiting hours and hours for this train to go on. We are only about twenty miles from Oakwood now and right near an interurban car line. We can go in on the electric car and not lose much time. I will be glad to assist you in any way possible. My name is Wing, Mr. Ira B. Wing." "Not Agony and Oh-Pshaw's father!" exclaimed Hinpoha. "I knew they lived in Oakwood, but----" "The same," interrupted Mr. Wing, smiling broadly. "Are you acquainted with my girls?" "Are we?" returned Hinpoha. "Ask them who roomed next to them this last year at Brownell! Do we know the Heavenly Twins! Isn't it perfectly wonderful that you should turn out to be their father! We were having a discussion a while ago as to whether you were a lawyer or a professor, and Sahwah--excuse me, this is Miss Brewster, Mr. Wing, another one of the Winnebagos, that the Twins don't know--yet--Sahwah insisted that you were a lawyer and I insisted you were a professor, and now Sahwah was right after all. You _are_ a lawyer, aren't you? I believe Agony said you were." "I am," replied Mr. Wing with a twinkle in his eye, "and I'm more than delighted to meet you. Come along, and we'll see if we can't get to Oakwood before dark." Then the whimsical artist came up and addressed Mr. Wing. "Did I hear you say you could get to Oakwood on the electric?" he inquired. "I'm going there too. My name is Prince, Eugene Prince." "Glad to meet you," replied Mr. Wing heartily. "Come along." He summoned the porter to carry out the various suitcases. Before long the little party were aboard the electric car, and reached Oakwood almost as soon as they would have if the train had not been held up. The electric car went by the railway station and the Winnebagos got off, because Nyoda would be waiting for them there. Mr. Wing and the artist went on to the center of the town. CHAPTER III CARVER HOUSE Nyoda was waiting for them on the platform, looking just as she used to, radiant, girlish, enthusiastic, bubbling over with fun. Not a shade of sadness or anxiety in her face betrayed the loneliness in her heart and her longing for the presence of the dear man she had sent forth in the cause of liberty. In respect to sorrows, Nyoda's attitude toward the world had always been, "Those which are yours are mine, but those which are mine are my own." Encircled by four pairs of Winnebago arms and with eager questions being hurled at her from all sides, it seemed as if the old times had come again indeed. "Sahwah! Migwan! Hinpoha! Gladys!" she exclaimed joyfully, looking at them with beaming eyes. "My own Winnebagos! But come, I'm dying to show you my new playhouse," and she led the way across the station platform to where her automobile stood waiting. A swift spin along a quiet avenue bordered with immense old oaks that stood like rows of soldiers at attention, and up quite a steep hill, from which they could look back upon the houses and buildings clustering in the valley, which was the heart of the town, and then they drew up before a very old brick house which stood on the summit of the hill. It had green blinds and a fanlight over the front door, and a brick walk running from the front steps to the street, bordered on each side by a box hedge in a prim, Ladies' Garden effect like one sees in the illustrations of children's poems. "Oh, Nyoda, how splendid!" cried Hinpoha, her artistic soul delighted beyond measure at the hedge and the walk and the white door with its quaint knocker. "Wait until you see the inside," replied Nyoda, throwing open the door with the pleased air of a child exhibiting a new and cherished toy. Cries of admiration and delight filled the air as the Winnebagos entered. The whole house was furnished just as it might have been in the old Colonial days--braided rugs on the floor, candlesticks in glass holders, slender-legged, spindle-backed chairs, quaint mahogany tables, a huge spinning wheel before the fireplace, and, wonder of wonders! between the two end windows of the stately parlor there stood a harp, the late sunshine gleaming in a soft radiance from its gilded frame and slender wires like the glory of a by-gone day. Hinpoha stood enraptured before the instrument. "I've always been wild to learn to play on a harp," she said, drawing her fingers caressingly over the strings and awaking faint, throbbing tones, too soft to be discords, that echoed through the room like the ghost of a song played years ago, and trembled away until they seemed to mingle with the golden light that flooded the room through the west windows. "If I had my choice of being any of the fabulous creatures in the mythology book," said Hinpoha musingly, "I think I'd choose to be a harpy." "A what?" asked Nyoda quizzically. "A harpy," repeated Hinpoha, touching the strings again. Then, looking up and seeing the twinkle in Nyoda's eye, she added, "Weren't the Harpies beautiful maidens that sat on the rocks and played harps and lured the sailors to destruction with their ravishing songs? Oh, I say, they were too," she finished feebly, amid a perfect shout of laughter from the girls. "Well, what _were_ they, then? Horrible monsters? Oh, what a shame! What a misleading thing the English language is, anyway! You'd naturally expect a harpy to play on a harp. Anyway, you needn't laugh, Sahwah. I remember once you said in class that a peptonoid was a person with a lot of pep, so there!" Sahwah joined gaily in the laugh that followed at her expense. "So I did," she admitted unblushingly, "and what's more, I only discovered day before yesterday that a trapezoid wasn't a trapeze performer!" "Oh, Sahwah, you imp, you're making that up," said Gladys in a skeptical tone. "Nice child," said Nyoda, patting Sahwah approvingly, trying to turn the laugh upon herself, on the principle that the hostess should always break another cut glass tumbler when the guest breaks one." "Oh dear," said Migwan regretfully, "why did you say that about Harpies, Hinpoha, and make us laugh? I was just thinking how beautiful you looked, leaning over that harp, just like that oil painting in the gallery at home, and was getting into quite a poetical mood over it, when you had to make us laugh and spoil it all. I declare, that was too bad!" "Serves you right for getting poetical about me," retorted Hinpoha. "But Nyoda," said Gladys, whose eyes had been feasting on the details of the house with every increasing wonder and pleasure, "how does it come that you moved into this little town from Philadelphia, and how do you happen to be living in this wonderful old house?" "I inherited this place a few months after I was married," replied Nyoda. "It is the old Carver House; built before the Revolution and kept in the family ever since. My mother was a Carver--that's how I happened to inherit it. She died years ago, without ever dreaming that the house would come to me, for she was not a direct heir, being only a third cousin. But the last of the direct line died out with old Uncle Jasper Carver and that left me the only living blood relation. So this beautiful house and everything in it came to me." "Oh, Nyoda, I should think you would have died of joy!" said Hinpoha in a rapt tone. "I know people who would give their eyebrows to own so much old Colonial furniture." "This house has seen proud days in its time," went on Nyoda. "The Carvers were staunch patriots, and many a meeting of loyal citizens was held around that table in the dining room. They say that Benjamin Franklin was once a guest here. The history of the Carver family was Uncle Jasper's pet hobby, and he has it all printed up in books which you may see in the library. "The Carvers have always been a fighting family," she continued, with a flash of pride in her black eyes. "They fought in the Revolution, in the Civil War, and in the Spanish-American War. But now that the country is again calling men to her aid," she finished with a sigh, "there are no more Carver men to answer the call. I am the last of the Carvers, and I am only a woman." "But you've done all that you _could_ do," said Migwan staunchly. "You've sent your husband." Nyoda drew herself up unconsciously as her eyes sought the picture of Sherry on the mantelpiece with the silk flag draped over it. "Yes," she echoed softly, "the last of the Carvers has done her bit." A dinner bell clanged through the house and Nyoda sprang up with a start. "Dinner will be ready in fifteen minutes, girls," she exclaimed. "Scurry upstairs and remove the stains of travel while I consult the cook." "Why, Nyoda," said Sahwah in surprise, "I didn't know you had a cook. You told us coming up from the station that you did all your own work because you didn't think it was patriotic to hire servants at this time and take them away from the more essential industries!" Nyoda looked nonplussed for a moment and then she laughed heartily. "Special occasion," she remarked ceremoniously, and disappeared with a chuckle through a door at the end of the hall. The four girls went leisurely up the broad staircase with its white spindles and polished mahogany rail to the rooms overhead, furnished with huge curtained four-posters and fascinating chests of drawers with cut-glass knobs. In fifteen minutes the bell sent its summons through the house again and the Winnebagos responded with alacrity. Nyoda stood in the dining-room doorway to receive them, looking rather mysterious, they thought, and Sahwah's sharp eyes counted a sixth place laid at the table. Nyoda seated them, apparently not noticing the empty place, and then tinkled the little bell that stood on the table at her place. In answer to her tinkle the pantry door opened and in came the cook carrying a tray of dishes. The Winnebagos looked up idly as she came in and the next moment the ancestral Chippendale chairs of the Carver family were shoved back unceremoniously as their occupants joined in a mad scramble to see who could reach the cook first, while Nyoda looked on and laughed gleefully. "Veronica! Veronica Lehar!" cried the Winnebagos in wonder and ecstasy. "_You_ here!" "How perfectly gorgeous!" "How did you happen to come?" "By urgent invitation, sweet lambs," replied Nyoda, "just like some other people I could name. She blazed the trail for the Winnebagos by arriving yesterday." "Oh, you naughty, bad 'Bagos," said Migwan, embracing both Veronica and Nyoda in her delight, "to frame up such a surprise for us! We standing there cool as cucumbers in the front room of the house talking for half an hour and Veronica out in the kitchen all the while, masquerading as cook!" "You pretty nearly upset the surprise, though, Mistress Sahwah," said Nyoda, "with your suspicions in regard to my having a cook. It's next to impossible to take you in, you eagle-eyed Indian! Come, Veronica, roll down your sleeves and take your rightful place at the table. Now, girls, "While we're here let's give a cheer And sing to Wohelo!" And then let's dip our wheatless crusts into our meatless broth for the eternal glory and prosperity of the Winnebagos!" CHAPTER IV VERONICA Dinner over, the Winnebagos fell upon the dishes like a swarm of bees and had them cleared up and washed in a twinkling. Then they gathered in the long parlor where the harp stood, and to please them Nyoda turned off the electric lights and lit the candles in their old-fashioned holders. The little twinkling lights multiplied themselves in the mirrors until it seemed as if there were myriads of them; grotesque six-fold shadows danced on the walls as the girls moved about; the gilded harp gleamed softly in the mellow light and an atmosphere of by-gone days hovered over the room. It was an ideal moment for confidences, for heart-to-heart talks, and they spoke of many things which were sacred to one another, little intimate echoes of the days when they first learned to work and play together. "Don't you remember, Veronica," said Migwan, "when you became a Winnebago you took the gull for your symbol, because it flew over the ocean and you wanted to follow it home?" A memory of that day came back to the girls, of Veronica's bitter homesickness, and how desperately sorry they had been for her, and yet how helpless they had felt before her aristocratic mien. There was a great difference in her now, all the more noticeable because they had not seen her for a year. She was thinner and her eyes were larger and more pansylike than ever, but she was much more talkative and animated than she used to be. Very little of the old superior bearing remained, and the looks that she bent upon Nyoda were those of an humble and adoring slave. Proof positive of the change that had taken place in her was the prank she had played upon them that night in masquerading as the cook--she who had once refused to help prepare one of the famous suppers in the House of the Open Door, disdainfully remarking that cooking was work for servants, not for ladies. At Migwan's remark Veronica stirred restlessly and made an emphatic gesture with her hand as she replied firmly, "That was all nonsense. I gave up the gull as a symbol long ago. It had such a screaming, ugly cry instead of a song. If I am to be one of the Song Friends I must have a song bird for a symbol. I have changed to the red winged blackbird, because that was the first American bird I learned to know by his song, outside of the robin. His voice always sounded so gay and free, singing over the open fields, that he seemed to be a symbol of the freedom and happiness which one finds in America. When he sings 'O-ka-lee! O-ka-lee! O-ka-lee!' I always think he is singing 'Liberty! Liberty! Liberty!'" The four Winnebagos exchanged glances as Veronica uttered this sentiment, recalling their discussion of her in the train. "Would you like to go back to Hungary?" asked Hinpoha. Veronica shook her head vehemently. "I would not go back to my old home now if I could. I know now that I could never be happy there after having tasted the freedom of America." "But you were not one of the oppressed poor," said Hinpoha. "You belonged to the upper class, didn't you?" "It is true, we were not poor," answered Veronica, "we were not oppressed like the peasants. We did the oppressing ourselves, and because people in our station had done the same thing for hundreds of years we never stopped to think that it was wrong. The people in the village used to bow and scrape when they met us on the street, but how much they really cared for us I'd hate to say. It wasn't the way people greet each other in the streets here. Just imagine Sahwah, for instance, going down the street and meeting Hinpoha and having to bow humbly and wait until Hinpoha spoke to her first before she could say anything!" The Winnebagos shrieked with laughter at the picture thus conjured up. "Over here it seems too funny for anything," went on Veronica, "but that's the sort of thing I've been used to all my life. Now I see how ridiculous it all was and how wicked, and it seems almost like a judgment that our estate was destroyed in the very first month of the war and we had to suffer such great hardships. There was no bowing and scraping to us in that flight into the mountains, I can tell you. It was everyone for himself then, and we were all in the same boat." Veronica closed her eyes for a moment and shuddered involuntarily as the horror of that remembered flight overcame her; she threw it off with an effort and presently proceeded in an entirely composed tone. The Winnebagos, looking on with sympathetic understanding, marveled at her perfect poise and great power of self-control. "It may seem strange to you girls," went on Veronica, "you who are so patriotic about this American land of yours, that I should talk this way about the land of my birth, and maybe you will despise me. But since I have been in America and have learned that people can live together in a much sweeter, fairer, truer way than I ever dreamed of, I could never go back to the old way. I want to become an American and never wish to leave this country. I don't want to be called a Hungarian. I want to be an American girl like the rest of you. Oh, I think you are the most wonderful girls in the world!" She paused to squeeze Sahwah's hand, which rested on the arm of her chair. "My uncle feels the same way about it as I do," continued Sahwah. "He became an American citizen ten years ago and is much more proud of his American citizenship than he ever was of his title." "Did your uncle have a title?" asked Hinpoha breathlessly. "It was a sort of courtesy title," answered Veronica, "because he was the youngest son of the baron, my grandfather, but, of course, he belonged in the family, which put him in the same class with the nobility." "Was your grandfather a baron?" asked Hinpoha incredulously. Veronica nodded casually and went on talking about her uncle. "My uncle ran away at the time he became of military age rather than go into the army. All he cared for was music. Of course there was quite a stir about it and he changed his name and took his grandmother's maiden name, which was Lehar. He has now adopted that name legally in this country, and is plain 'Mr. Lehar.'" "Then isn't _your_ name Lehar either?" asked Hinpoha, while a rustle of surprise went through the group. "No," replied Veronica in a perfectly matter-of-fact voice, "I simply assumed that name at his suggestion. You see, as long as I intended to be an American, I wouldn't have any further use for _my_ title either----" "Oh-h-h-h!" exclaimed the Winnebagos in a long breath of astonishment. "_Your_ title! Have you got one, too?" Veronica looked around with a little look of wonder at the sensation she had created. "I _did_ have," she corrected gently. "I haven't it any more. I left it behind me in Hungary. I'm just plain Veronica Lehar now." She looked into the girls' faces with a half-questioning, half-pleading expression as if fearful that this confession of her possession of a title would raise a barrier between them. "What was your title?" asked Hinpoha, leaning forward in her chair and immensely impressed. "My father was the Baron Szathmar-Vasarhély," replied Veronica. "I was what would be called in English Lady Veronica Szathmar-Vasarhély." "Lady--what?" asked Hinpoha in comical bewilderment. Veronica laughed. "Do you wonder why I changed my name when I came to America and took the simple, sensible name of Lehar? Imagine going to school here under the name of Veronica Szathmar-Vasarhély! You can just hear the teachers pronouncing it, can't you? Why, I'd never have any friends at all, because people would rather avoid me than attempt to introduce me to anybody! Besides, it's extravagant to have such a name, it takes so much ink to sign it! Lehar is ever so much more convenient. You can't tell how light and airy I feel since I threw away that long name!" "But Veronica, why didn't you tell us before about this?" asked Hinpoha. "We never _dreamed_ your name had ever been anything else but Lehar!" "Because I was afraid you wouldn't take me into your group and treat me as one of yourselves," said Veronica simply. "I did so want to be an American like the rest of you. I was afraid you might object to having a title in your midst. But now you really love me and won't let it make any difference?" she pleaded wistfully. "Of course not, you goose," said Sahwah emphatically. "We love you for yourself and it wouldn't make any difference to us if you had a title as long as a kite tail! Now do you believe it?" and she bestowed a convincing hug on Veronica that nearly took her breath away. "But Veronica," said Nyoda, both amused and perplexed, "is it possible to throw away a title like that? If you were born Lady Veronica Szathmar-Vasarhély can you deliberately say you 'won't be it'? I thought titles either had to be kept or formally transferred to someone else. Until this is done you are still the rightful owner of the title under the law of your country and no one else can claim it." "They can't make me go back, can they?" cried Veronica, starting up in alarm. "Why, no," replied Nyoda reassuringly, "and I suppose if you want to give up your claim to the title nobody will stop you. I was simply amused at the way you announced that you had 'thrown away' your title and proposed to have nothing further to do with it." "I won't go back!" declared Veronica with kindling eyes, springing to her feet and clenching her little fists. "I won't! I won't! I'm going to be an American, so there! I won't be a baroness!" Her great black eyes flashed lightnings at the girls, who looked at her in consternation. Veronica, in a passion, was something to strike awe into the breast of the beholder. "There aren't any estates left, thank goodness!" she declared. "They were all destroyed in the shelling of the town. For all they know over there, I'm dead, too, killed along with dozens of others. How do they know that I escaped on horseback to the Carpathian Mountains and with other refugees traveled across Roumania to the Black Sea and finally found friends who sent me to my uncle in America? Nobody will ever know where all the people of our village went to. Many of them perished in the mountains, many are in other countries. How do they know but what I perished, too? How will they ever know that I am here in America when I go by the name of Lehar? Besides, who would ever take the trouble to look for me when our estates have been swept away by the Russians? I _will_ be an American!" she finished stormily, and stood looking defiantly at the girls, her head thrown back, her breast heaving, her whole body quivering with passion. Hinpoha broke up the tension with her usual chatter. "Tell us about some of the people you knew in Hungary, I mean important ones," she asked curiously. Her romantic imagination saw Veronica hob-nobbing with royalty and surrounded by splendors. "Did you ever see a real prince?" she asked in a hushed tone. "Lots of times," replied Veronica in a matter-of-fact way. "I have often seen royalty riding through the streets in Budapest and Debreczin. Everybody bows while the royal carriage is passing, but I don't believe many people fall in love with princes at first sight! They're hardly ever handsome, not at all like the princes in the fairy tales. They're generally fat and stupid looking. "I have met and talked to two princes, both occasions being when I had played at a private musicale at the home of Countess Mariska Esterhazy in Budapest, where I studied in the Conservatory." There was a curious silence among the Winnebagos at these words, which fell so lightly, so conversationally from Veronica's lips. It suddenly seemed to them that although they had known her two years they really did not know her at all! How carelessly she spoke of playing in the home of a countess! And of meeting royalty! "Did you really play before the king?" asked Hinpoha in an awestricken whisper. Veronica laughed, a jolly, chummy laugh that swept away their momentary feeling of constraint and made her one of themselves again. "Gracious, no!" she replied, highly amused. "I never could play well enough for that! The Countess Mariska was quite a democratic person, and had a great many pupils from the Conservatory as her protegés. Anybody who could play at all stood a good chance of playing at one of her musicales; you didn't need to be a genius at all." Sahwah's eyes narrowed ever so slightly. Although she could play no musical instrument herself and knew less about music than any of the others, she realized, probably better than all the rest, the quality of Veronica's performance on the violin. Sahwah had a mysterious inner perception which made her sense things without knowing why or how. So she knew, although Veronica modestly laid no claim to distinction, that she must have won fame and favor by her playing to a much greater extent than she had ever divulged. "Tell us about the princes you met," said Hinpoha eagerly, and the Winnebagos leaned forward in an expectant circle. Veronica's eyes danced as though at some amusing recollection. "The first prince I ever met," she began, dropping down on the floor beside the spinning wheel in the corner and leaning her head against it, "was Prince Ferdinand of Negol, which is one of the small Eastern provinces of Hungary. He was an old man, seventy years of age, and he had both the gout and the asthma. He sat with one foot on a cushion on a footstool and when it hurt him he made the awfullest faces. Not a bit like a story book prince, Hinpoha. He was at the Countess Mariska's one afternoon when I played and when I was through he requested that I be presented to him." "Oh-h-h-h-h!" exclaimed Hinpoha under her breath in a thrilled tone. "The Countess presented me," went on Veronica, "and the prince conversed with me for a few minutes in a wheezy voice. He didn't say anything wonderful, just remarked that I was a good child and had played well and should make the most of my opportunities, and so on. Then his foot gave him a twinge and he made a dreadful face, and the Countess took me by the arm and marched me away." Veronica laughed at the recollection, and the Winnebagos laughed, too, at the picture of the gouty old prince wheezing out paternal advice to the lively Veronica. "Go on, tell us about the other one," said Hinpoha, plainly disappointed that royalty had turned out to be so ordinary. "The other one was a German prince," said Veronica, and then laughingly added, "I don't suppose you care to hear about _him_?" "Oh, come on, tell us about him," coaxed the Winnebagos. "He was Prince Karl Augustus of Hohenburg," replied Veronica. "He was traveling in Hungary for his health, or rather, for his wife's, and he came to one of the Countess's musicales. He wasn't an ideal prince, either, although he was quite young. He was fat and red-faced and had little beady eyes that made you nervous when he looked at you. After the musicale was over Countess Mariska came to me in a great state of satisfaction and informed me that the prince had enjoyed one piece that I had played so much that he desired me to play it for his wife, who was ill in the hotel. The Countess packed me into her carriage and drove over to the hotel where the prince was staying informally, giving me minute instructions all the way over as to my conduct while there. I played for the princess, who was a thin, melancholy looking woman, and she seemed to enjoy it and thanked me quite graciously. A day or two afterward I received a package by messenger, and it was this little finger ring, a present from the prince and princess. I didn't like the prince, but the ring was very pretty and I have kept it, because the princess probably picked it out and it gave her pleasure to do so. His wife was a Hungarian." She stretched out her hand to the Winnebagos, who crowded eagerly around to examine the small but brilliantly glowing ruby set in a dainty gold band. They had seen it hundreds of times before, but had never guessed it was the gift of a prince. Truly, Veronica was full of surprises! "It seems to me, Veronica," said Nyoda, "that you were quite an honored little person in your country, and must have been greatly envied by your friends. How does it come that you are willing to throw away the precedence which you formerly enjoyed on account of your rank and station to become a plain citizen of another country where you have to carve out your place single handed? Don't you really ever have any regrets over it?" Veronica shook her head resolutely. "Not at all," she replied in a firm voice. "After once living in America I could never long to go back to the old life. Since I have become a Camp Fire Girl I have learned that the true nobility is not of birth but of worth, and there should be no other in any country. I promised, you know, when I became a Fire Maker, to tend 'The fire that is called the love of man for man,' and one cannot do that and live luxuriously on money that one has wrung from the poor instead of earning honestly. No, thank you, I would rather be a democratic American girl and call everyone friend! It's lots more fun, even than being the protegé of a countess! I'd rather be a Torch Bearer than a princess!" Veronica's eyes shone with sincerity and fervor, and the Winnebagos were tremendously impressed. "Of course you're going to be an American," said Sahwah, drawing Veronica to her feet and encircling her with her arm, "and you're going to be just as honored and distinguished here as you were over there, because you're so wonderful that people can't help making a fuss over you. You're going to become the most wonderful violinist in the country, and people are going to go just wild over you!" Sahwah would have poured out more brilliant prophecies, but she was cut short by the sound of a great disturbance without. There was a violent clatter on the brick walk outside, followed by a crashing thump, which was accompanied by the sound of splintering wood. The Winnebagos started and looked at each other apprehensively. Nyoda sprang to her feet and ran for the door. "The Kaiser is out!" she exclaimed, and seizing an umbrella from the rack in the hall, she disappeared into outer darkness. CHAPTER V ENTER THE KAISER The Winnebagos streamed out after her, and in the moonlight they could see her running around the side of the house, brandishing the umbrella at a large white goat which was prancing before her on his hind legs. Sahwah picked up a good-sized stone from the driveway and rushed to Nyoda's side, ready to hurl it at the creature, under the impression that Nyoda was on the verge of being killed, but at that instant Nyoda suddenly opened the umbrella and the rampant Capricorn dropped to all fours and fled hastily in the direction of the stable. Nyoda, flushed and laughing, returned to the girls, who were picking up the broken pieces of the white wooden trellis which had supported the rose vine over the front door. "Is there anything left?" she inquired, ruefully regarding the heap of kindling wood to which the slender laths had been reduced by the battering ram force of the Kaiser's onslaught. "What was it?" asked Migwan, peering fearfully into the shadows behind the house. Migwan had not caught a clear glimpse of the creature and was still uncertain whether the house had been bombed or a wild elephant had broken loose. "That," announced Nyoda in a tone both humorous and tragic, and flinging out her hands in a helpless gesture, "is Bill the Kaiser." "What is he, a rhinocerous?" asked Migwan. "Would that he were!" exclaimed Nyoda fervently. "A rhinocerous, a wild rhinocerous, with an ivory toothpick on his nose, would be a simple problem compared to Kaiser Bill. No, my dears, Kaiser Bill is a goat, a William goat, with the disposition of a crab, the soul of a monkey and the constitution of a battle tank. We named him Kaiser Bill for reasons too numerous to mention. His diet is varied and fearful, and his motto, like Lord Nelson's, is 'a little more grape.' He ate the whole grape vine, roots, tendrils and all, and then he ate the grape arbor for good measure. He has also consumed two hammocks, a tennis racket and the tar paper roof of the auto shed. He is fond of launching offensives, and his favorite method of warfare is a sudden attack from the rear. He is bomb proof, bullet proof and gas proof, and the only thing in the universe he is afraid of is an open umbrella. Not a few worthy members of this stately community have gained the impression that I am not quite right mentally, because I never go abroad in the street without an umbrella, never knowing at what moment that goat is going to escape from the confines of the stable yard, follow my trail, and come charging down upon me. "One day I was sure he was out, and was walking along the street carrying my umbrella open, ready for instant emergency, when I met Mr. Carrington, the frigid rector of St. John's, the church to which all the leading families in Oakwood belong. It was a perfect day, not a cloud in the sky, nor was the sun so hot that protection from it was necessary. Mr. Carrington asked, 'Why the umbrella?' and I replied, 'Oh, I always carry that, because I'm afraid I might meet the Kaiser!' Whereupon he looked at me severely and walked off abruptly, and it didn't occur to me until later that he didn't know who the Kaiser was, and how absolutely idiotic my answer must have sounded." "Oh, Nyoda, how screamingly funny!" cried the Winnebagos, laughing until they cried. "But why do you keep the goat if he is such a nuisance?" asked Gladys wonderingly. "I can't help myself," replied Nyoda with another tragic gesture. "I inherited him along with the house, and like the crown jewels, while I am to have full enjoyment of possession during lifetime, I can't dispose of him." "How queer!" said Sahwah. "I never heard of a will like that! What a strange man your uncle must have been!" "Oh, Uncle Jasper had nothing whatever to do with it," replied Nyoda. "He never even mentioned the Kaiser in his will." "Then why can't you get rid of him?" asked Sahwah, mystified. "Because it would break old Hercules' heart," answered Nyoda. "Hercules was Uncle Jasper's coachman all his life and grew old and white-haired in his service. When Uncle Jasper died he provided in his will that Hercules was to be retired on full wages and to continue living in the room over the stable that had been his home for fifty years. Hercules owned this goat, which he had brought up 'by hand,' and it was the delight of his heart. He begged me with tears in his eyes to let him keep it, so what could I do but give them both my blessing and submit meekly to the outrages of the beast? My poor rose vine!" she finished ruefully, looking at the torn twigs and branches which lay on the ground in the ruins of the trellis. Then she suddenly threw back her head and laughed loud and long. "I was born under the sign of Capricornus, the Goat," she said, overcome with amusement. "It's sheer fatality that I should be tied up to the Kaiser. Who shall dispute the will of the gods? "Come, Veronica, give us some music on the violin before we go to bed." They returned to the long parlor where the mellow candle light shone softly on the harp and on an old-fashioned picture which hung above it. It was an oil painting, a portrait of a young girl in a short-waisted white satin dress, clasping in her hands a red rose. The face was small and vivacious, and the bright brown eyes seemed to look straight into the eyes of the girls as they stood before the picture. "Who is the girl in the picture, Nyoda?" asked Sahwah, whose eyes had been drawn irresistibly to the portrait ever since she had been in the room. "That is the portrait of Elizabeth Carver," replied Nyoda. "She was the daughter of Alexander Carver, the man who built this house. I was named after her. That harp was hers, likewise the bed in which you are going to sleep, Sahwah. She was a young girl at the time of the Revolution, and her father and both her brothers fought in the war, as well as the man she was to marry. There is a story about her in Uncle Jasper's history of the Carver family, how she saved her lover from the Indians. This valley was the scene of many skirmishes between the Colonial troops and the Indians, who had taken sides with the British. He had come to pay her a visit when his horse was shot under him by an Iroquois scout, and, stunned by the fall, he lay motionless on the ground, when a whole band of Iroquois, returning from the massacre of Wyoming, poured over the hilltop directly above them. Elizabeth took one look at the approaching Indians and then she lifted her Paul on to her own horse and galloped away to safety with the whole pack whooping at her heels. That is the tale of Elizabeth Carver, my namesake." "Oh, Nyoda, how splendid!" cried Sahwah, with sparkling eyes. "Oh, dear, why can't things like that happen now? Life in America is so tame and uneventful, compared to what it used to be in the early days." And she fell to musing discontentedly upon the vast advantage of frontier life over her own humdrum, modern existence. Then Veronica began to play on her violin, and Sahwah's discontented thoughts took wing, and she went floating out on a magic sea of music, and sat with closed eyes drinking in those wild, seraphic melodies that flowed from Veronica's enchanted bow until it seemed as if it could be no mere violin making that music, it was the Angel Israel, playing on his own heart strings. As Sahwah sat and listened there suddenly came over her a great feeling of sadness, and unrest, a sense of the vastness and seriousness of life, and she felt desperately unhappy. She had never felt so before. All her life she had been happy-go-lucky, and scatterbrained, and life had stretched out before her as one vast picnic, without a single solemn note in it. And now, while she listened to Veronica's playing she was suddenly plunged into the depths of world sorrow! She was so sad she didn't know what to do, tears gathered in her eyes and stole down her cheeks; she didn't know what she was sad about, but she was so sorrowful that her heart was breaking! The sound of applause brought her to herself with a start. Veronica had stopped playing, and the girls were expressing their enraptured appreciation. Sahwah's sadness left her and she applauded wildly, then sighed regretfully when Veronica put the violin back into its case and announced it was time to go to bed. After they had gone upstairs and were preparing to retire, Hinpoha suddenly exclaimed in a dismayed tone: "My locket! It's gone!" "Are you sure you didn't leave it at home?" asked Nyoda. "I know I wore it," replied Hinpoha, "I remember having it on in the train. My hair caught in _it_ and I had to take it off to get it loose. Then I put it on again, and I never thought of it since." "Was it the one your mother gave you, with her picture in?" asked Migwan, sympathetically. "No," replied Hinpoha. "It was the Roman gold one Aunt Phoebe gave me for Christmas last year and I had Sahwah's picture in it, that little head she had taken when she graduated." Search was made through all of Hinpoha's belongings, in the hope that it might have dropped into some of her numerous frills, but it could not be found. "I suppose I lost it in the scramble when we got out of the train," Hinpoha sighed regretfully, "and that's the end of it. Oh, dear, will I ever learn not to be so careless with my things?" And thoroughly impatient with herself, Hinpoha marched off to bed. CHAPTER VI A SURPRISE IN STORE FOR HILLSDALE Sahwah stood in the long parlor under the portrait of Elizabeth Carver, gazing, with an expression of great respect, mingled with envy, up into the vivacious young face. The eyes in the picture gazed back just as intently at her, with a deep humorous twinkle lurking in their depths, and the red lips curving upwards at the corners in the promise of a smile seemed just about to speak. To Sahwah it did not seem to be a painting, a creation of oil on canvas, it was a real girl, Elizabeth Carver herself. She smiled back into the eyes that smiled at her, like two real girls who have just been introduced to each other and feel instinctively at the moment of introduction that they are going to like each other tremendously. Quite naturally, just as she would have done with a flesh-and-blood person, Sahwah began talking aloud. "That was a wonderfully brave thing you did, saving your lover's life that way," she said admiringly. "I wish I had known you. I think we would have been good friends. We would have had no end of fun swimming together. Could you do Trudgeon, and Australian Crawl? Or couldn't you swim? Girls didn't swim as much in your day as they do now, I believe. It's because the side stroke wasn't invented then. But you could ride horseback. I haven't done much of that, I never had a horse, but I know I could ride if I had the chance. But I can paddle a canoe, standing on the gunwales--could you do that?" Sahwah paused anxiously, as if half fearing the accomplished Colonial maid would also claim this, her most cherished attainment. But Elizabeth gave no sign that she could rival Sahwah's prowess with the canoe, and Sahwah, made affable by the knowledge of her own powers, went on graciously, "You could play on the harp, though, and of course I can't," She laid her hand on the gilt frame of the harp that stood at her side, and looked at its wires and pedals respectfully. She did not venture to play upon it, as Hinpoha had done, somehow she didn't quite dare, with Elizabeth there looking on. "You must have looked beautiful playing on it," resumed Sahwah in soft, musing tones. "No wonder the man named Paul fell in love with you. And to think you saved his life! I wish _I_ could save a man's life. Oh, wouldn't I have had the adventures, though, if I had lived in your time!" Sahwah had unconsciously clasped her hands, and stood looking up at Elizabeth with a world of envy and longing in her eyes. Voices in the room behind her brought her back to the present. She turned, and there was Hinpoha with two strange girls. "Oh, Sahwah, are you alone?" said Hinpoha in surprise. "I thought some of the rest were in here with you, I was sure I heard talking here when I came in. I want you to meet Agony and Oh-Pshaw, whose father you have already met. You remember my writing to you about the Heavenly Twins, the Wings, the famous Flying Column of the class? I was just on my way to hunt them up this morning when I met them on the street. They were just on _their_ way to hunt _us_ up. Girls, this is our Sahwah, once named Sarah Ann Brewster, but now only Sahwah the Sunfish." Sahwah came forward, radiating smiles, to meet the twins about whom she had heard so much, and grasped their hands with delighted cordiality. "Agony and Oh-Pshaw!" she exclaimed. "What delicious names!" "Oh, we have baptismal names among our goods and chattels, too," said the twin whom Sahwah held by the right hand. "They are very good names, too, in their way, even Alta and Agnes, but you're not to use them under any circumstances. You're to call us Agony and Oh-Pshaw the same as everybody does." Sahwah started at the deep, rich tones of Agony's voice. People invariably did when they heard it for the first time. It rolled and reverberated like the lowest tones of a cathedral organ. Although low-pitched and well-modulated, it had a peculiar penetrating quality, which made it carry for a surprisingly long distance. Gladys and Migwan, upstairs putting their room to rights, heard it and came rushing down into the parlor to fling themselves upon the Twins with loud cries of joy. "Agony! It's been _years_ since I've seen you!" "Gladys! I simply can't get used to going _to_ bed without shouting good-night through the transom to you!" "Hinpoha, my angel of light, come to my arms once more! Come sit on my knee and tell me all your adventures since you went home from college!" Just then Nyoda came into the room and raptures were interrupted by new introductions. "Twins!" said Nyoda delightedly. "And just alike, too! How am I going to tell you apart?" "Easy," said Agony brightly. "Oh-Pshaw's nose is a shade more classic than mine, while I have a more angelic expression." "Thank you for calling those little points to my attention," said Nyoda. "Now that you mention it I see the difference clearly. I shall never mistake one of you for the other." Nyoda's clear-seeing eye had already noted a dozen points of difference in the two girls. Both had very black hair and very blue eyes and very red lips; both had deep, vibrant voices. But Agony was more vivid than Oh-Pshaw in every way. Her hair was more brilliantly black; her eyes more sparklingly blue; her lips more glowingly carmine. The greatest point of difference was their voices. Oh-Pshaw spoke in deep, musical chest tones, but in Agony's there was an added quality of resonance, a _timbre_ unlike anything she had ever heard before. Nyoda had heard a great many kinds of voices in her years in the classroom. Also her eye detected other, subtler, differences. In Agony she read a nature impulsive, enthusiastic, brilliant, confident, fascinating; also hot-headed, strong-willed and impatient of restraint. In Oh-Pshaw she saw a less all-conquering, a more plodding nature, slower to comprehend, less ardent and with less power to influence. But if the eyes were not so sparkling they were more thoughtful, and if the red lips were set in a less bewitchingly mischievous curve there was something about their lines that told more of patience and perseverance. All this Nyoda, who was an expert judge of character, read in the faces of the two girls as she watched them with interested and friendly scrutiny. Veronica came in and Hinpoha immediately jumped up and drew her forward with an air of great ceremony. "Girls," she said impressively, "meet Lady Veronica Szathmar--er--Lehar. She's a real baroness," she added. Agony and Oh-Pshaw looked first at each other in astonishment, and then with eager interest at the slim, dark-eyed girl before them. Veronica laughed and came forward simply, cordially acknowledging the introduction. Then she turned to Hinpoha. "I thought you understood my name was just Veronica Lehar," she said reproachfully. "Of course," murmured Hinpoha, her mind on the tremendous impression her casual mention of the sonorous title had apparently made on the Twins. Then she launched into a full account of Veronica's history for their benefit. "You are a Hungarian, are you?" Agony asked Veronica, and Nyoda noticed that she drew back and her tone had become somewhat frigid. Quickly, she flung herself into the breach, and sending Veronica out to tell Hercules that Kaiser Bill was in the geranium bed, she graphically described Veronica's passionate outbreak of a few nights before and told of her intense desire to be an American. The coldness died from Agony's expressive face as she listened and when Veronica returned she treated her with sincere cordiality. Nyoda, however, still felt disturbed about Veronica. With the intense feeling of patriotism that people naturally had they would be quite likely to look askance at Veronica when they heard that she belonged to a baronial family of Hungary and her father had been a Captain in an Austrian regiment. "Veronica," she said seriously, "I don't know whether it's a wise thing for you to tell people about yourself with such perfect frankness. It's all right with us here, of course, because we understand your feelings, but you know at such a time as this there are always people who are on the lookout for sensations, and if it were generally known that you were a Hungarian girl with a title some people might misunderstand, and it might make you unhappy. I would avoid the subject of nationality as much as possible, and not speak so freely about your father's having been in the Austrian army." Thus did Nyoda endeavor to shield Veronica from further coldness and looks of suspicion such as she had seen displayed by Agony directly she heard that Veronica was an alien enemy. "I suppose it _would_ be better not to tell people about it," agreed Veronica. "No one knows that my real name isn't Lehar, outside of my uncle's family, and you," said Veronica lightly. "I've never told anyone else about it." "We haven't told anyone but Agony and Oh-Pshaw," said the Winnebagos, and promised to keep the secret inviolate. "May I ask you also to say nothing about it?" Nyoda asked the Twins. "Certainly we'll keep it to ourselves," replied Agony readily. "I think it's perfectly epic to have such a secret. We wouldn't divulge it for worlds, would we, Oh-Pshaw?" Agony chatted on gaily, entertainingly, flitting from subject to subject, and the rest listened from sheer pleasure of hearing her rich voice. "I'm _so_ glad you Winnebagos have come to town," she exclaimed jubilantly, bestowing a hug on Sahwah, who stood beside her, "you've saved our lives!" "How so?" asked Sahwah curiously. "With your help we can do it," continued Agony. "Do what?" asked Sahwah. "Beat Hillsdale," replied Agony. "Hillsdale is the next largest town to Oakwood in the county and they're trying their best to outdo us in every way. They've done it, too, in most respects. Their prep school has beaten our academy both in football and basketball for the last five years; their city baseball team beat ours every time they played; they got ahead of us in the number of men who enlisted in the army, and they outdid us in the Liberty Loan. There's nothing but rivalry all through everything. Oakwood is just wild to get ahead of Hillsdale in something. Now there's going to be a great exhibition military drill for girls held in Philadelphia the last week in August and each county is to send its prize drill company. So far Hillsdale is the only town in our county who has a company of girls drilling, and they're cocksure of getting to Philadelphia to enter the big contest. Oakwood girls haven't got the courage to get up a company. They say they'll only be beaten out by Hillsdale anyway, so what's the use? But now that you're here it'll be different. With you to start a company and carry it along we'll beat Hillsdale and her old Girl Scouts to a frazzle, I know we can. I'm so tired of hearing those Hillsdale Girl Scouts raved about. Everybody thinks they're perfectly wonderful and their own personal opinion is that there never was anything created quite as marvelous as they. Just wait until we beat them out in the drill contest! You'll get up a company of the girls here, won't you?" she pleaded eagerly. "I can get somebody to drill us if you do." "We will!" answered the Winnebagos enthusiastically, their sporting blood immediately aroused. When did the Winnebagos ever let a challenge of their supremacy go unanswered? "Oh, goody!" cried Agony. "I knew you'd do it! Oh, poor Hillsdale! Poor, poor Hillsdale!" Agony, jubilant, waved her parasol around her head wildly. "Come to dinner Friday night," she said, "and we'll work out the details. That is the last night father is to be home. There's another guest coming, an artist who has just come to town. Father met him on the train and is quite taken with him. What do you think of my father?" she wound up. "He's very grand looking, but jolly, too," said Sahwah. "Lots of people are afraid of father," Agony chatted on. "He's Assistant District Attorney in Philadelphia, you know. He is always gentle with us, but he can be very stern with people when he wants to. They say that prisoners always quail before him in the court room and that witnesses dread to be cross-examined by him. He has a way of piercing people through with his eyes that makes them lose their nerve and they always confess. He's been merciless in his prosecution of slackers and draft evaders and has made himself quite famous. There was an article about him in one of the Sunday papers recently." "_Oh!"_ murmured the Winnebagos, quite impressed. The big grandfather clock on the stairs chimed eleven and the Twins jumped up hastily. "We've got to go this minute!" exclaimed Agony. "Grandmother is not at home this morning and I left a kettleful of peas boiling on the stove. They're probably burned to cinders by this time!" Evidently the fate of the peas did not weigh very heavily on Agony's conscience, for she made her adieux leisurely, and paused frequently to look about her admiringly. This was the first time she had ever been inside of the historical old Carver House, although she had seen it many times from the outside. Uncle Jasper Carver had not been a man of sociable habits, and but few of the townspeople ever came to see him. Agony and Oh-Pshaw had only lived in Oakwood for the past four years, having been born in Philadelphia and spending their early school days there. At the death of their mother, four years before, they had come to live with their grandmother in Oakwood. The Carver house, viewed from the outside, had been a source of much curiosity and speculation when the twins, in their rambles about Oakwood in the long warm summer evenings, would walk past and stop to admire the stately old mansion set in its old-fashioned garden, and many were the schemes they talked over for gaining admittance and seeing it on the inside. And now, out of a clear sky, their beloved friends, the Winnebagos, were in full possession of the house of their dreams, and here _they_ were, free to enter as often as they chose! Dreams certainly had a delightful way of coming true, if you only waited long enough! CHAPTER VII IN THE MOONLIGHT The Wing home was an old-fashioned mansion also, and though not nearly so old or so interesting as Carver House, being very modernly furnished, it still had that unmistakable atmosphere of a house that has sheltered one of the "first families" of a town for three generations. It was also of brick, and covered almost entirely by a creeping vine; its wide verandas were embowered in clematis and honeysuckle, its smooth, velvety lawn was shaded by giant elms. Agony's grandmother was a sprightly, up-to-date old lady, as witty and wide awake as her son, and she fairly amazed the girls by her knowledge of men and affairs and by her shrewd comments on present day happenings. And she was just as much interested in the affairs of the Winnebagos as she was in the affairs of state which interested Mr. Wing, laughed heartily at the tales of their adventures and pranks and declared to Nyoda that she envied her from the bottom of her heart because she was their Guardian. Mr. Wing too took a lively interest in the girls and drew them out in conversation, listening respectfully to their remarks and often nodding approval of their ideas. Mr. Prince, the artist, was there too; he and Mr. Wing were like old friends already. He had come to Oakwood to make a series of sketches of the hills and the river for a certain outdoor-life magazine; he had taken quarters in the drowsy hotel, where he found life very dull, and he was very happy to have met Mr. Wing and the Winnebagos. He hoped they would let him accompany them on some of their hikes through the woods. The Winnebagos were charmed and agreed they had never met such a delightful man. They couldn't agree as to whether he was young or old and finally came to the decision that he was middle-aged, for to eighteen anything above thirty is middle-aged. Eugene Prince was thirty-five. As the dinner progressed Nyoda noticed that Mr. Wing often looked long and keenly at Veronica, and she wondered just what was in his mind. Veronica's looks, her accent and her expressions set her conspicuously apart from the other girls. She also noticed that Mr. Prince was watching Veronica closely. Mr. Wing's curiosity concerning her was plainly written on his face, and finally he asked, "You are not an American, are you?" "Indeed I am!" replied Veronica emphatically. Mr. Wing looked surprised. "But you were not born in America?" he amended. "No," replied Veronica with a sigh. "I was born in Hungary. But," she added brightly, "_I'm_ here _now_, and that's enough. My uncle is an American citizen, and I'm going to be one when the war is over, but I'm an American girl already. I won't be more of one when I'm a real citizen than I am now." Mr. Wing smiled at her ardor and remarked, "I wish everybody who came to these shores from other countries was as anxious to be a real American as you are." Sahwah happened to be looking at Mr. Prince while Veronica was speaking and it seemed to her that he smiled very skeptically at her words. "He doesn't believe her!" said Sahwah hotly to herself and filled up with angry resentment at him as he continued to watch Veronica narrowly. The conversation passed on to other subjects and Nyoda breathed an inward sigh of relief. It always made her uneasy when people began to wonder about Veronica. Agony was talking animatedly about the coming drill contest and Mr. Wing was listening with smiling approval. "Good for you!" he exclaimed to the Winnebagos. "So the honor of Oakwood is to be vindicated at last! Camp Fire Girls to the rescue! Hurrah! I tell you, girls," he said enthusiastically, "if you can put it over and beat Hillsdale I'll give you each----" Here he paused and cast about in his mind for a suitable reward for such a distinguished service--"I'll give you each--no, I'll take you all on a trip to Washington, and personally conduct you into all the places where you never could get in by yourselves!" "Oh!" shrieked Agony and Oh-Pshaw simultaneously, and "Oh!" echoed the Winnebagos in rapture. "Sing a cheer to Mr. Wing!" cried Sahwah, and the others complied with a vigor that made the dishes ring: "You're the B-E-S-T, best, Of all the R-E-S-T, rest, Oh, I love you, I love you all the T-I-M-E, time! If you'll be M-I-N-E, mine, I'll be T-H-I-N-E, thine, Oh, I love you, I love you all the T-I-M-E, time!" Mr. Wing bowed in acknowledgment of the cheer and his smile showed how much it had pleased him. "Great time you'll have drilling, with those heels of yours," he said teasingly. "I wish I could be there to see." "Father!" exclaimed Agony reproachfully, "do you think for a minute we'd do military drill with these shoes on?" "But, Father," said Oh-Pshaw eagerly, "don't you really wish you _could_ be there to see? I wish you could stay home awhile and play with us as you used to. Can't you? Do you _have_ to go back to Philadelphia?" Mr. Wing looked a little wistful, but he answered chafingly, "Wouldn't that be a great thing to do just now in the middle of one of the greatest cases in my career?" "Oh, tell us about it," cried Agony eagerly. Agony was perfectly well aware of the fact that her father would never tell anything at home that was not also given out to the newspapers, but she liked to hear him tell that little in his own way. "It's the Arnold Atterbury case,--you've read about it in the newspapers--the man who has been organizing strikes in the big munition plants," replied Mr. Wing. "We know he was only a tool in the hands of some powerful German agency, but who or what it is we do not know. But we mean to find out!" he added in a tone which gave a hint of the stern determination of his character. "We will track down those enemy influences like foxes to their holes!" His voice thundered out like the voice of judgment. "Amen to that!" exclaimed the artist fervently, and, seizing his water glass from beside his plate, he sprang to his feet and raised it high in the air. "Let's have a toast!" he cried. "Drink success to our cause and defeat to the enemy!" The rest were on their feet in an instant, clinking Grandmother Wing's etched tumblers across the table and drinking the toast with all their hearts. That little incident put patriotic fervor into all of them and the evening was filled with animated discussions and hearty singing of war songs. Migwan declared on the way home that Mr. Wing was the most charming man she had ever met. Hinpoha thought the artist was even more charming and hoped they would meet him often. Sahwah said nothing. She could not forget that the artist had seemed to doubt Veronica's sincerity, and it made her angry and she refused to acknowledge his fascinations. She walked close beside Veronica and linked arms with her as she walked. Sahwah's feelings toward Veronica were crystallizing daily into a deep affection. In the old days she had not been moved by any great feeling of affection for her; she pitied her along with the rest and enjoyed her society after a fashion, but she stood not a little in awe of her mercurial temperament and her aristocratic ways, and much preferred the friendship of the simple, dispassionate Winnebagos. But now that she and Veronica had met after a year's separation, Sahwah suddenly realized that the dark-eyed, temperamental little Hungarian girl had an irresistible fascination for her; that her heart had gone out to her completely. Sahwah was by nature cool and unemotional, and not given to those sudden flares of friendship with which so many girls are constantly being consumed, which burn brilliantly for a short season and them go out of their own accord; it usually took a long time to kindle a friendship with her. Sahwah herself could not understand her sudden, fierce, almost motherly love for Veronica. It had not been of gradual growth like her other friendships; it had been born all in an instant that first night of her arrival at Carver House, when Veronica had played and through Sahwah's heart there had gone a strange thrill of sadness, a yearning for something which she could not understand. From that time on Sahwah could hardly bear to have Veronica out of her sight; she wanted to be with her all day long; she was filled with a desire to protect her, to mother her, to caress her, to make her great dark eyes light with laughter, to go off alone with her, to discuss with her in private confidences the momentous affairs of girlhood. Sahwah's soul was being strangely stirred in many ways these last few days. A queer restlessness had taken possession of her, totally foreign to her old tranquil, composed state of mind. Unexplainedly she found herself growing moody and dreamy; at times she had a curious feeling of having just experienced something, but what it was she could not remember; her mind went groping in its subconscious self for something which constantly eluded it, her heart-- "Went crooning a low song it could not learn, But wandered over it, as one who gropes For a forgotten chord upon a lyre." At times she was filled with a great sadness, a poignant world-sorrow; at times with an indescribable exaltation, a longing to burst forth into triumphant song and tell the whole world of her gladness. Without knowing why or wherefore, she was vaguely conscious that in some way she was different from what she was before she came to Carver House, and she also knew that things would never be just as they were before. Somehow or other the focus had changed, a corner had been turned. Equally unexplainable was the way in which these strange moods, these dim flashes, were subtly bound up with Veronica. It was Veronica that seemed to inspire these feelings, and similarly, it was these feelings that seemed to draw her to Veronica. Sahwah had never bothered her head about Destiny, that strange power that moves us about at will, like chessmen, and who, laying her hand upon us, makes our ways cross and intertwine themselves to work out her purposes; she only knew that in some way she was changing, and that her heart had gone out in a great flood of affection for Veronica Lehar. Her very dreams, too, were filled with this strange new unrest, and she was continually wakeful at night--she who in former days fell asleep the instant her head touched the pillow, and enjoyed eight hours' dreamless slumber as regularly as clock-work. It was the same again to-night. After several hours of fitful dreaming, Sahwah wakened, and in her half-consciousness there lingered an impression of eyes staring intently at her and a dream of being back in the railway train on the way to Nyoda's. The spell of the dream left her and she lay awake a long time, unaccountably happy, mysteriously sad, and with no desire to sleep. Through the wide open window the moon poured in the fullness of its late glory and by and by Sahwah slipped from her bed and went over to the window, and, leaning her arms on the sill, sat looking out on the magic world. Below her the garden lay bathed in silver, with intense velvety black shadows, with only the faintest sigh of a breeze stirring the leaves. Far across in the valley she could see the roofs of the town shining white in the moonlight, and they seemed to be part of a magic city in which she now dwelt, far more real than the daytime town of familiar things. For a long time she leaned out over the sill, rapt and dreaming, unconscious of time, forgetful of the companions of her days, intoxicated by the moonlight until her blood raced madly through her veins and she was filled with an intense desire to go out and dance in the garden and flit in and out among the trees like a moon sprite. Then, without warning, the strange, whimsical mood passed, and Sahwah was her old self again, the old alert, wide-awake self of former days, staring with concentrated attention at a figure which was moving rapidly through the garden. It had come from around the side of the house and was going toward the stable. Fully wide awake, Sahwah leaned farther over the sill and watched. The figure emerged from the great shadows of the elm trees into the glaring moonlight. With a start of surprise Sahwah saw that it was Veronica, fully dressed and with a cloak thrown about her shoulders. Before Sahwah had recovered herself sufficiently to call to her, Veronica had passed through the gate into the stable yard and was lost in the shadows of the high barn. "Whatever can she want out there?" thought Sahwah, with visions of Kaiser Bill loose and on a rampage. But there were no disturbing sounds anywhere; Kaiser Bill was not out. Veronica did not go into the barn; she went around behind it and struck into the path that led down the hill to the carriage road below. The path was bathed in moonlight for a good part of its length; Veronica was plainly visible as she ran lightly along, and Sahwah watched wonderingly. Sahwah was very far sighted, and constant practice in focusing on distant objects enabled her to distinguish plainly things quite far away. Down at the bottom of the hill, where the path met the road, Sahwah saw Veronica come to a standstill and look about her for a few moments; then a man appeared in the road and together he and Veronica moved forward and vanished into the shadows that lay beyond. Wondering, Sahwah stared after them, and as she looked a great, nameless dread took possession of her, and she experienced exactly the same peculiar sensation she had felt in the train coming down, a feeling of prescience and foreboding, of brooding evil. It gripped her heart with cold hands and she changed her intention of going to Nyoda's room and asking what was the matter with Veronica. Suddenly she felt that Nyoda would not know. All her heart cried out in love and loyalty to Veronica. The others must not find out what she had seen to-night. Veronica had simply gone out to take a walk in the moonlight; possibly she had a headache or was unable to sleep. It was a trick of the eyes that she had thought someone had been with her in the road; the distance and the waving shadows had deceived her. Why shouldn't Veronica steal out quietly and go for a walk if she wanted to? What time was it, anyway, eleven? Twelve? Sahwah switched on the light and looked at her watch. It was half past two. She shivered as the freshening breeze came in through the window and became conscious that her bare feet were cold on the polished floor. She jumped into bed to get warm, intending to get up again and watch until Veronica returned, but the warmth of the bed sent a delicious languor through her limbs; she yawned once, twice; her eyes began to ache in the moonlight and she closed them to shut it out. Presently she opened them again and there was the sun shining in on the bed. Moonlight and all its spells had fled. Had she dreamed that about Veronica last night? Resolutely she sprang from bed and tiptoed down the hall to Veronica's door. The tall clock on the stair landing showed a quarter to six. The door was half ajar and she peeped in. Veronica was in bed, sound asleep, her long lashes sweeping her ruddy cheek, her lips curved in a smile, like a baby's. Her clothes were on the chair beside the bed, and they did not look as if they had been disturbed in the night. Sahwah laughed in relief and the fear went out of her heart. "I dreamed it," she said to herself, and went back to bed for another nap before six o'clock, which was the official rising hour at Carver House. CHAPTER VIII SQUADS LEFT "M-a-r-r-k t-i-m-e, m-a-h-k!" Sixteen pairs of feet rose and fell with a soft thudding rhythm on the hard dirt road. "One--two--three--four! One--two--three--four! F-or-r-r-d _H'n-c-h!"_ The double line of fours wavered for a moment and then strode forward uncertainly, some on the left foot, some on the right. "HALT!" shouted the drill sergeant in a voice bristling with disgust. The company halted. "What does 'Forward _Hunch_' mean?" whispered Hinpoha to Sahwah, who stood beside her. Sahwah shook her head. "No talking in the ranks!" came the stern order from up front. Hinpoha subsided. "R-r-r-i-g-h-t D-r-r-e-s-s!" Heads whirled to the right as though turned by a single screw, and bent-up left elbows pressed stiffly into neighboring ribs. "F-r-r-o-n-t!" Heads whirled back and arms straightened out at sides as though released by a spring. "R-r-i-g-h-t D-r-e-s-s!" Heads and arms repeated their swift motions. "Hold it! _Hold_ it!" rasped the voice. "Who said _'Front?'_ Here, Redhead!" Hinpoha hastily resumed the position she had abandoned too soon. "Now, FRONT! Again, RIGHT DRESS! FRONT! R-r-r-e-a-d-y! M-a-r-r-k t-i-m-e, M-a-h-k! One-two-three-four! F-or-r-d HUNCH! Wake _up_ there, Redhead!" Hinpoha jumped and caught pace with the rest of her squad, who were several steps ahead, and then it dawned on her that "F-o-r-r-r-d Hunch!" must mean "Forward March!" "One-two-three-four! Left! Left! Left! Left! You with the plaid tie, get in step!" Migwan shuffled her feet and fell into rhythm. "One-two-three-four!" The drill sergeant rapped out a jarringly emphatic accent against a tree with her staff. She was a college gymnasium teacher home on her summer vacation; her name was Miss Raper. She had a tremendous reputation for rigid discipline in her classes. She had been trained in military drilling by an army drill officer and had acquired all his mannerisms, from the way of shouting his orders in such a way that it was next to impossible to understand them, to his merciless habit of calling out by name every one who made the slightest error. "HALT! GUIDE RIGHT! Head to the front, there, Black Eyes! R-r-e-a-d-y! LEFT WHEEL!" The squads wheeled in decidedly shaky order. "Again! LEFT WHEEL! Hold your pivot there! _H-o-l-d y-o-u-r p-i-v-o-t!_ Stand still, you Redhead, and wheel in place! Again! Left Wheel!" So the endless tramp, tramp, tramp, tramp went on under the blistering July sun; the squads perspired and panted, muscles ached from the continued exertion and heels began to feel as though pounded to pulp from the violence with which they marked the accent. But never a word of complaint did anyone breathe. They gloried in their discomfort. For this hot dusty road over which they toiled and perspired so was the road to glory, the avenue down which the girls of Oakwood, led by the Winnebagos, would march to triumph over their sworn rivals, the Hillsdale-ites. Agony had gone through the town and picked out the most promising girls, whom, with the addition of the Winnebagos, she formed into a company. They drilled for an hour every morning with Miss Raper in the wide dirt road that ran along the foot of the hill behind Carver House. The hour drew to a close with a final strenuous series of left and right wheels and the Winnebagos sought the shade of the trees along the roadside and fanned themselves with leaves. "How did we do to-day, Miss Raper?" inquired Agony, as the drill sergeant prepared to depart. "I congratulate you," replied Miss Raper with sarcastic wit. "I never saw it done worse." The company recognized the fact that it was a tactical error to try to draw any praises to themselves from Miss Raper. Yet they did not consider themselves abused, nor did they harbor any hard feelings toward her on account of her sharp tongue. They realized that she was a "crackerjack" trainer, and for the sake of winning that contest they were willing to endure her caustic comments meekly. "I'll never get left and right wheel correctly," sighed Oh-Pshaw with a discouraged air. "No matter which one she says, I always go in the opposite direction. I get so fussed when she looks at me that I can't tell my left foot from my right." "Never mind, you'll get it in time," said Migwan soothingly. "I had the same trouble at first, but I'm getting sort of used to her now." "I'm awfully stupid about things like that," mourned Oh-Pshaw, "and I'm afraid I'll never get over getting fussed. I never _could_ stand up in front of anybody and perform; the minute I see people looking at me I forget everything I know and stand there like a dummy." "Cheer up, child," said Migwan, "it isn't nearly as bad as you make out. Just think of the command and forget all about yourself and Miss Raper and then you'll get it right every time." "I hope so," said Oh-Pshaw with a sigh. "You'll _have_ to get over it," said Agony emphatically. "If you make any mistakes on the night of the contest--!" Agony's voice hinted at the awful consequences which would follow such a misdemeanor. "She isn't going to make any mistakes the night of the contest," said Migwan, putting her arm through Oh-Pshaw's and starting off toward Carver House. The rest sauntered after them in twos and threes, practising drill steps as they went. Sahwah slipped her arm through Veronica's. "Let's go over into the woods awhile before lunch," she said, "just us two." Veronica came willingly and together they struck into the shady wood path, flecked here and there with irregular patches of sunlight which filtered through the branches above them. It was a pleasant place, this strip of woods crowning a gently rolling hill behind the town. Fallen logs thickly upholstered with moss made delightful sofas especially designed for friends to sit upon and exchange confidences. Veronica and Sahwah often came here on their walks. Veronica was in a merry mood to-day and danced gaily down the path in pursuit of butterflies; waved her hands and called out gay greetings to the squirrels and chipmunks, and constantly exclaimed aloud in wonder and delight at some bit of brilliant orange-colored fungus, or some bright flower that greeted her eyes. Sahwah was more quiet, and there was a sober look in her eyes. Her mind was filled with perplexity, and her heart with foreboding, and the cause was Veronica. The mystery that seemed to be hovering over her head had not been dispelled as the days went on; on the contrary, it had been deepened. Several more times Sahwah had seen her slipping out of the house at dead of night and an incident had occurred several days before which Sahwah was not able to put out of her mind. Sahwah was behind the big carved settle in the hall, fishing for a bead that had rolled underneath, when the telephone rang. The telephone was in the hall, at the other end near the dining-room door. Sahwah sighed, thinking she would have to crawl out and answer it, because Nyoda and the girls were all out in the yard working among the vegetables, but just then she heard Veronica answer the call, and went on placidly feeling for her bead. Near to the telephone as she was, she could not help hearing every word Veronica said. Instead of the "Mrs. Sheridan is in the garden, I will call her," that Sahwah had expected to hear. Veronica had answered, "This is Veronica talking. Yes, I can. I will come immediately. The coast is clear. No one is in the house just now and I can slip away without rousing any suspicions." Then Sahwah heard her hang up the receiver and pass out of the hall. Sahwah sat up quickly and bumped her head sharply on the back of the settle. Then, as the significance of the conversation she had just overheard sank into her mind she remembered Veronica's mysterious nocturnal errands, and it came to her in a startled flash that Veronica was carrying on something which was a secret from the others--was stealing away from the house to meet someone. She sprang out from behind the settle, not knowing what she intended to do, but bent on seeing where Veronica went. The hall was empty; Veronica was not there. Sahwah darted to the front door, expecting to see Veronica going down the walk to the street, but there was no sign of her. The street lay clear in the sunshine for its whole length down the hill; there was not a soul in it. Veronica could not have gone out the front way. Neither could she have gone out the back way, because the vegetable garden came up close to the kitchen door, and there Nyoda and the Winnebagos, including Agony and Oh-Pshaw, were working. Veronica must still be in the house. Sahwah went back in and looked through all the rooms for her, upstairs and down, but she was nowhere to be found. Sahwah sat down on the lowest step of the stairway and thought, and thought, and a great dread came over her and would not be beaten back, a dread of something nameless and undefined, a sinister something that hovered over her with great dark wings, like the Thunder Bird. In an agony of love and sorrow Sahwah faced the fact which her prophetic soul, in its new insight, told her, even while her loyal heart tried to stop the whisper with a resolute hand. Veronica had been caught in the toils of enemy agents, and was in some way having dealings with them. Sahwah's heart turned to water within her, and the strength went from her knees so that she could not stand up. Veronica, one of the Winnebagos! It was too horrible to believe! She couldn't believe it! She _wouldn't_ believe it! Her loyal heart stood up firmly to her prophetic soul and shouted defiant denials at its insinuating whispers. No, no! Veronica was not deceiving them; she was the sincere, true-hearted girl they thought her, and she was as loyal to America as they were. There must be some explanation for her mysterious actions; it would all come out in time. She would be true to Veronica and keep what she knew to herself, until she found out the truth. She would never let Veronica know that she suspected her, never. All her love for Veronica came over her in a rush and scattered to flight the dark suspicions. A call from the garden broke on her ear. "Sahwah! Oh, Sahwah! Where are you?" "Here," she answered, appearing at the back door. "Where have you been?" called Hinpoha. "We've been calling and calling for you. Come look at the robin trying to swallow the enormous angle worm twice as big as himself!" Sahwah went out, trying to look perfectly natural, and feeling as though her secret were written on her face in letters a foot high. She looked at the girls closely, to see if by any chance Veronica were among them, but she was not. "Where's Veronica?" she asked in a voice which she hoped sounded idle and casual. "Gone up to her room to lie down a while," replied Nyoda. "She got a headache from the sun. She asked to be left undisturbed until dinner time." ("Oh, if she only _were_ in her room," thought poor Sahwah!) "Come on and help pick raspberries," said Nyoda. "We miss your nimble fingers." So Sahwah fell to work among the bushes, absently stripping off the luscious red globes into the baskets, but her mind was far away and she took little part in the gay talk that went on around her. By and by, when the berries were all picked, Migwan said: "Let's make a basket of leaves and fill it with some of the largest berries and take it to Veronica." Sahwah's heart bounded painfully. "Let me take it up," she begged. "All right," replied Migwan. "The rest of us are going to walk over with Agony and Oh-Pshaw while they take their berries home." The rest went out of the front gate and Sahwah, not knowing what else to do, went upstairs to Veronica's room, carrying the berries. She planned to leave them on Veronica's dresser as a surprise for her when she should return, and then sit in her own room and read until dinner time. Thinking Veronica's room was empty she went right in without knocking. Then she paused in astonishment, for there on the bed lay Veronica, with a wet towel tied around her head and her forehead drawn up into painful headache lines. Sahwah nearly dropped the berries on the floor in her surprise, but recovered herself with an effort and approached the bed. Veronica opened her eyes and smiled when she saw Sahwah. Sahwah, unable to think of a thing to say, held out the berries silently, and Veronica exclaimed in delight: "You dear thing," she said, taking the dainty basket in one hand and catching hold of Sahwah's hand with the other. "You're so good to me," she whispered, squeezing the hand she held and looking up at Sahwah with wide-open, candid eyes. "Come, sit on my bed, and make my headache go away, like you did once before." Sahwah sat down beside her and smoothed her throbbing forehead with light, soothing fingers that had a magic power to charm away aches and pains. As she worked over Veronica and caught the sweet, straightforward glances from her eyes all her doubts concerning her vanished, and in their place there came uncertainty as to whether she herself had not been suffering under a delusion that afternoon. Had she really heard the telephone ring and Veronica answer it? Had hearing played some bizarre trick on her? She seemed to be perfectly awake and in her right mind in other respects. The girls had evidently not noticed anything peculiar about her actions when she came out of the house, not even Nyoda, the sharp sighted. Clearly she had not been walking in her sleep. She had certainly heard the telephone ring; she had certainly heard Veronica answer it. She had understood every word she had said perfectly; the hall had been absolutely still. And yet--she had not heard Veronica go out of either door! She remembered that distinctly, but her first impulse had been to wait until Veronica had gone out of the front door and then look after her. It was impossible not to have heard the front door open; one hinge was rusty and it emitted a dismal squeak every time the door opened. But if she had gone out of the back door the others would have seen her and would not have said that she was upstairs in her room. That was the point which made Sahwah doubt her own memory. Veronica had not left the house; she must have gone right upstairs. And she must have said something else through the telephone and Sahwah's ears had played her a trick. It was easy to have missed her in her search through the big house; Sahwah had merely run into one room after another, given a hasty glance around and then run on to the next. Sahwah smoothed the brown satiny forehead lovingly, and laughed at herself for a suspicious idiot. And yet, the occurrence would not go from her mind, and she wakened in the night to think about it hour after hour and when she did sleep she was oppressed with a constant feeling of uneasiness, and woke again and again with that sense of groping after something that had just occurred, but which had escaped her utterly. Then the next morning her doubts all vanished once more when the Winnebagos assembled on the front lawn for flag raising, and Veronica, whose turn it was to hoist the Stars and Stripes, stepped out with shining eyes, and with loving hands fastened the flag of her adopted country to the waiting halyard, carefully keeping it from touching the ground, and with an attitude both proud and humble sent it fluttering to the top of the pole. Then she joined in the singing of the "Star Spangled Banner" with all her soul in her voice. Clearly her actions told more eloquently than any passionate words her love and reverence for that flag and all it symbolized. No, it could not be possible that she could be connected with anything that aimed to harm it. And yet--that very night Sahwah had seen Veronica leaving the house after midnight when the rest were all asleep, and going down the hill behind the barn, and at the sight Sahwah had experienced that same indescribable chill of fear that she had felt in the train; a peculiar sense of hovering danger; a sensation which she could never clearly define while it lasted nor describe afterwards. She still kept the secret, but it haunted her day and night and tormented her with its thousand possibilities. At last it seemed as if she could endure it no longer without an explanation of some kind and she made up her mind to ask Veronica about it. For this end she had asked her to come into the woods to-day. But the sight of Veronica, skipping gaily before her along the path, whistling to the birds, calling the squirrels, whispering affectionate words to the shy flowers, made her fears seem ridiculous, and her resolution wavered and threatened to crumble. There was not a shadow on Veronica's brow, not a glint of furtiveness in her eye, nowhere a hint of any secret knowledge or subdued excitement. Her eyes met Sahwah's with candid directness, her laughter was spontaneous and not forced; she was neither paler than usual nor more flushed. How perfectly absurd to connect this happy-hearted girl with anything suspicious! And yet--Sahwah knew now beyond a doubt that she had not been dreaming when she saw Veronica leave the house at night, and there was still that strange conversation over the telephone. Sahwah slackened her pace and rubbed her ankles together, a gesture which in her denoted intensely concentrated thought. Veronica looked back to see where she was and came back to her, slipping her arm around her waist and hugging her in an ecstasy of girlish delight, born of the beautiful weather and the release from strenuous military drill. "Oh, look at the darling old stump!" she exclaimed. "Why, it must be _miles_ across! Think what a tree that must have been! See, it has a sort of step up and then a broad seat, just like a throne. Come on, let's climb up and pretend we're queens." She climbed up on the stump and drew Sahwah up after her. "Why are you so quiet?" she asked finally, twisting her head and looking around into Sahwah's face. "Have you a headache? The sun was so hot out there in the road where we were drilling, and the glare was so blinding." "No, I haven't a headache," replied Sahwah slowly. "A toothache, maybe?" suggested Veronica in a playful voice in which there was a dash of concern. It was unusual indeed for Sahwah to lose her animation. "No, it isn't a toothache," replied Sahwah. "It's just something I've been trying to figure out, that's all." "Can I help you figure it out?" asked Veronica eagerly. "Veronica," began Sahwah, striving to speak in an offhand manner, "if--if you had a friend that you loved and that friend did something that you couldn't understand and which seemed very strange and even suspicious to you, what would you do?" Veronica's eyes took on a thoughtful, far-away look, but they met Sahwah's squarely. "If I loved that friend very much," she replied slowly, "and had always trusted her before, I would say to myself, 'This is my friend whom I love and trust I don't understand what she is doing, but I won't permit myself to have any doubts about her now. I will have faith that she is doing nothing wrong. I will wait patiently and see what happens further, and very likely the matter will soon be explained to my satisfaction,'" "But," continued Sahwah, slowly and with an evident effort, "supposing you _had_ done that, had refused to have any doubts concerning your friend and had waited patiently, trusting that it was all right, but things had not been explained to your satisfaction, and other things had happened, things still stranger and more suspicious?" To Sahwah, watching intently, it seemed that Veronica's large luminous eyes had suddenly filmed over like an animal's in pain, but she answered naturally, in her calm, sweet voice, "Then, if I really loved that friend, and was afraid my suspicions were going to injure our friendship, I would go to her and tell her what I had heard and seen and ask her for an explanation." Sahwah was silent for a moment, seemingly engaged in some inward struggle with herself. Then she cleared her throat nervously and moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. "Veronica," she burst out desperately, "why did you go out of the house in the middle of the night on several occasions, and whom were you talking to on the telephone that day when you said to someone that you could slip out at that time without arousing any suspicions?" Veronica started painfully and stared at Sahwah in amazement, and Sahwah fancied she saw a great terror leap up in her eyes. Veronica looked at her a moment, the expression of astonishment frozen on her face, and then to Sahwah's great bewilderment she laughed aloud, a genuine, mirthful, unforced, ringing laugh. "Sahwah dear," she said, looking her straight in the eye, "it's perfectly true, all that you said. I did go out of the house in the middle of the night, and I did say just exactly what you said you heard me say over the telephone. But as for the explanation, I can't give it now. It may be that you will never find out. It is not my secret, and I cannot tell it, even to clear away any suspicions you may have regarding it." Sahwah gazed at her uncertainly, going over in her mind the unexpected effect her words had had upon Veronica, and the mysterious thing she had said in reply. They had both stepped off the throne and stood facing each other in the path. Veronica came up close to Sahwah and slipped a hand around each of her elbows and squeezed them, her favorite caress. "Sahwah, dear," she said soberly, while the hurt animal look came back into her eyes, "you wouldn't want me to tell you my secret, would you, dear? I wouldn't want you to tell me yours, if you had one." Sahwah felt rebuked and abashed, and very, very sorry. Her love for Veronica flamed higher than ever; all doubts concerning her vanished for good; she hugged and caressed her and begged to be forgiven for her foolishness, and with arms tightly entwined the two went blithely down the path. CHAPTER IX THE BABES IN THE WOODS Arm in arm Sahwah and Veronica wandered on through the woods farther and farther away from the Oakwood side. They crossed the brow of the hill and descended to the valley on the other side. There they found a merry little stream which tumbled along with frequent cataracts over mossy rocks, and followed its course, often stopping to dip their hands in the bright water and let the drops flow through their fingers. "I'd love to be a brook," said Sahwah longingly, "and go splashing and singing along over the smooth stones, and jump down off the high rocks, and catch the sunlight in my ripples, and have lovely silvery fishes swimming around in me. I'd sing them all to sleep every night, and wake them up in the morning with a kiss, and never, never let anyone catch them!" "You love the water better than anything else, don't you?" said Veronica, looking at Sahwah and thinking how much like the brook she was herself. "Oh, I do, I do," said Sahwah, taking off her shoes and stockings and wading into the limpid stream. Soon she was dancing in the water, frolicking like a nixie, catching the water up in her hands and tossing it into the air and then darting out from beneath it before it could fall upon her. Veronica laughed and clapped her hands as she watched Sahwah, and wished she were an artist that she might paint the picture. Finally they came to a place where the little stream poured down over a high rock and ran through a broad gully, widening into a great pond in the natural basin, which was like a huge bowl scooped out of rock. "This must be the place they call the Devil's Punch Bowl that Nyoda told us about," said Sahwah. "See, it looks just like a punch bowl." "I wonder if it's very deep," said Veronica, peering into the water from a safe distance away from the edge. "Shall I dive in and find out?" asked Sahwah. "Oh, don't, don't," said Veronica, catching hold of her arm. "Don't worry, you precious old goosie," said Sahwah, laughing. "I didn't mean _really_. I was only in fun. Did you think I was going in with my clothes on? It must be deep, though, or the Indian couldn't have jumped in. That must be the rock up there he jumped from," she said, indicating a flat, platform-like rock that overhung the gully some forty feet above their heads. "Don't you remember Nyoda telling about it; how the soldiers were chasing this Indian and he got out on that rock and dove down into the Punch Bowl and swam under water and they never thought of looking down there for him?" Both looked at the rock jutting out over the water, and shuddered at the height of the drop. At the far side of the gully the pond became a brook again and flowed on in a narrow channel the same as before. The woods were denser on this side of the gully and there was less sunlight filtering down through the branches. Several times they came upon clusters of fragile, pale Indian pipes growing out of wet, decayed stumps. "Oh, it's nice here," breathed Veronica, revelling in the coolness. "'This is the forest primeval,'" quoted Sahwah, "'The murmuring pines and the hemlocks--'" "Only they aren't murmuring pines and hemlocks," she finished. "They're mostly oaks and beeches." "It isn't the primeval forest, either," said Veronica. "There's a tent over there between the trees." "Gracious!" exclaimed Sahwah, "and here am I, coming along with my shoes and stockings in my hand!" She sat down hastily and put on her foot-gear. The tent stood quite close to the brook path and when they were nearly up to it they heard, coming from around the other side of it, a sound of vigorous splashing, punctuated by protesting squawks. Involuntarily the two girls stood still and listened. Above the squawking rose a voice. "'Curse on him,' quote false Sextus, 'will not the villain drown?'" it declaimed dramatically. Then in a moment the splashes and squawks increased to an uproar, and then around the corner of the tent there came a chicken in full flight, its leathers dripping with water, in spite of which it made amazingly fast time. After the chicken came a balloon-like figure in a sky-blue bathrobe, uttering breathless grunts which were evidently intended to be peremptory commands to the chicken to halt its flight. At the sight of the two girls standing in the path the bath-robed pursuer fell back in astonishment. "'What noble Lucumo comes next to taste our Roman cheer?'" he exclaimed with a dramatic wave of the hand. Then he stood transfixed, the gesture frozen in mid-air. "Sahwah!" he gasped. "Veronica! where in the world----" The girls started forward with unbelieving eyes. "Slim!" cried Sahwah. "What are you doing here?" "Tenting on the Old Camp Ground," replied Slim, holding his voluminous bathrobe primly around him with one hand to cover the bathing suit which he wore under it, and shaking hands vigorously with the other. Then, making a trumpet of his hands, he called loudly, "Captain, oh, Captain, come here quick!" There was an upheaval inside the tent and the sound of something falling, and in a moment a second youth appeared around the corner of the tent, clad in khaki trousers and a blue and white blazer. "What's the matter?" he asked in alarm. Then he saw the girls and threw up his hands in amazement. "For the love of Mike!" he exclaimed elegantly. "Captain!" cried Sahwah. Rapturous greetings followed. "Of all things," said Sahwah, "to run across you two in the woods like this! What on earth are you doing here? We thought you were doing some summer work at your college." "We are," replied the Captain, looking from one to the other of the girls with a face beaming with delight at the unexpected meeting. "We're making a survey of different parts of the state--it's part of our course--and incidentally we're compiling certain statistics for the government." "Oh!" said the two girls respectfully. "But what, if I might make so bold as to ask," said the Captain, "are _you_ two doing here in the wet, wild woods, all by your wild lone?" Sahwah explained and extended a cordial invitation for the two boys to come to Carver House whenever they had time. "Is Hinpoha there?" asked Slim and the Captain simultaneously. "She certainly is," replied Sahwah. Slim squinted critically down his nose at his tub-like form. "Do you think I've gotten any thinner?" he asked anxiously. Sahwah scrutinized, him closely for signs of reduction and decided he _might_ possibly be half a pound thinner than when she saw him last. Slim sighed and looked pensive and Sahwah had hard work to keep her face straight. "But what on earth was all that racket as we came up?" she asked, unable to restrain her curiosity on that point any longer. "What were you chasing the chicken for?" Slim's eye roved regretfully back toward the trees among which the chicken had vanished, and the Captain answered for him. "You see," he exclaimed, "today is Slim's birthday and we were going to celebrate by having a chicken dinner. So Slim went out to buy a chicken and came back with a live one. Then he didn't have the heart to chop its head off, and was trying to drown it in a barrel of water when you came up. By the way, Slim, where is it now?" Slim pointed to the bushes with an expression of chagrin on his fat face. "It's gone," he said with a sigh of regret. "A dollar and eighty-seven cents' worth of chicken stew running loose on the landscape." "But it wasn't the nerve I lacked to chop its head off," he added, looking reproachfully at the Captain. "It was the hatchet. You see," he explained, "we didn't exactly come prepared to catch our meals on the hoof, so to speak, and all I had to chop his head off with was the can-opener on my pocket knife, and that wouldn't work, so I _had_ to drown him." "Oh, you funny boys!" said Sahwah, laughing uncontrollably. "I think you might have helped me hold him down," said Slim to the Captain in an injured tone. "I couldn't," replied the Captain gravely. "The butter got overcome with the heat and I was reviving it with a fan." "Oh, you babes in the woods, you!" said Sahwah, with another burst of laughter. "You must be having the time of your lives." "We are," replied the Captain. "Won't you stay to dinner? There isn't anything to eat but a can of tomato soup, but you're welcome to that." "Oh, we hadn't better," replied Sahwah, "they will be wondering at home what has become of us, and besides, it would make too much trouble for you." "Too much trouble!" snorted the Captain. "That's just like a girl. As if a girl ever cared how much trouble she made for a fellow! Come on and stay, we want you. We're lonesome." Thus pressed, the girls accepted the invitation, and pretty soon they were all sitting in a circle under the trees with cups and spoons in their hands, and the Captain was singing at the top of his voice: "Glorious, glorious, One can of soup for the four of us, Praises be, there are no more of us, For the four of us can drink it all alone!" Lunch over, they exchanged gossip under the trees for a merry half hour, then the girls took their departure and sped homeward to carry the news to Carver House. CHAPTER X THE OPENING CAREER OF MANY EYES "Good morning, Winnebago friends, With your faces as bright as mine, Good morning, Winnebago friends, You're surely looking fine, Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust, If the pancakes don't get you the syrup must Good morning, Winnebago friends, With your faces as bright as, Your faces as bright as, Your faces as bright as mine!" The Winnebagos, happy and hungry, gathered around the breakfast table in answer to the summons which Hinpoha had just sent echoing through the house. With the advent of the Winnebagos at Carver House, Nyoda's melodiously chiming Japanese dinner gong had been discarded in favor of a hoarse-throated fish horn, which bore some similarity to the sound of a bugle and was therefore to be preferred because it had more of a military flavor. "Where's Sahwah?" asked Nyoda, noticing that her place was vacant Nobody knew. Hinpoha blew a second blast of the horn up the stairway, making a noise that would have waked the Seven Sleepers with ease, but there was no answer. "Sahwah must be out taking a morning walk," announced Hinpoha, when her horn blast had failed to rout out the absentee, "she's forever exercising herself in the early morning hours--as if we didn't get enough exercise doing military drill! It's no wonder she's like a beanpole. I would be, too, if I was forever trotting the way she is. Here she comes now, tearing up the walk like a racehorse!" "She probably heard your horn on the other side of the woods," said Nyoda, laughing, "and got here before it stopped blowing." Sahwah came in quite out of breath and evidently tremendously enthusiastic about something. "Nyoda," she burst out as soon as she was inside the door, "how fast would a Primitive Woman go up and how many pounds would she pull?" "What?" asked Nyoda, looking up inquiringly from the cup of cocoa she was handing to Gladys. The rest of the Winnebagos looked at Sahwah in open-mouthed astonishment. "How fast would a Primitive Woman go up and how many pounds would she pull?" repeated Nyoda. "What is it, a riddle?" "No, a kite," replied Sahwah impatiently. "I mean a kite built like Many Eyes, our Primitive Woman symbol; would she fly high and pull a heavy tail?" "I haven't the slightest idea," replied Nyoda. "Why do you ask?" "Because I've entered the kite-flying contest that the Boy Scouts of this town are having, and I thought of building my kite in the Primitive Woman shape." "_You've_ entered a kite-flying contest that the Boy Scouts are having!" exclaimed Hinpoha in surprise. "How on earth did you happen to do that?" "It's open to outsiders," replied Sahwah. "I saw a Scout nailing a bulletin on a tree in the square down town challenging all the boys in town to a kite-flying contest on Commons Field next Saturday afternoon." "All the _boys_ in town!" replied Hinpoha. "Since when are you a boy?" "Well," replied Sahwah, "I read the sign and I remembered how I used to love to fly kites with my brother and I thought what fun it would be to go into the contest. So I ran after the Scout who had nailed up the bulletin and asked him if we Winnebagos couldn't enter the contest, and he was awfully nice about it when he heard we were Camp Fire Girls. He said of course we couldn't build a decent kite, no girl could, but if we wanted to go into the contest and get beaten the Scouts wouldn't care. So I wrote our name in the space under the announcement that was left for the entries, and we're going to be in the contest! On the way home I thought of building the kite in the shape of Primitive Woman, which would be original and symbolic. Do you think she'd fly high, Nyoda?" she asked anxiously. "I can't say," replied Nyoda. "I'll have to confess that I know nothing whatever about the art of flying kites. My childhood was sadly neglected, I'm afraid, but that's one thing I never did. All you can do is make one and try." Sahwah set to work right after breakfast with sticks of wood and brown wrapping paper and by afternoon her kite was ready for its trial flight. All the Winnebagos went out to help fly it. The trial was a success. Primitive Woman soared high at a good rate of speed and pulled a five-pound tail. Jubilant, Sahwah stripped the common wrapping paper from the frame and with fine brown paper which Nyoda gave her began to construct a Primitive Woman which was a work of art. Hinpoha painted the features on the triangle-shaped head, and under her clever brush Many Eyes was soon looking out on the world with a serene and confident smile. The Winnebagos were enchanted with the result and all enthusiastic about the contest now. "Many Eyes, you're holding the honor of the Camp Fire Girls in your hands," said Sahwah solemnly. "You've got to fly faster than any kite a mere Boy Scout can invent. You've got to win!" And it seemed to the girls, surrounding Many Eyes as she stood up against the wall to dry, that her smile widened in a promise of victory. "Let's make a magic over her," suggested Hinpoha, "and then she _can't_ lose," Hinpoha was always having rings wished on her fingers, and running around her chair to change her luck, and building rain jinxes before starting out on excursions. "Let's find a four-leaf clover and fasten it on her," said Migwan. "Where'll we find one?" "Out in the woods there's a place where there are some," replied Sahwah. "We might take our supper out in the woods," suggested Nyoda. "Aren't we going to have a Ceremonial Meeting tonight to take Agony and Oh-Pshaw into the Winnebagos? We could have our Council Fire out in the woods after supper." "Let's take Many Eyes along and make her our official mascot," suggested Sahwah. "We can install her with ceremonies, like we did Eeny-Meeny." This bit of nonsense was seized upon by the Winnebagos as a grand inspiration. When Agony and Oh-Pshaw arrived at Carver House with their Ceremonial dresses in neat packages under their arms and their lists of honors in their hands they found the Winnebagos forming a procession out by the back gate. Sahwah headed the parade, holding up above her head a huge kite made in the form of the symbolic Primitive Woman, with a long tail which the rest of the Winnebagos carried like pages carrying a queen's court train. "What on earth!" began Agony. "Get on the end of the line and help carry her tail!" commanded Sahwah. "What's the idea?" demanded Agony suspiciously. "Are we getting initiated?" "No," explained Sahwah. "This is Many Eyes, our entry in the Boy Scout's kite-flying contest. We're conveying her in state to the Council Rock. We're going to make her our official mascot and then she'll be sure to win the contest." "And we're going to find a four-leaf clover and put it on her and render her impassable," said Hinpoha. Hinpoha was trying to think of "unsurpassable," and "impassable" was the nearest she came to it. Agony and Oh-Pshaw joined themselves on to the procession with alacrity. "We passed the Boy Scouts' bulletin board on the way over," said Agony, "and we saw that the Winnebagos were entered in the contest." "Were there any more entries?" asked Sahwah eagerly. "Several," replied Agony. "Scout Troops Number One, Two and Three were entered." "Now," said Hinpoha, who seemed to be mistress of ceremonies, "we're going to make a magic so that Many Eyes will win, and first we are going to do the Indian Silence. We're going to march to the woods in single file, carrying Many Eyes, and nobody must speak a word, or the charm will be broken. Nobody must speak until we've found the four leaf clover." "How perfectly epic!" exclaimed Agony, falling in with the spirit of the occasion. "Is everybody ready?" asked Hinpoha. "Come on, then. Start!" The procession moved off like a snake past the barn and down the hill, Many Eyes smiling serenely ahead of her. The silence continued deep and sepulchral all the way down the hill and quite to the edge of the woods, and then Nyoda suddenly exclaimed, "The supper basket! Who has it?" Nobody had it! The Winnebagos looked sheepishly at one another and then Migwan and Gladys offered to go back and get it. "We'll sit right here, and wait for you," said Hinpoha, "and none of us will speak a word until you come." Many Eyes was propped against a tree while her escort sat around on the ground holding their handkerchiefs in front of their mouths to keep from talking. Migwan and Gladys presently came panting up and the procession resumed its way into the woods. It was harder walking here and the tail-bearers often stumbled against each other or accidentally kicked each other's shins, and when that happened they had to compress their lips tightly to keep back the exclamations of surprise or pain that involuntarily sought expression. The procession wound up beside the stream which Sahwah had discovered in the woods on the other side of the hill, at a smooth, grassy spot where the clover grew in abundance. Here they set Many Eyes down on the ground and began hunting diligently for the symbol of good luck. It was a good thing that the four leaf clover was found soon--and by Sahwah, too, which was taken as a further omen of good luck--or the strain of the silence might have been fatal to a few of the searchers. Agony was ready to burst long before the time limit was up. Then, when the charm of the silence had gotten in its good work, and the little green quatrefoil had been fastened into the outstretched right hand of Many Eyes, Hinpoha selected several soft, flat stones from the stream and carved them with further good luck omens--the swastika, the horseshoe, and all the other signs she could think of that were supposed to bring good luck. These were to be a part of the kite's tail. A little later they all clasped hands and wished for success on the evening star. Then, to her great delight, Hinpoha caught a glimpse of the slender new moon over her left shoulder, and registered her wish on that. Meanwhile the others noticed a big black spider letting himself down from the tree above, directly in front of Many Eyes--another omen of good fortune. Never had the signs been so auspicious for any undertaking. Nyoda carried Many Eyes with her when she took her place on the Council Rock. The Council Fire was to be held on the great flat rock that overhung the Devil's Punch Bowl; an impressive place indeed to hold a Camp Fire Ceremonial, up there right under the stars, it seemed, with the wind fiddling through the branches all around them and the water whispering to itself below. The rock was about twenty feet wide and as flat as a table. Agony and Oh-Pshaw and Veronica, who were the lowest in rank of the Winnebagos, had gathered the wood for the fire and laid the fagots in place in the center of the rock, with the bow and drill and tinder beside it and the supply of firewood nearby. Nyoda smiled whimsically at Many Eyes, standing against the perpendicular back ledge of the Council Rock, and with her heart full of love for the girls who could get so much fun out of a kite, wished success to their cause with all her soul. Then she stood up in the center of the rock and sent forth the clear call, the summons for the tribe of Wohelo to come to the Council Fire. The call rang far out over the water and came echoing back from the surrounding hills, and before the echoes had died away it was answered from the depths of the wood, and then shadowy figures came stealing forward from between the tall trees, a silent file that came winding down to the Council Rock in a stately procession. The circle closed around Nyoda and she stooped to kindle the fire. As the bow flashed quickly back and forth and the drill whirled in its center, a low, musical chant rose from the circle: "Keep rolling, keep rolling, Keep the fire sticks Briskly rolling, rolling, Grinding the wood dust, Smoke arises! Smoke arises! Ah, the smoke, sweetly scented, It will rise, it will rise, it will rise!" The chant swelled out in volume to a dramatic climax as a puff of smoke burst forth beneath the point of the whirling drill. Nyoda adroitly caught the spark in a bed of tinder and raised it to her lips, blowing gently to fan it into flame, while the chant was resumed: "Dusky forest now darker grown, Broods in silence o'er its own, Till the wee spark to a flame has blown, And living fire leaps up to greet The song of Wohelo." The "wee spark" turned into a tiny point of flame and the tinder burst out into a merry blaze. Nyoda dropped it into the pile of fagots and the ceremonial fire was kindled, while the Winnebagos sprang to their feet, ready to sing, "Burn, fire, burn." When that had been sung the Winnebagos still remained on their feet. There was a moment of silence and then they sang a hearty cheer: "Oh, we cheer, oh, we cheer for Wohelo, For our comrades and friends so true, And our loyalty ever shall linger, Oh, Nakwisi, we sing to you! Oh, Chapa, we sing to you! Oh, Medmangi, we sing to you!" "Oh, Katherine, here's to you, Our hearts will e'er be true, We will never find your equal Though we search the whole world through!" They were singing to the absent Winnebagos who would always be present in spirit wherever the Winnebagos were gathered together. Agony and Oh-Pshaw were touched and felt a lump rising in their throats; it was so beautiful, this bond of affection between the Winnebagos. They were completely carried away by the dramatic atmosphere of a Winnebago Council Fire. They had never taken part in such an elaborate one. Both of them, by spasmodic efforts, had attained the rank of Fire Maker in the group to which they had formerly belonged, whose Guardian had meant well enough, but had neither the time nor the talent to become a successful Camp Fire leader. The group had never accomplished much, and had finally drifted apart, as many groups do, for lack of a powerful welding influence. Agony and Oh-Pshaw, having been instrumental in starting the group, had "run" it to their hearts' content; that is, Agony ran it, for her dominating personality completely overshadowed her sister along with the rest of the members. Agony "ran" the Guardian, too, who admired her immensely, thought everything she did a symptom of genius, stood not a little in awe of her family connections, and let her have full sway in everything. Agony was fond of the Guardian, too, but naturally was not profoundly influenced by association with her. But there was an altogether different atmosphere in the Winnebago group, as Agony soon discovered. No one girl had any more to say than the others, all worked together in perfect harmony, and all worshipped the same sun, Nyoda. She was a great lode star that drew them together, and kept them circling contentedly in their little orbits; she was their oracle, their all-wise counsellor, their loving elder sister. Around her the Winnebagos clustered, as the populace did about Peter, anxious to have his shadow fall upon them. The Twins had also fallen under her spell and after their first meeting had become her adoring slaves. "Run" Nyoda? The thought never entered Agony's mind. In her own group Agony had achieved her honors easily, for the Guardian had not been too insistent about having things done well, and some of her honors were really only half earned. So she had become a Fire Maker without any strenuous efforts. Now her great ambition was to be a Torch Bearer. All the year at school she had looked with envy on the little round silver pins that Hinpoha and Migwan and Gladys wore and noticed how people who understood the meaning of that little pin always exclaimed admiringly, "Oh, you're a Torch Bearer!" Agony could not bear to have anyone get ahead of her, she must be a Torch Bearer, too. She could hurry up and get enough honor beads by the next Council meeting to be eligible. After the ceremony of the installation was over and she and Oh-Pshaw were really Winnebagos, she spoke of the desire which lay near to her heart. It was in the little intimate talk time which always took place during the Ceremonial Meeting, when the flames began to burn down to embers, just before it was time to sing, "Now Our Camp Fire Fadeth." "Nyoda," she said confidently, "I'm ready to become a Torch Bearer at the next meeting." Nyoda looked at her with serious, thoughtful eyes. In the Winnebago group, it had not been customary for the girls to announce that they were worthy to be called Torch Bearer. Nyoda had herself conferred that honor upon them when she considered them worthy. No one had ever voiced her belief that she was ready, although Nyoda knew how each one had coveted the title. She was able to read Agony clearly, and knew that the keynote of her life was ambition. She was pretty certain that Agony wanted to be a Torch Bearer because it was the highest rank to which a Camp Fire Girl could aspire, and she wanted to be on the top. As yet she had seen no evidence of a humble desire to lose herself so deeply in the joy of service for others that self was forgotten. Agony was a born leader, there was no doubt about that, but Nyoda knew that she was not yet ruler over her own spirit. To the Winnebagos it seemed that Agony was already a Torch Bearer beyond compare, but Nyoda's inner voice of wisdom whispered, "Not yet." Agony must win that title in humility and self-forgetfulness before she could glory in it. So she replied quietly, "When you have earned the right to be called Torch Bearer you shall be made one, but remember, Agony, that one does not become a Torch Bearer merely by earning a certain number of honor beads and standing up and repeating the Torch Bearer's Desire. A girl must have shown a steady power of leadership for a long time, and must satisfy all the questions in the Guardian's mind about her fitness for the rank. Also remember, Agony, that true leadership does not necessarily mean taking the world by storm and being tremendously popular with people. It may sometimes mean retiring to the background and playing a very insignificant part, instead of being always in the limelight. A good leader is first of all a good team worker, one who is willing to suppress her own personal inclinations for the good of the cause." Agony, who was not given to examining her own faults very closely, failed to see wherein she fell short in any of these requirements, and was filled with elation as she thought that just as soon as Nyoda began taking special notice of her she would see that she was a candidate _par excellence_ for the title of Torch Bearer. "You shouldn't have asked to be made a Torch Bearer!" Sahwah whispered in her ear while Nyoda was stirring up the fire. "That isn't the way to do it; it's like handing yourself a bouquet!" "Well, I didn't know it," Agony whispered back, not a whit abashed. "In our other group we had to ask for everything we got or we never would have gotten it." Nyoda then turned to Oh-Pshaw, who had sat silent and thoughtful during the whole Council Meeting. "Are you ready to be a Torch Bearer, too?" she asked. "Oh, no," replied Oh-Pshaw modestly. "I'm not worthy to be called a Torch Bearer. I'm not a born leader, like Agony is." There was a world of unexpressed longing in her voice. Nyoda thought seriously about the matter. Oh-Pshaw was certainly humble and unassuming enough, always kind and sweet and obliging, always willing to take any part in anything that was assigned her, but did she have the grit and backbone, the force of character which Nyoda considered necessary qualifications for a Torch Bearer? As yet she did not know. The subject was dropped. The circle sat in a silence for a moment. Each one of the Torch Bearers in that circle was humbly wondering what Nyoda had ever seen in her to cause her to single her out for the honor. And each one became very sober as she thought about it and wondered if she had come up to Nyoda's expectations. The fire was burning low and the embers sent only a feeble glow around the Council Rock. Behind them the forest stretched darkly away, and in the stillness that brooded over them the sound of the lapping water beneath came up with a curious distinctness. Oh-Pshaw shuddered as she heard it and drew closer to the fire. "What's the matter, are you cold?" asked Nyoda. "I hate the sound of running water!" exclaimed Oh-Pshaw. "It fairly makes my blood curdle. It's been so ever since I can remember. I hate it in daylight, but at night it makes my hair stand on end! If I were out here alone with it I'd simply go insane!" "Why, how queer!" said Sahwah, unable to understand how anyone could be afraid of her beloved element, and the others laughed, too, thinking that Oh-Pshaw was only exaggerating, as most girls do over their little peculiarities. "It _is_ queer," said Agony, "because water doesn't affect me a bit like that. I love to hear it, day or night. But it's been that way with Oh-Pshaw ever since she was little. I can remember once when we were about five years old she had spasms because our nurse left us alone in the bathtub when the water was running in. She can't even stand it to hear the water running down the eave spouts during a heavy shower." The Winnebagos all laughed again at this queer "bête noir" of Oh-Pshaw's, all but Nyoda. She knew something which the girls did not, and which neither Agony nor Oh-Pshaw herself knew, something which had been told her by Grandmother Wing in one of her talks with Nyoda. That was that when Oh-Pshaw was a baby only three months old she had been taken out in a sailboat by her father and mother on the river which ran through Oakwood. A squall came up and the boat capsized and all three were thrown into the wildly rolling river. They were promptly rescued by a nearby launch, all unhurt, but the moaning, gurgling sound of the water had stamped itself indelibly on Oh-Pshaw's tiny brain and she would never again be able to hear that gurgling noise without a sensation of horror. During her infancy, even the sound of water gurgling out of a bottle was sufficient to throw her into spasms. She had never been told about the accident, in the hope that she would outgrow the shock and get over the fear, but she had never outgrown it. She no longer had spasms when she heard water gurgling, but the sound chilled her to the very marrow of her bones, and she never went alone, even in daylight, past the river. Nyoda knew how real this fear was and sympathized deeply with her, although she pretended to make light of it, as the others did. Nyoda and the Winnebagos loved to sit in the silence of the woods when the fire burned low and listen to the murmuring of the water, but for Oh-Pshaw's sake they must not do it to-night. "Come, girls," Nyoda called cheerily, "'Fire's gwine out,' time to sing 'Mammy Moon' and then go home." She poked the last embers of the fire into a little blaze, and the light and the lively measures of the song took Oh-Pshaw's mind off the gurgling water. "Cross my heart, Mammy Moon, Termorrer I'll be an angel coon, I'll be a chile dat'll make you smile, Good--o-l-e Mam-my M-o-o-n!" The circle all lay down with their heads on each other's shoulders in the drowsy attitude with which the song closes, and then Gladys's clear voice rose in the melody of the Camp Fire Girls' own lullaby, sung to the music of an Ojibway love song: "In the still night, far, far below, The drowsy wavelets come and go, They weave a dream spell round Wohelo. "Mid the pine trees, the long night through, The wandering breezes croon to you, They breathe a sleep charm of mist and dew. "Heaven broods o'er you with stars aglow, The hearts of Night is beating low, Wokanda watches o'er Wohelo. Wokanda watches o'er Wohelo!" Then the last ember burned out into darkness and with the aid of their little bug lights they stole home through the shadowy woods; Sahwah carrying Many Eyes in her arms and confident she was a winner; Agony filled with a great elation because her ambition to become a Torch Bearer would soon be realized; Oh-Pshaw sadly wishing she were a born leader like her sister; and Nyoda, walking with them, guessed what was in the mind of each and her heart went out to them in tender love as the heart of a shepherd goes out to his sheep. CHAPTER XI THE FURTHER CAREER OF MANY EYES "What a grand day, and the wind just right," exulted Sahwah on Saturday noon as the Winnebagos were hastening home from military drill. "It was just made for flying kites." "Are Slim and the Captain coming?" asked Hinpoha. "They said they were," replied Sahwah. "Father's coming, too," said Agony. "He came home this morning. He said he would get Mr. Prince to come along with him." "Oh, dear, I do hope we win, with _him_ there!" said Hinpoha. "But I don't see how Many Eyes can help winning, with the four leaf clover and all the good luck signs tied to her tail," she finished confidently. Hinpoha believed firmly in the potency of her charms. But alas for charms and good luck signs! Maybe the Fates stand in awe of them, but they are powerless in the case of a goat. The Winnebagos reached home just in time to see Many Eyes, impaled on Kaiser Bill's horns, borne swiftly through the garden toward the stable. Sahwah shrieked and darted in pursuit, whereupon the Kaiser collided with a tree and drove his whole head and shoulders through the paper form of Many Eyes and splintered her ribs like toothpicks. Then he dashed round and round the garden at top speed, scattering bits of her tail in his wake. By the time he had finally been subdued with an open umbrella there was not enough left of Many Eyes to know that she had ever been a kite. The Winnebagos stood dumb with dismay and Sahwah nearly strangled with mingled rage and disappointment. "We're finished, as far as the contest is concerned," said Agony gloomily. Sahwah turned her back sharply and winked her eyes hard to keep the tears from falling. She had worked _so_ hard to build Many Eyes, and here was all her work gone for nothing, all on account of that fiendish goat! "Somebody will have to go and tell the Scouts that we withdraw our entry, I suppose," said Migwan. "Yes, and maybe they won't believe that the goat smashed it," said Agony darkly. "Maybe they'll think we fell down on making a kite, or got cold feet or something." Sahwah's eyes flashed and she whirled around fiercely, galvanized into action by Agony's words. "That Scout I was talking to was so sure we couldn't make a kite, and I was just aching to show him!" she said with tragic emphasis. Then resolution kindled in her eyes. "I said we were going into that contest, and we _are_! They'll never get a chance to say we backed down! I'm going to make another kite!" "Oh, Sahwah, there isn't time," said Hinpoha hopelessly. "It's twelve o'clock already and the contest starts at two." "Two hours!" replied Sahwah. "I can make one in two hours." "But you haven't had your lunch----" began Hinpoha. "Lunch!" exclaimed Sahwah scornfully. "Who wants any lunch? I'm going to build another kite!" She sped into the house and in a few moments was busy nailing together another frame while the rest of the Winnebagos stood around and handed her tacks, paper, paste, and everything as she needed it. By half past one another Primitive Woman had been evolved by her flying fingers, Migwan and Gladys hastily constructing the tail while Sahwah made the kite proper. "I believe I'd have time to paint a face on her," said Hinpoha. She seized her brush and put in an eye with rapid strokes. The clock chimed a quarter to two and Sahwah started up nervously. "There isn't time to do any more, Hinnpoha," she said. "We'll just have time to get there now. She'll just have to go as she is." "But can you call her Many Eyes if she only has one eye?" objected Hinpoha. "Never mind what we call her," said Sahwah. "She's a kite, and that's all she needs to be. Call her One Eye if you like. What have you put in her tail?" "Some of those little sample bags of salt," replied Migwan. "They were the only things we could find to put in as weights." "Salt's bad luck!" wailed Hinpoha. "Oh, whatever did you take salt for?" "Too late to change now," said Sahwah. Agony looked scornfully at the new edition of Many Eyes. "For goodness' sake, you aren't going to enter that thing in the contest?" she exclaimed when she saw it. "Why, it looks perfectly _crazy_. Everybody will laugh at it. I'd rather stay out of the contest than enter such a looking kite. It looks like a scarecrow! For goodness' sake, don't enter _that_!" Sahwah had to admit that the new Many Eyes _was_ a rather laughable object, with her one eye and her miscellaneous tail and her one arm covered with yellow paper where the brown had given out. "I don't care _what she looks like, she'll fly_," said Sahwah stoutly. "Well, _I_ care what she looks like," returned Agony. "I tell you everybody will laugh at us and our one-eyed kite." "Let them laugh," retorted Sahwah, "I don't care." "Oh, come on," said Migwan good-naturedly, "stop arguing about it. If we're going into the contest we'll have to get there pretty soon. We won't win, of course, but we'll show the boys that we're game, anyway. Like the 'poor, benighted Hindoo,' we'll 'do the best we _kin_ do!' Be a sport, Agony, and come on." Sahwah gathered up her kite in her arms and started for the door. Going through the hall she knocked Hinpoha's little purse mirror from the table and smashed it all to bits. Hinpoha was aghast. "Bad luck again!" she wailed. "Never mind, 'Poha, I'll buy you another mirror," said Sahwah. "Just leave the pieces, I'll sweep them up when I come back." Agony scolded about the crazy-looking kite all the way to Commons Field and Hinpoha resignedly accepted the fact that luck was against them, and they might as well not enter the contest. To all of their remarks Sahwah paid no heed, stubbornly keeping her determination to enter her beloved kite. "We've got to be sports now and not back down," was the only thing she would say. "Yes," said Migwan, "remember--" "'Tis better to have flown and lost Than never to have flown at all!'" The other entries had already arrived on the scene when the Winnebagos got there, and a good many of the Oakwood boys and girls had assembled to watch the contest. Commons Field was a five-acre lot running down to the river on the eastern side of the town, used as baseball field, footfall field, and general sporting grounds. It was a sort of natural amphitheatre, for a grassy hill curved around two sides of it, making an ideal place for the spectators to sit and watch what was going on below. Lists of the entries in the contest had been posted on various trees. GREAT KITE FLYING CONTEST _Entries_ VICTORY BIRD........................Troop No. 1 Boy Scouts SKYSCRAPER..........................Troop No. 2 Boy Scouts MIKADO II...........................Troop No. 3 Boy Scouts SAMMY BOY..............................St. Andrew's League AMERICAN EAGLE...................Sunday School Association MANY EYES........................Winnebago Camp Fire Girls "How graciously they put us at the end of the list," remarked Sahwah. The Captain and Slim were there waiting for them and looked at Many Eyes critically, but they forebore to laugh at her. Sahwah felt as though she would explode if _they_ made fun of her. But they made no disparaging remarks, although they both felt dubious about the flying qualities of a kite in the shape of a Primitive Woman. However, they were game and promised to shout for her with all their might. The Scout who had taken Sahwah's entry that day under the tree came strolling over, curious to see what kind of a kite she had produced. "Ho, ho!" he scoffed. "What kind of a kite do you call that? That's nothing but a paper doll. That's just the kind of a kite you'd expect a girl to make. Now when you're making a kite, you want to make a _kite_, not a paper doll! And what did you go and paint that one eye on there for and nothing else, and then enter her as _Many Eyes_?" Sahwah forbore to reply, and walked away, shielding her poor darling with her body against the curious stares and comments of the other contestants. Mr. Wing was sympathetic when he heard of the tragic fate of the original Many Eyes and did not laugh at her hopscotch successor, but the artist, who was with him, laughed uncontrollably, which hurt Sahwah's feelings and increased the slight antagonism she already had toward him. So she walked away from him, too, and took her place with the contestants, who were forming in a line in the field. All around her she heard amused comments passed upon the shape of No. 6 entry; everybody called it the "paper doll." In height and breadth it conformed to the prescribed measurements laid down by the rules of the contest, but it did look so odd for a kite to have a head and arms and legs! All the other entries were the regulation kite shape. Victory Bird and American Eagle had pictures of eagles with outstretched wings pasted upon them. The whistle blew and the kites were launched in air and immediately the sky was split with the shouts of the various rooters. "VICTORY BIRD! VICTORY BIRD! VICTORY BIRD!" "SAMMY BOY! SAMMY BOY! SAMMY BOY!" "SKYSCRAPER! SKYSCRAPER! SKYSCRAPER!" In the midst of the din came the feebler, but stanch cheer of the Winnebagos. Nyoda noticed that Agony did not cheer for Many Eyes; she had slipped away from the Winnebagos and stood by herself a few paces off, trying to look like a disinterested spectator. "She won't cheer for Many Eyes because she's ashamed of her and doesn't want people to know she's her entry!" was the painful thought that came into Nyoda's mind. The rest of the Winnebagos stood gamely together and shrieked for their entry at the tops of their voices. Slim and the Captain stood by them loyally and made as much racket as they could. The ripple of amusement that had caused Agony so much chagrin when the "paper doll" began her flight soon changed to astonished applause, for Many Eyes won in a walk! Straight up she soared, "just like an angel," as Sahwah described it afterwards, tugging so hard on her leash that the stick upon which the string was wound spun around in Sahwah's hand like a bobbin and it was all she could do to hold on to it. Once she got started she left all the others far behind. As Slim said, she "made them look like a row of stationary wash tubs." Sammy Boy and the Skyscraper got their tails twisted and came to earth in a tangled mass; American Eagle was top heavy and flopped around in circles and never rose higher than fifty feet, Mikado went up steadily but slowly, straining at its weighted tail; and Victory Bird, whom everybody expected to win, came a close second, and that was all. Many Eyes got to the end of her string first and danced triumphantly about in the air, several yards above Victory Bird. With everything dead set against her, broken looking glass, salt weights, only one eye, and not a single good luck symbol on her anywhere she had come out first in spite of it all! Then the Winnebagos nearly split their throats cheering, and Agony, who had slipped back to them, cheered louder than all the rest, advertising to all within earshot that she was a Winnebago and belonged to the winning entry. "And to think," marveled Hinpoha, "that with all her lucky symbols, the other Many Eyes came to grief, and this one won without a single thing to help her! I'll never have faith in good and bad luck signs again!" The Scout who had scoffed at Many Eyes before the contest came around afterward and looked her over thoughtfully, and discussed her construction in a decidedly respectful tone with Sahwah. "Now, can a girl design a kite?" asked Sahwah triumphantly. "I guess she can," admitted the Scout as graciously as he could under the circumstances. He was the one who had designed Victory Bird and it was hard for him to admit that he had been beaten by a girl. "But then, you're a Camp Fire Girl," he added, as if it were not so much of a defeat to be beaten by a Camp Fire Girl as by an ordinary girl. "But what did you put the one eye on her for?" he finished curiously. "So she could see where she was going," replied Sahwah gravely. "But why didn't you put _two_ eyes in her?" persisted the Scout. "Because she only needed one to see to get ahead of _your_ kites," answered Sahwah, and felt that her triumph was complete. After the contest was over the Winnebagos went out rowing on the river with Mr. Wing and the artist and Slim and the Captain. Oh-Pshaw wouldn't go, nothing would ever induce her to go rowing, so Nyoda stayed out with her while the rest went. Slim and the Captain had a private squabble as to which one should have Hinpoha in his boat and while they were squabbling she got into the boat with the artist, so the Captain solaced himself with Sahwah and Agony, and Slim took Gladys and Veronica. Migwan got into the boat with Mr. Wing, an arrangement which pleased them both, for Migwan thought Mr. Wing the most charming man in the world, and he was very fond of the sweet, Madonna-faced girl with the beautiful, thoughtful eyes and the intellectual forehead. "Who's the nervy party with the chin whiskers that's cabbaged Hinpoha?" asked the Captain of Sahwah, scowling crossly after the leading boat, which was already drawing away from the rest of the party. "He's an artist, his name is Prince," replied Sahwah. "He's a great friend of Agony's father." "Is he a great friend of Hinpoha's, too?" demanded the Captain. "She thinks he's the most wonderful man she ever met," replied Sahwah. The Captain scowled again, and caught a crab, showering Sahwah and Agony with drops from his oar. "Excuse me!" he exclaimed, disgusted with himself. "Oh, hang it all, anyway!" This last was uttered under his breath, but Sahwah's sharp ear heard it. "Do _you_ think he's so wonderful?" he demanded anxiously. The Captain had a vast respect for Sahwah's opinion in most matters. "I don't like him at all!" Sahwah burst out vehemently. "He's always smiling, and all I can think of is a grinning hyena!" Sahwah spoke with unnecessary vigor, but the remembrance of how he had laughed at Many Eyes still rankled in her bosom. "Why, Sahwah!" exclaimed Agony in a shocked tone. "How can you say such a thing? I think he's perfectly wonderful," she added. "So polished, and such charming manners." Here Sahwah created a diversion by dropping her hat overboard, and the artist was forgotten in the exciting business of rescuing it from the swiftly running current. Hinpoha, beside herself with joy at the victory of Many Eyes, was boasting to the artist what a wonderful group the Winnebagos were. "And that's not all," she said, as she finished the tale of their numerous achievements on land and water, "we've got a real live baroness in our group!" "Indeed!" said the artist, nearly dropping his oar in his surprise. "Which one is it?" "Veronica," replied Hinpoha, gratified at the impression this statement had made upon her listener, and then she launched into a detailed account of Veronica's entire history, dwelling on the part where Veronica had played for the prince. It was not until she was tucked into bed that night and was just dropping off to sleep that she remembered her promise not to tell anyone about Veronica. "But it was perfectly all right to tell _him_" she said to herself, "he was so interested and _so_ sympathetic." And she dropped off to sleep with never a qualm of conscience about her broken promise. CHAPTER XII THE COURT MARTIAL OF THE KAISER "'Gee, ain't it fierce, we ain't got no flag to fight this here Revolution with!'" Agony, carrying a baseball bat at "shoulder arms," paced slowly back and forth across the attic in the Wing home with an exaggerated military stride. "Is _that_ loud enough, Nyoda?" she asked. "Yes, your voice is all right," approved Nyoda, jabbing a pin into the large felt hat which she was transferring into a tricorn, "but don't kick your feet straight up in front of you that way. The American army didn't goose-step, remember. Try it again. There, that's better. "Now, Second Soldier, your little speech, and remember to salute when you're through." Oh-Pshaw, similarly outfitted as to firearms, added her bit to the drama which was unfolding under Nyoda's direction. "Now we'll do it with the scenery," announced Nyoda. "Come on, scenery, all up! Here, Trees, you stand here," pushing Hinpoha into place at one side of the landscape, "and More Trees, you get over on the other side. Who is More Trees? Oh, Migwan. All right, you two stand there and sway gently in the breeze. Where are the Guns? Oh, here you are, Sahwah. And the rest of the Guns, that's you, Veronica. Here, you Guns, stack yourselves against Trees." Sahwah and Veronica inclined toward each other at a precarious angle and leaned against Trees. Trees promptly doubled up and clapped both her hands over the pit of her stomach, and Guns, losing their balance, fell in a heap on the floor. "What's the matter?" demanded Nyoda. "Oooo-oo-oo-oh!" giggled Trees. "Sahwah tickled my ribs!" "Try it again," directed Nyoda, assisting Guns to rise from the floor and stacking them against an invulnerable spot on Trees. "Now, where's the Moon?" "Gone downstairs to get a paintbrush," replied More Trees. "What'll Moon rise on?" asked Nyoda, knitting her brows in thought. "Take the piano stool," suggested the First Soldier, leaning on his weapon in a picturesque attitude. "The very thing!" exclaimed Nyoda. "Bring up the piano stool!" she shouted down the stairway, and a few minutes later the Moon came into view, carrying her rising power in one hand, a bottle of India ink in the other, a number of sheets of cardboard under her arm and a paintbrush held crosswise in her mouth. "Gracious, if you'd ever slipped coming up the stairs!" exclaimed the Second Soldier, springing forward to take the bottle of ink out of the hand of the Moon. "Now Moon, you rise behind More Trees," ordered Nyoda, setting the piano stool behind Migwan. "How does a moon rise, anyway?" asked Gladys in perplexity. "Oh, begin by crouching on the piano stool, and then straighten up gradually to a standing position over Migwan's shoulder," answered Nyoda. "Now then! 'Curtain rises. Scene shows camp of the American army at the time of the Revolution. Trees on left, more trees on right, guns stacked against trees. Moon rises,' All right, Moon, rise!" Gladys rose shakily to a standing position, her hand on the shoulder of More Trees. "Now beam over the trees, Moon." Moon did her best to beam and grinned from ear to ear; Guns howled with laughter; the piano stool began to turn; Moon clutched wildly at More Trees and went down with a crash on the floor. "Eclipse of the Moon," laughed Nyoda, rushing to the aid of the fallen one. "Let somebody else be the Moon," declared Gladys, when she had been restored to the perpendicular, viewing the shaky stool with disfavor. "Let Sahwah be it, she's more of an acrobat." "You _have_ to be the Moon because you've got light hair," replied Nyoda in a tone of finality. "You'll just have to _manage_ so the stool doesn't turn, that's all. Try it again." Moon rose over the trees and accomplished the difficult feat of holding the stool still and beaming at the same time with a fair degree of success, and the rehearsal began. "Oh-Pshaw, you're forgetting to salute!" called Nyoda when Second Soldier had finished his speech. "There, that's all right, now don't forget to do it the next time. Now you get behind the Moon and hold her up through the next scene. She's wobbling again. What comes next? Oh, yes, here's where I come in." Throwing down her prompting book and setting the partially cocked hat upon her head, Nyoda made a flourishing entrance upon the stage as the Father of her Country, and the second touching scene of the drama was enacted, in which George is informed by the sentry that "we ain't got no flag to fight this here Revolution with," and soothingly promises to "see Betsy." Just as George was delivering his reassuring promise Trees felt a fly walking across her nose and sneezed a tremendous sneeze, sending Guns sprawling upon the floor. "Gracious, Hinpoha, can't you hold still a _minute_?" sighed Nyoda, pushing the hat up from her left eye where it had hung ever since she had knocked it crooked returning the sentry's salute. "And who's going to work our 'Quick Curtain' there?" "Oh, either Slim or the Captain can draw the curtain for us," said Hinpoha. "But we want it all to be a surprise for them," Sahwah reminded her. "They're not supposed to know anything about it." "Well, grandmother can draw the curtain, then," said Agony. "But she's supposed to be in the audience, too," objected Oh-Pshaw. "Why, _you_ can draw the curtain, you're not doing anything at the end of this scene!" exclaimed Nyoda triumphantly to Oh-Pshaw. "Second Soldier goes out after his one speech and doesn't come on again." "I'm a rocking chair in the last scene, though," Oh-Pshaw reminded her. Nyoda thought deeply for a moment. "We'll have to do without that one rocking chair in the last act. You'll have to draw the curtain. No show is complete without a quick curtain at the end. How can we have curtain calls without a curtain? Anyway, we don't need three rocking chairs, two are plenty." So Oh-Pshaw good-naturedly shifted her role from rocking chair to curtain puller. "Next scene, home of Betsy Ross," proclaimed Nyoda. "Trees, you'll have to turn into a chair in this scene, and More Trees, you turn into another chair. Guns, you will become a spinet and a spinning wheel respectively, and Moon, you'll turn into a table. First Soldier, you'll become Betsy Ross. Now then! All the stage settings get in place for the last scene!" The two chairs solemnly began to rock back and forth on their heels, causing the Spinning Wheel to go off into fits of uncontrollable laughter, and Betsy Ross, hearing George's knock, rose to answer it, but, catching sight of the two rocking chairs, promptly doubled up on the floor instead of letting George in. "I can't do anything if they're going to rock," gasped Betsy. "You'll _have_ to get used to it," said Nyoda emphatically. "We want those rocking chairs, they're the funniest part of the show. Don't look at them if you can't keep a straight face. Now start again. Where's your baby? Here, take this towel for a baby until you can find a doll. "Now, remember, when I come in you say 'Hello, George,' in a very familiar tone, and when I say, 'Gee, ain't it fierce, we ain't go no flag to fight this here Revolution with,' you say, 'I know, ain't it fierce! Here, you hold the baby and I'll make one.' Then you give me the baby and I walk up and down while you sew, and the baby screams all the while--Oh-Pshaw, you'll have to make the noise for the baby behind the scenes. Now, all ready!" George came in, with a yardstick tied around his waist for a sword, and made a deep bow which made the spinet giggle violently. "'Gee, ain't it fierce--' Stop laughing, Sahwah, remember you're the scenery!" Sahwah lasted until the towel baby was laid in the arms of the Commander-in-Chief, and Oh-Pshaw, trying to imitate the noise of a crying baby behind the scenes, emitted a series of yelps which were harrowingly suggestive of a large yellow dog going through the meat chopper. It was too much for the rest of the scenery; the rocking chair howled, the spinning wheel choked, the table wept into her handkerchief, and even George's composure forsook him and he and Betsy fell up against each other and shouted. "Good gracious, Oh-Pshaw, a baby doesn't cry like that! It makes a wailing noise in a high key. Try it again, now." Oh-Pshaw amended her vocal efforts so that the results were not fatal, and the historical First Edition of the Stars and Stripes proceeded without further mishap. "Where's the flag I'm to hold up when it's done?" demanded Betsy. "Who brought the flag along?" asked Nyoda. The spinet suddenly clapped a hand to her brow. "I left it on the porch at Carver House!" she exclaimed. "I was going to bring it along with the rest of the things, and then I forgot it. Shall I go and get it?" "Never mind," said Nyoda, "we'll get along without it now and bring it along when we come over to-night. Come on, now, go through the whole thing once more, and then we're finished. Oh-Pshaw, while you're not on the stage, you make the signs for the scenery, TREES, MORE TREES, GUNS--make two signs for Guns--MOON, etc., and on the other side paint CHAIR, TABLE, SPINNING WHEEL, SPINET, etc., so all the scenery will have to do is turn the signs around on themselves when they change from the first to the second scenes." All the above commotion was in preparation for the party which Agony and Oh-Pshaw were giving that night in honor of Slim's birthday. The birthday was already past, it is true, but it was still recent enough to make it a legitimate excuse for a party. The Winnebagos, as usual, could not have a party without some select private theatricals in honor of the occasion. The rehearsal over, Nyoda and the Winnebagos wended their way back to Carver House to get ready for the evening. "Kaiser Bill's out!" exclaimed Sahwah, as they approached the house. "I just saw him jump the hedge and run around the side of the house with something red in his mouth." "The cover of the porch table!" exclaimed Nyoda. "Run, head him off, quick!" They sped into the yard and round the side of the house as the sportive Kaiser doubled in his tracks and missed them by an inch. "Oh, he's got the flag!" shrieked Sahwah. "I left it on the porch! Get it! Get it! He's got it half eaten!" They gave strenuous chase, but the wily Capricorn, mischief sparkling in his wicked eyes, eluded them again and again, and each time they passed him there was less of the flag hanging out of his mouth. Not until the last shred was gulped down did he suffer himself to be cowed by the persistent umbrella in Nyoda's hand, and then he came to a stand in a triumphant attitude, and on his face was the satisfied expression of an epicure who has just discovered a rare new dainty to tickle his palate. The Winnebagos looked at each other and were speechless with horror. Kaiser Bill had eaten up the American flag! Nyoda recovered herself first, and the Winnebagos saw her in one of her rare moods of anger. "This is the last straw!" she exclaimed indignantly. "He's chewed up two sofa pillows and a twelve-dollar hammock and no end of books; he destroyed Sahwah's kite last week; he's broken the windows in the greenhouse three or four times; he's ruined large numbers of valuable plants; and still I bore with him patiently for old Hercules' sake. But I won't stand it any longer. I'm tired of being kept in hot water by that fiendish old goat. He's the terror of the neighbors, and I live in hourly expectation of damage suits that will ruin me. Now I've reached the limit of endurance. Either that goat leaves Carver House or I do, and as Carver House belongs to me and Kaiser Bill doesn't, I reckon he'll be the one to go." "What are you going to do with him?" asked Sahwah. "Oh, give him away, or sell him--anything," replied Nyoda. "Hercules, come here!" she called, as she spied a kinky white head bobbing around in the barnyard. Hercules approached with a painfully stew, shuffling gait. "What is it, Mis' Elizabeth?" he inquired mildly, eyeing his mistress with affection in his look. "Hercules," said Nyoda crisply, "we're going to get rid of that goat." "What's 'at ol' goat bin a-doin', honey?" quavered Hercules anxiously. "He's eaten up the American flag!" replied Nyoda in an outraged tone. "This is positively the last straw. I put up with several hundred dollars' worth of damage about the place, but this is too much. Do you realize what he's done? _He's eaten up the American flag_!" "Why-e-e-e-e-e!" exclaimed Hercules, and then, "Lord a-massy! Kaiser Bill," he remarked reproachfully, "ain't I done fetched you up no better'n _'at?"_ "Do you know of anyone who would take him?" asked Nyoda. The old man considered, with his head in his hands. "Oh, Mis' Elizabeth, you-all ain't goin' ter give dat goat away?" he broke out pleadingly. "'At goat's lived here all his life, deed he has, Mis' Elizabeth, an' he wouldn' feel to home nowheres else!" But for once Nyoda stood her ground and refused to be cajoled. "Mis' Elizabeth," said old Hercules solemnly, when all pleading had been in vain, "you-all ain' goin' ter give 'at goat away, because you-all _can't_ give him away! Ain't anybody _livin_' 'at can give dat goat away! He'd come back just as fast as you'd give him away! 'At ol' Kaiser's a mighty foxy goat. Ain't no door bin _invented_ 'at _he_ can't break down!" The old man's voice quavered triumphantly, and he winked at the goat solemnly. Nyoda had a mental vision of Kaiser Bill putting on a Return from Elba act every day in the future, and her resolution took a sudden hardy turn. "You're right," she said. "It wouldn't do any good to give him away. He'd come back. The only way to get rid of him is to kill him. Then we'll be sure he can't come back." Hercules looked at her unbelievingly, and shook his head. "I mean it," repeated Nyoda. "I'm going to get rid of that goat." She stood still, waiting for the torrent of dissuading argument that would presently come from Hercules' lips, intending to cut it short, but the flow never came. Just when Hercules had his mouth open to begin there came a sudden earthquake shock from behind, and he found himself sitting in a flower bed a dozen feet away, rubbing his bruised knees and struggling to regain his breath. His first impression was that he had been run over by a locomotive. When he could finally be persuaded that Kaiser Bill, base and ungrateful animal, had rewarded his championship of him by deliberately assaulting him with the full force of his concrete forehead, his heart was broken, and he mutely bowed to the decision of the judge. "'T's all one ter me now," he said sadly. "Kaiser Bill done turn agin' ol' Hercules; ol' Hercules' heart broke now. Don' care whether you kill him er not. 'T's all one ter me." "We'll have a Court Martial," announced Sahwah. The Court Martial duly sat, and in a most formal manner Kaiser Bill was tried and convicted of conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman, and of traitorously destroying the American flag, and was sentenced to be shot at sunrise the next morning. "Who's going to shoot him?" asked Hinpoha. "Oh, we'll get Slim and the Captain to do it," replied Sahwah. With the death sentence hanging over his head, the Kaiser was led away to await his execution. CHAPTER XIII THE PARTY Dinner hour was over in Oakwood and the evening life of the stately old town was beginning to stir when Mr. Wing stepped off the train and walked briskly through the softly falling twilight toward his home. Not far from the station he met the artist, Eugene Prince, strolling about admiring the landscape, and hailed him cordially. "I've just come home on a flying trip over night," he explained. "Have to go to Washington in the morning. I wonder if the folks are at home; I should have telephoned them I was coming, I suppose." Mr. Wing seemed very much elated about something. "How's the big case coming?" asked the artist. He had always been such a ready listener while Mr. Wing expressed his various theories About the matter and showed such a lively interest that Mr. Wing had gotten into the habit of talking about it to him by the hour and listening to him express _his_ theories. Now when the artist mentioned the big case Mr. Wing could not conceal his triumph, for _his_ theory had been right after all, and the artist's had been wrong. "It's exactly what I expected," he said jubilantly, and spoke in a low, confidential tone for some minutes. The artist whistled in blank surprise. The two men passed up the street, talking in low tones. "Come up to the house with me," said Mr. Wing presently, "and I'll show you--Hello, what's this?" A creaking rumble behind them made them start and turn around, and a singular sight greeted their eyes. Down the street puffed an immensely fat negro woman clad in a calico wrapper and a bright red turban, pushing a wheelbarrow in which sat a negro baby somewhat larger than its mammy. In the wheelbarrow beside the baby stood a feeding bottle of gigantic proportions, being in very truth a three-gallon flask designed to hold a solution to spray trees with; six feet of garden hose constituted the tube, and a black rubber diving cap at the upper end of it completed the feeding apparatus. "_Pour l'amour de Mique!_" laughed Mr. Wing, as the unique outfit rumbled by. "What on earth do you suppose _that_ is?" They followed the progress of the billowing mother and her husky infant with amused eyes, and at the corner of the street she attempted to turn the barrow, ran into a stone, upset the barrow and spilled the infant on the ground. The infant immediately sprang up, clutching the Gargantuan feeding bottle, and berated his mother in emphatic terms, delivered in a deep bass voice, addressing her as "Captain." "Look out, you'll break the bottle, dumping the wheelbarrow over like that," he remarked warningly. The old mammy stooped over to readjust him in the barrow and as she did so several feet of masculine garments became visible under her short skirt. "Minstrel show in town," remarked Mr. Wing with another laugh of amusement. His amusement turned to surprise when the picturesque pair preceded him up the street and turned in at his own yard. The house was lighted from one end to the other; groups of young people were visible everywhere, on the porches, on the lawn, in the doorways. "Seems to be a party going on here," remarked Mr. Wing. "Father!" exclaimed a voice from the crowd, and Agony darted forward to embrace him. "Why didn't you tell us you were coming? You're just in time for the party." Mr. Wing greeted the guests affably and after a short interval escaped with the artist to his study on the second floor, where they spent an hour in close consultation behind a locked door. "Now let's go down and look in on the party," said Mr. Wing, locking a package of letters carefully into a small drawer in his desk. Before going down he went to his own room and changed to a suit of white flannels in honor of the occasion. As he was finally making for the stairway he met Veronica Lehar in the upstairs hall. "May I use the telephone in the study?" she asked. "Certainly," he replied, and went in and turned the light on for her and then went on downstairs. Shouts of laughter filled the air; the negro mammy and the gigantic infant, together with the wheelbarrow and the feeding bottle, were holding the stage at the end of the spacious sitting room. Slim was being given his birthday presents and was surrounded with nonsensical articles of every kind--toys, rattles, all-day suckers, and so forth, and was convulsing the crowd with his antics. The merriment went on until somebody called for Veronica to play on her violin and she came downstairs with her violin in her hands. Then a hush fell on the crowd, and the merrymakers listened, spellbound and dreamy-eyed, to the strains which the passionate-eyed little Hungarian girl drew from the fiddle resting so caressingly in the hollow of her shoulder. It was a plaintive, melancholy melody she played first, throbbing with unsatisfied longing and quivering with pain and heartbreak. Sahwah shivered and thought of ice cold rain drops falling on long dead leaves, and the restless unhappiness seized upon her again. The melody wandered on, and in its weird minor thirds there seemed to be all the anguish of an oppressed people, hopeless of release from bondage; condemned to toil in darkness forever. Then a new note crept into the music, a note of protest, of rebellion. Fury took the place of hopelessness; dumb resignation gave way to angry stirrings. Fiercely the storm raged for a moment, and then subsided into feeble murmurs, and flickered out into hopelessness again, blacker and deeper than before. Then came flight, sudden and headlong, hurried and confused; and days of wandering by land and sea, hours of loneliness and homesickness, of mingled hope and fear, of faith and perplexity, ending in a magnificent hymn of thanksgiving and praise for deliverance. It made Sahwah think of the persecuted Jews in Russia, fleeing from a massacre and coming to America for refuge. But now the music had taken a gayer, brighter turn. Everywhere there was the hum of industry, a contented sound like the buzzing of bees intent upon gathering honey. Songs of happiness rose on every side, mingled with the sound of joyful feet passing in a gay dance. The music took on an irresistible lilt; the feet of the listeners itched to join in the measure and tapped out the time involuntarily. Suddenly the dance turned into marching, the earth resounded with the tramp, tramp of advancing feet, the music became a martial strain; it stirred the blood to fever heat and set the pulses leaping madly. Louder and more triumphant swelled the strain, louder came the tramp of the victorious armies following in the wake of trumpets, until the whole earth seemed to mingle its voice in one great shout of victory. Without knowing it the listeners were on their feet, clutching each other with tense fingers, their eyes blurred with tears, their throats aching with emotion, their hearts burning to perform deeds of valor for their country, to fight to the last ditch, to die as heroes for their native land. They hardly realized when Veronica had stopped playing and slipped quietly out of the room. "God, what playing!" breathed Mr. Wing to the artist. "Music like that would turn cowards into heroes and heroes into demi-gods; would inspire a wooden dummy to fight to the last ditch for freedom and native land. Daggers and Dirks! What a red-hot little American she is! Why, if a _dead_ man heard her play the 'Star Spangled Banner' the way she just played it, he'd rise up to protect his country. Yes, and his very _monument_ would shoulder a gun and get into the ranks against the foe!" Refreshments were brought in and the babel of tongues broke loose again. Everyone asked for Veronica, wanted to sit beside her and tell her what a wonderful genius she was, but she was nowhere to be found. Grandmother Wing came in presently and said that Veronica had slipped out and gone home because she had a sick headache and wanted to be alone. "She has those headaches so often," said Migwan in a tone of concern. "I wonder if I hadn't better go home after her." "She said she wanted to be alone," said Nyoda thoughtfully. "She always does, you know, when she has a headache. I don't believe I'd go after her. She'll go right to bed and be all right in the morning." With many expressions of regret at Veronica's indisposition the boys and girls resumed their frolic. Slim and the Captain, still in their roles of mammy and pickaninny, walked home with the Winnebagos when the party finally broke up, the pickaninny trundling his own one-wheeled chariot, which was so full of presents there was no room for him. Nyoda broke the news to them of their appointment as executioners of Kaiser Bill and they accepted the commission gravely. "'Horatius,' quoth the consul, 'as thou sayst, so let it be,'" quoted Slim with a dramatic flourish. "We'll execute your orders and the goat at the same time. But does it take two to speed the fatal ball? Why am I honored thus when here beside me stands the world's champion crack shot, even the great Cicero St. John?" The Captain suddenly flushed and glared at Slim, but said nothing. "'Herminius beat his bosom, but never a word he spake,'" quoted Slim, grinning. "You see," he continued, turning to the girls, "the Captain and I were practising shooting at a target once, out in the country, and the Captain came so near the bull's eye that he shot the perch out from under a parrot in a cage fifty feet away. O Mother dear, Jerusalem! You never saw such a surprised bird in all your life!" Slim was overcome by the remembrance, and the Captain grinned feebly at the laughter which the tale invoked. "Don't you worry, I guess I can shoot a goat all right," said the Captain with some asperity. "Uttered like a man, Captain," grinned Slim. "'Then out spoke brave Horatius, the Captain of the gate--'" His flow of nonsense was interrupted by an exclamation of surprise from Nyoda as they reached the front gate. A messenger boy was running up the steps of Carver House just ahead of them. CHAPTER XIV NEWS FROM THE FRONT "Does Mrs. Andrew Sheridan live here?" asked the boy, looking from one to the other. "Here," replied Nyoda, holding out her hand for the envelope. "Who can be telegraphing at this time of night?" asked Hinpoha, shot through with a sudden fear that something had happened to her aunt and they were telegraphing to Nyoda about it. Nyoda stepped into the hall, switched on the light and tore open the envelope. Then she gasped suddenly and sat down on the stair steps with a frightened "Oh-h-h!" "What is it, Nyoda?" asked the girls, crowding around her in alarm. She held out the telegram and Gladys took it from her hands and held it up where all could see: MRS. ANDREW SHERIDAN, Oakwood, Pa. Your husband on board _Antares_ when she sank in collision off Nova Scotia August first. Now in Good Samaritan Hospital, St. Margaret's, Nova Scotia, probably fatally injured. Come. The signature was that of some official of the government. "Oh-h-h!" cried the Winnebagos in horror, staring, fascinated, at the fatal sheet of paper in their hands. Migwan ran to Nyoda and put her arms around her in silent sympathy; the rest stood still, with shocked, frightened faces. After a moment of stunned surprise Nyoda rallied herself. "Come," she said, in her usual calm, brisk tones, "I have to make haste. I must go on that early morning train. It goes through here about four. Help me pack, girls." Recalled to themselves by the quietness of Nyoda's manner the Winnebagos set about helping in their usual efficient way. Hinpoha and Gladys sped to the kitchen to make coffee and sandwiches; Sahwah sped downstairs into the laundry to bring up the freshly ironed clothes; Slim and the Captain went up into the attic to bring down the suitcase and make themselves generally useful; Migwan went to Nyoda's room with her to help her make ready for the journey. Sahwah was coming up the cellar stairs with a basket of clothes in her hand. Just as she passed the side entry door she heard someone fumbling with the knob on the outside. The knob turned and the door began to open softly. "Who's there?" called Sahwah sharply, switching on the light in the entry and throwing wide the door. There stood Veronica, with her violin under her arm and her hat and coat on. She started back when she saw Sahwah and the two stood looking into each other's eyes. "She hasn't been home, she's still got her violin," was the thought that went through Sahwah's mind. "I thought you went home with a sick headache from the party," she said in astonishment. "So did the rest of them," replied Veronica imperturbably. Their eyes met and held for a second, and it seemed to Sahwah that Veronica looked haggard and haunted. "Is everybody home?" asked Veronica presently. "Yes," replied Sahwah, "and, O Veronica--" and she told her the news. "Oh, poor, poor Nyoda!" cried Veronica, and throwing off her hat and coat she thrust them with her violin into the closet under the stairs and then sped upstairs. "She didn't have a headache at all, she didn't go home, she went somewhere else," throbbed Sahwah's weary brain. "And whatever she's done, she's scared to death about it," it throbbed on. "Why did she come stealing in the back door that way?" Worried and perplexed, but still loyal to her promise to say nothing to the others about Veronica, Sahwah went on sorting and carrying up the ironed clothes. Upstairs Migwan was helping Nyoda get dressed for her journey. Nyoda was still in her George Washington suit, which she had concealed under a long cloak on the way home, and Migwan's hands trembled so with excitement she could hardly take out the endless pins that they had put in with so much fun and laughter a few hours before. "How did Sherry, happen to be on the ocean?" Nyoda asked wonderingly. "He was in France the last time I heard from him. Why would he be coming to America now?" Migwan could not answer the question, she could only press her beloved Guardian's hand tight in hers by way of sympathy and then fly back at the pins, which all seemed to be allied against them, for they buried their heads out of sight and thrust their points where Migwan's shaking fingers caught and tore themselves upon them. The suit was off at last and Migwan tucked Nyoda into bed for an hour of rest while she pressed her dark blue silk traveling dress and sewed fresh collars and cuffs into her jacket. In the next room Veronica was swiftly packing the suitcase. The whole house was filled with confusion and haste. The old portraits on the walls looked down in astonishment at this unwonted turning of night into day, at the lights burning all over the house, from attic to basement, and at the girls running up and downstairs, bumping into each other in their haste and getting more flurried all the time. A smell of coffee pervaded the whole place, and this was soon superseded by the odor of burning toast. In the midst of the confusion the telephone rang and everybody thought someone else was answering it, with the result that nobody answered it and it rang a second time, long and insistently. Sahwah rushed up from the basement; Veronica sped swiftly down from upstairs, followed in a moment by Migwan; Hinpoha hastily snatched the coffee pot off the fire and ran in from the kitchen; Gladys hastened from the pantry; the two boys jumped in from the porch, and at the same moment Nyoda called over the banister and asked if someone would answer the telephone. Sahwah got there first and snatched down the receiver with a trembling hand while the rest stood expectantly around, fearful of what this midnight message might be. And then after all the call was not for the house at all; the operator had made a wrong connection! Hinpoha flew back to her toast; Sahwah returned to the basement, limping as she went, having struck her shin against the steps in the hurried trip up. Migwan had pricked her finger when the bell rang, it had startled her so, and a great drop of blood fell on the clean collar, so that she had to rip it out and find another one and sew that in. Then she discovered a button missing and hunted endlessly to find another one to match. Everything was fixed at last and Migwan ran downstairs to see what was to be done there. Everything was being taken care of, and so, turning off the lights which were blazing unnecessarily in the long parlor, she sank down in a chair to rest a moment. Already the party seemed days in the past--could it be that this was still the same night? A shade flapped in the window, irritating her strained nerves, and she rose hastily and pulled it up. Her hand came in contact with something soft and silky. It was the service flag in the window--the flag that stood for Sherry. Reverently she straightened it out and stood stroking it with shaking fingers. The dark blue star stood out dimly in the light that shone through the window from the outside and the thought came into her mind that soon it might be replaced by a gold star. Tears came into her eyes; she forced them resolutely back and hastened upstairs to tell Nyoda that her hour was up and she must get up and begin to dress. Nyoda was already up and dressed when she went into the room; she was standing in front of the mirror combing her hair. Migwan hastened forward to assist her, reproaching herself that she hadn't come up sooner. The blue dress was soon on and adjusted and Migwan pinned the collar while Veronica adjusted the cuffs. Nyoda was checking off on her fingers the things she must take. "Handkerchiefs--did you get them in?" Veronica nodded. "Towels, soap case, hairpins, buttonhook?" "Everything," replied Veronica. "Slippers, bathrobe--" "I forgot the slippers!" exclaimed Veronica, and sped after them. The hall clock chimed half past three and Nyoda started nervously. "Plenty of time," said Migwan soothingly. "Come downstairs now and drink your coffee and eat something." Nyoda went downstairs and drank several cups of coffee and forced herself to eat some of the scorched toast, although she was not in the least hungry. "You'll stay here in the house until I come back, won't you, girls?" she said between sips of coffee. "Ill leave you in full charge. You'll be careful, won't you?" "Yes, Nyoda," they all promised. "We'll be good and see that nothing happens. Don't worry." "I'll send you my address as soon as I get there, so you can write me. Remember about lighting the gas stove in the kitchen, Hinpoha, it puffs. The bed linen is in the closet off the front room upstairs." "Yes, Nyoda, we'll find everything, don't worry." The long peal of an auto horn sounded outside. "There's the car," said Sahwah. "The boys got it out of the garage and around the front of the house." "What time is it?" "A quarter to four. We'd better start, you have to buy your ticket first. Here, let me take the suitcase." "Where are my gloves?" "Here they are," said Migwan, handing them to her. They passed quickly down the front walk and into the waiting automobile. A swift ride through the quiet streets in the first pale glimmerings of the dawn, and they were in the little station, the only ones waiting for the train. The Captain strode over to the blackboard while Nyoda went to buy her ticket. "Train's on time," he announced, coming back to the group. In another minute they heard the whistle in the distance, and then the long train roared in and came to a panting halt. The Captain seized Nyoda's suitcase and jumped aboard with it. Nyoda followed and stood still on the train steps to say good-bye to the Winnebagos crowding around. "Be good, girlies," she said, smiling bravely at them. "Oh, Nyoda, _dear_ Nyoda! We'll think of you every minute. We'll pray for you and Sherry." The conductor stood on the platform, watch in hand. "If you need anything, Nyoda, telegraph and we'll send it" The conductor dropped his right hand in signal to the engineer, and swung aboard, the wheels began to turn, the Captain leaped down from the other end of the car. "Good-bye, Nyoda!" A waving of handkerchiefs on the platform, an answering wave from the car window, and Nyoda was gone. No. 46 had puffed in on time, made its usual five-minute stop, and puffed out on time. But what a difference its coming and departure had made to the Winnebagos! It was all over in such quick time that they hardly had time to draw breath. They stood on the platform and watched the train out of sight and then turned and climbed up the steps to the street, silent for the most part, with only an occasional exclamation of "What _will_ Nyoda do if Sherry dies?" Then another swift drive through the silent streets, scarcely any lighter than they had been before, and they were back at Carver House, which suddenly seemed empty and dreary with Nyoda gone. They sat down to the table and ate up the rest of the toast and drank the rest of the coffee; then the boys started back to their tent in the woods, and the Winnebagos, beginning to feel weak and shaky now that the excitement of getting Nyoda ready had passed, went slowly and sadly up the stairs and crept into bed. Thoroughly worn out with the strenuous evening and the still more strenuous night that followed it, they finally fell asleep, while the sun rose unwelcomed over Carver Hill and the stair clock chimed half past six in vain. CHAPTER XV IT NEVER RAINS-- Sahwah wakened with the sound of a bell ringing in her ears. The house was still asleep; the sun was pouring in brightly through the south window of the room. Sahwah wondered idly why the sun was shining in at that window; it always shone in the other window when she wakened in the morning. Then she remembered. It all seemed like a dream; the telegram, the hurried preparations for departure, the swift journey to the station with Nyoda and the return to Carver House without her. Sahwah was still piecing together the events of the night before when the shrill ring sounded through the house again. It was the front doorbell. Sahwah jumped up and threw on her bathrobe and, yawning widely, ran downstairs. It was Agony; Agony with a face as pale as a ghost. "What's the matter?" asked Sahwah in consternation, forgetting her own great news at the sight of Agony's expression. "It's Veronica," Agony burst out breathlessly. "What's the matter with Veronica?" asked Sahwah in alarm. "She's been arrested!" Sahwah's heart thumped queerly and then seemed to stand still at this climax of her forebodings. "What for?" she asked faintly. Agony came in and sat down on the hall seat "There's so much to tell, I think I'll begin at the beginning," she said, and Sahwah stood still with her eyes fastened on Agony's face apprehensively. "You remember when you were all over at our house for dinner one night, and papa was home, he told us something about the big case he was working on, the Atterbury case, and he said he suspected that German agents were mixed up in it? Well, yesterday he got hold of some letters that proved it. There was one from a German Prince, Prince Karl Augustus of Hohenburg, to some man in this country, written before the war, promising to pay money to have strikes started and machinery damaged if this country went into the war. This very Atterbury was mentioned in the letter, and it made papa's case complete against him. The letter had gotten into the wrong hands and somebody turned it over to papa. It was so important that papa had to take it to Washington. That's why he came home unexpectedly last night; he planned to go this morning. He brought the letter home with him and locked it in his desk upstairs. This morning a Secret Service agent came out from Philadelphia to go along with papa and papa went to get the letter and it was gone." "But what has Veronica----" Agony drew another long breath and hastened on. "Why, papa says that Veronica asked to use the telephone in the study last night, and she was in there a long time alone, and soon afterward she disappeared from the party. The letter was in his desk when she went in there; nobody else went in after her. It looks as though she took it, and the Secret Service man arrested her." "But I thought Veronica was upstairs in bed!" gasped Sahwah. "She came over to our house about nine o'clock this morning," said Agony, "and told us about Nyoda's husband being injured and her going away in such a hurry. She was downstairs with me when papa discovered that the letter was gone, and the agent arrested her right away." Sahwah's head was in a whirl, and she sat down weakly on the stairs. Then she raised her head and said with a flash of spirit, "Veronica never took any letter out of your father's desk! I don't believe it! Whatever would she want with such a thing as that?" "But," continued Agony, "don't you see? This Prince Karl Augustus of Hohenburg is a friend of hers, she played for him and his wife gave her a ring! She's taken that letter away so it can't be used in the trial to prove that he was connected with the business!" "I don't believe it!" said Sahwah flatly. Her blood rose to fighting pitch even while her heart misgave her. "Agony Wing," she raged, "do you think for a moment that Veronica would have anything to do with enemy agents? What if she did know that old prince. She didn't like him. Do you think she'd steal letters for him?" "It does seem awfully odd," said Agony, "the fuss she always made about wanting to be an American. Papa could hardly believe it of her, either, but the Secret Service man and Mr. Prince are perfectly sure she did it." "Mr. Prince!" exclaimed Sahwah in wrath. "What's _he_ got to do with it?" "Well, it seems that all along he's been suspicious of her; he didn't think she was sincere when she talked about liking America better than her own country," replied Agony. "He says he isn't surprised at all that this happened; he's been expecting something of the kind. It was he that told papa and the Secret Service man about her having known the prince." "How did _he_ find it out?" demanded Sahwah. "I don't know, I never told him," declared Agony, bristling as though she thought Sahwah suspected she had told. "I hate that artist!" Sahwah declared fiercely. "He's a meddlesome old thing!" "Well, you can't really blame him for suspecting Veronica," said Agony, lightly, "You see, she's an alien enemy, and----" "Agony!" cried Sahwah savagely, "do _you_ believe Veronica's a traitor?" "I hate to think----" began Agony. Sahwah came close to her and faced her with blazing eyes. "Do you believe she is?" "It's hard to believe----" "_Do you believe she's a traitor_?" Agony shrank back from her fury. "No, I don't," she said meekly. "Don't be so savage, Sahwah." Sahwah subsided. "Where is Veronica?" she asked. "She's still over at our house. The Secret Service man sent me over here to bring all you girls over, he wants to talk to you." Sahwah roused the girls from bed with her sensational piece of news and they all hastened home with Agony. Mr. Wing took them upstairs to his study and they went in, feeling queer and frightened. Veronica was sitting there, her face as white as a sheet, her great eyes dilated with fear and bewilderment. The artist lounged in the window seat, watching Veronica closely and smiling slightly to himself, and facing Veronica sat a small, keen-looking man with little, steely gray eyes that bored like gimlets. "These are the girls with whom Miss Lehar is staying," said Mr. Wing. He introduced the little man as Special Agent Sanders. Sahwah searched Mr. Wing's face pleadingly; he looked greatly puzzled, and very, very much disturbed. Then she looked at the gimlet-eyed man in the chair and saw his eyes rove from one to another of the girls questioningly. He began to speak without preliminary. "When you girls reached home after this party last night was Miss Lehar there?" "Yes," answered Migwan and Hinpoha and Gladys together. Sahwah was silent. Immediately Agent Sanders' eye was upon her. "Was she?" he asked directly of Sahwah. Sahwah opened her lips and closed them nervously, unable to frame an untruth, and equally unable to tell what she knew. She looked helplessly at Veronica. The room became very still. The others looked at her in astonishment. Agent Sanders bored her with his little, keen eyes. Sahwah felt herself turning red and white and her heartbeats thumped against her eardrums. She sent Veronica another miserable look. Veronica returned the look steadily, and then she spoke. "Tell him you saw me coming in the back door after you got home," she said calmly. "Is that true?" Agent Sanders asked of Sahwah. Sahwah nodded. A gasp of astonishment went up from the other three Winnebagos. "Tell all the circumstances connected with the incident," Agent Sanders directed Sahwah. "There weren't any circumstances connected with it," replied Sahwah earnestly. "We had just come home and our friend had had bad news and was going away early in the morning and we were getting her ready and I went out in the back entry way to get something and just then Veronica came in the back door." "You thought she had gone home with a sick headache and was in bed?" "Yes," replied Sahwah, "but when she came in I decided she had been out for a walk." This sounded like a perfectly natural explanation to Sahwah. "Didn't it strike you strange that she should have gone walking at that hour?" "No, it didn't," replied Sahwah eagerly. "She often does it." "Ah-h!" Agent Sanders merely breathed the syllable, yet it held a world of meaning. Sahwah felt vaguely apprehensive. "So she often goes out walking at midnight, does she?" continued the agent. Sahwah felt that she had made a misstep somewhere, and was harming Veronica's cause instead of helping it, but the eyes of the agent seemed to be drawing all her knowledge from her like a magnet picking up needles. "I meant," said Sahwah, "that she often has those sick headaches, and when she does she generally goes out walking to cure them." "And these headaches generally occur at night?" "Yes." "In other words," said Agent Sanders as confidently as if he could see right inside of her head and knew everything in it, "this is not the first time Miss Lehar has gone on a mysterious errand at night--eh?" Sahwah started, and then was furious at herself because she knew the agent had noticed it. He bored his eyes right through her, and remarked sarcastically, "You knew this girl to be an alien, an enemy of your country; you knew she was going off on mysterious errands, and yet you didn't think there was anything strange about it!" Then to Sahwah's relief Agent Sanders fell to making rapid notes in a memorandum book, and ceased addressing her. He turned abruptly to Veronica. "Where did you go when you left this house last night?" he asked pointblank. "Down the street to Carver House, through the yard, down the hill behind it, along the road to the edge of town and back," replied Veronica readily. The agent looked thoughtful for a moment. The straightforwardness of her reply seemed to perplex him a little. Then he asked, "Whom did you meet down there at the edge of town?" Veronica did not answer. "Whom did you meet?" he repeated triumphantly. Veronica opened her lips as if to speak and then closed them again and remained silent. The room was so still that the heavy ticking of the clock sounded like hammer blows on an anvil. All eyes were on Veronica; the Winnebagos stared, open-mouthed; Sahwah's blood ran cold in her veins; Agent Sanders leaned forward, the whole force of his personality concentrated in his compelling eyes. "I didn't meet anybody," said Veronica, returning his gaze steadfastly. "Where did you go, then?" Veronica was silent. "Answer me." "I can't tell you." "Why not?" "Because I can't." There was a ring of finality in Veronica's tone. Agent Sanders scribbled something more in his little notebook. Then he renewed his questioning. "You took that letter to somebody, didn't you?" "I did not," replied Veronica emphatically. "I told you before, and I repeat it, I know nothing about any letter. I never saw it, and I never heard of it until you accused me of taking it." The agent smiled knowingly. "To whom did you telephone from this study last night?" "To a friend of mine." "Who?" Veronica refused to answer that question, calmly defying the agent to make her tell. Again there was a sensation in the room. The Winnebagos were ready to drop with astonishment at the strange behavior of Veronica. Sahwah looked around at the various faces. Mr. Wing still wore his puzzled, pained expression; the artist seemed to be getting bored; he looked out of the window and his left hand was playing with his ear, pulling down the lobe and releasing it with a jerk, a gesture he was continually making when his hands were idle. It irritated Sahwah now and made her nervous; she was filled with a desire to tie his hand down so he couldn't reach his ear. "That will do," said Agent Sanders to the Winnebagos, indicating by a gesture that they were to go out of the room. Sahwah lingered. She stood up beside Veronica and put her arm around her. "She didn't do it! She didn't do it!" she said fiercely, facing the three men fearlessly. "She's as loyal to this country as you are!" "Possibly," said Agent Sanders drily. "Well, little lady, your faith in your friend is very beautiful to see, but until we find out that someone else took that letter we can't take much stock in it." "I'll prove to you that she's all right," Sahwah proclaimed rashly, and then reluctantly went out of the room. Her faith in Veronica's innocence was unshaken. Veronica herself had said that she did not know anything about the letter, that was enough for Sahwah. Her friend had spoken, and she never dreamed of doubting her word. As she went out she saw Mr. Wing rub his hand thoughtfully over his forehead and heard him say, "But hang it, Sanders, you didn't hear her play last night. She had us all roused to such a pitch of patriotism that we were ready to go to the front on the next ship." The agent said nothing, only went on making notes in his little book. The artist sprang to open the door for Sahwah, but she took the knob out from under his very hand and passed him with hostile eyes. Soon afterward Agent Sanders and Mr. Wing went to Philadelphia and took Veronica away with them. Before they went the Winnebagos all flung themselves upon Mr. Wing and implored him not to let the agent take her away. "_You_ know she is all right," pleaded Sahwah. "_You_ tell him not to arrest her." Mr. Wing threw out his hands in a helpless gesture. "You don't understand, my dear," he said patiently. "I can't tell Special Agent Sanders 'not to' do anything. I don't happen to have the authority." "Oh-h," said the Winnebagos. "You see," he went on gently, "Agent Sanders is only doing his duty in arresting her. It's his business to run down the enemies of our country and he is working for the good of all of us. The case against her is pretty strong, you'll have to admit. She's an alien enemy, a friend of this Prince Karl Augustus; is wearing a ring which his wife gave her. Then here comes this letter from him which will expose him as the head of a great plot. Veronica is in the house with that letter; she is known to have been alone in the room where it was; soon after that she leaves the house and says she is going home with a sick headache. When you get home you find her trying to steal unobserved into the back entry. She herself admits that she had an appointment with someone during that time. The next morning the letter is found to have disappeared. Naturally all suspicion points to her, and how could Sanders do anything else but put her under arrest? This is a serious matter, much more serious than you can guess, if that letter goes back into the hands of the prince's agents." "But do you really think she took the letter?" asked Sahwah despairingly. Mr. Wing shrugged his shoulders and repeated his gesture of helplessness. "It's hard to know what to expect from such a temptestuous nature as that," he said seriously. "A nature which can work up such a passionate loyalty for an adopted country--what must its feelings have been toward its own native land? Suppose when the chance unexpectedly came to aid the cause for which her country is fighting and for which her father died, the old ties were stronger than the new, and she could not resist the temptation? A nature like hers is capable of going to any extreme. Naturally I hate to suspect her of any connection with enemy agents, but as a servant of the government it is my duty to act upon anything that is in the least suspicious. Sanders is absolutely convinced that she's a dangerous spy in the employ of the enemy, for she answers the description of a young girl he has been trying to find for a long time, a girl who belongs to the Hungarian nobility who has helped German agents in this country. "Sanders is dead sure she took that letter and passed it back to the prince's agents, and you really can't blame him for thinking so. For, hang it all, if _she_ didn't, who under the shining sun did?" Only Sahwah, with her faith in her friend unshaken, though circumstances pointed accusing fingers from every direction, declared stoutly, "She didn't, I know she didn't. Some day you'll find out I'm right!" CHAPTER XVI CLOUDY DAYS The days dragged themselves along and a week loitered past which seemed an age to the Winnebagos. No word had come from Nyoda since a telegram she had sent upon her arrival, saying that Sherry was very low and not expected to live. They had written her about Veronica's plight, but there was no answer to that. Neither did they hear anything about Veronica. Mr. Wing had been in Philadelphia ever since the day of Veronica's arrest, but they had not heard from him since. The Winnebagos wore themselves out talking about Veronica. The subject of her mysterious excursions from the house was always in the air, and it formed a hurdle over which no one could jump. Where had she gone on those excursions? Why didn't she confide in them and satisfy their minds on this point? It usually happens in such instances, where our friends fail to take us into their confidence on matters which we think we have a right to know, that our pride is hurt at the neglect and pretty soon we begin to have suspicions in regard to the mysterious action. So it was with the Winnebagos. At first they only felt hurt that Veronica should have secrets away from them, but soon they began to say to themselves that there must have been something suspicious somewhere, if she could not confide in them, her best friends. It was Agony who voiced this sentiment the oftenest, and kept the mystery constantly stirred up. She never let them forget it for a moment. She seemed inclined to argue as her father had done, that Veronica's ties of blood and birth had been too strong for her and in an unguarded moment she had yielded to the impulse to assist the cause of her native land. The constant repetition of this belief began to influence the others. Much as they were loath to believe that Veronica would assist the enemies of their country, they were always conscious of the fact that they had never really known Veronica; that they could not understand her strange, passionate nature; that never in their acquaintance with her had they ever been able to guess what she would do next. There had always been a gulf between themselves and her which they had never been able to cross entirely, much as they had come to love her; there was always a line drawn around her over which they had never been able to pass. They loved her dearly; they admired her wildly; but they no more understood the soul that was locked up in her uncommunicative nature than they understood the riddle of the Sphinx. They all realized this, and were filled with sorrowful forebodings. The fact that she had known Prince Karl Augustus loomed larger and larger in their minds as the days wore on, and it seemed not at all improbable that she had seized the opportunity to aid him in his activities, without ever stopping to think of the consequences of her act. They were broken-hearted over it, but gradually came to believe the possibility of the charge against her. Only Sahwah stood out stanchly for her right along, refusing to doubt her for a moment. "I don't care if she _is_ an alien enemy!" she declared vehemently. "She's my Veronica, and I know she never had anything to do with it, so there!" She wouldn't listen to Agony and her wise-sounding talk, withdrew to herself a great part of the time, and for lack of other supporters spoke out her mind to the portrait of Elizabeth Carver, hanging serenely over the harp in the long parlor. "You would have stood up for your friend, no matter what the others said, wouldn't you?" she demanded beseechingly, and it seemed to her that Elizabeth nodded her head in confirmation. Then one day came news which filled them all with consternation. Veronica was to be interned! Mr. Wing came home and told them about it briefly. The weight of suspicion had been so strong against Veronica that nothing could stand against it; her internment had been ordered by the agents of the government. They were now awaiting the arrival of the internment papers from Washington; when these came she would be taken away. Mr. Wing wearily waved aside the hosts of questions poured out by the dismayed Winnebagos. He had suffered great chagrin over the loss of the letter which was to have played such an important part in the coming trial; sober afterthoughts had convinced him of the possibility of Veronica's connection with enemy agents; he had come to believe it implicitly now. Of course, she had taken in these simple girls with her spectacular protestations of loyalty to this country; that was part of the game. His anxiety was all for his girls, for fear they had already compromised themselves in some way. The Winnebagos saw him in a new mood to-day, stern, inflexible, obdurate. He curtly advised them to speedily forget their friend and to say nothing to outsiders about the occurrence. He refused to tell them where she was at present, and would not hear of their having any intercourse with her. "The first thing you know you'll be suspected of connivance yourselves," he warned. "And I also advise you not to express too much sympathy for your friend," he continued. "It's a sure way to make yourselves unpopular these days." Stricken, Sahwah sped home, and fleeing from the others, went into the woods by herself. That was always her place of refuge in trouble. When others would have sought human comfort and advice, Sahwah fled straight to the woods. There she could think clearly and gather together her stunned faculties. She wandered on blindly until she came to the brook, the little laughing stream she loved so well, and sat there for hours trying to think of some plan by which she could save Veronica. For the conviction was strong within her that Veronica was innocent and it would not budge for all the suspicions in the world. She thought of one wild extravagant scheme after the other, and abandoned them all, and at last, utterly crushed and low-spirited, she took her way back to Carver House. CHAPTER XVII THE DRILL CONTEST While the Winnebagos were gasping under the cold shower of upsetting events, time marched steadily onward toward the day set for the military drill contest between Oakwood and Hillsdale. In these last days the Winnebagos realized what it meant to have the honor of a town on their shoulders. Although they had little heart for drilling they must turn out every day with their company of Oakwood girls just as if nothing had happened, must be the life and brains of the company and never appear to let their enthusiasm flag. Everyone in town depended upon them to win the contest for Oakwood; everywhere they went they were greeted with pleasant smiles and complimentary remarks; they were touched and flattered by the confidence that was reposed in them--they simply _had_ to win that contest for Oakwood. No one else knew anything about Veronica; that was kept a state secret. The Winnebagos simply told Miss Raper that she had been called out of town and would not be in the contest, and Miss Raper chose another girl to put in her place. Migwan and Gladys and Hinpoha were sitting together getting the suits ready which they were to wear in the drill--white skirts and middies, white shoes and stockings, red, white and blue arm band--when Sahwah came in waving an envelope over her head. "Letter from Nyoda!" she called. The three dropped their sewing and fell upon her in a body. "Open it quick!" "Here, take the scissors." "Oh, read it out loud, Migwan, I can't wait until it's passed around." Migwan promptly complied while the rest listened eagerly as she read: Good Samaritan Hospital, St. Margaret's, N.S. DEAR GIRLS: _Oh_, I'm so thankful I can hardly write; my pen wants to dance jigs instead of staying on the lines, but I must let you know at once because I know how anxious you have been. Sherry is out of danger, he rounded the corner today, and there isn't much doubt about his recovery. But if you had ever seen the day I arrived--! I got to St. Margaret's in the afternoon, tumbled into the first cab that stood outside the station; begged the driver to lose no time getting to the hospital, and went rattledly banging over the rough streets as though we were fleeing from the German army. The hospital was filled to overflowing with the survivors of the wreck, all of whom had been brought into the port of St. Margaret's. Beds were everywhere--in the offices, in the corridors, in the entries. It took me some time to locate Sherry because there was so much confusion, but I found him at last in one of the wards. As I came up I heard a doctor who had been attending him say to the nurse beside him, "It's all up with him, poor chap." Then he turned around and saw me standing there, and I said quietly, "I am his wife." He and the nurse exchanged glances, and he looked distressed. He seemed to expect me to go off into a fit or a faint, and looked surprised because I stayed so calm. I was surprised myself. I seemed to be in a dream and moved and acted quite automatically. Sherry did not know me; he had been struck on the head while swimming for a lifeboat, and had been insensible for hours. The doctors said his skull was fractured. They had done everything they could; there was nothing to do now but wait until the end came. I had had nothing to eat all day, because I had been too nervous to eat on the train. But I stayed by his bedside all that night watching. He was still living in the morning and I left him at times to help look after other patients, because the nurses simply couldn't get around fast enough. One of the men I waited on was a friend of Sherry's, a Y.M.C.A. man. He said that Sherry was being sent back to America to give a series of lectures. Just think! to have come safely through those awful months in the trenches, and then to perish when so near home! For three days he lay in a stupor and all that time I never slept a wink because they said the end would come any minute without warning. But instead of that he opened his eyes without warning this morning, recognized me, and said, "Hello, Elizabeth," as casually as if we hadn't been separated for a year. He's been awake now for five hours and the doctor says he's out of danger. I sort of let go then when the tension was over, but I've slept a bit since and have got a grip on myself again. I'm so happy that I feel like dancing a jig up and down the wards, and it is only with great difficulty that I can restrain myself. I must stop now, because Sherry is clamoring for refreshments. Your blissful, too-thankful-to-live NYODA. P.S. The soap is in the closet under the kitchen stairs. I forgot to tell you before I went away. A chorus of glad cries greeted the reading of the letter. "Sherry's going to get well! Isn't it wonderful?" Hinpoha and Migwan flung their arms around each other in an exuberance of feeling just at the same moment that Sahwah and Gladys did the same thing, and they all laughed and hugged each other for joy. "Dear Nyoda! Think of her, going without sleep for three nights and keeping up through it all!" "And helping to take care of the other injured ones! Isn't that Nyoda all over, though--_Give Service_, no matter how badly she might feel herself!" "But, she never said a word about Veronica," said Sahwah in a puzzled tone, when the first excitement had subsided. "I can't understand it." "She probably forgot it, she was so thankful about Sherry," said Gladys. "Not she," replied Sahwah positively. "She couldn't have gotten our letter. I'm going to write again." * * * * * The day of the great contest had arrived. It was the 15th of August, the day on which Oakwood celebrated the one hundred and seventieth anniversary of its founding. An elaborate celebration had been prepared, with parades and pageants in the daytime, and fireworks and a sham battle at night. The military drill contest had been a part of this celebration, that Oakwood's victory over Hillsdale might have a more spectacular setting. Oakwood was making much more of an occasion out of that contest than the Winnebagos had expected and their sporting blood began to tingle. The thought of winning before all that crowd thrilled them through and through. Agony was in a high feather. Hers was a nature which expanded in the limelight; crowded audiences inspired her to outdo herself instead of "fussing" her as they did Oh-Pshaw. She could hardly wait for their hour to strike. The contest was at five in the afternoon, after the parade and before the evening's program of fireworks. At four o'clock the Hillsdale delegation drove into town in hayracks decorated with flags and bunting, the troop of Girl Scouts who were going to drill in the first rack, and after them several racks full of Hillsdale girls and boys, coming to watch the contest. "There they come!" whispered the Oakwood girls to each other, and the thrill of the coming struggle began to go through them at the sight of their adversaries. "Oh, I'm afraid I'm going to make a mistake!" said Oh-Pshaw, turning quite cold. "I'll never get through that field formation wheel, I know." "You will _not_ make a mistake," said Agony emphatically. "Don't think about the audience, just think about that trip to Washington we're going to get, and keep cool. I don't see what you're so excited for anyway. I'm not a bit scared." Then she added, "How are you ever going to be a Torch Bearer if you can't keep cool?" It was a home thrust, and Agony knew it. Oh-Pshaw wanted to be a Torch Bearer more than anything else and she considered this occasion a test of her fitness. She must not get rattled! The contest took place on Commons Field. A tent had been set up on either end of the field for the use of the people in the pageant, and the two drill companies used these tents as points of entry upon the drill grounds, forming their squads inside. The judges, who were three military men belonging neither to Oakwood nor Hillsdale, sat half way up the hill overlooking the center of the grounds. The Hillsdales, being the visitors, were given the privilege of drilling first. The Oakwood girls looked on critically as their rivals marched out on the field and began their maneuvers. The Hillsdale supporters began to cheer and kept it up incessantly. The spirits of the Oakwood girls rose as they watched. The Hillsdale Scouts did their steps perfectly, they had to admit, but they lacked "pep." The Winnebagos knew they could put a dash into their performance that would beat this mere mechanical perfection all hollow. Their nervousness left them; the music of the band, the presence of the crowd, the sight of themselves in their natty white uniforms had gone to their heads like wine. They were inspired; they could hardly wait to get out on the drill grounds; they knew they would march as they had never marched before. The Hillsdale Scouts finished their maneuvers and marched off amid a wild outbreak of applause from their friends, and Oakwood, tingling with eagerness, sprang to attention at Miss Raper's command. The bugle blew its signal for their entrance, the band crashed into a march and the squads began to move forward. A roar of applause went up from the crowds on the hillside; Oakwood citizens hailed their champions with all their powers of heart and voice. "CAMP FIRE GIRLS!" yelled several thousand enthusiastic throats. The Winnebagos thrilled as they had never thrilled before. Here was the whole town honoring them, _them_, depending upon them to lead the Oakwood girls to victory over the ancient rival, Hillsdale. Agony was nearly suffocating with pride; applause was the breath of life to her. The company came to a halt opposite the judges, one squad behind the other. "Squads Left--Hunch!" Miss Raper's sharp command pierced them like a bullet. With the ease of long practice the squads moved in obedience to the command. The maneuvers had commenced. Command after command rang out, which they obeyed with conscious snap and finish, pivoting, wheeling, rear marching, left and right flanking in perfect step and rhythm. Applause was continuous, Oakwood citizens had recognized the "pep" in their performance and knew what the decision of the judges would be. The first half of the maneuvers was over; there remained now only the prize figure of the drill, the difficult field formation, in which the squads wheeled into the form of a cross and then revolved by fours around a common center, like the spokes of a wheel going around. It was a complicated figure and required rapid thinking as to whether to turn to right or left in certain places. The first half of the figure was executed without a flaw; the squads stood ready to form the cross. "_Ready--Wheel_!" Alas for Oh-Pshaw! When the critical moment arrived and she got to thinking how dreadful it would be if she _should_ make a mistake, she went all to pieces, lost her head and marched forward instead of backward, crashing violently into Agony, who was marching with the four ahead. Not prepared for the collision, Agony lost her footing and went down in a heap on the ground, covering her white suit with dust from head to foot. A simultaneous gasp of dismay went up from the audience and the company, while the Hillsdale-ites laughed triumphantly. One of the Hillsdale boys, a youth of eighteen, who considered himself superlatively funny, called out, "Oakwood Squad, _Awkw'd_ Squad!" Agony scrambled to her feet, white with anger, and Oh-Pshaw stood still where the collision had occurred, too horrorstruck to move. A low command from Miss Raper and the squads righted themselves into line and proceeded with the maneuver. There was no vim left, however. Oakwood had lost. They heroically struggled through the remainder of the figure, but Oh-Pshaw, completely demoralized, made one misturn after the other. The bugler "sounded off" and the contest was over. The Winnebagos and their company would have fled away and hidden themselves, but no, they must march back onto the field with the Hillsdale company to hear the decision of the judges. It was a fearful ordeal, that standing up before the disappointed citizens of Oakwood to hear their triumphantly smiling rivals pronounced the victors, one that taxed the courage and composure of the girls to the utmost. With a desperate effort to appear blandly indifferent to the decision they stood frozen stiff at attention, carefully avoiding every eye in the audience. The spokesman of the judges stood up and prolonged the torture five long minutes, by complimenting first one company and then the other upon different points of their performance. It seemed he would never come to the point and pronounce Hillsdale the winner. All that time Agony stood there, acutely conscious of the dust on her dress, boiling with fury at Oh-Pshaw because she had caused her to make a spectacle of herself. The taunt, "Oakwood Squad, _Awkw'd_ Squad," still rankled in her breast. The spokesman came to the point at last, and with much flowery language announced that "all things considered, Hillsdale had displayed a greater degree of excellency," etc. A splitting cheer went up from the Hillsdale visitors; the Oakwood citizens were glum and silent. With a last desperate effort to maintain an outwardly Stoic attitude the Winnebagos marched with their company from the field. It was all over. Oakwood had trusted in them, and they had not fulfilled the trust. Once inside the shelter of their tent the company gave way to tears in some spots and to wrath in others. Agony turned furiously upon Oh-Pshaw and vented her rage and disappointment in angry up-braidings; Hinpoha wept unconsolably; Gladys looked a world of reproach whenever she turned to Oh-Pshaw, and even gentle Migwan exclaimed in a voice that was sharp with disappointment, "Oh, Oh-Pshaw, how _could_ you?" Poor Oh-Pshaw! She felt as though she could never hold up her head again. She could never be a Torch Bearer now; she had disgraced the Winnebagos, they would never have anything more to do with her. Agony, her beloved twin, had turned against her; there was nothing left in the world for her now. With quivering lips and smarting eyes she slipped out of the tent and lost herself in the crowd outside. The rest did not notice her going; they were too busy lamenting. By and by Sahwah looked around and missed her. "Where's Oh-Pshaw?" she asked. "I don't know," replied Hinpoha, noticing for the first time that she was no longer in the tent. "She was here a minute ago." "She'd _better_ run and hide," sputtered Agony, still vindictive in her wounded pride. Sahwah stared at Agony thoughtfully and her sympathy went out to Oh-Pshaw, having to bear the whole brunt of their disaster, her whole day spoiled for her. Other features of the celebration were going on in Oakwood; the pageant of the Early Founders was beginning. "Come on out and see what's going on," said Sahwah, who hated to miss anything, even for the melancholy pleasure of crying over spilt milk. So they drifted back into the celebration and their interest in the proceedings soon began to dull the sharpness of their disappointment. Oh-Pshaw was nowhere to be seen, however, and by-and-by Sahwah slipped away from the others and went in search of her. She guessed that Oh-Pshaw might have gone home, to get away from the girls, and went to the house, but it was closed and locked, and there was no sign of Oh-Pshaw in the garden anywhere. Then Sahwah remembered that Oh-Pshaw had a favorite nook out in the woods where she went when she wanted to be alone, a wide-spreading, low-boughed chestnut tree in a dense, shady grove, away from the singing brook with its terrifying gurgle; into the branches she climbed and sat as in a great wide armchair, secure from interruption. She had taken Sahwah with her once. Of course that was where she would go. Sahwah hesitated a moment. Over on Main Street the fun was going at full blast; it was just about time for the balloon to go up. If she went out to look for Oh-Pshaw she would miss it. After all, Oh-Pshaw might not have gone to the woods; she might be in the crowd somewhere, watching the performance where the girls couldn't see her. But Sahwah knew Oh-Pshaw, and knew that she considered herself disgraced and that she would have no heart to look at the rest of the performance. She had a vision of Oh-Pshaw sitting disconsolate out in the woods, hiding away from the festivities, and that vision refused to go away. "I'll go and _see_, anyway," Sahwah decided resolutely, "and if she _is_ there I'll make her come back with me, and if she _isn't,_ there's no harm done by going. I've seen balloons before, and I'll see them again." Turning her back on the festive town she took the path to the woods, and hurried along with light, swift footsteps, humming as she went. Just inside the woods she pounced on something in the path with a little exclamation of triumph. It was a red, white and blue arm band, undoubtedly Oh-Pshaw's. She _had_ come to the woods after all. Sahwah sped on to the big chestnut tree, finding it without difficulty, although she had only been there once. Sure enough, there was Oh-Pshaw, all curled up in the embrace of the wide branches, her face in her arms, the picture of abandoned woe. Sahwah swung up beside her and called her gently by name. Oh-Pshaw raised her head with a start and looked surprised when she saw who it was. "Hello," she responded forlornly to Sahwah's greeting. "Don't take it so to heart," said Sahwah cheerfully. "It wasn't as bad as you think." "The girls will never speak to me again," said Oh-Pshaw dismally, "and you can't blame them, either." "Oh, come, they will, too," said Sahwah. "They're all over it already and out enjoying the rest of the show. Come on back. You wouldn't want to miss the sham battle for anything." Oh-Pshaw's woebegone look began to fade from her face and her heart was warmed clear to the bottom at the thought of Sahwah's leaving the celebration and coming all the way out here to find her. The world took on a cheerful hue again; she sat up and dried her eyes and began to smooth out her crumpled uniform. Sahwah jumped lightly from the tree and Oh-Pshaw followed her, but Oh-Pshaw's foot had gone to sleep from sitting on it so long and she jumped stiffly and came down on a jagged stump, skinning her shin from ankle to knee and giving the knee itself a bad bump. "_Anything_ broken?" asked Sahwah, bending solicitously over the injured member and inspecting the damage. "I guess not," replied Oh-Pshaw, wincing with the pain, "though it hurts like fury. I guess it's just skinned." Sahwah bound up the two places that were bleeding the most with her handkerchief and Oh-Pshaw's and was gently replacing the stocking when her ears caught a sound--a noise like the humming of a giant bee. "What's that noise?" asked Oh-Pshaw. "It's an aeroplane," said Sahwah. "It must be _the_ aeroplane that's coming over from Philadelphia to take part in the sham battle. The one has been in Oakwood all day, but the other hadn't arrived yet when I started out to look for you. It's coming in this direction, over the woods. Come on, let's run to the open space by the Devil's Punch Bowl and see if he flies over there." Sahwah seized Oh-Pshaw by the hand and started away on a run, and Oh-Pshaw followed as best she could for the pain in her knee. The humming noise grew louder and louder as they ran, and then suddenly it stopped altogether. "Where is he, is he gone?" asked Oh-Pshaw in disappointment. "I can't imagine," replied Sahwah, looking up in bewilderment when they came out beside the Punch Bowl. "No, there he is," she cried, as the machine suddenly shot into sight directly above them. "Oh-Pshaw!" she screamed, "it's coming down!" Rooted to the spot, they watched it, as nose downward the machine came rushing toward them, struck against the rock cliffs high above them and dropped with a terrific splash into the Devil's Punch Bowl. CHAPTER XVIII OUT OF A CLEAR SKY It happened so quickly that the two girls had no time to jump back out of the way; they were caught in the deluge of water that shot out from the Punch Bowl on every side. When they got their eyes open again the luckless flying machine lay before them in the water, a mass of wreckage. Oh-Pshaw gave a little muffled shriek and sat down on a log, hiding her face in her hands. Sahwah shook her roughly by the shoulder. "_Oh-Pshaw!_ The man's under the machine, in the water!" Oh-Pshaw shuddered and did not look up. "_Oh-Pshaw! Oh-Pshaw!_ He'll drown!" Oh-Pshaw looked up, still shuddering, and gazed in fascinated horror at the thing in front of her. "Isn't he--dead?" she asked in a hoarse whisper. "No, he isn't, he's _struggling_. Don't you see the water moving? I'm going out and help him," Sahwah exclaimed with sudden resolution. She waded swiftly out into the water until it became too deep for her to stand and then swam out to the wrecked machine, in the clutches of which the unfortunate flyer was held fast. As she reached it, the man's head came up above the surface for a moment and then immediately disappeared again. Sahwah held on to the machine with one hand and with the other reached down and brought his head up out of the water again. His eyes were closed and he was quite limp. He had fainted. Try as she might she could not free him from the wreck of the machine entirely; he was securely pinioned. All she could do was hold his head out of the water. "Run! Get help!" she called out sharply to Oh-Pshaw. "I can't get him out." Oh-Pshaw sprang up and hobbled off as fast as she could go. Sahwah pulled herself up on top of the machine, which was partly above the surface of the water, and sat there in a tolerably secure position holding the unconscious man up. A red stream flowing from the side of his head began to spread in the water and lengthen out in the flowing cataract of the Punch Bowl. It gave Sahwah the shivers, that ever lengthening red stream; she averted her eyes and held on grimly, trying to calculate how long it would take Oh-Pshaw to bring help. Then a new danger arose. The wrecked machine began to tilt and settle and finally with a sickening lurch went down under Sahwah, dragging her and her unconscious burden into the depths of the Devil's Punch Bowl. When she came up and struck out for the bank she found she was still clutching the collar of the unconscious man, for by some lucky chance the tipping of the machine had released him. She brought him to shore and worked over him to expel the water from his lungs and soon was relieved to see that he was breathing again. She took off the great goggles that covered half his face and opened the coat that was so tightly buttoned around his neck, which it seemed must be choking him. There was something hauntingly familiar about the face; it came over Sahwah that she had seen it before, where, she could not remember. It was a young face; the aviator looked little more than a boy. Although breathing, the man remained unconscious, and Sahwah thought about Sherry and his injury and wondered if this man's skull were fractured. She rolled the collar still farther back from his throat to give him more air. Then she noticed a slender gold chain around his neck, and pulling at it brought up a gold locket. It was a girl's locket, heart-shaped, with a monogram engraved on the outside. Impulsively Sahwah opened it. Then she uttered an exclamation of surprise and gazed in round-eyed wonder at the picture inside. It was her own picture! The little snapshot she had given Hinpoha to wear in _her_ locket! Why, it _was_ Hinpoha's locket! There were her initials, D.M.B., entwined in Old English letters on the outside. It was the locket Hinpoha had lost on the train coming to Nyoda's. How came it in the possession of this strange aviator? It was a puzzle Sahwah could not solve. She was still lost in wonder over it when she heard footsteps and looked around to see Oh-Pshaw appear between the trees, limping painfully and weeping. "I couldn't make it," sobbed Oh-Pshaw. "My knee--I don't know what's the matter with it, I can't walk on it, it keeps doubling up under me. I fell down on it every other step and each time it hurt worse. I only got a little way and then I knew it would take me hours to get back to town, so I came back to tell you. H-how did you get the m-man loose and up on shore?" Sahwah explained briefly. "You run and get help, I'll stay here with him," said Oh-Pshaw, looking fearfully around her at the shadows which were lengthening in the gully. There were no lingering sunsets in the Devil's Punch Bowl; night fell swiftly as the dropping of a curtain when the sun got behind the great cliff on the western side. Little did Sahwah dream what an ordeal Oh-Pshaw was committing herself to when she bravely turned around and returned to the Devil's Punch Bowl when she realized that her slow progress was likely to endanger the life of the injured man. To sit beside the Devil's Punch Bowl in the dark, and listen to the terrible gurgling of the water through the basin! The blood curdled in her veins at the mere thought of it, and yet she choked back her terror with a stern hand and said no word as Sahwah rose from beside the unconscious man, called "All right!" over her shoulder and disappeared between the trees like an arrow shot from a bow. Inside of five minutes after Sahwah left it was dark as midnight in the Punch Bowl, dark with an inky blackness that clutched at Oh-Pshaw as with hands while the hideous gurgling filled her ears and turned her blood to water. She was going to faint, she knew it; the strength went out of her limbs; icy drops gathered on her forehead. Then she remembered. She _dared_ not faint. She must keep her hand pressed tightly over the wound in the man's head to keep the blood from flowing. Sahwah had said so. Sahwah said he would bleed to death if she did not. Sahwah had just started to do it, when she had come back and reported her failure to bring help. Now she had to do it. She pressed her hands tightly over the wound as Sahwah had showed her, and tried to close her ears to the gurgling. But the old terror had her by the throat, suffocating her, paralyzing her hands. They dropped uselessly at her sides; she crouched limp and panting and nerveless beside the helpless man. Then, for the first time in her life Oh-Pshaw began to fight the fear. She forced her clammy hands back over the wound, she cast desperately around for something to think about beside the murmuring horror at her feet. She began to sing, in a scarcely audible voice, and through chattering teeth: "L-lay m-me to sl-leep in sh-sheltering flame, O M-master of the Hidden F-fire! W-w-ash pure my heart, and c-cleanse f-for me M-my Soul's D-desire!" Over and over she sang it, through chattering teeth, keeping in her mind the picture of a warm, glowing fire and herself sitting beside it, cozy and comfortable, and finally the picture became so real that she forgot about the gurgling water and gave herself up to pleasant fire dreams. Oh-Pshaw herself was master, not of the Hidden Fire, but of the Hidden Fear! She was still sitting beside her imaginary fire when footsteps startled her and in another minute the place was ablaze with searchlights and swarming over with people. CHAPTER XIX KAISER BILL MIXES IN "Isn't it just too wonderful for anything?" said Hinpoha in an awed tone. Then she burst out triumphantly, "I _told_ her there was a light-haired man coming into her life--and he did! Did you ever _hear_ of anything so romantic as this, anyway? He said she was a dream of his come to life! When he first saw her in the train that day he thought she wasn't _real_! And then finding my locket on the floor that way and seeing her picture in it and thinking it was _her_ locket, and wearing it all this time! I never _heard_ of anything so wonderful. It's better than anything I ever read in a book. Such a nice-sounding name he has, too--Robert Allison; it's so--unanimous." "Don't you mean 'euphonious'?" asked Migwan with a smile. "Well, 'euphonious,' then," amended Hinpoha. Wrapped up as she was in this marvel of romance that had happened in the placid, everyday lives of the Winnebagos, she was not bothering about any carping correctness of words. She sat at the foot of Oh-Pshaw's bed, where Oh-Pshaw lay with her knee propped up on a pillow, and went over the details of Sahwah's case for the twentieth time with Agony and Migwan and Gladys, all of them foregathered in Oh-Pshaw's room to keep her company. "It was just like a book!" Hinpoha went on impressively. "Sahwah passed by the door of his room over there last night after the doctors had gone, and it was open, and nobody was in the room with him because your grandmother had gone downstairs for something, and she saw that the curtain was blowing out of the window. She went in to pull it back and while she was in the room he opened his eyes and said, 'Is it really you?' He thought he was _dreaming_ and she wasn't real at all. Then he told her all about his dream girl, and about seeing her in the train that day, and finding the locket, and everything. He said the locket had brought him good luck wherever he went, for half a dozen times he had escaped as by a miracle from being killed in accidents to his plane. And to think that the last time it was she herself who saved his life!" The utter romance of the thing struck Hinpoha momentarily speechless. Then she thought of something else, and broke out afresh. "Don't you remember, when I was telling her fortune there in the train, I told her that the light-haired man had already come into her life, and she made fun of me and said it must have been the Swede brakeman? Well, what I told her was true, because Lieutenant Allison had already seen her then! _Now_, will you say there isn't any truth in fortunes?" The Winnebagos could only gasp at the workings of fate! "But what about the other man you said you saw in her fortune, the light-haired man who was going to turn dark after a while?" asked Migwan. "I don't know," replied Hinpoha. Then she added, "Give him time! He hasn't shown up yet, but he will, you see if he doesn't." And in view of the success of her former prophecy the Winnebagos could not very well have any doubts. "Wasn't it a miracle that Sahwah happened to be in the woods when the plane came down?" said Agony in a hushed voice. "Yes, but she wouldn't have been there if we hadn't lost the contest," said Migwan musingly. "Isn't it queer the way things work out sometimes? Here, we wanted to win that contest so badly, and were disappointed when we didn't, and yet if we _had_ won it Lieutenant Allison would have been killed!" The rest looked at each other in silent awe at _this_ marvelous working of fate! In a dim, groping way they all felt the touch of an unseen, mighty hand in their affairs, guiding them this way or that as it chose, regardless of their own plans or intentions. "It was really Oh-Pshaw that saved his life," said Gladys, "because she made the mistake that made us lose." "And I was so hateful about it, and said such mean things!" said Agony contritely. "I take it all back, Oh-Pshaw. It was the luckiest thing you ever did to get rattled then." Oh-Pshaw smiled forgivingly and all was serene between the twins once more. While the Winnebago tongues were wagging busily in Oh-Pshaw's room and Lieutenant Allison was lying quite comfortable in bed in the big square bedroom of the Wing home, where he had been carried when brought in from the woods the night before with a ragged cut in his left temple and a fractured arm, Sahwah, breathless with wonder at the strange new thing that had come into her life, fled from the chattering girls and went wandering by herself in the silence of the woods, where she could think and dream undisturbed. So preoccupied was she that she had passed out of the gate of Carver House without even noticing Kaiser Bill, who had broken out of his confines and was pulling the honeysuckle vine off the fence. The Kaiser stopped pulling for a moment as she came out and eyed her warily, on guard for a well-aimed stone, but she passed by unheeding. It betokened deep abstraction indeed when Sahwah ignored the depredations of Kaiser Bill. The Kaiser executed a defiant caper under her very nose and then returned blandly to his vine pulling, sending a suspicious look after her from time to time as she passed down the hill. Through the troubles that had overtaken Carver House, Kaiser Bill had gained a temporary reprieve. In the excitement over Nyoda's going away he had been forgotten entirely for a whole week, and of course nothing would be done about his execution until she returned. Kaiser Bill was making the most of his reprieve by breaking bounds every day and damaging property to his heart's content. But not even Kaiser Bill in mischief could hold Sahwah's attention now. She walked on in the golden afternoon sunshine, her heart attuned to the song of the wild thrush that came pouring out of the stillness of the woods. She sought her own favorite haunt, a mossy seat beside the little singing stream, where she loved to sit and watch the water tumble and foam over the rocks, but when she got there she found the place already occupied. Eugene Prince, the artist, sat there, his head tilted back against the trunk of a tree, sound asleep, with his sketching portfolio beside him on the ground and his hat on the other side. Sahwah scowled at the sleeping man and passed swiftly on. She had no desire to sit near him, even if he _was_ asleep. She found another place, far downstream, where there was a rocky seat close to the water, and, curling herself down in it, she watched the water tumble and foam, and gave herself over to pondering on the delightful mystery of life and fate. Upstream, in Sahwah's own private nook, the invader reclined at ease, steeped in the sound slumber of a drowsy midsummer afternoon. Upon this peaceful scene there appeared a sinister and menacing apparition, a shaggy body mounted on slender, adventurous legs, and terminating in a mischievous-shaped head with evilly glittering eyes and wicked-looking horns. It was none other than Kaiser Bill, on whom the taste of honeysuckle had palled, wandering far afield in search of something to tickle his discriminating palate. He stood still and surveyed the scene, eyeing the various articles spread out before him with an appraising eye, like a man in a Thompson's restaurant looking over the articles on the counter and trying to make up his mind what he will have. He looked at the pencil, he looked at the sketch pad; he sniffed experimentally at the hat and then at the portfolio. The portfolio went to the spot; it was made of leather with brass corners. He had not had such a treat in many a day. He licked his chops; the water of anticipation began to gather in his mouth. With a greedy movement he sank his teeth into the portfolio and began his feast In his sportive delight he played with his prize, tossing it to the ground and attacking it from all sides, while his eyes glittered maliciously at the sleeping artist. Then he; moved on down the wood path, dragging the portfolio with him until he found a place which struck him as a suitable banquet Chamber, and there he stood still and began chewing. Sahwah, sitting on the rock beside the water, gazing off into space with her chin in her hand, suddenly became aware of a champing sound directly in her ear, accompanied by the noise of tearing. She raised her head, and there was Kaiser Bill right beside her tearing something to pieces. She put out her hand and snatched the thing away so quickly that it was gone before Kaiser Bill knew what had happened; then, realizing that to stay in the neighborhood after such a daring act was decidedly perilous, Sahwah sprang up into the branches of a great old willow tree that leaned invitingly near, drew herself up out of his reach and from her safe vantage point made triumphant grimaces down at him. Kaiser Bill, baffled, dashed his head against the tree several times in fury, then rushed into the woods. Left to herself, Sahwah examined the thing she had rescued, and then it was that she recognized the artist's sketching portfolio. Her first feeling was regret that she hadn't let Kaiser Bill go on eating it Then she felt ashamed of such vicious thoughts and began looking over the portfolio to see how badly it was damaged. It was a sorry wreck, she decided, after a moment's inspection. Most of the seams were burst open and the soft leather which lined the stiffer outside was torn away in a dozen places. It was empty of sketches, these having been scattered along the path in the progress of Kaiser Bill's capers. Sahwah fingered the torn lining and wondered if the artist would make them pay for the damage. While she was wondering her fingers found something under the lining, and she drew out several sheets of paper, written over in a close hand. Under these were dozens of other sheets, thin as tissue, but very tough and strong, covered with lines and angles and circles and letters in complicated designs. She rummaged still further under the lining and drew out a black ribbon about an inch wide. On it in gold letters was stamped _S.M.S. Eitel Friederich_. After that out came a narrow envelope of exceedingly heavy correspondence paper addressed in a beautifully shaded handwriting to "Lieutenant Waldemar von Oldenbach, _S.M.S. Eitel Friederich_." Sahwah turned it over in her hands. It was sealed on the other side with a wafer of gold wax, the seal being a coronet The envelope was open at the top, disclosing a letter inside. Sahwah looked at it curiously, but did not open it. It was the superscription on the envelope and the gold letters on the black ribbon that were holding her attention. Sahwah knew from reading the papers that the _S.M.S. Eitel Friederich_ was one of the German warships caught in American ports at the outbreak of the war and interned. The ribbon had evidently come from the ship, but what was it doing here under the lining of Eugene Prince's portfolio? Why was he carrying around a ship's ribbon from an interned German vessel? Who was Waldemar von Oldenbach? Evidently a lieutenant on the _Eitel Friederich_, from the address on the letter. But what was a letter addressed to such a person doing in the possession of the artist? A letter from a woman, it undoubtedly was. Something heavy was in the envelope beside the letter; it fell out into Sahwah's lap as she handled the letter. It was a little Maltese cross made of gray metal, with letters stamped in the ends of the crosspieces. Sahwah held it in her hand and spelled out the letters, and then all at once she knew what it was. She had seen a picture of such a thing in a magazine only a few days before. It was an Iron Cross of the First Class. She stared at it, fascinated, for a moment, then shuddered and dropped it back into the envelope. She looked over the thin sheets of paper, but could make nothing of them; she then turned back to the first letter that had come to light. The sheets were open and she felt no hesitancy about reading them. What Sahwah read sent her heart wildly pounding against her throat. "Atterbury?" "Strikes?"--and signed by Prince Karl Augustus of Hohenburg? This must be the very letter that was stolen from Mr. Wing's desk--the letter they accused Veronica of taking! Eugene Prince, the artist, had taken it and hidden it under the lining of his sketch book. But no one had ever thought of suspecting him! He had been so sure that Veronica was an enemy agent, and here he was one himself! She had been right after all, Veronica was innocent, and her faith in her had not been betrayed. For a moment that one great dazzling fact blotted out all other facts. It was not too late yet to save Veronica from internment. She must get to Mr. Wing as fast as she could with her great discovery. She must----Here Sahwah looked down, and directly into the face of Eugene Prince, standing on the ground beside the tree, his eye on the portfolio and the articles spread out in her lap. For a moment "they looked at each other, tense, speechless, then the artist sprang into the tree, snatched the portfolio and the letter away from her and darted away into the woods. Stunned by surprise Sahwah slid limply to the ground, vainly looking around to see where the artist had gone. The woods had swallowed him. At Sahwah's feet lay the gilt-lettered ship's ribbon, the letter addressed to Waldemar von Oldenbach and the thin sheets of paper, and in her hand she still clutched the bottom half of one of the pages of the stolen letter, the half that bore the prince's signature and the name of Atterbury in one of the lines." CHAPTER XX ANOTHER'S SECRET "Tell me something about this artist who called himself Eugene Prince," said Lieutenant Allison, who, propped up in bed with Mr. Wing and the Winnebagos around him, had been looking over the contents of the sketching portfolio which Sahwah had just brought in. Mr. Wing, still dazed from the shock of learning that the man he had looked upon as such a good friend had played him false, described the artist as well as he could. The lieutenant listened with a puzzled frown until he heard about the funny little drawings that the artist used to make, and then he interrupted with a triumphant exclamation. "That's he!" he exclaimed. "The very same! Eugene Prince is Waldemar von Oldenbach himself!" Then he told about him. "Waldemar von Oldenbach! His father is a German count, his mother was an American. He was educated in England and afterward came to America and entered Cornell. That's where I met him. He was the cleverest scapegrace that ever lived. He could sing like an angel, draw like St. Peter, and knew more languages than an Ellis Island interpreter. He made friends wherever he went. To look at him and hear him talk you would never think he was a German; he's the picture of his American mother, and being in England so much he had learned English perfectly. At the same time he could make himself up like a Frenchman and you'd swear that he and all his ancestors were born in the shadow of Notre Dame. He was a great old actor, all right. After he'd been in America a year or so he went back to Germany and entered the navy and became a first lieutenant on the _Eitel Friederich_. That's where he was when the war broke out and the _Eitel Friederich_ was interned. But Von Oldenbach wasn't interned with her, not much. He got away before they had a chance to photograph him and label him, and so no official search was ever made for him as it was in the cases of the other sailors from the _Eitel Friederich_ who escaped. I have often wondered what became of him, because I knew he was on the _Eitel Friederich_ when she first came into port, but his name didn't show up among the ship's officers when they were interned. Someone on board said he had died the day before the ship was seized and that was all anybody knew about him. He must have been quietly cruising around the country ever since, disguised and posing as an artist, working himself into one locality after another where he could get information that was of service to his fatherland. These drawings here are mostly of airplane parts which he's picked up in various places and his sketches are mostly all rivers and bridges. "Eugene Prince, indeed! '_Prinz Eugen, der edle Ritter,'_ that's what they used to call him in college, after an old student song. He had such winning ways he could take up with anybody. Nobody on earth was proof against his charm. You see how it has worked with yourself, Mr. Wing. He made himself such a delightful companion, and became of such real service to you in your work of trailing enemy agents that you never suspected he wasn't the most patriotic American alive. You would have staked your soul on it. When he found out you had this letter which tied up old Prince Karl Augustus with your strike case, he managed to get it away from you and so scored one for the Prince, who is a good friend of his. At the same time he was clever enough to throw suspicion over onto this little Hungarian girl friend of yours, and if this goat hadn't butted in just at the right time he probably never would have been found out. As it is, he'll probably never be caught now. He's too clever. He'll fool the officers yet, as he's done before." Sleep came slowly to the girls that night, there had been so much excitement during the day, but one by one they dropped off at last, even Sahwah, who was so wide awake she thought she would never sleep again. Sometime after midnight the doorbell rang, a loud, ferocious peal that clanged through the silent house like a fire alarm and fetched Sahwah sitting upright in bed with a beating heart. "What's that?" came in a startled tone from Hinpoha's room. "The doorbell," answered Sahwah, jumping out of bed and putting on her slippers. The other girls were awake by this time, calling to each other. The bell pealed again. "Don't you go to the door!" cried Hinpoha hoarsely, as she saw Sahwah preparing to go down. "It may be the artist coming back to kill us. I've heard of such things. They come to the door at night and ring the doorbell and then they shoot you through the door when you open it. Don't you dare go down!" "Oh-h-h-h-wow-w!" shrieked Gladys, with a smothered squeal, her nerves giving away beneath the shock of being wakened so suddenly from sound sleep, together with the picture of horror conjured up by Hinpoha's awful suggestion. Fright overtook the rest of them then and they stood in a shivering group in the upper hall. Another peal clanged through the house, louder and more insistent than before. "I'm going to see who's there," said Sahwah hardily. "Come on, all of you, come down with me." "Wait until we get armed," said Hinpoha, casting about for something that would serve as a weapon of defense. There was nothing in sight but a two-quart bottle of spring water, which she picked up. Gladys went into the kitchen and picked up a frying pan, Sahwah climbed up on the mantel and pulled down the Revolutionary musket that hung there and brought down a three-foot sword for Migwan. It dropped with a clatter upon the hearthstone when Migwan tried to take it from her hand, and the four stood petrified with alarm. Another furious peal at the bell. "Come on," whispered Sahwah. "I'll open the door a crack and you stand right behind me. I'm not going to turn on the light, because it's easier to rush out and make an attack in the dark." Holding their breath they approached the door with shaking knees. Sahwah turned the key in the lock as quietly as she could and opened the door a tiny crack. "Who's there?" she called in a bold voice, at the same time bringing her gun down on the floor with a warning bang. "It's I, Nyoda," answered the dearest voice in the world. "Oh, I thought I'd _never_ make you hear!" The next minute she was inside the room and the light was switched on. One look at the four girls, armed to the teeth, and Nyoda doubled up on the stairs and laughed until she cried, while the Winnebagos looked sheepish and laid their weapons down in a hurry. "Didn't you get my wire saying I was coming?" asked Nyoda in surprise. "I sent one yesterday saying I would reach Oakwood at eight to-night. Trains were delayed all along the line and I didn't get in until nearly one this morning." "We never got any telegram," said Migwan. "I suppose it'll get here to-morrow," said Nyoda resignedly. "The telegraph operator in St. Margaret's was also the postmaster, and I have a suspicion that he was also the expressman, and his messages piled up on him at times. I got your letter about Veronica yesterday and started for home immediately. Now tell me everything exactly as it happened." She listened with wide-open eyes to the tale which Sahwah, assisted by the other three, poured out excitedly. At the mention of Veronica's mysterious errands from the house, which had brought suspicion down upon her, Nyoda suddenly turned white and clutched the newel post for support. "Oh, if I had only known!" she cried wildly. "If I had only been here! Oh, the poor, poor child, why didn't she tell?" Nyoda sank down on the stairs and buried her face in her hands, while the Winnebagos stood around with wondering, startled faces. Then she looked up at the girls and began to speak. "Girls," she said in an awed tone, "I simply can't find words to tell you what Veronica has done. No one could express in seven languages the depth of her loyalty to a friend. She has kept a promise of silence about a certain matter at a cost to herself that surpasses belief. But here and now I absolve her from that promise, and propose to tell you the whole matter which has so puzzled and tormented you with its mystery, although it is a matter I urgently wished to keep secret. "You probably do not know that my husband has a younger brother, Clement, who was a brilliant scholar and a fine musician. His health had always been frail, and he overstudied in college, with the result that in the middle of his junior year he broke down altogether and was ill for a long time. Worry about his condition finally affected his mind and he became quite melancholy at times and mentally unbalanced. It was nothing permanent, the doctors said, and the mental trouble would pass away if he regained his health, but Clement was morbidly sensitive about it and was terribly afraid people would find it out and consider him crazy all the rest of his life, and that his career would be ruined by it "His distress was so keen that my husband brought him to a little cottage here on the outskirts of Oakwood that stands far back from one of the unfrequented roads, almost hidden by the trees, and established him there with a young doctor friend and an old housekeeper who had been in the family for years and had looked after Clem since he was a youngster. None of his friends knew where he was nor what was the matter with him, so he was safe from the publicity he feared. He began to improve with the quiet outdoor life he led, but still there were times when he grew so melancholy that they feared he would kill himself. He was passionately fond of violin music, and we soon found out he could be speedily brought out of his melancholy fits by the sound of his favorite instrument. "So I brought Veronica down here this summer, and her playing worked a miracle every time. Whenever Clem grew despondent they would telephone for Veronica and she would go over and play for him. When she went out of the house in the daytime to go over, she went through the cellar passage that opens out into the spring house on the side of the hill, so you girls would not see her leaving with her violin." A light broke in Sahwah's brain. That was why she had not heard Veronica going out of the front door that afternoon when she disappeared so mysteriously! "But he usually had those spells at night," continued Nyoda, "because he was always sleepless, but no matter what time it was she would always go and play for him, and the magic strains of her violin would put him to sleep and drive away the melancholy. Of course, I asked her to keep the matter a secret, and never breathe a word about Clem's existence to anybody, and she promised. How little did I guess what it was going to cost her to keep that secret!" The Winnebagos looked at each other in wonder and awe at the thought of this fiery little wisp of nobility who would not break her word of honor even to clear herself of unjust suspicion. Then with one voice they broke out in a wild cheer of admiration and acclaim that sent the echoes flying through the quiet old house: "Oh, Veronica, here's to you, Our hearts will e'er be true, We will never find your equal Though we search the whole world through !" CHAPTER XXI "In consequence of distinguished service rendered your country, I hearby grant you a full and unconditional pardon!" Nyoda, as leader of the Court Martial, addressed these thrilling words to Kaiser Bill, who stood in the center of a solemn conclave, gathered on the lawn of Carver House to reverse the death sentence passed upon him two weeks before. Once more the Winnebagos had a heart for nonsense, for Veronica stood in their midst again, cleared from every breath of suspicion. She and Sahwah stood with their arms around each other, laughingly looking on at the process of unsentencing Kaiser Bill to death. Slim and the Captain were there, too, come to say good-bye to the girls before leaving their tent in the woods. They had finished their surveying job and were moving on that day. They arrived on the scene just as the Court Martial sat to act upon the Kaiser's pardon. Kaiser Bill received the news of his pardon without emotion, hardly looking at his pardoners, and evincing a great show of interest in the process of paving the street in front of Carver House, which was going on at the time. "He's got his eye on those bricks out there, and the first thing you know he'll be out there trying to eat them," said Nyoda with a comical sigh, realizing how impossible it was to interest the Kaiser in anything, even a thing so momentous as his own pardon, when there was anything in sight that looked as if it might be good to eat. Nyoda laughed and went on with the ceremony as mapped out beforehand. "And in further consideration of the great service you have rendered your country, this court has decided to change your name from Kaiser Bill to Sherlock Holmes, as more fitting your great detective skill. Never again will you hear the hateful name of 'Kaiser Bill' applied to yourself. Sherlock Holmes, we salute you!" The Winnebagos raised their right hands in formal salute. "Furthermore," continued Nyoda, "we have decided----" "There he goes!" shrieked Sahwah, as the newly christened Sherlock Holmes broke away from their flattering midst, cleared the fence at a bound and made straight for the pile of bricks that had started his mouth to watering. "He'll get run over if he doesn't look out!" shouted the Captain as a truck loaded with sand rapidly approached the brick pile. "Hi, there, look out!" he called warningly. But the warning came too late, for Sherlock Holmes was already under the wheels, with the whole weight of the truck on top of him, and by the time it had come to a stop he was a limp, lifeless wreck of a goat. The Winnebagos flocked out into the street and looked at his remains, and almost wept as poor old Hercules heartbrokenly lifted up the body of his slain darling. The Italian laborers threw down their tools and gathered around them and a crowd collected from all sides. "Why didn't you turn aside?" exclaimed the Captain to the driver of the truck, who seemed to be the only one not sorry about the accident, and muttered angrily in answer to the Captain's question. He looked defiantly at the Winnebagos and at Hercules fondling the dead goat, and then he actually laughed at them. "Serves the beast right," he muttered, and Sahwah, looking indignantly at him, saw that his left hand reached up for his ear, pulled down the lobe and released it with a jerk. A little electric thrill went through Sahwah at the sight of that gesture. There was only one person she had ever seen do that. That person was the artist, Eugene Prince. In spite of the black matted hair that covered the man's forehead, in spite of the black beard that covered the lower half of his face, the tattered cap, the blue shirt and shabby working clothes covered with red brick dust, something seemed to tell her that this was the man the federal officers were now searching for high and low. "That's the spy!" she shouted at the top of her voice, to the utter amazement of the others, but the driver started as if he had been shot. Immediately Slim and the Captain jumped on him and he fought like a tiger to get free. Others in the crowd came to the rescue and before long Waldemar von Oldenbach was safely locked up, minus his black wig and false beard, awaiting the arrival of Agent Sanders. With his native cunning he had decided that the safest place for him was to stay right in Oakwood after the discovery of the contents of his sketching portfolio, because everyone would think he would try to escape. So he had disguised himself as a foreign laborer and joined a gang that was paving the street, the last place where anyone would look for him, and he would probably never have been discovered if he had not run down the goat that had discovered his secret in the first place. Even then, no one would ever have looked for Waldemar von Oldenbach in the person of that swarthy, unkempt laborer, if it had not been for the sharp eyes of Sahwah the Sunfish, who noticed everything, and never forgot anything she saw. Her remembering the peculiar gesture of the artist had been his undoing. Sahwah was once more the heroine of the Winnebagos. "How did you ever do it?" said Hinpoha enviously. "Oh, I just noticed it," replied Sahwah without laying any claim whatever to detective ability. Sahwah's ability to talk about her achievements was as short as her power to think and act was long. When Agent Sanders came to Oakwood to take the artist away with him he asked to see the Winnebagos and complimented them all highly upon the help they had given in catching the wily lieutenant, von Oldenbach. "I wish to express the thanks of the government," he said formally, "in consequence of the distinguished service rendered your country----" Sahwah giggled out loud, and Agent Sanders paused and looked at her with an inquiring expression. "That's just what Nyoda said to Kaiser Bill!" said Sahwah, with another giggle. Then they all laughed, and the Winnebagos discovered that Agent Sanders' eyes were as kindly as they were sharp. The Winnebagos held a jubilee that night on the Council Rock with Nyoda. She was going back to St. Margaret's in a few days because Sherry would be in the hospital for some time yet and she wanted to be with him until he was well, so the visit of the Winnebagos to Carver House had come to a close. Lieutenant Allison had been taken back to his camp that afternoon, right after he had seen and identified Lieutenant von Oldenbach. He still wore Sahwah's picture around his neck when he left, but it was now inclosed in Sahwah's own locket, and there was a fresh entry in his address book, as there was also in Sahwah's. The smashed plane had been taken away from the Devil's Punch Bowl and there was nothing in the placidly murmuring water to hint at the tragedy that had almost taken place. High up over the water, on the Council Rock, the Winnebagos held solemn ceremonial. "Well," said Hinpoha in a tone of deep satisfaction, "the Winnebagos have done their bit. I take it all back about things never happening out of books and girls never having a chance to do anything for their country. We've had our chance, and we've gone over the top!" she proclaimed triumphantly. The faces of all the Winnebagos shone with satisfied ambition. "It was all true, the fortune you told Sahwah," said Migwan in a hushed voice. "The other man came into her life, too, the man who was light first and dark afterward!" "I told you so!" exclaimed Hinpoha triumphantly. "Talking about 'going over the top,'" said Nyoda seriously, when the murmur of wonder over Hinpoha's marvelous powers of prophecy had died away, "I think that two of you Winnebagos have 'gone over the top' on little excursions of your own, and ought to be decorated for courageous conduct under fire. Veronica Lehar, you have shown a strength of character before which we bow in humble admiration, and from this day on you shall be called Torch Bearer." Then she added fervently, "May we all love this country of ours as much as you do!" Veronica turned great shining eyes on Nyoda, and her swiftly rising emotions almost choked her. Her great love for her new country had never failed, even though that country had looked upon her suspiciously. "The light of liberty that had been given to me I will pass undimmed unto others!" she exclaimed fervently. "And this girl, too, has proved her mettle," said Nyoda, drawing Oh-Pshaw to her side and smiling into her wondering eyes. Oh-Pshaw had told Nyoda how she had sung to forget about the gurgling water in the Punch Bowl and how all of a sudden she had not been afraid any more, but she herself never realized what she had accomplished that night, and did not connect it at all with what Nyoda was saying now. Then Nyoda related to the girls how Oh-Pshaw had fought with Fear down there in the darkness all alone, fought with the fear that was in her bones and had always mastered her, and how for the sake of another she had conquered it and was now free from its strangling clutch. She told them how the fear had come into Oh-Pshaw and what a great victory it was that she had won over herself down there beside the Devil's Punch Bowl. "And for that victory over yourself you shall also be known as Torch Bearer, for she who conquers herself for the sake of others is worthy to lead others." Oh-Pshaw stared at her blankly, unbelievingly for a moment, and then a great joy came into her face when she realized that she had achieved her heart's desire. "Oh, Nyoda!" was all she said, but Nyoda understood, and the other Torch Bearers, having had that same emotion themselves once upon a time, also understood. Agony stared down steadily into her lap. She had experienced the first great jolt of her life. For the first time in her life Oh-Pshaw had gone up above her. For the first time she realized that there were qualities in others that counted more than her own brilliant gift of leading the crowd without effort. For the first time she had come up against something that she could not get by demanding it, something that had to be won by honest, painful effort. At first astonishment that she had not been named filled her to the exclusion of all other emotions, then she felt terribly humiliated, and then, as she began to think of the qualities she _didn't_ possess she began to feel very humble. Nyoda watched her closely and knew just about what was taking place in her mind. There was wonderful stuff in Agony, she knew, and as soon as the right spirit guided her she would make a leader beyond compare. So Nyoda had given her this great jolt to-night, knowing that it was the thing she needed to set her facing around in the right direction. She walked beside Agony as they went home through the woods, talking cheerfully all the way, and made no comment on Agony's unusual silence. Agony shed some tears into her pillow that night after Oh-Pshaw was asleep in the bed beside her, smiling happily in the moonlight that streamed in through the window. Then her gameness came to the top and she made up her mind to let Oh-Pshaw make the most of her one triumph over her and not spoil it by acting jealous. "And some day I'll do something myself that will make me worthy to be called Torch Bearer," she resolved as she reached under the pillow for a dry handkerchief. * * * * * Sahwah stood before the portrait of Elizabeth Carver in the long drawing room, paying her fare-well visit. The suitcases of the departing Winnebagos were piled on the porch outside, waiting for the moment of departure. The great air of respect and deference, tinged with envy, that Sahwah had heretofore worn when she addressed Elizabeth Carver had given way to an air of conscious equality. "Elizabeth," said Sahwah solemnly, "I've had a romantic adventure, too. We're twins now, you and I. I don't believe I'd care to go back and change places with you after all; a modern girl has so much more chance for adventure! Life is very interesting, Elizabeth, and I'm _so_ thankful to have been a part of things that were happening." Her mind went back over all the events that had taken place since the first time she had stood in the long drawing room at Carver House and looked up at the picture of Elizabeth Carver. "Hasn't it been a summer, though!" she said with a reminiscent sigh. "What _do_ you suppose will happen next?" And Elizabeth Carver, looking down from her frame, smiled knowingly. THE END 
15133	----	[Illustration: CAMP-FIRE GIRLS _In the_ ALLEGHANY MOUNTAINS _or_ A CHRISTMAS SUCCESS AGAINST ODDS] [Illustration: Campfire Girls in the Mountains] Campfire Girls in the Allegheny Mountains; OR, A Christmas Success Against Odds By STELLA M. FRANCIS M.A. DONOHUE & CO. CHICAGO NEW YORK CAMPFIRE GIRLS' SERIES =CAMPFIRE GIRLS IN THE ALLEGHENY MOUNTAINS; or, A Christmas Success Against Odds.= =CAMPFIRE GIRLS IN THE COUNTRY; or, The Secret Aunt Hannah Forgot.= =CAMPFIRE GIRLS' TRIP UP THE RIVER; or, Ethel Hollister's First Lesson.= =CAMPFIRE GIRLS' OUTING; or, Ethel Hollister's Second Summer in Camp.= =CAMPFIRE GIRLS' ON A HIKE; or, Lost in the Great North Woods.= =CAMPFIRE GIRLS AT TWIN LAKES; or, The Quest of a Summer Vacation.= 1918 M.A. DONOHUE & COMPANY MADE in U.S.A. CONTENTS. CHAPTER I The Grand Council Fire II The Boy Scouts' Invasion III The Skull and Cross-Bones IV Studying the Mystery V Girls Courageous VI The Punster Makes a Find VII To the Rescue VIII The Eavesdropper IX Mr. Stanlock Surprised X Mr. Stanlock Amused XI A Man of Big Heart and Queer Notions XII A Mysterious Disappearance XIII "Find Her, or I'll Find Her Myself" XIV Trapped XV A Pile of Scrap Lumber XVI Helen and the Strike Leader's Wife XVII Helen Declares Herself XVIII Helen in the Mountains XIX The Subterranean Avenue XX Twelve Girls in the Mountains XXI Thirteen Girls in the Mountains XXII A Sleighride Home "Camp Fire Girls in the Allegheny Mountains" OR "A Christmas Success Against Odds" By STELLA M. FRANCIS. * * * * * CHAPTER I. THE GRAND COUNCIL FIRE. "Wo-he-lo for aye, Wo-he-lo for aye, Wo-he-lo, Wo-he-lo, Wo-he-lo for aye! Wo-he-lo for work, Wo-he-lo for health, Wo-he-lo, Wo-he-lo, Wo-he-lo for love." Two hundred and thirty-nine girl voices chanted the Wo-he-lo Cheer with weird impressiveness. The scene alone would have been impressive enough, but Camp Fire Girls are not satisfied with that kind of "enough." Once their imagination is stimulated with the almost limitless possibilities of the craft, they are not easily pleased with anything but a finished product. The occasion was the last Grand Council Fire of Hiawatha Institute for Camp Fire Girls located in the Allegheny city of Westmoreland. The classroom work had been rushed a day ahead, examinations were made almost perfunctory, and for them also the clock had been turned twenty-four hours forward. The curriculum was finished, and the day just closed had been devoted to preparation for a Grand Council wind-up for the fifteen Fires of the Institute, which would "break ranks" on the following day and scatter in all directions for home and the Christmas holidays. And there was literal truth in this "break ranks" method of dismissing school at the Institute. Since the United States entered the European war on the side of the anti-frightfulness allies, Hiawatha had become something of a military school. The girls actually drilled with guns, and they would shoot those guns with all the grim fatality of so many boys. Not that they expected to go to war and descend into the trenches and fire hail-storms of steel-coated death-messengers at the enemy. Oh, no. They might, but they were sensible enough not to let their imagination carry them so far. But preparedness was in the air, and the girls voted to a--a--girl (I almost said man, for they were as brave as men in many respects) to take up military drill and tactics two hours a week as a part of their curriculum. Madame Cleaver, head of the Institute, did not start the military movement rashly. She was carefully diplomatic in the conduct of her school, for she must satisfy the critical tastes and ideas of a high-class parentage clientele. But she also kept her fingers on the pulse of affairs and knew pretty well how to strike a popular vein. Hence the membership of her classes was always on the increase. Indeed, at the beginning of this school year, she had to turn away something like forty applicants, for want of room and accommodations. Hiawatha Institute was founded as a Camp Fire Girls' school, and when Uncle Sam became involved in the European war, the national need for nurses appealed strongly to Camp Fire Girls everywhere. What could they do? The very nature of the training of the girls from Wood Gatherer to Torch Bearer made the question, so far as they were concerned, a self-answering one. They had all the broad commonsense rudiments of nursing. With some advanced science on top of this, they would be experts. But military authorities said that the nurses ought to have some military drill. War nurses must be organized, and there was no better method of effecting this orderly requisite than by military training. One well-known captain of infantry informed Madame Cleaver that war nurses could not reach the highest grade of efficiency unless they were able to march in columns from one camp to another and be distributed in squads at the points needed. With all this information at her tongue's end, the madame put the matter to her uniformed girls in the assembly hall. Rumor of what was coming had reached them in advance, so that it did not fall as a surprise. The vote was unanimous in favor of the plan. The needed nursing expert was already a member of the faculty. The classes were formed a few days later. These were the girls that gathered around a big out-door campfire--it was really a bonfire--in the snow of mid-winter on the evening of the opening of this story. Most of them were rich men's daughters, but there were no snobs among them. They were girls of vigor and vim, intelligence and imagination, practical and industrious. They were lively and fond of a good time, but--most of them, at least,--would not slight a duty for pleasure. Behind every enjoyment was a pathway of tasks well done. Madame Cleaver was Chief Guardian of the fifteen Camp Fires of the Institute. The faculty was not large enough to supply all the adult guardians required, but that fact did not prove by any means an insurmountable difficulty. More than enough young women in Westmoreland, well qualified to fill positions of this kind, volunteered to donate their services in order to make the Camp Fire organization of the school complete. Indeed, these volunteer Guardians added materially to their influence and rank in the community by becoming connected with the Institute. There was, in fact, a waiting list of volunteers constantly among the social leaders of the place. The Chief Guardian was mistress of ceremonies at the Grand Council Fire. Two hundred and thirty-nine girls in uniform, brown coats, campfire hats, and brown duck hiking boots, stood around the fire answering "Kolah" in unison by groups as the roll of the Fires was called. As each Fire was called and the answer returned, the Guardian stepped forward and gave a little recitation of current achievements. This program was varied here and there with music by a girls' chorus and a girls' orchestra. Everything went along with the smoothness, although with some of the deep dips and lofty lifts, of Grand Opera, until the name of the last Camp Fire, Flamingo, was called. Miss Harriet Ladd, the Guardian, stepped forward and said: "Madame Chief Guardian, associate guardians, and Camp Fire Girls of Hiawatha Institute, I bring to you a message of things planned by Flamingo Camp Fire Girls, thirteen in number. As you know, there is in an adjoining state a strike of coal miners that has caused much suffering among the poor families of the strikers. High Peak lives in a mountain mining district. Her father is a mine owner and has given his consent to the extending of an invitation to Flamingo Camp Fire to work among these poor families and give them relief during the Christmas holidays. The arrangements have been completed, and the girls will start for Hollyhill tomorrow." "Hooray, hooray, hooray! Hooray for High Peak! Hooray for Marion Stanlock! Hooray for Flamingo Camp Fire." The cheers, shrill on the sharp winter air, now in unison, now in confusion, came not from the assembled Camp Fire Girls, although from nearly as many voices. Out from the timber thicket to the west of the campus rushed a small army of khaki-clad figures. There were a few screams among the girls, but not many. To be sure, everybody was thrilled, but nobody fainted. There were a few moments of suspense, followed by bursts of laughter and applause from the girls. "It's the Spring Lake Boy Scouts," cried Marion Stanlock, who was first to announce an explanation of the surprise. "Clifford, Clifford Long, are you responsible for this?" The Boy Scout patrol leader thus addressed did not reply, though he recognized the challenge with a wave of his hand. He was busy bringing his patrol in matching line with the other patrols. As if realizing their purpose, the circle around the camp fire was broken at a point nearest the newly arrived invaders, and an avenue of approach was formed by the lining up of some of the girls in two rows extended out towards the Boy Scouts. In double file a hundred and fifty boys marched in and around the campfire; then faced toward the outer ring of Camp Fire Girls and bowed acknowledgment of the courteous reception. * * * * * CHAPTER II. THE BOY SCOUTS' INVASION. That was a grand surprise that the Boy Scouts of Spring Lake academy "put over" on the Camp Fire Girls of Hiawatha Institute. They had been planning it for several weeks, or since they first received information of the Grand Council Fire as a closing event of the first semester of the girls' school. The two institutions were located in municipalities only fifteen miles apart, connected by both steam railroad and electric interurban lines. Spring Lake academy, located on a lake of the same name at the southern outskirt of Kingston, was originally a boys' military school, and it still retained that primal distinction. But the success of Hiawatha Institute as a Camp Fire Girls' school set the imaginative minds of some of the leaders of the boys at Spring Lake to work along similar lines, with the result that the faculty's cooperation was petitioned for the organization of the student body into a troop of Boy Scout patrols. The scheme was successful, and as it served to inject new life into the academy, the business end of the institution had no ground for complaint. This innovation at Spring Lake was due largely to the activities of Clifford Long, one of the students. He was a cousin of Marion Stanlock, and naturally this relationship served to direct his personal interest toward Hiawatha Institute. Not a few other students in these two schools were similarly related, some of them being brothers and sisters. And so it is not to be wondered at if these two places of learning became, as it were, twin schools, with much of interest in common and many of their activities interassociated. They had rival debating teams between which were held more or less periodic contests, and in the numerous social events there were frequently exchanges of invitational courtesies. The boys plotted their big surprise on the girls in true scout fashion. There was no real secret in the fact that the Camp Fire Girls of Hiawatha Institute were planning a big event, but girl-like they affected secrecy to stimulate interest. The result was more than could have been expected, although the girls did not realize this until after it was all over. The curiosity of the Spring Lake boys was thoroughly alive as soon as they learned of a mysterious "something big" going on at the institute. True to the character of real scouts they delegated emissaries, commonly denominated spies, to visit the stronghold of the Camp Fire Girls, get all the details of their plans discoverable and report back to headquarters. Greater success than that which rewarded their efforts could hardly have been wished for. Half a dozen boys went and returned and then put their heads and their reports together with the result that the Scouts of the school had all the information they needed. They mapped out their plans and scheduled their prospective movements by the calendar and the clock. They chartered an interurban train for the run to and from the Institute. The arrival on the scene of the Grand Council Fire was, as we have seen, a complete surprise to the girls. The Scouts well knew that their presence would not be regarded as an intrusion, for a Grand Council Fire, according to the handbook, "is for friends and the public." The interruption of the program by the marching of the Boy Scouts within the circle of the Camp Fire Girls was permitted to continue for ten or fifteen minutes, while a number of short speeches were made by some of the boy leaders, in which they gloried over the way they had "put one over on the girls." "And we're not through yet," announced Harry Gilbert prophetically. "Some of us are going to put over another surprise just about as thrilling as this, and we want to challenge you to find out what it is." Of course this statement produced the very result the boys desired. Naturally they wished the girls to think they were pretty bright fellows. They got just what they were looking for as a result of their "surprise," namely, volumes of praise. To be sure, this did not come in the form of undisguised admiration. That isn't the way a clever girl signifies her approval of this sort of thing. It just burst into evidence through such mock jeers as, "You boys think you are so smart," or "It's a wonder you wouldn't have gone to enough pains to build a railroad or sink a submarine." To which, on one occasion in the course of the evening, Earl Hamilton replied: "Thank you, ladies; we always do things thorough." "-_ly_!" screamed Katherine Crane. Yes, it was really a scream, an explosion, too, if the indelicacy may be excused. But the opportunity for a come-back struck her so keenly, so swiftly, that she just could not contain her eagerness to beat somebody else to it. Well, the laugh that followed also was of the nature of an explosion. And it was on poor Katherine quite as much as on Earl, who had tripped up on an adjective in place of an adverb. The girl's eagerness was so evident that it struck everybody as funnier than the boy's mistake in grammar. Anyway, she recovered quite smartly and followed up her attack with this pert addendum as the laughter subsided: "You evidently don't do your lessons thorough-_ly_." The emphasis on the "-ly" was so pronounced, almost spasmodic, as to bring forth another laughing applause. This exchange of repartee took place in the large school auditorium, to which all repaired as soon as the outdoor exercises had been finished. The program of the evening was punctuated by interruptions of this kind every now and then. Of course, the fun-makers waited for suitable opportunities to spring their "quips and cranks," so that no merited interest in the doing could be lost. And none of it was lost. The presence of the bold invaders seemed to add zest to the most routine of the Camp Fire performances, and when all was over everybody was agreed that there had not been a dull minute during the whole evening. At the close of the Camp Fire Girls' program the 150 Boy Scouts arose and, with heroic unison of voices peculiar to much practice in the delivery of school yells, they chanted a clever parody of Wo-he-lo Cheer, a Boy Scout's compliment to the Camp Fire Girls, and then marched out of the auditorium and away toward the interurban line, where their chartered train was waiting for them, and all the while they continued the chant with variations of the words, the rhythmic drive of their voices pulsing back to the Institute, but becoming fainter and more faint until at last the sound was lost with the speeding away of the trolley train in the distance. * * * * * CHAPTER III. THE SKULL AND CROSS-BONES. If Marion Stanlock, "High Peak" in the trait and a torch bearer, had read one of two letters, signed with a "skull and cross-bones," which she found lying on the desk in her room after the adjournment of the Grand Council Fire, doubtless there would have been an interruption, and probably a change, in the holiday program of the Flamingo Camp Fire. She saw the letters lying there and under ordinary circumstances would have torn them open and read them, however hastily, before retiring. But on this occasion she was rather tired, owing to the activities and the excitement of the day and evening. Moreover, she realized that she could not hope for anything but a wearisome journey to Hollyhill on the following day unless she refreshed herself with as many hours sleep as possible before train time. So she merely glanced at the superscriptions on the envelopes to see if the letters were from any of her relatives or friends, and, failing to recognize either of them, she put them into her handbag, intending to read them at the first opportunity next morning. Then she went to bed and fell asleep almost instantly. Marion was awakened in the morning by her roommate, Helen Nash, who had quietly arisen half an hour earlier. The latter was almost ready for breakfast when she woke her friend from a sleep that promised to continue several hours longer unless interrupted. She had turned on the electric light and was standing before the glass combing her hair. Marion glanced at the clock to see what time it was, but the face was turned away from her and the light in the room made it impossible for her to observe through the window shades that day was just breaking. "What time is it, Helen?" she asked. "Did the alarm go off? I didn't hear it. What waked you up?" Helen did not answer at once. For a moment or two her manner seemed to indicate that she did not hear the questions of the girl in bed. Then, as if suddenly rescuing her mind from thoughts that appealed to have carried her away into some far distant abstraction, she replied thus, in a series of disconnected utterances: "No, the alarm didn't go off--a--Marion. I got up at 6 o'clock. I turned the alarm off. It is 6:30 now. I don't know what woke me. I just woke up." Marion arose, wondering at the peculiar manner of her roommate and the strained, almost convulsive, tone of her voice. She asked no further questions, but proceeded with her dressing and preparation for breakfast. For the time being, she forgot all about the two letters in her handbag that lay on her dresser. In some respects Helen was a peculiar girl. If her speech and action had been characterized with more vim, vigor and imagination, doubtlessly she would generally have been known as a pretty girl. As it was, her features were regular, her complexion fair, her eyes blue, and her hair a light brown. Marion thought her pretty, but Marion had associated with her intimately for two or three years, and had discovered qualities in her that mere acquaintances could never have discovered. She had found Helen apparently to be possessed of a strong, direct conception of integrity, never vacillating in manner or sympathies. Moreover, she exhibited a quiet, unwavering capability in her work that always commanded the respect, and occasionally the admiration, of both classmates and teachers. Not only was Helen quiet of disposition, but strangely secretive on certain subjects. For instance, she seldom said anything about her home or relatives. She lived in Villa Park, a small town midway between Westmoreland and Hollyhill. Her father was dead, and, when not at school, she had lived with her mother; these two, so far as Marion knew, constituting the entire family. Marion had visited her home, and there found the mother and daughter apparently in moderate circumstances. Naturally, she had wondered a little that Mrs. Nash should be able to support her daughter at a private school, even though that institution made a specialty of teaching rich men's daughters how to be useful and economical, but the reason why had never been explained to her. Helen got her remittances from home regularly, and seemed to have no particular cause to worry about finances. She had spent parts of two vacations at the Stanlock home and there conducted herself as if quite naturally able to fit in with luxurious surroundings and large accommodations. Only a few days before the Christmas holidays, something had occurred that emphasized Helen's secretive peculiarity to such an extent that Marion was considerably provoked and just a little mystified. A young man, somewhere about 25 or 27 years old, fairly well but not expensively dressed, and bearing the appearance of one who had seen a good deal of the rough side of life, called at the Institute and asked for Miss Nash. He was ushered into the reception room and Helen was summoned. One of the girls who witnessed the meeting told some of her friends that Miss Nash was evidently much surprised, if not unpleasantly disturbed, when she recognized her caller. Immediately she put on a coat and hat and she and the young man went out. An hour later she returned alone, and to no one did she utter a word relative to the stranger's visit, not even to her roommate, who had passed them in the hall as they were going out. Helen Nash was a member of the Flamingo Camp Fire and accompanied the other members on their vacation trip to the mountain mining district. The other eleven who boarded the train with Marion, the holiday hostess, were Ruth Hazelton, Ethel Zimmerman, Ernestine Johanson, Hazel Edwards, Azalia Atwood, Harriet Newcomb, Estelle Adler, Julietta Hyde, Marie Crismore, Katherine Crane, and Violet Munday. Miss Ladd, the Guardian, also was one of Marion's invited guests. The party took possession of one end of the parlor car, which, fortunately, was almost empty before they boarded it. Then began a chatter of girl voices--happy, spirited, witty, and promising to continue thus to the end of the journey, or until their kaleidoscopic subjects of conversation were exhausted. Every thrilling detail of the evening before was gone over, examined, given its proper degree of credit, and filed away in their memories for future reference. There was more catching of breath, more cheering, more clapping of hands; but no mock jeers, now that the boys were absent, as the events of the Boy Scouts' invasion and the many incidental and brilliant results were recalled and repictured. "I wonder what Harry Gilbert meant when he said some of them were planning another surprise nearly as thrilling as the one they sprung last night," said Azalia Atwood, with characteristic excitable expectation. "He addressed himself to you, Marion, when he said it; and he's a close friend of your cousin, Clifford Long. Whatever it is, I bet anything it will fall heaviest on this Camp Fire when it comes." "Maybe it was just talk, to get us worked up and looking for something never to come," suggested Ethel Zimmerman. "It would be a pretty good one for the boys to get us excited and looking for something clear up to April 1, and then spring an April fool joke, something like a big dry goods box packed with excelsior." "Oh, but that wouldn't measure up to expectations," Ruth Hazelton declared. "It wouldn't be one-two-three with what they did last night, and they promised something just about as interesting." "You don't get me," returned Ethel. "The dry goods box filled with excelsior would be the anti-climax of wondering expectations." "You're too deep for a twentieth century bunch of girls, Ethel," Hazel Edwards objected. "That might easily be mistaken for the promised big stunt. They might compose a lot of ditties and mix them up with the packing, something like this: "'Believe not all big things that boys may tell thee, for Great expectations may produce excelsior'." "Very clever, indeed, only it sounds like an impossible combination of Alice in Wonderland and an old maid," said Harriet Newcomb, with a toss of her head. "I'm surprised at you, Hazel, for suggesting such a thing. If the boys should put over anything like that, we'd break off diplomatic relations right away. If they wanted to call us a lot of rummies, they couldn't do it as effectively by the use of direct language. Cleverness usually makes a hit with its victims, unless it contains an element of contempt." "That is really a brilliant observation," announced the Guardian who had been listening with quiet interest to the spirited conversation. "Continued thought along such lines ought to result in a Keda National Honor for you, Harriet." "I'll agree to all that if Harriet will take back what she said about my being an old maid," said Hazel with mock dignity. "I didn't call you an old maid, my dear," denied the impromptu poet pertly. "I merely said, or meant to say, that the idea you expressed might better be expected from an old maid, although I doubt if many old maids could have expressed it as well as you did." "Girls, Girls, are you going to turn our vacation into a two-weeks repartee bee?" Marion broke in with affected desperation. "If you do, you will force your hostess to go way back and sit down, and that wouldn't be polite, you know. By the way, if you'll excuse me I'll do that very thing now for another reason. I've got two letters in my hand bag that I forgot all about. I'm going to read them right now. You girls are making too much chatter. I can't read in your midst." So saying, Marion retired to a chair just far enough away to lend semblance of reality to her "go way back and sit down" suggestion, and settled back comfortably to read the two missives that arrived with the last evening's mail at the Institute. "Settled back comfortably"--yes, but only for a short time. Marion never before in her life received two such letters. Both were anonymous. The first one that she opened aroused enough curiosity to "unsettle" her. She thought she knew whom it was from--those ingenious Boy Scouts of Spring Lake--perhaps it was written by cousin Clifford himself. It was just like him. He was a natural leader among boys, and often up to mischief of some sort. Marion was sure he was one of the prime movers of the Scout invasion of Hiawatha Institute. But the next letter was the real thriller, or rather cold chiller. She knew very well what it meant. From the point of view of the writer it meant "business," a threat well calculated to work terror in her own heart and the heart of every other member of Flamingo Fire. It was a threat couched in direful words, warning her and her friends not to go to Hollyhill on their charity mission, as announced, and predicting serious injury if not death to some of them. It was signed with a skull and cross-bones. * * * * * CHAPTER IV. STUDYING THE MYSTERY. Is there any wonder that Marion Stanlock, after reading letter No. 2 was seriously in doubt as to whether No. 1 was from the Scouts who had promised another surprise for the Camp Fire Girls in the near future? Judge for yourself--here is No. 1: Something Doing Soon Look Out SOMETHING DOING SOON LOOK OUT =SOMETHING DOING SOON LOOK OUT!= That was all. The second letter read thus: "Miss Stanlock: This is to serve you with warning not to take your friends with you to Hollyhill this vacation to work among the poor families of the striking miners. We know that move of yours is inspired by the rankest hypocrisy, that you have no genuine desire to do anything for our starving families. This move of yours, we know, was planned by that villainous father of yours to cloud the big issue of our fight. If you do carry out your plans, some of you are liable to get hurt, and it need not surprise anybody if some of you never get back to Westmoreland alive. Go Slow! Be Careful! Look Out!" Marion was not easily panic-stricken, but it is of the nature of a truism to say that this letter applied the severest test to her nerves. That the writer was in deep earnest she had no reason to doubt. She had read of so many crimes preceded by threatening letters of this sort that the suggestion did not come to her to regard this one lightly. Although there was no common basis for comparing the handwriting of the two missives, one being lettered in Roman capitals and the other in ordinary script, nevertheless she quickly dismissed the first suspicion that letter No. 1 was written by Clifford Long or some other Scout of Spring Lake academy. Both ended with the words "Look Out." Plainly this was a result of carelessness on the part of the writer. Evidently he had planned to cause her to believe that the two letters were written by different persons, for he had taken the pains of differentiating the superscriptions on the envelopes as well as the contents within. But now the question was, What should she do? It was no more than fair and just for her to inform the girls what they might expect if they attempted to carry out their original plan, but what method should she pursue to convey to them this information? She might go at the matter bluntly and create something of a panic; then again she might so handle it that the best possible result could be obtained in a quiet and orderly manner. Marion felt in this crisis that a great responsibility rested on her to handle the problem with all the skill and intelligence at her command. She longed for the counsel of an older and more experienced head, but there was none present, except Miss Ladd, the Guardian of the Fire, to whom she might go with her story. The latter, though she came well within the requirements of the national board to fill the position which she held, was nevertheless a young woman in the sensitive sense of the phrase and could hardly be expected to give the best of executive advice under the circumstances. Marion realized that it was her duty to exhibit to Miss Ladd the letters she had received, but if she did this at once, the act would amount to turning the whole matter over to her and relinquishing the initiative herself, she reasoned. Marion was naturally aggressive, and she was not favorably impressed with the idea of leaving the affair in the hands of another unless that person were peculiarly fitted to handle it. As she sat studying over the problem she suddenly became conscious of the presence of another person close beside her, and looking up she saw Helen Nash, with an expression of startled intelligence in her eyes. Apparently her attention had been attracted by the crude drawing of a skull and cross-bones at the close of the letter lying open in her lap. "I beg your pardon, Marion," said Helen with an evident effort at self-control. "I didn't mean to intrude. I hope you'll forgive me for something quite unintentional." "Certainly, Helen," Marion replied generously, "and since a chance look has informed you of the nature of these letters and I want to talk this affair over with somebody, I think I may as well talk it over with you. Let's go down to the other end of the car where we aren't likely to be disturbed." Accordingly they moved up to the front of the car where they took possession of two chairs and soon were so deeply absorbed in the problem at hand as to excite the wonder and curiosity of the other Camp Fire Girls. Marion handed the two anonymous letters to her friend without introductory remark, and the latter read them. As Marion watched the expression on the reader's face, she was forced to admit to herself that right then, under those seemingly impersonal circumstances, Helen's habitual strangeness of manner was more pronounced than she had ever before known it to be. This girl of impenetrable secrecy read the letters, seemingly with an abstraction amounting almost to inattention, while physically she appeared to shrink from something that to her alone was visible and real. As she finished reading, Helen looked up at her friend and the gaze of penetrating curiosity that she saw in Marion's eyes caused her to blush with confusion. Unable to meet her friend's gaze steadily, she shifted her eyes toward the most uninteresting part of the car, the floor, and said: "That looks like a dangerous letter. It ought to be turned over to the police as soon as possible." "Both of them, don't you think?" Marion inquired. "Why? I don't see anything in this shorter one. My guess would be that it was written by your cousin or one of his friends." "But do you notice the way they both end?--the same words," Marion insisted. "Yes, I noticed that," Helen replied slowly. But that is such a common, ordinary expression, almost like 'a,' 'an,' or 'the,' that it doesn't mean much to me here. Where are the letters postmarked?" "Both in Westmoreland." "That's something in favor of your suspicion that both letters were written by the same person," Helen admitted. "Still it doesn't convince me. You wouldn't expect the Spring Lake boys to mail a letter like the shorter one at Spring Lake, would you? That would stamp its identity right away." "You are sure those letters were written by different persons?" Marion inquired curiously. "I don't think it makes any difference whether they were or not," Helen answered more decisively than she had spoken before. "It is in that skull-and-cross-bones letter that you are most interested. I think you can disregard the other entirely. I would say this, however, that if both were written by one person, you have less to fear than if the shorter one was written by your cousin or one of his friends." "Why?" "Because if one person wrote both of them, he is probably suffering from softening of the brain. But if the person who wrote the longer one did not write the shorter one, there is more likelihood that he means business and will attempt to carry out his threat." "I never realized that you were such a Sherlock Holmes," Marion exclaimed enthusiastically, while the suggestion came to her that perhaps a genius for this sort of thing accounted for her friend's peculiarities. "You ought to be a detective for a department store to catch shoplifters." "Thanks, Marion, for the compliment, but I am not inclined that way. I'd rather do something in this case to keep our vacation plans from ending in trouble." "I was looking for someone who could advise me," Marion said; "and I am now convinced that you are just the person I was looking for. What do you think I ought to do, Helen?" "All the girls ought to know about this letter," Helen replied. "But you can't go to them and blurt out anything so sensational. We must break the news gently, as they say in melodrama. I wish we hadn't come." "So do I," Marion replied, but with just a suggestion of disappointment in her voice. "Not that I am afraid of getting hurt," Helen added hastily, realizing the suspicion of cowardice that might rest against her. "Still, if my advice had been asked, I would have argued against this very dangerous vacation scheme of yours." "Why?" inquired Marion in a tone of disappointment. "Because of the very situation complained of in that skull-and-cross-bones letter. I hope I don't hurt your feelings, Marion, but it is very natural for some of these rough miners to suspect that your plan was cooked up by your father to pull the wool over their eyes, and to regard you as a tool employed by him to put the scheme into operation." "Some of the girls' parents raised the objection that there might be danger in a mining district during a strike, but none of them suggested anything of this sort," Marion remarked with humble anxiety. "I explained to them that there could hardly be any danger even if the strikers should get ugly, as the mines are some distance from where we live and any violence on the part of the miners would surely be committed at the scene of their labors. This seemed to satisfy them. Most of the miners live at the south end of the town or along the electric line running from Hollyhill to the mines." "That doesn't make much difference if the miners once get it into their heads that the girls are being used to put over a confidence game on them," Helen argued authoritatively. "Miners are peculiar people, especially if they are lead by radical leaders of aggressive purpose. They believe that they are a badly misused set, turning out the wealth of the wealthy, who repay them by holding them in contempt, keeping their wages down to a minimum and pressing them into social and political subjection." "Where did you learn all that, Helen?" Marion asked wonderingly. "You are not even studying sociology at school. You talk like a person of experience." "My father was a miner," Helen began. Then she stopped, and Marion saw from the expression in her eyes and the twitch of her mouth that a big lump in her throat had interrupted her explanation. She seemed to be making an effort to continue, but was unable to do so. "Never mind, Helen," said Marion, taking her hand tenderly in her own. "I am more convinced than ever that I found just the right person to advise me when I laid this matter before you. We will try to work this problem out together. Meanwhile we must take Miss Ladd into our confidence. Why, here she is now." * * * * * CHAPTER V. GIRLS COURAGEOUS. "What's the matter, girls? You look as if you had the weight of the world on your shoulders." Miss Ladd spoke these words lightly as if to pass judgment on the conference as entirely too serious for a Christmas holiday occasion. Marion and Helen did not respond in tones of joviality, as might have been expected. They met her jocular reproach with expressions of such serious portent that the Guardian of the Fire could no longer look upon it as calling for words of levity. "What's the matter, girls?" she repeated more seriously. "You look worried." "Sit down, Miss Ladd, and read these letters I received last night," said Marion without any change of tone or manner. "They will explain the whole thing. We were just about to call you aside and lay our trouble before you." "Trouble," Miss Ladd repeated deprecatingly, "I hope it isn't as bad as that." She drew an upholstered armchair close to the girls and began at once to examine the letters that Marion handed to her. Marion and Helen watched her closely as she read, but the Guardian of Flamingo Fire indicated her strength of character by a stern immobility of countenance until she had finished both letters. Then she looked at Marion steadily and said inquiringly: "I suppose you have no idea who wrote these letters?" "Not the slightest," replied the girl addressed, "unless the shorter one was written and mailed by some of the Boy Scouts at Spring Lake. Helen thinks it was, and I am inclined to believe with her that it doesn't make much difference to us who wrote it. The other letter is the one we are most interested in." "I agree with you thoroughly," said Miss Ladd energetically. "And we have got to do something to prevent him from carrying out his threat." "Ought we to inform the other girls now?" asked Marion with a sense of growing courage, for she felt that in the Camp Fire's Guardian she had found elements of wise counsel extending even beyond that young woman's experience. "Why, yes," Miss Ladd replied. "I see no reason for delay. I'd rather tell them now than just before or after we get to Hollyhill. If we tell them now they'll have a couple of hours in which to stiffen their courage. There are eleven girls besides you two. Suppose you call them here in three lots in succession, four, four, and three, and we'll tell them quietly what has occurred and give them a little lecture as to how they should meet this crisis." "All right," said Marion, rising. "I'll bring the first four and you get your lecture ready." "It's ready already," said the guardian reassuringly. "It is so simple that I have no need of preparation." "I'm afraid I need some drill in the best means and methods of reading character," Marion told herself as she walked back to the rear of the car. "I was really afraid to take the matter up with Helen or Miss Ladd for fear lest they recommend something foolish. Now it appears that each of them has a very clever head on her shoulders. Maybe I'll find the other girls possessed of just as good qualities. If I do, this day will have brought forth an important revelation to me, that the average girl, after all, is a pretty level-headed sort of person. Well, here's hoping for the best." Marion selected the four girls farthest in front and asked them to approach the forward end of the car. They did so with some appearance of apprehension, for by this time all the girls had begun to suspect that something unusual was doing. This appeared to be evident also to the half-dozen other passengers in the car, whose curious attention naturally was directed toward the forward group of girls. All of the girls received the information relative to the anonymous letters so calmly that Marion felt just a little bit foolish because of her groundless misjudgment of them. After the last group had read the letters and discussed the situation with the trio of informants, she spoke thus to them: "Girls, you are real heroines, or have in you the stuff that makes heroines, and that is about the same thing. You take this as calmly as if it were an ordinary every-day affair in the movies. I'm proud of you." "We ought to be wearing Carnegie medals, oughtn't we, girls?" said Julietta Hyde, blinking comically. "We can throttle anything from a black-hand agent to a ghost." "No, you ought to be wearing honor pins, for things well done," Miss Ladd corrected. "We'll leave the Carnegie medals for those who haven't any Camp Fire scheme of honors. But really, girls, you have all conducted yourselves admirably in this affair. We will hope it won't result in anything very serious, but meanwhile we must take proper precautions." "Shall we have to give up our vacation at Hollyhill on account of this?" asked Katherine Crane almost as dejectedly as if she were being sentenced to prison for violating a Connecticut blue law. "That is up to you girls and the conditions that develop," answered Miss Ladd. "As soon as we get to Hollyhill we will take the matter up with the proper authorities and try to determine what the outlook is." "My father will get busy as soon as he hears about this," said Marion. "I think we can leave everything to his management. He will probably advise us to give up the idea of doing anything for the strikers' families and have as good a time as we can entertaining ourselves at home." "Oh, I hope not!" Katherine exclaimed, and the manner in which she spoke indicated how much she had set her heart on the work they had planned to do. "It would be too bad to give it up," Marion said earnestly, "for I understand some of those people are greatly in need of assistance. There is not only much hunger and privation among them, but considerable sickness among the children. We can't do a whole lot in two weeks, but we can do something, and our training as Camp Fire Girls and in our nursing classes fits us to be of much assistance to them. It is a shame that they should take an attitude so hostile to their own interests." "They probably don't understand your father or they wouldn't be striking now," said Miss Ladd. "I'm sure they wouldn't," Marion testified vigorously. "I've often heard father say he'd like to do more for the men and their families but conditions tied his hands. Many of the miners are good fellows, but they get mistaken ideas in their heads and it's impossible for anybody whom they once put under suspicion to convince them that they are in the wrong." "Do you know, girls," interposed Violet Munday enthusiastically; "I believe we are going to get a lot out of this vacation experience, whatever happens. I'm interested in what Marion tells us about the miners. Let's make a study of coal mining, hold up everybody we can for information and watch our chance to help the poor families and their sick children whenever we can without doing anything foolhardy." "That's a good idea," said Miss Ladd. "We'll keep that in mind and if Marion's father's advice is favorable, we'll take it up." The train arrived at Hollyhill shortly after 2 p.m. Mr. Stanlock's touring car and two taxicabs were waiting at the station to convey the girls to Marion's home. The run to the spacious, half-rustic Stanlock residence at the northeast edge of the city occupied about fifteen minutes, and was without notable incident. The cars passed through a massive iron gateway, up a winding gravel-bedded drive, and stopped near a white pillared pergola connected with the large colonial house by a vine-covered walk running up to a porticoed side entrance. Mrs. Stanlock met them at the door and the travelers were speedily accommodated with the usual journey-end attentions. Marion then inquired for her father, but Mr. Stanlock had gone to his office early in the day and would not return until dinnertime. So the girl hostess decided that she must let the problem uppermost in her mind rest unsettled a few hours longer. Evening came, but still Mr. Stanlock did not appear. Wondering at his delay, Mrs. Stanlock called up his office, but learned that he had left an hour and a half before, supposedly for home. "How did he leave?" Mrs. Stanlock inquired nervously. "In his automobile," was the answer. That being the case, he ought to have been home more than an hour ago. His office was in the city and he could easily make the run in fifteen minutes. Thoroughly alarmed, Mrs. Stanlock called up the police, stated the circumstances and asked that a search be made for her husband. Two hours more elapsed and the whole neighborhood was alarmed. The news spread rapidly and was communicated by phone to most of Mr. Stanlock's friends and acquaintances throughout the city. The search was growing in scope and sensation. Treachery was suspected, a tragedy was feared. Then suddenly and calmly, Mr. Stanlock reappeared at home, driving the machine himself. He had a thrilling story to tell of his experiences. * * * * * CHAPTER VI. THE PUNSTER MAKES A FIND. When Marion Stanlock selected the term High Peak as her Camp Fire name, her deliberations carried her back from Hiawatha Institute to the scene of most of the years of her child life in Hollyhill. Confronted with the task of choosing a name, she first consulted her ideals to determine what associations she wished to have in mind when in after years she recalled the motive and circumstances of her selection. Home surroundings had always had much of beauty for Marion. From the beginning of his business career, Mr. Stanlock had had a large income and was able to supply his family with many of the expensive luxuries, as well as all the so-called necessities of life. But for Marion the artificial luxuries had little special attraction. She accepted them as a matter of course, but that is about all the claim they had upon her. She enjoyed the use of her father's automobiles, but she wondered sometimes at the scheme of things which entitled her to an electric runabout or a limousine and a chauffeur, while thousands of other quite as deserving girls were not nearly as well favored. The ability and the disposition to look at things occasionally from this point of view contributed much to the generosity of Marion's nature. She was a favorite among rich and poor alike, except among those rich who could "understand" why the wealthy ought to be specially favored, and those poor too narrow and circumscribed to credit any wealthy person with genuine generosity. Being of this artless and unartificial trend of mind, Marion must naturally turn to either nature or human merit for the selection of her Camp Fire name. She was not sufficiently mature to pick a poetic idea from the achievements of men, and so it fell to nature to supply a quaint notion as a foundation for her "nom-de-fire." Seated in her room at Hiawatha Institute one evening, Marion cast about her mental horizon for some scene or association in her life that would suggest the desired name. The first that came to her was the picture of a towering mountain, conspicuous not so much for its actual loftiness as for its deceptive appearance of great height. In all her experiences at home, it had never occurred to Marion to think of this individual portion of prehistoric geologic upheaval as a mass of earth and stones. She thought of it only as the most beautiful expression of nature she had ever seen, graceful of form, rich in the seasons' decorations. This mountain was probably about as slender as it is possible for a mountain to be. Compared, or contrasted, with a nearby and characteristic mountain of the range, it was as a lady's finger to a telescoped giant's thumb. High Peak, as the tapering sugar-loaf of earth was called, was located west of Hollyhill, close to the town. In fact the portion of the city inhabited by the main colony of miners' families was built on the sloping ground that formed a foothill of the mountain. And so when Marion named herself as a Camp Fire Girl after this mountain she had in mind an ideal expressed in the first injunction of the Law of the Camp Fire, which is to "Seek Beauty." High Peak was her ideal of beauty and grandeur. It stood also, with her, for lofty aspiration. Thus she pictured the physical representation of the name she chose as a member of the great army of girls who seek romance, beauty, and adventure in every-day life. On the day when the Flamingo Camp Fire arrived at Hollyhill, another train pulled in at the principal station several hours earlier. It came from the same direction and might, indeed, have borne the thirteen girls and their guardian if they had seen fit to get up early enough to catch a 3 o'clock train. But the thirteen girls would have been much interested if they could have beheld the eight boy passengers as they got off in a group and looked around to see if there was anyone at the depot who knew any of them. Relieved at the apparent absence of anybody who might recognize the one of their number whose home was in Hollyhill or another who had been a frequent visitor there, the eight boys hastened to a corner half a square away from the depot and boarded a street car that was waiting for the time to start from this terminal point. The car started almost immediately after they had seated themselves, moving in a southwesterly direction through the business section of the city and then directly west toward High Peak, passing along the northern border of the mining colony and then making a curve to the north through a more prosperous residence district. The eight boys all wore Scout uniforms. They were the full membership of one Spring Lake patrol, the leader of which was Ernest Hunter, whose home was in Hollyhill, and who had invited all the Scouts of his patrol to be his guests during the holidays. This invitation followed the receipt of information that Marion Stanlock had invited the members of her Camp Fire to spend the Christmas holidays with her. Ernest Hunter was well prepared to entertain his guests in real scout fashion. His parents' home was not large enough to afford sleeping quarters and other ordinary conveniences for seven visitors in addition to the regular personnel of the family, but the boy had taken care of this deficiency long before he had ever dreamed that it might occur. The Hunter home included a large tract of land running clear up to the foot of the mountain, which, at this point, was rocky and covered with a plentiful growth of white pine, hemlock and black spruce. Hidden behind an irregular heap of boulders and a small timber foreground was a cave, formed by nature and nature's anarchistic elements, that could not fail to delight the most fastidious wonder-seeker. The entrance was about the size of an ordinary doorway, flanked by twin boulders like columns for an arched shelter. Within was a large room with fairly smooth walls and ceiling of Silurian rock and sandstone. The cave as it now appeared would hardly have been recognized by its aboriginal frequenters. It had been converted into a place of civil abode or resort, retaining only enough of its pristine wildness for romantic effect. Ernie Hunter had done his work well. He had provided for heat for the cave by running a galvanized stovepipe up through a crevice in the rocks and filling with stones and cement all the surrounding vents to guard against the draining in of water from the mountain side. He also collected and stored at home a supply of old mattresses, blankets, kitchen utensils, a laundry stove, and other domestic conveniences usable in a place of this kind. A week before vacation he wrote thus to his 12-year-old brother, Paul: "I'm going to bring seven boys home with me. We are going to spend the vacation in the mountains, with the cave as headquarters. Will you have the stove hauled there and set up and keep a fire in it a good deal of the time to dry the place out thoroughly? We will come to Hollyhill on an early train, so as to have plenty of time to haul the mattresses and other outfittings to the cave and get it ready for habitation. We will all have guns and will have some great times shooting game. Of course, you will be in on all this." Paul did as requested. When the patrol arrived at the Hunter home, he reported to his brother that the latter's instructions had been carried out and all was in readiness for the removal of the outing outfit from the storeroom over the garage to the cave. Everything but the mattresses were piled into Mr. Hunter's seven-passenger touring car, the eight boys piled in on top and the first run to their holiday headquarters was made. As the machine drove up toward the mouth of the cave, the boys were startled at seeing two rough looking men emerge from the entrance and slink away to the south, half hidden by the unevenness of the ground and the thick shrubbery. Their hurried movements and evident desire to avoid meeting the boys marked them as suspicious characters. Fearing that they might have committed some malicious act to render the place uninhabitable, Ernie hastened toward the cave, followed by the other boys, to make an inspection. Before entering, however, Ernie, who was the patrol leader, asked four of the boys to return and watch the automobile. Division of the patrol with this in view was quickly arranged, and Ernie, Clifford Long, Harry, Gilbert, and Jerry McCracken proceeded into the cave. The entrance of the cave was protected against the cold by a heavy blanket hung over a pole anchored at either end in the rocky side at the top. Pushing aside this wilderness portiere, the four investigators stepped in, lighting their way with two or three electric flash lights. They were relieved to discover that no damage had been done to the cave or to the stove set up within. After satisfying themselves on this score they proceeded to replenish the fire, by putting in several cuts of spruce, a good supply of which had been provided by Ernie's brother. The cave was still warm and had been well dried out by the steady fire kept up by Paul for two or three days. The entire patrol now reassembled and mapped out a plan for completing their day's work. It was decided that Ernie should return in the automobile to his home a mile and a half away and bring the mattresses and a supply of food that was being prepared for them at the house, while the others took upon themselves the task of cutting a supply of brushwood to lay on the floor of the cave as a kind of spring support for the mattresses. Accordingly Ernie got into the machine and drove away, while the other boys got busy with the task assigned to them. The patrol leader returned, in less than an hour, accompanied by Paul and a farm hand employed by Mr. Hunter. They brought with them not only four mattresses, but the shotguns and rifles shipped by the boys from the academy for their mid-winter hunting. Ernie announced that their trunks and valises also had arrived and that George, the farm hand, would return for them in the automobile. The work progressed rapidly and by the time the trunks and valises arrived the mattresses were all in position, the food and cooking utensils were stored away in the narrowest compass of space that could be arranged for them and a large pile of resinous wood had been gathered. It was now 4 o'clock and the boys felt that they were entitled to a rest. A large boulder with a flat end two and a half feet in diameter was rolled into the cave and propped into position, with slabs of stone for a table. On this was placed a large kerosene lamp, which, when burning, lighted up the cave very well. A supply of camp chairs had been brought with the first load, so that everybody had a seat. "I call this something swell, from the point of view of a smart rustic who hasn't absorbed any city nonsense," observed Miles Berryman, seating himself comfortably in a chair and gazing about with great satisfaction. "I think, Ernie, that we must all agree that you are a very wide-awake opportunist." "Is that the kind of musician who plays an opportune at every opportunity?" inquired John St. John in a tone of gravity as deep as the cavern in which they were housed. "Now, see here, Johnnie Two Times," exclaimed Miles portentously: "you know what we came near doing to you six months ago for springing that kind of stuff." "We came near ducking him in the lake," reminded Earl Hamilton. "Yes," continued Miles in the attitude of a stage threat, "and if we can't find a lake around here we can find a deep snowdrift to throw him into." "I wonder if he catches the drift of that argument," said Clifford Long, with a wink at Miles. "He not only catches it, but he understands, and hence he does snow drift (does know drift) of what the menacing Miles means," declared John, who had long answered to the nickname of "Johnnie Two Times," because of the combination of baptismal and family names by which he was legally known. A roar of pun-protesting groans filled the cavern, and as several of the boys arose in attitudes of vengeance, the punster made a dive for the exit and disappeared beyond the blanket portiere. None of the protestors followed. They did not feel like engaging in any vigorous sport following the strenuous exercises they had had. Five minutes later "Johnnie Two Times" returned. One glance at his face was sufficient guarantee that he had lost all his punning facetiousness. He held in his hand a bit of paper which he laid on the stone table by the lamp. "Read that, boys!" he exclaimed, excitedly. "I found it outside. Those men must have dropped it. They're after Mr. Stanlock--going to hold him up." The ten other boys needed no second bidding. They crowded around so eagerly that nobody could read. "Here, I'll read it aloud," said Clifford, picking up the paper and holding it close to the lamp. Here is what he read: "I will bring Old Stanlock along the foothill pike. Will slow up in the sand stretch. Be there ready to grab him. Jake." * * * * * CHAPTER VII. TO THE RESCUE. "Boys, we've got to do something," declared Patrol Leader Ernie Hunter, breaking the gaping silence that followed the reading of the note. "What shall we do?" asked Harry Gilbert, who was a good soldier, but no leader. "We must go to Mr. Stanlock's rescue," Ernie replied. "There is no telling what those rascals are plotting. They may kill him if we don't get there in time to prevent it." "It's a long hike, and we may not be able to get there in time," Paul Hunter warned. "That means we've got to move mighty fast," Ernie said. "Boys, get your guns and a supply of shells. I hope we won't have to use them, but we'd better be well prepared. We're going to be late getting back, so you may as well grab some bread and dried beef and anything else you can find in a jiffy to eat on the way. We've got to start in three minutes. Now everybody hustle. "Paul, you and Jerry had better run home and stay there till morning," Ernie added, turning to his brother. Jerry was scarcely any larger than Paul, although the latter was a year younger. Ernie felt a slightly nervous responsibility for the safety of the "twin babies of the bunch," as some one had already referred to them in the course of the day. Jerry, who, like Paul, was an extremely likable fellow, resented being called the baby of the patrol, a term sometimes applied to him when the Scouts were dealing in jocular personalities. "Not much are we goin' home," declared Paul, energetically; "are we, Jerry? I'm goin' along and carry my target rifle with the rest. What do you say, Jerry?" "I'm with you," the latter announced with spirit. "They can't leave us behind." "But you can't make the trip fast enough," Ernie insisted. "We'll have to run part of the way, and the ground is rough, and the snow and ice on the road make it hard traveling. We've got over two miles of that kind of hiking to do, and less than an hour to do it in." "We can make it just as well as anybody else in this bunch," declared Paul, stoutly. "Well, come along, then; but you will have to obey orders," said Ernie, speaking as one with military authority. "We're operating under martial law tonight, and if you insist on coming along you must expect to be treated like a soldier. Everybody bring your gun and flashlight. It's cloudy now and will be dark before long." In scarcely more time than it takes to tell it, the boys had possessed themselves of their guns, flashlights, overcoats, hats, and "a bite to eat on the run," and were dashing out along the path leading down to the road that skirted the foothill to the southward. Presently, however, they slowed down to a "dog trot" at the suggestion of Clifford Long, who warned his fellow Scouts against "tuckering themselves out." They continued along in this manner half a mile and then, by common consent, reduced their pace to a walking long stride. As they proceeded thus, Ernie said to Clifford Long and one or two others nearest him: "I'm afraid we've made a mistake in not doing one thing that has just occurred to me. What I ought to have done was to hurry home, got the automobile and made a race for the police station while you boys made this trip. In that way we could 'ave had a double chance of catching those bandits. If everything had gone smoothly, I might even have beaten you boys to the scene of the hold-up with an auto load of police. I could 'ave left word, too, for someone to call up Mr. Stanlock's office and warn him, if by any cause he had been delayed." "I don't think much of that suggestion," replied Clifford; "for, if they haven't got him started by this time, they're not likely to get him going their way tonight. But the other'd 'a' been a good one. It's too bad you didn't think of it sooner." "Too late now," said Ernie. "We've got to make the best of it." "Who do you suppose those two men are that we saw come out of the cave?" Miles Berryman inquired. "The chances are ninety-nine out of a hundred that this affair is connected directly with the strike," Clifford replied, with confident assurance. "The highwaymen who plotted this scheme doubtless belong to the rougher element of the strikers. They are really dangerous men, and the community would be much safer if they were lodged in prison." "How do you suppose they got your uncle to come away out here at the time when he usually starts home for dinner--that is, if he really came this way?" asked Hal Ettelson. "That's the very thing that's bothering me most," Clifford replied, with puzzled air. "Uncle is usually pretty shrewd, and I am pretty certain that people who try to put anything over on him generally find that they have a hard job on their hands." "I'd take it, from the note Jerry found, that this is a decoy game they're trying to work," Ernie remarked. "It'd have to be a sharp one to get my uncle," declared Clifford. "He's a very clever business man." "The smartest men get caught once in a while," was Ernie's sage remark. "That must have been a chauffeur who wrote that note," observed Johnny St. John. "It read as if a chauffeur was the brains of this plot. If we get there on time, he won't have much to chauffeur it" (show for it). "Oh, Johnny Twice!" groaned Earl Hamilton. "Don't spoil your good deed of finding that note by springing any more of that stuff. You're taking an unfair advantage of us, for we can't stop now to duck you in a snowdrift." The road was not broken all the way for good walking, so that the boys were forced to put forth their best efforts in order to reach the place of the plotted ambush on time. Their pace therefore varied from a rapid walk to a run, according as their "wind" and leg muscles supplied the needed endurance. Paul and Jerry found it pretty hard to keep up with the other boys during the last three-quarters of a mile, especially when they struck a poorly broken snowdrift or a stretch of ground covered with rocks or rough ice. They were quite elated, however, at their ability to keep their feet in these rough places, after seeing two of the larger boys slip and fall. It was almost dark by the time they reached the vicinity of the "sand stretch" referred to in the note found by "Johnny Two-Times." This stretch was a sand bed of several acres in extent, between which and High Peak was a large stone quarry. The road ran between the "sand stretch," which, of course, was now frozen and covered with snow, and the quarry. The approach to this was sheltered, fortunately for the concealment of the boy rescuers, by a growth of timber extending down the mountain slope to the road. Ernie called a halt about two hundred yards from the point in the road which appeared the most favorable place for an ambush. "Let's leave the road and make our way through the trees," he suggested. "There comes the automobile!" exclaimed Paul, excitedly, pointing down the highway to the southwest. Yes, a machine was approaching, about two miles away. The long stream of light from the electric lamps could be seen, almost hitting the sky, as the auto began to climb a steep hill. Evidently it had just turned into this highway from another thoroughfare leading direct from the city. "Come on! We must hurry," said Ernie, dashing into the timber. "Be careful; don't fall or run any branches in your eyes." They made fairly good progress, considering the difficulties before them and the darkness in the woods. However, they kept close to the edge, where the tree growth was not very heavy and where the snow reflected sufficient light to guide their feet. Ernie ordered that none of the flashlights be used, and perhaps it was fortunate for the success of the expedition that this order was issued and obeyed. The efforts of the boys were well timed. Everything went like clockwork, or so it afterward seemed. Two shadowy forms were discerned standing in the thicker darkness under the trees as the automobile arrived near the Southern edge of the quarry. The boys were within easy attacking distance from the place where the two men stood. Ernie whispered the word "Halt" loud enough for his companions to hear him. They gathered around their leader, who hurriedly spoke thus: "Now, everybody listen to me for orders. When I give the word, 'fire,' you, Paul, John, Harry and Jerry, fire your guns into the air. Be careful, and shoot up toward the tops of the trees, so as not to hit anyone. Then I'll give the order to charge, and everybody let out an Indian war-whoop or something of the sort. We won't have to do any more shooting. Now, come on; we'll get closer. Those fellows are starting now." Even as he spoke, the two villainous individuals, with masks on their faces, dashed out from the timber and planted themselves in front of the automobile, with pistols leveled at the driver. The latter, according to the plan outlined in his note discovered by "Johnny Two-Times," slowed down the machine before the highwaymen appeared. At the command to halt he came to a sudden stop and threw up his hands. "Ready!--Fire!" commanded Ernie in a loud voice. Two magazine shotguns and two target rifles exploded in quick succession. Without giving the two hold-up men time to determine whether they had been hit or not, the patrol leader issued his second order, thus: "Now, boys, after them! Charge! No quarter for the rascals!" Then followed a scene that, for rapidity of action, is not often surpassed by motion picture speed artists. * * * * * CHAPTER VIII. THE EAVESDROPPER. If the two masked highwaymen had been crouching in position for a footrace to be started at the shot of a pistol, they could hardly have sprung forward more suddenly or have sped down the road more rapidly. One glance over their shoulders at what doubtless appeared to them to be something like a regiment of armed men was pouring out of the timber, as one of the boys afterward put it, was enough to make them "hot-foot along hot enough to melt all the ice and snow in their path." All of the boys now produced the flashlights which they had carried in their pockets and turned them on to their own faces, in order that Mr. Stanlock might see who they were and have no doubt that they were friends. This was according to one detail of their pre-arranged plan, and worked successfully. The owner of the automobile recognized his nephew, Clifford Long, and the Scout uniforms worn by the boys, and realized at once that he had been rescued from the hands of a pair of unscrupulous rascals by a company of real boy heroes. He threw open the door, sprang out, and began shaking the hands of his rescuers in grateful appreciation of what they had done for him. "I don't know what all this means," he said; "but I've got wits enough to understand there's been some pretty tough rascality on foot, and you boys have done me a very great service." "We were hiking along this way and saw those two men with guns in their hands stop your machine" exclaimed Clifford, who thought it best not to reveal the discovery of the note in the presence of the chauffeur. "You did mighty good work" declared the wealthy mine operator, enthusiastically. "Does your Boy Scout training teach you to use your heads so successfully? One would think that this hold-up and the rescue were both plotted and planned some time ahead, judging by the skill with which you worked." "Don't flatter us too much, uncle, or you may tempt us to help along the deception by leading you to believe that we really are a remarkable bunch of boys," Clifford warned, slyly. "I not only believe it, but I know it," replied Mr. Stanlock with stubborn generosity. "So, if I am deceived, the fault is all my own. But, Clifford, I didn't know you were in town. When did you come? You haven't been over at the house yet, have you?" "No, not yet, uncle," Clifford answered, slowly. "And I'm not coming over for a few days. The fact is, we are here on a hunting trip and a mystery mission, and we want you to help us keep our secret. Since we have proved ourselves to be a very unusual lot of boys, perhaps you will take special care to favor us in this respect. We are planning a surprise on the girls, and we don't want you to tell them we are in town." "My lips are sealed until you unseal them," Mr. Stanlock assured them. "But where are you staying?" "All of us are members of one patrol of Scouts at Spring Lake Academy, all except Paul Hunter. We came here on an invitation from Ernie Hunter, and we are living in a cave at the west end of Mr. Hunter's farm." "In a cave!" Mr. Stanlock exclaimed with some concern. "Isn't that rather an unhealthful place for you to live? You don't sleep there, I hope?" "We certainly do, uncle; or, rather, we are going to, for this is our first night. I wish you could come over and see it. It's as dry and warm as can be. Paul dried it out by keeping a stove burning in it for several days." "A stove in a cave!" was Mr. Stanlock's astonished comment. "That is surely some combination of wild nature and mechanical civilization. I shall certainly inspect your domesticated wild-and-woolly retreat. When am I invited to come?" "Any time, Mr. Stanlock," Ernie interposed, with the hospitality of host. "Name your time and we'll be there to receive you." "You'll have quite a walk to the cave tonight, and the walking isn't very good, I venture. Pile in and I'll take you in the machine." "I'm afraid we'll make more of a load than you can carry," said Ernie. "This machine can carry seven, nine in a pinch, and eleven in a case of life and death," assured Mr. Stanlock. "But I've got an idea that will cut off the life and death. I am bringing home a large sled that a young manual training student made for my seven-year-old son, Harold. It has a good, strong rope attached, and we will hitch it on behind, and two of you boys can ride on that." "Let's you and me hitch," said Paul to Jerry, eagerly. Jerry was just as eager, and the problem of carrying ten passengers and the chauffeur was settled. "One of you boys get in front with Jake and show him the way," suggested the owner of the automobile. "Jake!" The utterance of that name sent a thrill through every one of the boys, all of whom recognized it as the name signed to the note that "Johnny Two-Times" had found near the cave. Ernie climbed up with the driver, the sled was taken out and hitched on behind, and six of the boys "piled in" with Mr. Stanlock. As soon as Paul and Jerry called out "Go ahead," they started. It was not quite as jolly an adventure for the two boys on the sled as they had expected. The road was pretty rough and, although the chauffeur, obeying his employer's instruction, drove carefully, the "hitchers" were twice thrown off. But they refused to give up, declaring it to be the most fun they had had "in a coon's age," which was really a boys' bravery fib, and finally the machine drew up within a hundred and fifty feet of the cave. The boys and Mr. Stanlock left the automobile in charge of the driver and proceeded to the Scouts' hunting headquarters. The visitor proved that he had not lost all sympathy for his youthful days, for he declared that he would like nothing better than to return to his 'teens and spend a mid-winter vacation with the young hunters in their cave. After the inspection was completed, Clifford again broached the subject of the highwaymen's attack, saying: "Uncle, we didn't tell you how we happened to be present when those two men stopped you tonight, because we didn't want the chauffeur to hear what we had to say. The whole story is contained in this note, which one of the boys found after we had seen those men come out of the cave and hurry away. Here it is; read it. As you are more interested in it than anybody else, you may keep it." Clifford drew the folded paper from his vest pocket and gave it to Mr. Stanlock. The latter held it close to the lamp and read. "That's Jake, my driver; it's his handwriting I'm certain. What did be want to do that for? He must be in league with the worst element of the strikers. Probably they paid him well for this, or promised him a tempting bribe." Mr. Stanlock mused thus aloud as he studied over the note. The situation puzzled him. What ought he to do? Of course, he must have the driver arrested, and there must be an investigation by the police. But, would it be safe for him to trust Jake to drive him home? Probably it would be safe enough, for doubtless the driver had no desire to be openly connected with the plot. He was about decided to return home with the driver and say nothing to him about the note, when a slight noise at the entrance attracted the attention of all. Listening carefully, they could hear the sound of retreating footsteps. "That's Jake," Mr. Stanlock exclaimed. "He overheard us. After him, or he'll run away with the machine." The rush for the entrance threatened to cause some confusion and delay in getting out. Fortunately, however, the delay, if any, was not serious, and the pursuit soon indicated that there were some real sprinters among the boys. As they emerged from the cave, the driver was already within fifty feet of the machine. But he looked back over his shoulder and evidently thought better of his original purpose, for he turned to the left and raced down the hill toward the road at another point, leaping and striding with such recklessness that it seemed almost miraculous that he should escape a fall and serious injury. Mr. Stanlock had no desire to attempt a capture of the traitorous chauffeur by physical force, and when he saw that Jake had given up the idea of fleeing in the automobile, he called the pursuit off. Then he announced his intention to drive the machine home himself, taking the route that led past Mr. Hunter's home. He had no fear of further trouble with the driver or his confederates, for he was certain that Jake was a coward at heart and the two highwaymen could hardly have arrived in the vicinity of the cave on foot, since they were driven off in mad haste in the opposite direction, even if they had been disposed to make another attack. "Well, good-night, boys," he said, taking his place in the driver's seat. "You've done me a service tonight that I won't forget very soon. Come and see me, all of you, after you have sprung your surprise on the girls. I'll remember to keep your secret all right. Good night." He put his foot on the starter, gave the steering wheel a few turns, and the throbbing machine moved over the sloping stretch of ground between the cave and the road. The boys, several of them with guns in their hands, followed him to the road and stood there ready to run to his assistance if they should see any evidences of another attack. They continued the watch for fifteen or twenty minutes, until the lights of the automobile, which pierced the darkness far ahead, indicated that he had proceeded between one and two miles without interference. * * * * * CHAPTER IX. MR. STANLOCK SURPRISED. Perhaps it were better not to attempt to describe with faithfulness of detail the reception given Mr. Stanlock by his wife and family on his return home shortly before 9 o'clock that night. The fear that something of serious nature had intervened to prevent his appearing at the usual dinner hour had taken firm hold of Mrs. Stanlock, Marion, sister Kathryn, and brother Harold. The fact that the police had been searching for him for two hours or more and had been unable to make any hopeful report, had not tended in the least to relieve the tension of suspense, which became almost unbearable. Then came the vague announcement from Mr. Stanlock's stenographer at the latter's home that he had been called away somewhere, but left no definite information. He had been called unexpectedly and left in a hurry. That was all the stenographer could say. This information was communicated to the police, who increased the family's alarm by asking a string of questions over the telephone indicating the most direful suspicions. Had Mr. Stanlock seen or heard anything which caused him to believe that the strikers might do him bodily harm if they had an opportunity? Had he received any threatening letters? Had he appeared nervous or was there anything in his manner which indicated that he was apprehensive of trouble not already well known to the public? Marion and her mother answered some of these questions over the telephone and half an hour later a police lieutenant called at the house and made further inquiry. There was no longer any possibility of dodging the most logical suspicions, namely, that Mr. Stanlock was the victim of a decoy plotted by some criminal element working with or under the shadow of the coal miners' strike. And so the relief from this dread suspense was very great when he drove up to the house and walked in, smiling as if nothing unusual had happened. Marion fairly flew into her father's arms as if she had not seen him for sixteen months. "Papa!" she cried almost hysterically; "where have you been? We've been telephoning all over the city, and the police have been searching for you for nearly two hours. Why didn't you call us up and let us know you were going to be late?" "I was intending to call you, my dear," replied Mr. Stanlock, as he greeted her and the other members of the family with a rapid succession of hugs and kisses, indicating, in spite of his attempts to appear composed, that he had returned home not under the most ordinary circumstances. "Why didn't you?" Marion insisted. "Do you know what a state of mind you had us in during the last two or three hours?" "I delayed calling you because I wanted to find out how late I was going to be," Mr. Stanlock explained. "Then something happened, and I wasn't near a telephone, and something more delayed me, and I decided to come directly home without stopping on the way to telephone." "What was it that happened, papa?" Marion demanded. "Was it anything serious?" "Pretty serious, girlie," answered her father, pinching her cheek; "but your daddy is an awfully brave man, you know, and he can't tell his daughter any of his blood-curdling experiences unless she can listen to the roaring of cannons and the yelling of Indians without flinching." "Now, papa, you're making fun of me," Marion protested. "Didn't anything really serious happen? The police thought you must have been waylaid." "I see there's no way out of it, and I shall have to tell you girls a story that will make you all scream and dream nightmares filled with revolvers and skulking figures and masked faces and lonely highways." All of the thirteen members and the Guardian of Flamingo Camp Fire, Marion's mother, sister, and brother were present at this scene in the big living room of the Stanlock home. Mr. Stanlock covertly watched the faces of his auditors and was pleased to note that his bandying words were rapidly bringing the tension back to normal. Young Master Harold at this point helped his father's purpose along remarkably by piping forth: "It's mighty funny if a man can't be out after dark without a lot o' women jumpin' on 'im." Nobody with a grain of humor in his soul, if that is where the sense of fun is located, could have restrained a laugh at that remark. In a moment it would have been difficult for any one of those present to realize how tragically serious they had all been a few minutes before. After the chorus of laughter had subsided, Mr. Stanlock sat down in a large upholstered armchair, and remarked to his unconsciously brilliant son: "You are a great protector of women-oppressed man, aren't you, Harold. Your chief virtue along this line is your ability to get the philosophical high spots of every-day gossip. But don't stop there, my able young advocate. Do you realize that your father has had no dinner and that this exacting bevy of girls is going to force me to suffer the pangs of hunger until I have told my story?" "I just told Mary (the head maid) to get your dinner ready," Mrs. Stanlock interposed smilingly. "You won't need to go hungry more than fifteen minutes longer." "I see that you don't appreciate an eager and attentive audience," Marion remarked, affecting to be deeply offended in behalf of her guests. "Very well, we'll wait until after you have satisfied a mere man's appetite, and then we'll condescend to listen." "Oh, I can tell it in fifteen minutes while Mary is warming over the meat and potatoes. Now, get ready, all you young ladies, for the first shock. I was really and truly held up." "Held up!" exclaimed several of the girls in chorus. "Yes, held up, with guns pointed at the chauffeur's head by two masked men on a lonely highway." "You're joking," said Marion, dubiously. "All right," said the mine owner, settling back comfortably in his chair. "You insisted on my telling my story, and now that I have begun it, you won't believe my first sentence." "Yes, I do believe it, papa," Marion said repentantly, going close to her father's chair and putting her arm around his neck. "I believe you were held up by two masked highwaymen with guns in a lonely spot, as you say. But how did you escape?" "We were rescued by some boys!" Although at the end of a sentence, Mr. Stanlock stopped so quickly that only a dull person could fail to notice it. His sudden stop, of course, was occasioned by the return to his mind of his promise to keep the secret of the Boy Scouts. "Boys," said Mrs. Stanlock, wonderingly. "I didn't know that we had any heroes of that type in Hollyhill." "They were some young fellows out hunting," explained the narrator. "They witnessed the hold-up and leveled their guns at the rascals and drove them away." "Who are those boys?" Marion demanded, and one might almost have imagined from her manner that she had half a kingdom to bestow on the rescuers of her father. "I'm afraid I can't give you their names," Mr. Stanlock replied slowly. "You don't mean to say that you let them get away without finding out who they were, do you?" his daughter inquired with just a shade of indignation. "No, not exactly that, for I can easily get all their names any time I want them. But I know also that they don't wish to get into the newspapers in connection with this affair." "Can't you tell me who some of them are, papa?" Marion pleaded. "I want to know who it was that, perhaps, saved the life of my father." "I can't tell you now, Marion. I have promised faithfully not to reveal their identity at present for very good reasons which they gave to me." "Where is Jake, the driver, Henry?" asked Mrs. Stanlock. "I see you drove home alone." "Jake proved himself to be a scoundrel and a traitor and when he discovered that I had found him out he vamoosed. I expect to swear out a warrant for his arrest tomorrow. Shortly before my usual time for coming home, I received a letter by messenger, supposedly from Mr. Mills, chairman of a special hospital committee that is looking after the sick members of striking miners' families. I had been expecting a call of a meeting and this letter stated that it was important that I be present. He lives out on the Foothill pike near the quarries. I thought that I would make a quick run out there and call you up from his home and let you know how late I would be. Well, I didn't get there. It seems that Jake was one of the conspirators in a plot to get me out there and waylay me. By the way, that makes me think I ought to call Mills up and find out if he did call a meeting. The notice was on his stationery and it is just possible that wasn't a fake." In a few moments Mr. Stanlock was talking with Mills on the phone. The latter was astonished, declared that he had no idea of calling a meeting that night. "Well, it's lucky I kept the notice," the mining president muttered. "That'll be something interesting to show to the police tomorrow." * * * * * CHAPTER X. MR. STANLOCK AMUSED. "I understand now how a mathematician could write 'Alice in Wonderland'," Helen Nash remarked to Marion after Mr. Stanlock had withdrawn to the diningroom and his belated meal. "How is that?" the hostess inquired, looking curiously at her friend. "Why, your father, I suppose, has been thinking in terms of tons of coal all day--" "Carloads," Marion corrected, with a toss of levity. "Well, make it carloads," Helen assented. "That's better to my purpose, more like a multiplication table, instead of addition. But it must be about as dry as mathematics." "Oh, I get you," Marion exclaimed delightedly. "You mean that it is quite as remarkable for a coal operator, with carloads of coal and soot weighing down his imagination all day, to come home in the evening and spin off a lot of nonsense like a comedian as it is for a mathematician to have written 'Alice's Adventures in Wonderland'." "Precisely," answered Helen. "Well, I don't know but you're right. Anyway, I wouldn't detract from such a nice compliment paid to the dearest daddy on earth. Still, after leaving the atmosphere of his carloads of coal he had experienced the diversion of being held up." "By two masked men with guns on a lonely highway," supplemented Helen. "Yes." "And later found that his driver had turned traitor and planned to deliver him into the hands of the enemy." "Yes." "I don't see any diversion or inspiration in that sort of experience. Many a man would have come home in a very depressed state of mind after such an adventure. And yet he came home, found everybody scared to death, and before he even began his story had us all laughing just as Alice would at some of the contortions behind the looking glass. And he kept us smiling even when he told of the masked would-be kidnappers standing in the middle of the road and pointing pistols at the driver of his automobile." "Kidnappers," repeated Marion in puzzled surprise. "Why do you say kidnappers?" The two girls were alone in the library when this conversation took place. All of the other guests, feeling that the members of the family would prefer to be left alone following the startling occurrences of the evening, had withdrawn to their rooms. Helen was about to bid her friend good-night when her remark regarding Mr. Stanlock's happy personal faculties opened the discussion as here recorded. She hesitated a few moments before answering the last inquiry; then she said: "Don't you think that those men intended to kidnap your father? What other explanation can you find for their actions?" "I hadn't tried to figure out their motive," Marion replied thoughtfully. "Father called it a hold-up and I took his word for it." "But he had no money with him, did he?" "No, I think not. He seldom carries much money." "And it is hardly reasonable to suppose that this plot between the chauffeur and the two highwaymen was for the purpose of murder. They would have gone about it in some other way. This one leaves too many traces behind." "Yes," Marion admitted. "Well, the only reasonable conclusion you can reach with the robbery and murder motives out of the way, is that the plotters wished to take your father prisoner and hold him some place until they got what they wanted." "But what did they want?" asked the bewildered Marion. "That's for your father to suspect and the police to find out," said Helen shrewdly. "Personally, I haven't a doubt that the strike has everything to do with it." "What makes you think so?" "The threatening letter that you received at the Institute. Show that to your father tonight and suggest that he turn it over to the police." "I will," Marion promised. "In this new excitement I forgot all about it. I didn't even show it to mother. Just as soon as papa finishes his dinner, I'm going to show that letter to him. I'll go upstairs now and get it. You wait here and be present when we talk it over, Helen. You're so good at offering suggestions that maybe with you present we can all work out some kind of solution of what has been going on." Marion hastened up to her room and returned presently with both of the anonymous letters she had received in Westmoreland. A few minutes later her father and mother both entered the library with the evident purpose in mind of holding a lengthy conference on the problems growing out of Mr. Stanlock's business troubles. "Papa, do you think those men tried to kidnap you?" Marion inquired by way of introducing the subject. Mr. Stanlock laughed heartily. "Kidnap me!" he exclaimed. "Well, that's a good one. I thought they only kidnapped kids." "Father," the girl pleaded; "do be serious with me. I've got something very important to show you, something I forgot all about until Helen reminded me. Helen thinks those men tried to kidnap you, and she's a pretty wise girl, as I've had occasion to find out." "If Helen said that, she surely must be a wise girl or else she has made a pretty accurate guess," was the mine owner's reply. "Then they did want to kidnap you?" "Absolutely no doubt of it. They've got some kind of retreat in the mountains, and planned to carry me off there and keep me prisoner." "What for?" "Why, to force me to yield to some of their demands, which are utterly impossible and unreasonable. First, they demand an increase of wages that would force us into a receivership sooner or later and again they demand the adoption of a cooperative plan which eventually would make them owners of the mines, if there were any possibility of it working, and there isn't. It's a most ridiculous hold-up, the responsibility for which rests with a few fanatical leaders of doubtful integrity." "What do you think of these letters?" Marion asked, handing the two anonymous missives to her father. "I received them by mail at the Institute last night, but neglected to read them until we were all on the train this morning." As Mr. Stanlock read them, his brow contracted sternly. He could treat lightly any hostile attack on himself, but when danger threatened members of his family or their intimate friends, all signs of levity disappeared from his manner and he was ready at once to meet with all his energy the source of the danger, whether it be human or an element of inanimate nature. "This" he said, as he finished reading and held up the letter signed with a skull and cross-bones, "undoubtedly came from the source where the plot to kidnap me originated. They are pretty well organized and determined to go the limit. Of course, you girls must give up your plans to work among the strikers' families. It would be foolhardy and probably would result in somebody's getting hurt." "How about the other letter?" Marion asked. "I don't know," was the reply. "It doesn't seem to amount to much. I hardly think it is to be taken as a threat. Have you no idea who sent it?" "Some of the girls think it was sent by some of the Boy Scouts at Spring Lake. You see they came up in full force to Hiawatha on the night when we held our Grand Council Fire. It was a complete surprise on us, exceedingly well done and about as clever as you could expect from the cleverest boys. Before they left, several of them boasted openly that they were planning another surprise for some of us, and they dared us to find out in advance what it was." "No doubt that is what this note means," Mr. Stanlock declared so positively and such a gleam of interest in his eyes that Marion could not help wondering just a little. "What makes you so certain about it?" she inquired. "I don't see any real proof in those words as to what they mean or who wrote them." "No, no, of course not," agreed Mr. Stanlock with seemingly uncalled for glibness; "but then, you see, it is more reasonable to suspect that this note came from the boys than from the strikers. If it is between the two,--the boys and the strikers,--I say forget the strikers and be sure that the boys sent this note." "I wish that the boys would spring their surprise tonight and settle the question of that note," said Marion. "Why?" inquired her father with the faint light of a smile in his eyes. "Because I don't like the uncertainty of the thing. Uncertainty always bothers me, and this is a more than ordinary case." "But how could the boys spring their surprise without coming to Hollyhill?" her father asked. "That's just it," she returned with a quick glance of suspicion toward both her father and her mother. "Do you know, I found myself wondering several times if Clifford wouldn't bring some of those boys down here some time during the holidays." Mr. Stanlock laughed, but he would have given a good deal to be able to recall the noise he made. It was really a noise, as he must have admitted himself, and so hollow as to indicate something decidedly unlike spontaneous amusement. Marion caught herself in a brown study several times over these circumstances and her father's manner before she went to sleep that night. * * * * * CHAPTER XI. A MAN OF BIG HEART AND QUEER NOTIONS. Christmas was a big event at Hollyhill. Hollyhill was well named. Perhaps some old patriarch a century or two back conceived the inspiration of the name while playing Santa Claus with the little tots of the household and pretending to have slid down the chimney without getting a speck of soot on his bulging vestments. Perhaps he imagined, while mother woke the children and had them peek through a "crack in the door" at the white whiskered visitor stuffing their stockings full of presents, that he had tethered his prancing team of reindeer to a holly tree outside. Certainly there seemed to have been material for such imagination, for tradition said that the hill on which the first houses of the first settlement were built had at one time been richly adorned with a species of American Ilex, and even now there remained here and there carefully preserved remnants of that reported original wealth of the wilderness. Whether or not this conjectural history of the settlement had anything to do with the cheerful mid-winter holiday developments of the community need not be argued at length. An argument would render the truth flat and insipid if it should prove to be in accord with poetic tradition. So what's the use? In mid-winter everybody just knew that Hollyhill as a child had been nursed in the snow trimmed evergreen lap of Christmas. Not that this municipality had a corner on mid-winter holiday generosity to the exclusion of all other communities. The chief outstanding fact in this relation was that the inhabitants, or those so fortunate as to be in a position to give and receive abundantly, believed Hollyhill to be the most generous Christmas town on earth, and there was nobody sufficiently interested to make a denial and follow it up with proof. Much of the credit for this condition was due to the leading man of the place, Richard P. Stanlock, president and controlling power of the Hollyhill Coal Mining company, which owned a string of mines in the mountain district near the divisional line of two states. Besides being the leading citizen, Mr. Stanlock was the "biggest" man in town, because of the position to which he had risen, his ability to hold it, and the influence that went with it. What he said usually went, but his hand was not always evident. He liked to see things done, doubtless enjoyed the realization that his was the great moving power that produced results, but didn't give a fig to have anybody else know it. To his intimate friends, who were few, and to the many with whom he would pass the time of day, he was as common in word and manner as the average householder with nothing more pretentious in life than the earning of his daily bread. But in spite of all this simplicity and personal retirement Mr. Stanlock was a good deal of a mystery to many citizens who knew really little about him. Or perhaps he was a mystery to these fellow townsfolk because of his modest qualities. Knowing little about him, they imagined more. Leading citizens who knew his good qualities were ever ready with a word of praise for him. But the trouble was, the needed tangible evidence of his broad philanthropy was utterly lacking. Seldom was there a visible connecting link between him and a good deed. And so the praise of his work in pulpit, press and other public and semi-public places fell as platitudes before a considerable number of skeptics, whose favorite reply to this sort of thing was something like-- "Bunk." But Marion knew that it wasn't "bunk." She was one of the few confidants that gained an intimate understanding of the wealthy mine owner's character. She knew that he was the secret financial backer of an organization of settlement workers which kept close watch on the needs of the miners and their families, many of whom were so woefully ignorant that about the only way to handle them was by appealing to their appetites, their sympathies and their prejudices. She knew, too, that he had strong connections constantly at work fostering and promoting the best of activities for advancement of the civic welfare, that Christmas was one of his secret hobbies and that it was practically impossible for this city of 40,000 inhabitants to neglect this opportunity for a revival of good fellowship and good cheer so long as her father had his hand on the electric key of public generosity. Christmas was a blaze of glory every year in Hollyhill. Public halls, churches, and theaters were the scenes of the liveliest activities for several days and nights before and after this biggest event of the winter season. Nor was the celebration confined to the more prosperous sections of the town, but extended into the heart of the mining settlement, where Christmas tinsel and lights were lavished without consideration of cost and nobody was allowed to pass the season without being impressively reminded as to just what turkey roast and cranberry sauce tasted like. So skilfully were these programs put into effect that seldom was a hint dropped from any source that Richard Perry Stanlock was entitled to the slightest credit for these magnificent doings. He spent Christmas at home in a quiet unassuming way amid the family decorations of holly and mistletoe, and a vast litter of presents, oranges, apples, nuts, and candy. Marion knew that her father's greatest vanity was his secret pride in his ability to put over the biggest generosity of the year without its being traceable to him. One day a girl acquaintance of her asked her if she knew that her father spent $25,000 every year for Christmas. Marion laughed; later she laughingly reported the query to Mr. Stanlock. Next day this girl friend's uncle, one of the philanthropist's agents, was called in on the carpet and given a lecture on the wisdom of guarding his remarks such as he had never before dreamed of receiving. "Papa," the millionaire's older daughter said to him one day; "don't you think it is foolish to keep secret all these generous things that you are doing?" "Why do you think it is foolish, my dear?" he replied with an expression of shrewd amusement. He was certain that she would have difficulty in answering his question. "Well," she began slowly, then admitted: "I don't know." "I'm very glad you don't know," said her father with evident satisfaction. "If you had tried to give a reason, I should have been greatly disappointed. No explanation of that suggestion could be based on anything but family pride, which is one form of vanity." "No," Marion differed thoughtfully. "There is one explanation based on human caution and wisdom. I am afraid that you are misunderstood by the very people whose confidence you should seek to cultivate, that is the miners. Some of them don't like you very well. They think that you personally are a hard taskmaster and that the attentions and relief which really come from you in times of need, are bestowed on them by persons who feel that they have to help them because of your failure to do the right thing by them. Why don't you, papa, go right among them and tell them that you are going to do everything you can for them, raise their wages, maybe, and make them love you personally?" "It isn't my nature, Marion, to do it that way," Mr. Stanlock replied. "There is nothing in the world that would be so distasteful to me as assuming the role of a philanthropist or a hero. It spoils every man to some extent who tries it. Personal vanity is the greatest enemy that man has to guard against. I've guarded myself against it thus far successfully, I think, and I'm not going to let it get me in the future if I can help it." Marion felt like saying that her father's fear of vanity might some day get him into trouble with his men, but she refrained from so expressing herself. On the occasion before us she recalled that conversation, for she realized that the strike was a result, in part, of the very misunderstanding that she had anticipated. Several clever leaders among the miners had spread the report about that Mr. Stanlock had become immensely wealthy by overworking and underpaying his men, while he caused to be circulated through various channels numerous undetailed reports of his generosity, philanthropy and public spirit. When she invited the members of Flamingo Camp Fire to be her guests and work with her among the poor and hunger-suffering families of the strikers she did not realize the seriousness of the situation with reference to the feeling of the miners toward her father. Now she felt that the condition of affairs was more than she could cope with and from the day of her arrival home she was constantly in fear lest some dread catastrophe should befall the family because the "biggest man" in Hollyhill kept himself severely fortified against the adulation of his fellow townsmen and the character weakening influence of personal vanity. * * * * * CHAPTER XII. A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE. The Flamingo Camp Fire arrived at the Stanlock home on Friday. Christmas was scheduled on the calendar to fall on the following Wednesday. From the day of their arrival all of the girls were busy with Christmas preparations. Every one of them, several weeks before, had taken on her the task of making, buying, or assembling from parts purchased a score or more of presents. As one of the chief aims of Hiawatha Institute was to teach wealthy men's daughters how to be economical, it goes without saying that each of these girls had on hand no enviable Winter Task. Madame Cleaver laid the matter very plainly before her two hundred and forty-odd girls. She had observed that the Christmas problem had a tendency to make some of the students of her school sympathize with Old Scrooge. If Christmas wasn't a humbug it could very easily be made a nuisance. Madame Cleaver agreed with them in this respect. She told them so. Furthermore, she added: "I don't wish you to understand that there is anything compulsory in the giving of presents on such occasions. One of the dangers of this sort of thing is that it is likely to become a perfunctory affair with thousands taking part because they feel they have to. Also Christmas is exploited by many people. Their sympathy for the good-fellowship of the occasion is measured largely by the dollars and cents that it pours into their coffers. "You should see all these drawbacks and then decide for yourselves whether the advantages of Christmas overbalance the drawbacks. For my part I believe that they do and I enjoy the day and the season. But don't take my word for it. Decide for yourselves." The result was that everybody at the Institute got busy several weeks before the holiday season, and the manner in which the products of girl ingenuity began to pile up must have been satisfying indeed to the head of the school. But the work was not all done when the Camp Fire arrived at Hollyhill, most of the girls still having enough to do to keep them busy almost up to Christmas eve. Mr. Stanlock advised the girls not to leave the house under any consideration after night, and engaged three detectives, who were given instructions to follow and protect any of Marion's guests who might desire to go shopping or make other journeys about the city in the day time. Automobiles, with drivers, were within ready call for these men at any time. It was understood, also, that no journeys were to be made into the section of the city inhabited by the miners and their families. Thus far the strike had not been attended by violence of any sort or the destruction of property. The men had simply ceased to work and had submitted their demands to the president of the company. The latter realized at once that the employees were being led by an unusual type of labor agitators, who might be expected to employ unusual methods to gain their ends. The man who appeared to be the leader was as unusual in appearance as he was in methods pursued. He was about thirty-five years old, but looked five or eight years younger. He had first been employed in the mines about six months before as an operator of an electric chain-cutter machine, but he had not long been connected with the work before his influence among the men began to be felt. To the casual observer, he was a quiet sharp-eyed man, who seldom spoke, under ordinary circumstances, unless he was first spoken to. But he got in communication with all his fellow workers in some mysterious manner and before long, in spite of the fact that he was not what is popularly known as a "mixer," everybody from shovelers to machine men knew him as Dave, the chain-cutter man. He had the reputation of being able to do "half again as much work as any man in the slope." Although Mr. Stanlock knew of the influence of this man on the miners almost from the day when the strike was called, the only name by which he heard him spoken of during almost the entire period of the tie-up was "Dave, the chain-cutter man." Little of special interest relative to the strike, so far as the girls were concerned, took place on the last Saturday and Sunday before Christmas. Mr. Stanlock reported the recent occurrences to the police in detail, but what the police planned to do was not communicated in the form of hint or suggestion to the members of Flamingo Fire. If Mr. Stanlock knew, he kept the information a close secret. In harmony with his habitual reticence on business matters, he sought to avoid further discussion of the subject. On Saturday, however, there was added to the events of the season one item of great importance, which would have caused Marion no little uneasiness could she have caught more than the most superficial hint concerning it. This hint was so superficial that it consisted merely of a glimpse at the address and postmark on a letter that arrived at the house with the early mail. Marion took the letters and papers from the mail box, and as she was distributing them she observed the Hollyhill postmark on an envelope addressed in a man's handwriting to Helen Nash. "I wonder who it can be," the hostess mused as she laid the letter on Helen's dresser. "I didn't know that she was on specially friendly terms with any of the boys of Hollyhill. But then you can never know what to expect of her. You find out what she is going to do when she does it." In spite of the paradox, no truer statement of Helen's nature had ever been made. She said nothing to any of the girls about the letter she had received and if subsequent events had not recalled the incident, Marion probably would have forgotten it entirely. The three detectives employed by Mr. Stanlock were housed in the now vacant sleeping quarters of the chauffeur over the garage. A buzzer connected with the house and an agreed signal system of "1," "2," "3" served as a means of quick information as to how many of the men were wanted at any given time. Sunday morning another chauffeur, engaged by Mr. Stanlock, arrived and was housed with the detectives. It was not the duty of the latter, of course, to accompany or follow anybody leaving the house unless they were called. Hence it was quite possible for any of the guests to start out alone and make a trip to any part of the city without the protection of a watchful guard. The possibility that any of the guests might desire to take such a course did not occur to Marion or any other member of the household. It was presumed that everybody would gladly accept such protection on every occasion when it seemed advisable. As a matter of fact, however, the detectives had little to do on Saturday and Sunday. Only three of the girls made shopping trips on Saturday and all took an automobile ride Sunday afternoon. This was the sum total of their activities away from the Stanlock home, with the exception of one instance, of which there was no hint until late in the afternoon. About six o'clock Marion suddenly became mindful of the fact that she had not seen Helen since their return from the automobile drive three hours earlier, and she began a search for her. She first went upstairs to her room to see if her friend were there. Probably she was tired and had lain down to rest and fallen asleep. But an inspection of the room failed to discover Helen. Considerably puzzled, Marion now hunted up every other person in the house and inquired for the missing girl. Not one of them remembered seeing her since the return from the drive. The girl hostess was now thoroughly alarmed and her fears were speedily communicated to the others. Everybody joined in the search and every nook and corner capable of concealing a human form was examined. Helen Nash was not in the house and there seemed to be no reasonable explanation of her disappearance. * * * * * CHAPTER XIII. "FIND HER, OR I'LL FIND HER MYSELF." Mr. Stanlock came home from a meeting of mining stockholders about the time when consternation over the disappearance of Helen was at its height. After the particulars of the affair, so far as they were known, had been explained to him, he asked: "Where are the detectives?" The question fell with something of a shock on the ears of the assembled searchers who had just completed a second fruitless hunt through the house. Why had they not thought of the trio of "mystery masters" before? "We ought to have called them in at once," Mrs. Stanlock said. "I suppose they've gone by this time, but I'll see." She pushed the buzzer button in the hall and soon the new chauffeur appeared at the side entrance. Yes, the detectives had gone, but he knew where they could be found--at the High Peak Athletic Club. Mr. Stanlock at once called up the club and soon had one of the detectives on the wire. "Can you men come over at once?" he inquired. "One of the girls has disappeared and we are afraid that something serious has happened." "Yes, we'll be there right away," was the answer. Twenty minutes later there was a ring at the door and the three detectives, a tall thin man, a short heavy man, and a squarely built angular man, were ushered in. The short heavy man, named Meyers, was the most talkative of the three. He put forth a string of questions as to when and where Helen was last seen and what she was doing. Had anybody seen her go out of the house? Nobody had. Was there anything peculiar in her manner in the course of the day? Nothing peculiar. What kind of a girl was she? What were her most noticeable characteristics? Had she any pronounced likes and dislikes? Was she in the habit of doing things just to be contrary? Was she a girl of good judgment, or flighty and light-headed? These questions brought out nothing of tangible advantage, and No. 1 rested apparently well satisfied with the keenness of his record thus far made. No. 2 now took up the inquiry. He was the squarely built angular fellow with deep-set eyes, quiet demeanor and few words. His first question was: "Has Miss Nash any other friends living in Hollyhill?" "No, I think not," Marion replied; "no particular friends." "None that she ever corresponds with?" persisted the man with the deep-set eyes. Marion started visibly. Sudden recollection of the letter received by Helen the day before came to her. "She got a letter postmarked Hollyhill yesterday," the young hostess replied. "Who was it from?" "I don't know. I didn't know that she was corresponding with anybody in the town. But the address on the envelope looked as if it was written by a man." "Do you suppose you could find that letter?" "I'll go upstairs and look," Marion said, suiting the action to the word. In a few minutes she returned with a waste paper basket in her hands. "Helen was sharing my room with me," she said. "A letter has been torn up and thrown in the basket. As I didn't do it, it must be Helen's." "This begins to look like something," the tall man said with a nod of approval, picking up several bits of paper from the basket. "She's torn it up in pretty small pieces, but if we all get busy we ought to be able to put them together in a short time." "Let's go out to the dining room table," Mrs. Stanlock proposed, leading the way as she spoke. In a few moments all were seated around the large fumed oak table from which the spread had been removed as the hard wood surface was much better for the task of piecing the letter together. It was, indeed, a tedious task, but with so many working together progress was fairly rapid. Within fifteen minutes half a dozen sentence sections of several words each had been joined in their phrase order. These were soon followed by three or four more and presently one of the girls found a connecting link between two sections thus forming a complete sentence. Imagine the thrill that went through everyone as Mr. Stanlock read the following: "Get your friends out of Hollyhill as soon as possible." "I bet this letter was written by the same person who wrote the skull-and-cross-bones letter to me," Marion ventured confidently. "That's the very idea that just occurred to me," Miss Ladd declared as she fitted "no" and "difference" together and then tried to find a connecting edge on the pieces held by her neighbor to the left. Fortunately the letter had been written on only one side of a large sheet of paper, so that they could be pasted in correlative positions on another sheet provided for the purpose. Finally the patchwork was completed, in so far as the material at hand made completeness possible. A few of the bits of torn paper were missing, so that a word was wanting here and there in the text, but apparently the idea and purpose of the writer did not suffer from these vacancies. The letter as read at last by Mr. Stanlock was as follows: "Dear ...r "You have failed to do what I ... you to do. I told you that it was ... dangerous to bring the girls here. The letter of warning to Miss Stan ... did no good.... I want to warn you again and ... ... last time. Get your friends out of Hollyhill as soon as possible. I won't be responsible for what occurs. It makes no difference if you have given up your original purpose. Some of the men are so worked up that they are liable to do almost anything. If you can't get the rest out of town go yourself, or you may get hurt. "D...." "Ah, ha!" exclaimed the short, heavy and loquacious detective, "That explains the whole thing. Miss Nash has gone out of town." "She hasn't done any such thing," Marion exclaimed indignantly, springing to her feet. "Helen isn't that kind of a girl. I know she is peculiar, but she isn't a coward. It's evident now that she knew something about affairs here that resulted in the sending of that threatening letter to me, and she kept her information secret for some reason. Whatever her reason was, she meant all right." "Did she at any time urge or suggest that it would not be well for the girls to come here in the holidays?" Mr. Stanlock inquired. "Never a word," Marion replied, positively. "I admit that once or twice I noticed that there was something peculiar in her manner, and it may have had something to do with her condition back of these developments, but that is all." "How do you account for her disappearance?" asked Detective Meyer, with puzzled humility. "I don't pretend to account for it," Marion replied, quickly. "That's a problem for you men to solve. All I know is that Helen did not intentionally desert us. She's gone, and she went for some reason, and I believe that reason is connected with the letter. Now, it's up to you men to find her, and, if you don't find her pretty quick, I'll go and find her myself." A murmur of applause swept the room. "We'll do it," declared the tall, thin detective. "If it's within human power," conditioned the square-built, deep-eyed man. The talkative gentleman of genius said nothing. All three of them left the house a few minutes later. * * * * * CHAPTER XIV. TRAPPED. There was little sleep for anyone at the Stanlock home that night. The mystery of the patched-up letter, coupled with Helen's apparently voluntary disappearance and the fear that she had been led into a trap of some sort, in line with the threat contained in the skull-and-cross-bones letter, kept everybody up until long after midnight. Meanwhile, Mr. Stanlock called up the police station and asked the lieutenant in charge to come over and begin work on a new angle of the strike developments. "One of the girls has disappeared, and we are afraid that something serious has happened," he told the officer over the telephone. The latter soon drove up to the house in an automobile and was admitted by Mr. Stanlock. The conference lasted half an hour, but before half this time had elapsed Lieut. Larkin had the station on the wire and was giving instructions to the desk sergeant. To add to the difficulty of the problem, snow began to fall about 5 o'clock, and developed almost into a blizzard in three or four hours. Next morning the two newspapers of Hollyhill carried big headlines and column-and-a-half stories of the new strike development, suggestive of a far-reaching plot that might result in tragedy. Mr. Stanlock had during the evening received all newspaper calls over a special wire in his private room, so as not to disturb the guests with the publicity end of the affair. In the afternoon Mrs. Stanlock announced that she, being an officer of the woman's club with an important duty to perform, must attend a committee meeting from 3 until 4:30 o'clock, and she asked Miss Ladd to accompany her. The latter consented, but cautioned the girls against leaving the house, inasmuch as the three detectives were no longer available for guard duty, having been directed to devote their entire time to the search for Helen. There were now at the house only the twelve remaining Camp Fire Girls and the kitchen maid, Kitty Koepke. Marion's younger sister and brother were attending a children's afternoon party a few blocks away. The new chauffeur had been summoned by Mrs. Stanlock to take her and Miss Ladd to the club rooms where the committee meeting was to be held. About 3 o'clock a newspaper photographer and a reporter arrived. The girls allowed a group picture to be taken and the reporter was granted an interview. Half an hour after the newspaper men departed, there came a ring at the front door. As Mary, the head servant, was out, Marion answered the ring and found at the entrance a woman of middle age, dressed in plain black, who spoke to her, in quick, eager accents, thus: "Is this Miss Marion Stanlock?" "It is," the girl answered. "I am Mrs. Eddy, who moved into one of those vacant houses two blocks from here," the woman explained. "I have some information of interest to you." "Is it about Helen Nash?" Marion asked, so eagerly that there could be no mistaking the subject nearest her heart. The woman nodded and smiled, and Marion seized her by the arm and almost dragged her into the hall and thence into the reception room. "Where is she?--tell me quickly!" Two of the other girls in the drawing-room, hearing these words and surmising their significance, came rushing in and caught the visitor's answer, thus: "She's over at my house. She came there last night. I had no idea who she was until I saw the articles in the newspaper--I didn't get it until late--and then I came right over." "But," said Marion, apprehensively, "why didn't she come right home? What was the matter--couldn't she explain who she was?" "The girl was not in her right mind," Mrs. Eddy said. "She was in a delirium. It was about 10 o'clock at night, and evidently she had been tramping the streets for hours in the storm." "How is she now? Oh! I must go right to her! Did she get lost in the storm? Girls, girls! Come here! Helen's found! Is she--is she--ill--very ill, Mrs. Eddy?" "I don't think she is seriously ill," the woman replied, with an expression of sweet encouragement. "I had a doctor call, and he didn't seem to think there was any immediate danger, although she hasn't talked rationally yet. She is in bed, and has considerable fever." "Would it be all right for me to go and see her--is it against the doctor's orders? I'd be very careful; and, besides, I'm a nurse--in fact, we all are nurses." "Oh, to be sure--it will be all right for you to come--all of you may come if you wish. You can go in one at a time, quietly. Then a couple of you may remain and help nurse her. I really need help, for I am all alone, and sat up all night with her, and have been close to her most of the day. Perhaps it would be well for you girls to make arrangements for relief nursing watches. You are perfectly welcome to keep her at my home until she is well, if you will relieve me of the necessity of nursing her." "Come on, girls; get your wraps; we will all go over. It's only a couple of blocks. Hurry, everybody!" "Wait, and I'll tell Kitty we're going out," Marion said. She ran through several rooms, calling "Kittie! Kittie!" but received no response. "I wonder where she is," the hostess said, in a puzzled manner. "Well, we haven't time to find her. Come on." "I think I saw her go out more than half an hour ago," Harriet Newcomb said. "She called someone up on the telephone, and then put her hat and coat on and went out the side way, and I haven't seen her since." "That's strange," Marion commented. Then the subject was forgotten. The twelve girls and their leader were walking rapidly toward the place where Mrs. Eddy, the good Samaritan, had taken in and cared for the girl whom every one of them loved as they would have loved a sister. The house they stopped in front of was rather dingy and forbidding. It was a large brick structure, set back a hundred feet from the street on a plot of ground nearly an acre in extent. Most of the windows were darkened with green blinds two generations out of date. Mrs. Eddy put a key into the lock and opened the door. Then she stepped aside and motioned the girls to enter, and they did so as if moved by a spell that they were unable to resist. Then the woman herself entered, closed the door and put the key into the lock and turned it. If the twelve Camp Fire Girls had no suspicions as to the genuineness of the motives of the woman up to this time, they had good and sufficient reason to anticipate something dreadful when they saw her take the key from the lock and put it in her coat pocket. And still if there were any doubts in their minds after this act, they were effectively dispelled by the sound of a man's voice coming through a doorway from a dimly lighted room to the right, speaking thus: "Now, young ladies, let me warn you to be quiet. You have been led into a trap; but you will not be hurt in any way if you obey orders. One scream from any of you will be followed by a blow with a club that will silence you for a long time--maybe, forever. This way, please. Everybody be quiet and sensible, and you will be well treated." * * * * * CHAPTER XV. A PILE OF SCRAP LUMBER. Conditions and developments seemed to work favorably for the mysterious trappers of the Camp Fire Girls. In the first place, when Mrs. Stanlock returned home and found the house without an occupant, except Kittie Koepke, who was working away very quietly in the kitchen, it was difficult for her to suspect anything wrong. "Where are the girls, Kittie?" she inquired, and the other replied, with a suggestion of foreign accent: "Oh, they just gone out for a walk. They be back soon, I guess." "I hope they didn't go far," Mrs. Stanlock said, concernedly. "They ought to be very careful. It will be getting dark before very long. It's cloudy and looks like more snow. How long have they been gone?" "About half an hour," Kittie answered. "I went out to the drug store to get something for my toothache, and when I came back they was gone." This was the first reference that Mrs. Stanlock heard regarding Kittie's toothache, but she accepted the statement for its face value and waited hopefully for an early return of her daughter and her daughter's guests. Half an hour went by and the girls did not appear. Darkness was now visibly gathering. Mrs. Stanlock was becoming uneasy and called up her husband's office, but Mr. Stanlock had already started for home. By the time he arrived, the good woman was almost prostrated, so rapidly were fear and apprehension taking possession of her. The big coal operator scented danger at once. Immediately after gathering the principal details of the day's occurrences, he got the police station on the wire and communicated them to the officer in charge. Drastic measures were resorted to at once. The day shift of uniformed and ununiformed guardians of the law was summoned back to duty, and a posse of available citizens were sworn in. About 7 o'clock a posse of citizen policemen, led by three or four uniformed members of the regular force, began a canvass of the neighborhood to discover information that might suggest a clew as to the whereabouts of the missing girls. Half an hour later a woman informed one of the canvassers that she had seen eight or ten girls enter the yard of the old Buckholz place between 3 and 4 o'clock, but had not noticed whether they went into the house or not. The man to whom this statement was made blew a whistle as an agreed signal to the other searchers that he had important information and soon a score of them were running toward him from all directions. A comparison of notes disclosed the fact that another member of the party of canvassers had received a similar statement from another resident in the neighborhood. It was decided, therefore, to delay no further but to proceed at once to the house in question, while one of the men hastened to Mr. Stanlock with news of developments in order that he might be present and direct the next move. The latter was waiting at home, ready to answer a telephone or personal call from any of the central points of investigation. The nervous strain of the apparent certainty, by this time, that the disappearance of Marion and her guests portended serious developments had compelled Mrs. Stanlock to take to her bed and summon a physician and a nurse. The call from the searchers in the neighborhood took Mr. Stanlock from her bedside, and so speedily did he respond to it that he was at the entrance of the Buckholz house almost as soon as the party of citizens and uniformed policemen. "Don't hesitate, men," he urged. "I know the owner of this house very well and will take all responsibility for damages on my own shoulders. If the door won't give, break it down." "Maybe there is somebody at home," Lieutenant Larkin suggested. "Let's ring the bell first" "Well, come on," said Mr. Stanlock. "We'll soon find out if there's anyone in the house." He led the way up the weather-beaten but fairly well preserved steps and pulled the knob of the old fashioned doorbell. Then they waited expectantly, straining their ears to catch the sound of the approach of someone within. But no such sound reached them. It appearing evident now that the house was temporarily without an inmate, the searchers for the thirteen mysteriously vanished girls decided to force their way in. Under ordinary conditions, this act would have been recognized as burglary, but the present circumstances were so extraordinary that legal consequences had no terrors for any of those present. Accordingly an examination was made of the two first story windows, two of which were found unlocked. With the aid of a box discovered under the rear porch, several of the men climbed in one by one and found themselves in a large unfurnished room, architecturally intended, perhaps, as a dining room. Each of the three uniformed policemen carried an electric flashlight and with the aid of these an examination of the house was begun. But not a trace of the missing girls could be found. "What next?" one of the men asked. "The basement," suggested Lieut. Larkin. Mr. Stanlock opened the door at the head of the stairway and flashed his light down the steps. "Wait a minute," he said, barring the entrance. "Let's examine the ground as we go. These steps have dust on them, and there are shoe prints in the dust, and, yes, sir, as sure as you are alive, they are the prints of women's shoes, and there are a lot of 'em, unless I'm mistaken. Be careful now, men. Follow me single file and come down along the left side of the stairway as close the wall as possible so as not to spoil those footprints in the dust." "Look out," said Mr. Stanlock. "There may be some desperate characters down there with guns. Better let me go first--I have most at stake." "Not much!" replied the lieutenant. "We'll never win the European war without charging the trenches. All I ask is that you get the fellow that gets me. So here goes." Cautiously he descended the stairs, followed by the five men who had entered the house with him. But their anticipations were groundless. Not a sign of human life did they find in the large, square, deep basement, or cellar, more properly. Some of the men looked puzzled, Mr. Stanlock was evidently laboring under increasing distress, but Lieut Larkin's curiosity seemed to grow. "Some queer stories have been told about this place," he said; "and I'm wondering if now is not the time to put them to a test. They are pretty wild stories, almost as wild as haunted house yarns, but there may be thing to them." "I've heard something about them myself," said Mr. Stanlock. "You refer to the stories about the building of this house over an old mine, I suppose? This cellar was said to have been the mouth of the shaft of the mine enlarged." "That's it," the lieutenant replied. "Now, let's look about and see if there is anything to it." He began to flash his light over the floor, walls, and contents of the cellar. The latter consisted principally of barrels, boxes and a nondescript pile of scrap lumber. Most of this was heaped against the south wall. Presently something in the pile of lumber held the attention of the lieutenant, who began to examine it more closely. "Look here," he said, addressing Mr. Stanlock. "Do you see any difference between this pile of lumber and that dry goods box over there?" "I was just noticing that there was a heavy covering of dust on the box and little or none on the top pieces of lumber," the mine owner answered. "That's just it," continued Lieut. Larkin, "and it can mean only one thing, that this pile of lumber has been moved recently. Now, the question, in view of the fact that the missing girls were seen entering this place today and in view of the shoe prints on the cellar stairway and the fact that they are not in the basement now is, Why?" "The best way to find out is to move it again," suggested Sergeant Higgins. "Exactly," agreed his superior officer. "Now, Johnson, you go upstairs and inform the other men what we are doing. We don't want them down here, for there's nothing they can do. Moreover, we don't want any more traveling up and down those steps than is absolutely necessary. Be careful, Johnson, on your way up." "Excuse me, lieutenant," interposed Mr. Stanlock in a weak voice that bespoke the distress under which he was laboring. "I think I won't remain down here just now. I'll go up and carry that message to the men, if you wish. Let me know as soon as you can what you find." * * * * * CHAPTER XVI. HELEN AND THE STRIKE LEADER'S WIFE. But what had become of Helen Nash? It was a very determined little woman who stole out of the Stanlock residence, with the contents of the last threatening letter fresh in her memory, after the return of the members of Flamingo Camp Fire from their Sunday afternoon drive. She walked briskly four blocks east and boarded a street car. A twenty-minutes' ride took her into the heart of the mining tenement district. Reference to an address memorandum on a slip of paper that she carried in her handbag and a question to the conductor determined where she should get off. Heaver street, the conductor told her, was three blocks east. With no evidence of a slackening of resolution, she proceeded as directed and was soon searching a long row of cottages, built along almost identical lines, for number 632. Reaching this number, she ascended a flight of seven or eight steps and gave a quick turn to the old-fashioned fifteen-or-twenty-cent trip-action door bell. A pale-faced, care-worn woman of about 30 years, who might have been mistaken for 40, answered the ring. At sight of the caller she exclaimed in a voice that echoed years of toil and suffering: "Helen!" "Nell," was the greeting returned by the caller. The woman stepped aside, and Helen stepped into a hall, whose sole furnishing consisted of a rag rug on the floor and a cheap hall-tree with a cracked mirror. Evidently it was the chief wardrobe of the house, for upon the twenty or more nails driven into the walls in fairly regular order were articles of both men's and women's wear, most of them bearing evidence of contact with hard labor. From the hall, Helen was conducted into the "front room," the only name it was ever known by, which communicated with the dining room through a cased opening without portieres. These two rooms were about as barely furnished as possible under a minimum of necessary articles and quality. A threadbare ingrain carpet covered the floor of the front room. A few rag rugs hid probably some of the worst gaps in the matching of the yellow-pine floor of the dining room. As for human life in this house of pinch and poverty, it was hardly vigorous enough to attract attention ahead of the furnishings. Clinging to the faded skirts of their mother were three hungry-eyed anaemic children, a girl and two boys. "How are you, Nell?" inquired Helen, giving the woman a kiss that seemed almost to frighten her. "It's been two years since I've seen you." "I'm not very well, Helen," the other replied, wearily. "I've about given up all hope of ever seeing any better days. But what brings you here? I didn't expect ever to see you again." "Now, Nell, don't talk that way," Helen protested. "You know--or maybe you don't know it--that I would do anything in the world to help you out of this unhappy condition, but Dave's way of looking at things makes it impossible. If you had any vitality I would urge you to leave him and earn your own living." "But I haven't any left, Helen," said the discouraged woman; "and I don't believe I'll ever recover any. I've rested hope after hope on Dave's assurances of his ability to make a success in life. Really he is a queer genius, and I don't use the word genius entirely with disrespect. In some ways he's clever, very clever, but in other ways he is the most impossible man you ever knew. I believe he is thoroughly honest, but he has no idea of the value of money or what it means to his family. I believe he is by far the strongest leader among the men, but it does neither him nor his family any good. Many a labor leader would make such power and position a source of revenue for himself, but not Dave. Instead, half of his earnings, when he works, are devoted to the labor cause." "How does he get such a hold on the miners?" Helen inquired. "By talk, just talk, and really, I must admit he is the cleverest speaker I ever heard. I've seen an audience of a thousand working men and women stand on their tiptoes and cheer him as if they would burst their lungs. I was proud of him on such occasions, but when we got home to our stale bread and soup I could not help wondering if it was not all a dream and I had not just waked up to the reality of things." "When will he be home?" "I wish I could tell you," the woman said, helplessly. "He may be here in five minutes and he may not come before 12 or 1 o'clock tonight." "Right here is where the holiday charity work of the Flamingo Camp Fire begins," she told herself. Then aloud she added: "I haven't had much to eat since morning, couldn't eat much this noon in my condition of mind, and I'm hungry; what have you in the house for a Sunday evening lunch, Nell?" "Not much, Helen," was the reply. "Only a half a loaf of rye bread and some corn molasses. The children used to be very fond of that, but they've had it so often since the strike began, that they're almost sick of it." "Is there any store open near here where I can go and buy something?" "There's a bakery and delicatessen over on the street where the car line runs. It's probably open now." "Will I find a drug store over there, too? I want to use the telephone." "Yes, you'll find a drug store on that street, a block north." "I'll go at once and you set the table while I'm gone. We'll have a feast that will delight the hearts and stomachs of these little ones." "God bless you, Helen," were the last words that fell on her ears as she went out. "I must call up Marion and tell her where I am," she mused as she hastened toward the drug store. "I would have told her where I was going before I left, but I was afraid she wouldn't let me go. Besides, I don't feel like telling her everything yet." A few minutes later she was in the drug store applying for permission to use the telephone. "The phone is out of order," the druggist replied. "Oh," Helen exclaimed in disappointment. "Where is there another in the neighborhood?" "There is none within half a mile that I know of, except in the saloons," was the reply. "I can't go there," the girl said desperately. "And I must have a telephone soon. Won't yours be fixed before long?" "I hope so," said the druggist. "I've sent in a call for a repair man. Can't you come back in an hour or two?" "Yes, I think so," Helen said, turning to go. "I do hope it is repaired then, because it's very important." * * * * * CHAPTER XVII. HELEN DECLARES HERSELF. Twenty minutes later Helen returned to her brother's home, her arms loaded with cured meats, bread, a pie, some frosted cup-cakes, a glass of jam, and a bottle of stuffed olives. "There," she said, as she deposited her bounteous burden on the table. "I couldn't get any tea or sugar or butter, but even without those we can have quite a feast in a very short jiffy." "I have some tea and some light brown sugar, which the children like on their bread for a change after they've got tired of corn syrup," Mrs. Nash said. "Good!" exclaimed Helen with genuine enthusiasm. "That's fine! Butter and white sugar are unnecessary luxuries sometimes. Now we'll get busy and will soon be feasting like a royal family." And there was no mistake in her prediction. True, it was an extremely democratic royalty--proletariat, to be more exact--but no child prince or princess ever enjoyed the richest viands in a king's dining room more than little Margaret, Ernest and Joseph Nash enjoyed the feast spread before them by the girl auntie they had not seen for two years. The conversation between Helen and Mrs. Nash, interrupted by the former's errand to the delicatessen and drug stores, was taken up again at the table of the royal feast. The way the children laughed and "um-um-ed" over the "goodies" did Helen's heart good and rendered even cheerful her discussion of a distressing subject. "What in the world ever brought you here, Helen?" was the question put by Mrs. Nash, after full confidence in the sincerity of Helen's mission, whatever it was, had supplied her with courage to converse with her sister-in-law with perfect frankness. "You didn't come to Hollyhill just to visit us, did you?" "No, I didn't," Helen answered slowly, "and that fact need not hurt your feelings any, Nell. You'll understand what I mean when I've finished my story. I am attending a girl's school at Westmoreland. We are all Camp Fire Girls, and thirteen of us and a guardian came to Hollyhill on a mission in harmony with Camp Fire teachings, that is, to work among the poor and suffering families of the strikers during the holidays." "What?" exclaimed Mrs. Nash. "Do you mean to tell me that you are one of the girls visiting at the home of Old Stanlock, the mine owner?" "Yes, I am," Helen replied, looking curiously at the startled woman. "Then you mustn't stay here any longer. You must hurry right back. You are in great danger, I tell you, very great danger. The fact of your being my husband's sister won't do you any good. There are some bad men around here, and they're as smart as they are bad. Sometimes I wonder if they are really miners, or if they are not an accomplished bunch of professional crooks." "What makes you think that?" Helen inquired. "Well, for one reason, I've been told it. But before anybody uttered such a suspicion in my hearing, I suspected something wrong. You see, while Dave seems to be the leader in the strike, he is in fact only a puppet in the hands of a band of the worst kind of crooks, who are using him to keep the miners in line." "Who are they?" asked Helen. "I don't know them all. I know of only half a dozen. They have been here at the house a number of times. The man who seems to dominate them all is a man known as 'Gunpowder' Gerry, a powerful, cunning, sly-eyed fellow about 45 years old. He is the business agent of the union and runs everything, although few persons know it. In some mysterious way he has got a very strong hold on Dave and can make him do anything he wants him to." "Why do you think I am in danger here?" was Helen's next question. "Because I've heard some talk here about what would happen if you girls attempted to carry out your plans. They had a spy, a chauffeur, in Mr. Stanlock's home, and he found out all about it. Gerry used this to work up bad blood among the strikers, using Dave as his tool as usual. The threat reached my ears that if you girls came down here in Mining Town, you would never get out alive. They think it is just a move to put something over." "Did you know that Dave came to Westmoreland a few weeks ago and called at the institute to see me?" Helen asked. "No, did he? What for? I thought he didn't have any use for you. Excuse me for putting it that way, but it's the way he talks." "I suppose so. That's because we objected so much to his way of doing. But I found out on that occasion that there really was a tender place in his heart for us. He wanted me to do something to call off our vacation plans, as he was afraid something would happen." "Why didn't you?" "Because I didn't take him very seriously. But when on the day before we started for Hollyhill I happened into the postoffice at Westmoreland and caught him in the act of mailing a letter to Marion Stanlock, I became somewhat alarmed. I forced the truth from him after the letter was mailed. He said he was sending her a threatening letter in the hope that it would break up our plans. I asked him why he came to Westmoreland to mail it. He replied that he was afraid it would be traced to him if he mailed it in Hollyhill. Then he urged me, almost commanded me, to prevent our plans from being carried out. He declared that every one of us would probably be killed if we came. I promised to do my best. I watched Marion, hoping to see her read the threatening letter. I saw it after it was laid on her desk in her room. I saw her glance at it and put it into her handbag before she went to bed. Next morning I waked her early and laid the handbag right before her eyes, hoping she would take the letter out and read it. I did not dare to do anything more, but resolved to watch the events closely. Marion read the letter on the train. It was signed with a skull and cross-bones. We decided to give up our original plans, but came on to Hollyhill." "What did you hope to accomplish by coming to see Dave?" Mrs. Nash inquired. "I am going to put the matter right square up to him and demand that he lay bare the whole plot that he has been hinting at. If he doesn't, I'm going to tell him that I am going to lay the whole matter before the police." "You'll probably have to do it. I don't believe he'll ever betray the men who control his gifts and his weaknesses as they would handle a child." "He really is a child in some respects, isn't he?" "Absolutely. In fact, I believe he is half sane and half insane, and he is just smooth enough to conceal his insanity from the miners." "Have you any objection, Nell, to my going after him good and strong?" Helen asked. "Not in the least. I wish you would, only I'm afraid the results won't be of much advantage to any of us. And I wish you wouldn't stay here late, for I am afraid to have you start back alone after dark." "I'll make him take me back," Helen said resolutely. "And I want to reassure you in one respect, if you are afraid of consequences to yourself and the children." "Oh, don't let that bother you," Mrs. Nash interrupted. "You couldn't make conditions much worse than they are now, and you may accidentally make them better." "But I have something to say that you ought to know," Helen continued. "When father died, it was generally supposed that he left nothing for his family. For years he drew a good salary as a mining superintendent. Well, he didn't leave much, except about $5,000 insurance, but mother had been saving for years secretly, not even letting him know how much she had. He supposed we were living up his salary of $10,000 a year as we went along, for it wasn't in him to save a cent. Mother took a good deal of delight in her secret. For a while she had done her best to induce him to save something, and then, realizing that her plea was futile, she got busy herself in a systematic manner and in the course of seven or eight years she laid aside something like $25,000. "But shortly before father's death something happened that caused her to guard her secret up to the present time. A large amount of money was stolen from the company that employed father, and mother realized at once that if it were discovered that she had so much money, suspicion might be directed toward him. In fact, she took me into her confidence only about a year ago. "Now, mother has often said that she would like to do something for you and the children, but Dave's peculiarities always stood in the way. I just wanted to tell you that mother is able and willing to help you and will not let you or her grandchildren suffer as a result of what I may be forced to do." The conversation went along in this manner for more than an hour. Neither of the sisters-in-law realized how rapidly the time was flying until dusk fell so heavily that it became necessary to light the gas in order to see each other's faces. "My, what time is it?" Helen questioned, looking at her watch. "Why, it's nearly seven o'clock, and I haven't telephoned to Marion yet. They'll have the whole police force out looking for me if I don't get her on the wire pretty soon. I'll run over and see if that phone is repaired yet. If it isn't I'll have to take a car and ride on to the next drug store; but I'll be back before very long." "I wish you wouldn't come back tonight, Helen," Mrs. Nash pleaded. "I'm so afraid of those men. Why not go straight to Stanlocks' and send word to Dave that you wish to meet him somewhere tomorrow?" "I'd rather handle it this way," the girl answered a little stubbornly. "I tell you what I'll do--I'll have them send the chauffeur with the automobile over here after me. That'll be the best way." With this reassuring announcement, Helen put on her coat and hat and went out. But she would not have proceeded so confidently if she could have caught a glimpse of the figure of a man dashing far up the alley in the rear and have realized that this man had crouched in an eavesdropping attitude for an hour or more at the kitchen door and overheard most of the conversation between her and her sister-in-law. One, two blocks he ran, then through a gateway and into a house similar to nearly every other house in the street. Two men, a woman, and a child 10 years old looked expectantly toward him as he entered. "All ready!" cried the latter. "She's coming down the street on this side. Hurry up, Lizzie. Get your coat and hood on. Remember what you are to say: father gone, mother sick. If she won't come in with a little begging, make a big fuss, cry and plead for all you're worth. There you are, all ready. Remember, you get a new coat if you bring her in here." The speaker opened the door and almost shoved the pale-faced, trembling child out upon her strange mission. * * * * * CHAPTER XVIII. HELEN IN THE MOUNTAINS. It was snowing. The flakes that fell were not large fluffy ones; they were small and compact, so that as the northwest wind drove them into Helen's face, she realized that she was being pelted with something more substantial than eiderdown. The severity of the storm startled the girl. It spurred her to a fuller consciousness of her obligation to her friends, that she remove from their minds all occasion for worry as to her whereabouts as soon as possible. Putting her muff up to shield her face from the cutting blast, Helen set out bravely up the street. She was not a timid or timorous girl. In fact, the words of warning uttered by her sister-in-law had made no lasting impression on her mind, so far as her own personal safety was concerned. She scarcely thought of looking out for danger from any human agency as she left the house. As the storm was beating into her face, she did not attempt to look ahead much farther than each step as it was taken. It was necessary for her to lean forward slightly and push her head, as it were, right into the storm, and before she had reached the nearest corner it became evident that she must undergo no little inconvenience, if not actual suffering, before her evening's mission were completed. "Well, maybe this exercise will give me just the life I need to talk real business to Dave when he comes," she mused, punctuating her conjecture with a gasp or two as she fought against a gust of wind that forced her almost to a standstill. Winning this skirmish with the storm, she pressed forward again, when suddenly another gasp was forced from her by an entirely different cause. She almost stumbled over an object directly in her way, and as she recovered her equilibrium she recognized before her the form of a small girl scantily clad in a short-sleeved coat much too small for her and a hood that came down scarcely far enough to cover her ears. Her hands were bare and she held them up pitifully before the comfortably--to her richly--clad maiden so out of her element in this poverty-stricken district. "Please, Miss," the girl pleaded; "won't you come and help me? Ma's sick--she fainted--and pa's gone away. I'm all alone with her. Ma's down on the floor an' don't move--I'm afraid she's dead. Oh, please do come, Miss, just a minute, and--" "Where do you live?" Helen interrupted, indicating by her tone of sympathy that she would do as requested. "Right there," the little girl replied, pointing with her hand toward one of the houses a short distance ahead. "Come on, please. Just a minute--help me get ma on the bed. I'll find one of the neighbors to help after that." "All right, go ahead," Helen directed. "It seems that I am fated to do at least a little of the work that we set out to do, but were prevented from doing by some unfriendly interests. It's a pity some of these people are so prejudiced, for we could really do a lot for them." Helen's small conductress led the way to the entrance of a miner's cottage that, to all outward appearance from the front, was dark within. "Haven't you any light?" she asked a little apprehensively, drawing back as if hesitating to enter. "Oh, yes," the other replied almost eagerly, it seemed. "There's a lamp burning in the kitchen, and I'll light the gas in the front room. Come on, please." "Where is your mother?" "She's layin' down on the floor in the kitchen. Come on, I've got a match. I'll light the gas in the front room." If Helen had obeyed a strong impulse that was tugging within her to hold her back, she would have refused to enter. Perhaps the reason she did not obey that impulse was the fact that a desperate effort to think of another reasonable method of procedure was fruitless and she must either go ahead as she had started or turn away in confusion and leave the little girl in her distress and without an explanation. The latter opened the door and Helen followed her inside. It was difficult for the visiting Camp Fire girl to figure out any reason why she should be fearful of anything this slip of a child might do, and yet the first act of the latter after they were inside sent through her a chill of terror. Slipping around her like an eel, the little emissary of trouble pushed the door to and turned the key in the lock. Helen was certain also that she heard the key withdrawn from the lock. Still her conductress, clever little confidence girl that she was, spoke words of reassurance that dispelled some of her victim's fears. "Wait," she said; "I dropped my match. I'll have to go in the kitchen for another." Helen's eyes followed the dim form of the child, as the latter moved across the room, and observed for the first time a line of light under what appeared to be a door between the front room and the kitchen. A moment later the door swung open, and she was considerably relieved when she saw lying on the floor the apparently limp and unconscious form of a woman. Instantly the rescuer's Camp Fire training in the reviving of a person from a faint stimulated in her a sort of professional interest in the task before her, and she started forward to begin work at once. First she must loosen her patient's clothing to make it as easy as possible for her to breathe. Then she must get her in a supine position with her head slightly lower than any other part of her body in order that the brain might get a plentiful supply of blood. The air in the house was heavy and stuffy--the front and rear doors must be thrown open. She must dash cold water upon the face and chest of the patient and rub her limbs toward her body. She ought to have some smelling salts or ammonia, but as these were lacking she must get along without them, unless the daughter of the unconscious woman were able to supply something of the sort. These things flashed through Helen's well-trained mind as she moved rapidly toward the kitchen. All apprehension of treachery left her as she beheld the evidence corroborating the story of distress that had brought her into the house. Then suddenly the whole apparent situation was transformed into one of the most terrifying character. A slight noise to her right caused her to turn. Then a piercing scream escaped her lips as she saw a door open and beheld the dim outlines of two burly men approaching her. At the sound of her cry of alarm, they dashed forward like two wild beasts. The first one seized her around the neck to shut off further alarm. As those muscular fingers closed in upon her throat, it seemed suddenly as if her head were about to burst. Then as the thumping in her ears almost completed the deadening of her auditory nerves, she indistinctly heard these words uttered in a hoarse voice: "Look out, Bill; don't kill her." As if surprised back into his senses, "Bill" loosened his hold on Helen's throat. She did not struggle or attempt to cry out again. Evidently the purpose of the ruffians did not contemplate murder, and she realized that there was no wisdom in anything but submission on her part now. But she was not given time to recover completely before the next move of her captors was made. While one of them held her in a vise-like grip, the other shoved a gag into her mouth and tied the attached strings tightly around the base of her head. Then he bound her hands together in front of her with a strip of cloth. "There," said the man whom the other had addressed as Bill, "you set down in that chair and keep still and you won't get hurt. But the instant you go to makin' any racket you're liable to breathe your last. All right, Jake, go and get the machine." "Jake!" The exclamation, though not uttered, was real enough in her mind. Even with the deafening pulse of choking confusion in her head, it had seemed that there was something familiar in the man's voice when he warned "Bill" not to kill her. Was it possible that this was Mr. Stanlock's former automobile driver? Jake went out the back way, closing the door between the front room and the kitchen as he went. Helen was now left alone in darkness with Bill, who, she thankfully observed, seemed disposed to pay no attention to her so long as she remained quietly in the old loose-jointed rockingchair in which she was seated. Ten minutes later an automobile drove up in front of the house and Jake reappeared. "It's almost stopped snowing, luckily," he remarked, "or we'd have our troubles makin' this trip tonight. A little more snow and a little more drifting and we'd be in a pretty pickle." Helen was certain she recognized Jake's voice now. How she wished she could get a glimpse of his face in even the poorest candle light. Bill now threw a large shawl over her head and brought it around so that it concealed both the gag over her mouth and the rag manacle on her wrists. Then he pinned it carefully so that it might not slip awry, and ordered her to go with him quietly out to the automobile. Jake had just made an inspection up and down the street and reported the coast clear. "Now, mind you, young lady," Bill warned significantly; "not a word or a wiggle out o' the ordinary or you'll get your final choke, and you know what that means." Yes, Helen knew, and she had no intention of futilely provoking a repetition of such punishment. She accompanied her captors submissively and was assisted into the machine. Then something happened which might almost be said to have delighted her if it were not for the strain of benumbing fear that was gripping her. Jake went around in front of the machine to crank it. For one moment the strong acetylene light from one of the lamps fell full upon his face. Helen recognized it. Her surmise as to his identity was not a mistake. A minute later the automobile was traveling at a high rate of speed over the streets. Ten minutes later it passed the city limits and was kicking the three inches of snow up along a country highway. On, on it sped, one mile, two miles, on, on, until the probable distance Helen was unable to conjecture, on, on, over smooth roads and rough roads, up hill and down hill, into the mountains. Then suddenly "Bill," who sat in the seat beside her, pulled a light-weight muffler from his pocket and tied it over Helen's eyes, saying coarsely: "Not that I'm afraid you'll do any mischief with those pretty eyes of yours, but we may as well guard against accidents. You couldn't trace this route again, anyway, could you?" Helen did not attempt to answer with either a shake or a nod of her head. She was disappointed at the act of her captor in blindfolding her, for she had been watching their course as closely as possible in order to photograph it upon her mind for future reference. Jake was a good driver--that much must be said for him; and yet, after they struck the mountain road the progress was much slower. From the time when her eyes were bandaged, Helen's only means of determining the character of the road over which they were traveling was the speed or slowness of the automobile. Nor could she compute satisfactorily the time that passed during the rest of the trip. But it ended at last. The machine stopped, Helen knew not where, and she was assisted out by the two men, who led her, still blindfolded, along a fairly smooth trail, up the side of a mountain or steep hill, then along a fairly level stretch, until at last the prisoner knew that she was passing under a canopy or roof of some sort, for there was no snow under foot. Moreover their footfalls produced a sound, somewhat of the nature of a soft resonant reverberation of a million tiny echoes. But presently they were out in the open again, as evidenced by the snow and the brisker atmosphere, and Helen shrewdly observed to herself: "That was a tunnel, I bet anything." Two hundred feet farther up another gentle incline they reached a place of habitation and entered. Helen had no idea as to the appearance of the exterior, but when the bandage was removed from her eyes, and she was able to look about her, she made a clever surmise, not very far from the truth, that she was in a log cabin. Every inch of the walls and ceiling, except the windows and doors, was plastered. The doors and windows were fitted in the crudest kind of casing. A few unframed, colored pictures were pasted on the walls. The furniture of the room consisted of a few chairs, a table and an old trunk. A kerosene lamp on the table lighted the room. "Here's one of them, Mag," said Bill, addressing a large, coarse featured, but remarkably shrewd-eyed woman who opened the door and received them. "Can you keep her safe?" "You bet your bottom dollar I can keep her safe as long as there is any dough in it for me," was the reply in almost a man's voice. "Well, get into good practice on this one a-keepin' prisoners," the first speaker advised. "We're goin' to have a dozen more here before long, and then you will have some job." * * * * * CHAPTER XIX. THE SUBTERRANEAN AVENUE. For more than half an hour Mr. Stanlock waited upstairs nervously, eagerly, expectantly, apprehensively, for a report from Lieut. Larkin and the four men who remained in the cellar of the Buchholz house to move the pile of scrap lumber, under which it was suspected might be found a clew as to the whereabouts of the missing twelve girls. Interest in the search within the building had suspended other activities in the neighborhood, as it was felt that further progress must depend upon results at this point. So the score or more of uniformed and citizen policemen waited as patiently as they could in or around the house of mystery, becoming more and more impatient as the minutes grew into the twenties and then the thirties, and still nobody came upstairs to announce indications of success or failure. The noise of the striking pieces of lumber against one another had not been heard for more than twenty minutes. In fact, no sound of any kind came up the cellarway following the first quarter of an hour of rapid labor on the part of the five active searchers below. At last one of the men, more nervously eager for information than the rest, shouted down the cellarway to the lieutenant, inquiring how he and his helpers were getting on. There was no answer. He shouted again. Still no reply. Then he announced his intention to descend into the cellar to investigate. "Wait," said Mr. Stanlock. "There are some tracks in the dust on the steps, and Lieut. Larkin doesn't want them disturbed. Let me go." Although his apprehensions had not diminished, the mine owner's nerve was considerably strengthened by this time, perhaps as a result of his return from a stuffy basement atmosphere into a region of better ventilation. As he started down the steps with the flashlight of one of the policemen in his hand, he was surprised to feel a strong current of wind blowing upward into his face. "They must have opened one of the windows," he surmised; but he quickly dismissed the suggestion after flashing his light around the cellar. The pile of lumber had been moved to the opposite side and in the section of the floor it had formerly occupied was a hole three feet in diameter. "That's where the wind comes from," Mr. Stanlock decided. "It's the mouth of the old mine we used to hear about years ago. But where's the other opening? Funny nobody knows about that. This end has been covered up with that old heavy door and concealed with a layer of earth. When our men moved the pile of lumber, they observed that the earth had been disturbed recently and shoveled it away and found this hole." Mr. Stanlock directed the rays of light into the hole and discovered a flight of steps cut in the hard clay. "The lieutenant and his men are down in there," he concluded. "I think I'll follow them." He descended cautiously into the hole. Half a dozen irregularly formed steps brought him to a slope leading downward on an inclined plane of six or seven degrees. He was astonished at the degree of preservation of the walls, ceiling, and supports, considering the years that had elapsed since the mine was last worked. The passage continued as a downward slope for about fifty yards and then became almost level for a like distance. Only in two places had the walls or ceiling fallen in to any considerable extent, and in neither of those places was the obstruction so great as to constitute an impassable barrier. As he proceeded, Mr. Stanlock peered ahead anxiously, in the hope that he would discover the lights of Lieutenant Larkin and his companions. But he walked nearly 100 yards through an irregular and characteristically jagged passage before he caught sight of anything indicating that there was anybody besides himself in the abandoned mine. Then suddenly, rounding a sharp point he came upon the advance party of searchers approaching him. "What did you find?" the mine owner inquired before any surprise greetings could be exchanged. "There's another outlet to this place somewhere, isn't there?" "Yes, there is," was the reply of the officer in charge. "This gallery runs on for another hundred yards, piercing Holly Hill right through the center. You know the bluff and the rocky slope behind the old mill. Well, it seems that this mine was cut right through at that point, but there was a cave-in that filled up that opening. These rascals that kidnapped the girls evidently were associated with the people that rented the Buchholz place and cut the passage through. The girls have been here all right, but they're gone. They've been taken out of this end of the mine and spirited away in some manner. This means that the scoundrels have a larger and more effective organization than we have ever suspected. Such a case of wholesale kidnapping was never heard of before." "How can you tell they passed through here?" Mr. Stanlock asked. "By this principally," the lieutenant answered, holding up a woman's handkerchief that he had picked up; "and by the fact that there is a trail in the snow from the opening of the mine to the alley behind the old mill." Mr. Stanlock's face shone deathly pale in the glare of the flash lights. The new element of suspense had brought him again to the danger-point of a collapse that had compelled him to withdraw from the active search nearly an hour before. His voice reflected the distressing strain under which he was laboring as he put his next question: "What became of them then?" "That's the problem we've got to solve," Larkin replied. "Apparently they were loaded in automobiles and rushed off to some retreat of the scoundrels." "How in the world could they do it without somebody's seeing or hearing what was going on?" "Oh," said the lieutenant without a suggestion of doubt in his voice; "that wasn't very difficult if there were enough of them working together. The evidence of cleverness and skill is not nearly so much in the handling of this affair at the mill end of the mine as at the house end. That was a mighty smooth piece of work, getting all of those girls into that old house, however it was done. Mark my word, you'll find that a very clever trap was set for them. But come on, we've got to get busy before the snow makes it impossible to follow them." * * * * * CHAPTER XX. TWELVE GIRLS IN THE MOUNTAINS. Ethel Zimmerman and Ernestine Johnson fainted. All of the rest of the twelve girls who had been decoyed into the Buchholz house by the "sympathetic Mrs. Eddy" were thrown into a panic. And the terror of the situation was not mollified in the least by the sudden appearance on the scene of five men. Where the men came from so suddenly was not at all clear. Undoubtedly they had been hidden somewhere, but that place could not be determined, for none of the girls remembered from what direction they had made their appearance, north, south, east, west, up, or down. They were just there, and that was all there was to it. The men did not look like ruffians exactly, although they were not clad in "gentlemen's clothes." The girls were huddled together in the dark scantily-furnished front room, which at some time probably had served the purpose of a combined parlor and reception room. The next apartment, probably designed as a living room, was lighted by a single gas jet turned low. Ethel and Ernestine fainted in the midst of the address of warning and command from the spokesman of the plotters. This was a signal for a rally to their aid on the part of the other Camp Fire Girls best gifted with presence of mind. Marion led this move, and was quickly assisted by Ruth Hazelton, Julietta Hyde, and Marie Crismore. No objection was offered by the men to this proceeding, as they were intelligent enough to realize that the success of their plot depended largely on a careful guard against a noisy panic that would attract attention from without. "Somebody get some water quick," Marion directed, as she proceeded to go through the reviving formula in which all of them had been thoroughly drilled. "I'll get some," "Mrs. Eddy" volunteered, indicating by her offer and actions that she was an efficient ally of the kidnappers. She hastened into the kitchen and soon returned with a large dipper of water. Marion took it from her and sprinkled some of the liquid on the faces of the unconscious girls. The latter quickly recovered and sat up. But meanwhile the five men were not idle. The leader addressed the girls again with more gentle words and manner, realizing, as only an intelligent criminal may do, that a confidence man's method is the best method for producing a desired illegal effect. In a degree, he was successful, attempting to reassure the captives in the following manner: "Now, girls, you have nothing to fear from us, if you obey orders. We don't wish to harm a hair on any of your heads. We are merely determined to get what we have set out for, and we are going to use you to help us get it. If you try to balk our purpose, you must take the consequences. Otherwise you will suffer only such inconveniences as go naturally with the experience of being kidnapped. And try to realize this, that being kidnapped isn't such a terrible thing if you are in the custody of gentlemen kidnappers. That's what we are--gentlemen kidnappers. All we ask of you is that you prove yourselves to be what gentlemen kidnappers prefer above all others, namely, real ladylike prisoners. "Now," he added after a pause during which he surveyed his audience as if to determine the effect of his words; "as soon as the two young ladies who were so unfortunate as to make the mistake of connecting a tragic prospect with this affair have fully recovered, we will proceed." "That fellow is disguised," declared Marion in a whisper to the girls nearest her. "In fact, all of them are. Observe that every one of them wears a beard, moustache or short side whiskers. Watch their eyes and mouths and every expression on their faces so that we may be able to identify them if we are ever called upon to do so." "Now, girls," said the spokesman with well simulated gentleness, "no more of that. We don't want to be unduly rude with you, but if there is any more whispering, we'll have to resort to measures that will make it impossible. Now, I think you are all ready, so just follow the leader and some of us will bring up the rear. We will proceed first into the basement." Tremblingly the twelve Camp Fire Girls followed two of the men down the cellar steps. It was evident to them that resistance would be worse than useless. A single blow from the fist of one of those powerful men would stun any of the girls, if it did not knock her unconscious. In fact their captors could make quick work of them if necessary, and, cooped up as they were in this isolated prison, they could scarcely hope to send forth an effective cry of distress before they were rendered physically incapable of sounding further alarm. All of the "gentlemen kidnappers" were supplied with electric flash lights, with which they illuminated the cellar and revealed to their captives a hole three feet in diameter in the ground floor and seemingly a flight of steps leading downward. "Don't get scared, young ladies," advised the "gentlemanly leader" of the "gentleman kidnappers" softly. "That hole is merely the mouth of an old coal mine. We will conduct you through the mine to the other end, which is concealed from public view at a distance, and there we will find four automobiles waiting for you. Lead the way, comrad kidnappers." The two head men descended into the hole, and the girls followed Indian file. The spokesman and one other man descended last as a rear guard. One of the men remained in the cellar with "Mrs. Eddy" and together they hurriedly replaced the old door over the mouth of the mine, shoveled some loose earth over this and then covered the earth with eight or ten thicknesses of scrap lumber loosely tossed in a heap. Meanwhile the girls, guided by the lights ahead and aided by the two lights behind, which were directed helpfully along their path, made their way laboriously down the slope and along the many-angled gallery to the opening at the other side of Holly Hill, as the high, rounded elevation on and around which the city was built was called. Under different circumstances undoubtedly they would have been much interested in this experience as a subterranean exploration. And they had all the time they might need for such exploration, for the dusk of evening had not yet developed into darkness and they had to wait in the mine over an hour before it was deemed safe to venture out with the captives. Near the opening at the foot of the bluff behind the abandoned flour mill, gags were tied tightly over the girls' mouths and their hands were bound in front of them, and they were assisted one by one down a gradual, but rough, incline and into the waiting machines. Snow falling in millions of huge flakes, a fact that evidently caused the kidnappers more worry than the possibility of detection by persons in the vicinity, for remarks escaped some of them relative to the importance of haste before the roads became impassable to automobiles. But the storm served them one good purpose if it menaced them in another respect. It rendered the darkness of the night more impenetrable and kept the streets almost free of pedestrians. Moreover, the plotters were well supplied with means and methods of guarding against escape or rescue. The gags and cloth manacles were so well made that one might have suspected them of being products of a manual training school of burglars' wives. During the passage from the mine to the automobiles each of the girls wore a shawl thrown over her head and pinned close in front, thus concealing both the gags and the manacled condition of their hands. At last they were all in the machines, each of which was in charge of a driver. Three of the girls were put into each automobile and one of the men got in with them to see that their conduct was as per scheduled program. Then the start was made. On, on they went, out into the country and along a road that Marion knew led into the heart of the mountains. She could see the dim, shadowy form of High Peak in the distance. Meanwhile, as she peered out eagerly into the darkness with an irrational longing for rescue from some miraculous source--for this was the only kind of rescue that seemed possible under the circumstances--she kept working at the bonds about her wrists and the gag in her mouth slyly and without obvious effort, until with joy she realized that she was at least partly successful. "I am certain I could shove that thing right out of my mouth and give the most piercing scream ever heard if somebody would only come along and hear me," she told herself. The snow kept on falling heavily, much to the alarm of the kidnappers and the joy of the kidnapped, but the automobiles reached the mountains before there was any serious delay. It looked indeed as if the trip would be successful from the point of view of the captors of the Camp Fire Girls. But at last the snow became so deep that the girls could feel that the automobiles were laboring under almost insurmountable difficulties. Marion heard several curses uttered by the chauffeur, and the man inside the car echoed them once or twice. Finally the automobile came to a full stop and the driver could force it along no further. A consultation, with all three of the men taking part, was held. In the midst of their debate, something happened that changed the aspect of things almost as completely as might have been accomplished if Marion's dream of a miraculous rescue had been realized. Other persons were on the scene and they were talking to the driver, inquiring if they could be of any assistance. "We're a patrol of Boy Scouts," one of the new arrivals said. "We've lost our way, but that doesn't need hinder our helping you out of your scrape. Maybe you can direct us how to find our way back." Marion never felt a more intense thrill in her life than she felt at the sound of that voice. She looked out of the window and saw a group of eight or ten boys, each of them carrying a gun, close to the automobile. With an effort that had behind it all of the power of the most joyous impulse of her life, she swung her bound clinched fists right through the pane of glass, pushed the gag from her mouth, and shouted: "Clifford! Clifford! This is Marion. All of us girls are being kidnapped by these men. Shoot these rascals and shoot to kill." * * * * * CHAPTER XXI. THIRTEEN GIRLS IN THE MOUNTAINS. Marion's plea for aid did not reach Clifford and the other Boy Scouts to whom it was addressed without interruption. The latter half of it came in jerked and disjointed phrases, and the tone of utterance was one of extreme fear and distress. Clifford and Ernie Hunter, the leader of the patrol, although amazed beyond description, realized that this appeal for assistance was no idle one, and it was up to them to do something quickly or action on their part might soon be too late. "You boys take care of the men in front, and Clif and I will settle this affair back here," Ernie shouted. "Don't let them escape." With these words, the patrol leader seized the latch of the nearest auto door and pressed down on it. As he did this, the door flew open with a heavy swing, and Ernie jumped aside just in time to ward off a body-lunge blow from the fist of a man who sprang out of the machine like a beast leaping with all fours. In less time than it takes to tell it, two of the men had broken through the cordon of Boy Scouts around the automobile and disappeared in the darkness. The third, Mr. Stanlock's chauffeur, was not so desperately courageous. The menace of two or three gun muzzles held within a few feet of his face was more than he cared to oppose, so he remained a prisoner. "Look out, boys," called out Hazel Edwards. "There are three more automobiles coming along behind with desperate men in them. Each of those autos has three girl prisoners in charge of two men, one of them the driver." "Miles, you and Hal and Jerry stay here and guard the prisoner and protect the girls against those rascals if they return," Ernie directed. "The rest of us will run back a short distance and meet the next machine before they suspect something wrong." As he finished speaking, Ernie led the way, followed by four other boys, back through the snow twenty or thirty yards, and then stopped and listened. A short distance further, they heard a sound the cause of which could not be mistaken. It was the rapid, pulsating chug-chug of an automobile engine. They waited a few minutes, but it appeared to be coming no nearer. "The snow has stopped this one, too," said Clifford. "Come on and we'll give them a surprise." A few paces farther brought the boys in view of a machine with the engine running idle and no driver visible in front. Naturally this made them suspicious and a halt was called for a little circumspection. Then, carefully, cautiously, they advanced toward the automobile, keeping nervous watch on all sides to avoid a surprise. They reached the machine, which they had been able to locate by the noise of the engine, and found it also deserted, save for the three prisoners, bound and gagged, in the car. While the other four in the party of rescuers kept watch against a surprise, Clifford cut the bonds on the wrists of the girls and removed the gags from their mouths. "Where did the villains in charge of this car go?" was the first question he put to the released prisoners. "They skipped," replied Violet Munday. "Two men who had been in the machine ahead came back and said the game was up, that they were discovered by a force of Boy Scouts armed with guns and they couldn't afford to put up a fight, for even if they won, the whole country would be aroused and they couldn't hope to carry out their original plans. They went back to warn the other men. No doubt you'll find the other machines abandoned, too." "All right," said Ernie; "you girls stay here in the car and keep warm. We'll be back as soon as we can find the others." The boys found the other two automobiles also abandoned and released six more Camp Fire prisoners. "Now let's return and get the head auto started back first," Ernie proposed. This plan was adopted. Arrived at the machine in which Marion, Hazel and Julietta had been prison-passengers, they found a new and important development in affairs. Jake, the chauffeur, had confessed. He had offered to conduct the boys to Helen's place of detention and effect her release if the boys would let him go. It was less than half a mile away. The boys agreed. Clifford suggested that the girls remain in the automobile while the Scouts made the proposed raid, but they objected strenuously. In a short time the rest of the girls were brought forward, informed of the plan, and the start was made. All of the girls insisted on taking part in the expedition. In less than half an hour they were at the door of Helen's prison, where Jake gave the "open sesame" knock. An uncouth woman opened the door. Behind her stood a man, who proved to be her husband. Jake pushed the astonished pair aside, and went directly to the side of the room opposite the entrance and lifted a bar across a door opening into another department. As he opened this door, Marion rushed forward and was first to greet a slender, pale-faced girl, who stepped out eagerly toward her rescuers. "Helen!" cried the girls in a chorus. Jake slipped out and was seen no more. * * * * * CHAPTER XXII. A SLEIGHRIDE HOME. That was a meeting not soon to be forgotten. It was a signal for the casting away of every element of secrecy, and Helen told her story. She told the story of her brother, of his sickness when a child, of the resultant distortion of his character into that of a man of strange and incongruous genius and weakness, and of the embarrassment he had caused her and her mother. He, it was, she said, who had written the skull-and-cross-bones letter. "Who wrote the other anonymous letter that you received at the Institute?" Hazel Edwards inquired. "I don't know," Helen replied with a faint smile. "Perhaps these boys can answer that question." "I must plead guilty to that," announced Clifford, advancing with a bow. "But what's the surprise you were going to spring?" inquired Ruth Hazelton, mischievously. "Is this it?" "Now, never you mind," said Clifford. "Things didn't go just right. This kidnapping affair interfered with our plans, and they are hereby called off. We didn't want you to know we were here." Two of the boys had been dispatched as messengers to Hollyhill for vehicles to take the girls back to Marion's home. About 2 o'clock in the morning Mr. Stanlock, several of his neighbors, and three policemen, led by the two Scout messengers, burst into the room and announced that they had brought three bob-sleds to give them all a sleighride. And a glorious sleighride home it was for all except the two prisoners, whom the police took into custody. * * * * * The story of the CAMP FIRE GIRLS IN THE MOUNTAINS is told, all but the subtitle, "A Christmas Success Against Odds." There was a real success in store for them. The police made a raid, but found that the criminal element that had gained a throttle hold on the labor organization in the mines had cleared out so clean that not a living vestige of them could be discovered. The way was now clear, and the Camp Fire Girls carried out their original plans, successfully and much to the benefit of the poverty stricken families of the strikers. But the history of Flamingo Camp Fire is by no means complete with this narrative. It seemed to be a peculiar lot of these girls to become associated or in touch with events of novel, interesting, and sometimes thrilling character, and those who would follow their further experiences along these lines should read the second volume of this series, entitled: CAMP FIRE GIRLS IN THE COUNTRY; or The Secret Aunt Hannah Forgot. 
36130	----	THE CAMPFIRE GIRLS ON STATION ISLAND or The Wireless from the Steam Yacht by MARGARET PENROSE New York The Goldsmith Publishing Co. Publishers Copyright by The Goldsmith Publishing Co. Printed in U.S.A. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. "O-Be-Joyful" Henrietta 1 II. A Puzzling Question 9 III. A Flare-Up 17 IV. Uncertainties 26 V. Into Trouble and Out 36 VI. Changed Plans 47 VII. Forecasts 56 VIII. Aboard the "Marigold" 63 IX. Gossip Out of the Ether 70 X. Island Adventures 77 XI. Trouble 84 XII. A Double Race 91 XIII. More Than One Adventure 98 XIV. Something New in Radio 107 XV. Henrietta in Disgrace 114 XVI. "Radio Control" 122 XVII. The Tempest 132 XVIII. From One Thing to Another 139 XIX. Bound Out 147 XX. Something Serious 156 XXI. Work for All 166 XXII. A Radio Call That Failed 172 XXIII. Only Hope 180 XXIV. The Mysterious Message 189 XXV. Saved by Radio 196 THE CAMPFIRE GIRLS ON STATION ISLAND CHAPTER I--"O-BE-JOYFUL" HENRIETTA Jessie Norwood, gaily excited, came bounding into her sitting room waving a slit envelope over her sunny head, her face alight. She wore a pretty silk slip-on, a sports skirt, and silk hose and oxfords that her chum, Amy Drew, pronounced "the very swellest of the swell." Beside Amy in the sitting room was Nell Stanley, busy with sewing in her lap. The two visitors looked up in some surprise at Jessie's boisterous entrance, for usually she was the demurest of creatures. "What's happened to the family now, Jess?" asked Amy, tossing back her hair. "Who has written you a billet-doux?" "Nobody has written to me," confessed Jessie. "But just think, girls! Here is another five dollars by mail for the hospital fund." Jessie had been acting as her mother's secretary of late, and Mrs. Norwood was at the head of the committee that had in charge the raising of the foundation fund for the New Melford Women's and Children's Hospital. "That radio concert panned out wonderfully," Amy said. "If I'd done it all myself it could have been no better," and she grinned elfishly. "We did a lot to help," said Nell seriously. "And I think it was just wonderful, our singing into the broadcasting horns." "This five dollars," said Jessie, soberly, "was contributed by girls who earned the money themselves for the hospital. That is why I am saving the envelope and letter. I am going to write them and congratulate them for mother, when I get time." "Never was such a success as that radio concert," Amy said proudly. "I have received no public resolution of thanks for suggesting it----" "I am not sure that you suggested it any more than the rest of us," laughed Jessie. "I like that!" "I feel that I had a share in it. The Reverend says it was the most successful money-raising affair he ever had anything to do with," laughed Nell. "And he, as a minister, has had a broad experience." The motherless Nell Stanley, young as she was, was the very efficient head of the household in the parsonage. She always spoke affectionately of her father as "the Reverend." "Yes. It is a week now, and the money continues to come in," Jessie agreed. "But now that the excitement is over----" "We should look for more excitement," said Amy promptly. "Excitement is the breath of Life. Peace is stagnation. The world moves, and all that. If we get into a rut we are soon ready for the Old Lady's Home over beyond Chester." "I'm sure," returned Jessie, a little hotly, "we are always doing something, Amy. We do not stagnate." "Sure!" scoffed her chum, in continued vigor of speech. "We go swizzing along like a snail! 'Fast' is the name for us--tied _fast_ to a post. Molasses running up hill in January is about our natural pace here in Roselawn." Nell burst into gay laughter. "Go on! Keep it up! Your metaphors are wonderfully apt, Miss Drew. Do tell us what we are to do to get into high and show a little speed?" "Well, now, for instance," said Amy promptly, her face glowing suddenly with excitement, "I have been waiting for somebody to suggest what we are going to do the rest of the summer. But thus far nobody has said a thing about it." "Well, Reverend has his vacation next month. You know that," said Nell slowly and quite seriously. "It is a problem how we can all go away. And I am not sure that it is right that we should all tag after him. He ought to have a rest from Fred and Bob and Sally and me." Jessie smiled at the minister's daughter appreciatively. "I wonder if _you_ ought not to have a rest away from the family, Nell?" "Hear! Hear!" cried Amy Drew. "Don't be foolish," laughed Nell Stanley. "I should worry my head off if I did not have Sally with me, anyway. I think we'd better go up to the farm where we went last year." "'Farm' doesn't spell anything for me," said Amy, tossing her head. "Cows and crickets, horses and grasshoppers, haystacks and hicks!" "But we could have our radio along," Jessie said quietly. "I could disconnect this one"--pointing to her receiving set by the window--"and we might carry it along. It is easy enough to string the antenna." "O-oh!" groaned her chum. "She calls it easy! And I pretty nearly strained my back in two distinct places helping fix those wires after Mark Stratford's old aeroplane tore them down." "Well, you want some excitement, you say," said Jessie composedly. She went to the radio instrument, sat down before it, adjusted a set of the earphones, and opened the switch. "I wonder what is going on at this time," she murmured. Amy suddenly cocked her head to listen, although it could not be that she heard what came through the ether. "Listen!" she cried. "What under the sun is that?" demanded the clergyman's daughter, in amazement. Jessie murmured at the radio receiver: "Don't make so much noise, girls. I can't hear myself think, let alone what might come over the air-waves." "Hear that!" shrieked Amy, jumping up. "That is no radio message, believe me! It comes from no broadcasting station. Listen, girls!" She raised the screen at a window and leaned out. Jessie, removing the tabs from her ears, likewise gained some understanding of what was going on outside. A shrill voice was shrieking: "Miss Jessie! Miss Jessie! I got the most wonderful thing to tell you. Oh, Miss Jessie!" "For pity's sake!" murmured Jessie. "Isn't that little Hen from Dogtown?" asked Nell Stanley. "That is exactly who it is," agreed Amy, starting for the door. "Little Hen is one live wire. 'O-Be-Joyful' Henrietta is never lukewarm. There is always something doing with that child." "Do you suppose she can be in trouble?" asked Jessie, worriedly. "If she is, I guarantee it will be something funny," replied Amy, whisking out of the room. "Miss Jessie! Miss Jessie! I want to tell you!" repeated the shrill voice from the front of the Norwood house. "Come on, Jessie," said Nell, dropping her work and starting, too. "The child evidently wants you." The others followed Amy Drew down to the porch. The Norwood house where Jessie, an only child, lived with her mother and her father, a lawyer who had his office in New York, was a large dwelling even for Roselawn, which was a district of fine houses forming a part of the town of New Melford. The house was set in the middle of large grounds. Roses were everywhere--beds and beds of them. At one side was the boathouse and landing at the head of Lake Mononset. At the foot of the front lawn was Bonwit Boulevard, across which stood the house where Amy Drew lived with her father, Wilbur Drew, also a New York lawyer, and her mother and her brother Darrington. But it was that which stood directly before the gateway of the Norwood place which attracted the gaze of the three girls. A little old basket phaeton, drawn by a fat and sleepy looking brown-and-white pony, and driven by a grinning boy in overalls and with bare feet, made an object quite odd enough to stare at. The little girl sitting so very straight in the phaeton, and holding a green parasol over her head, was bound to attract the amused attention of any on-looker. "Oh, look at little Hen!" gasped Amy, who was ahead. "And Montmorency Shannon," agreed Jessie. "Don't laugh, girls! You'll hurt their feelings." "Then I'll have to shut my eyes," declared Amy. "That parasol! And those freckles! They look green under it. Dear me, Nell, did you ever see such funny children in your life as those Dogtown kids?" Jessie ran down the steps and the path to the street. When the freckled child saw her coming she stood up and waved the parasol at the Roselawn girl. Henrietta Haney was a child in whom the two Roselawn girls had become much interested while she had lived in the Dogtown district of New Melford with Mrs. Foley and her family. Montmorency Shannon was a red-haired urchin from the same poor quarters, and he and Henrietta were the best of friends. "Oh, Miss Jessie! Miss Jessie! What d'you think? I'm rich!" "She certainly is rich," choked Amy, following her chum with Nell Stanley. "She's a scream." "What do you mean--that you are rich, Henrietta?" Jessie asked, smiling at her little protégé. "I tell you, I am rich. Or, I am goin' to be. I own an island and everything. And there's bungleloos on it, and fishing, and a golf course, and everything. I am rich." "What can the child mean?" asked Jessie Norwood, looking back at her friends. "She sounds as though she believed it was actually so." CHAPTER II--A PUZZLING QUESTION Little Henrietta Haney, with her green parasol and her freckles, came stumbling out of the low phaeton, so eager to tell Jessie the news that excited her that she could scarcely make herself understood at all. She fairly stuttered. "I'm rich! I got an island and everything!" she crowed, over and over again. Then she saw Amy Drew's delighted countenance and she added: "Don't you laugh, Miss Amy, or I won't let you go to my island at all. And there's radio there." "For pity's sake, Henrietta!" cried Jessie. "Where is this island?" "Where would it be? Out in the water, of course. There's water all around it," declared the freckle-faced child in vigorous language. "Don't you s'pose I know where an island ought to be?" At that Amy Drew burst into laughter. In fact, Jessie Norwood's chum found it very difficult on most occasions to be sober when there was any possibility of seeing an occasion for laughter. She found amusement in almost everything that happened. But that made her no less helpful to Jessie when the latter had gained her first interest in radio telephony. Whatever these two Roselawn girls did, they did together. If Jessie planned to establish a radio set, Amy Drew was bound to assist in the actual stringing of the antenna and in the other work connected therewith. They always worked hand in hand. In the first volume of this series, entitled "The Radio Girls of Roselawn," the chums and their friends fell in with a wealth of adventures, and one of the most interesting of those adventures was connected with little Henrietta Haney, whom Amy had just now called "O-Be-Joyful" Henrietta. The more fortunate girls had been able to assist Henrietta, and finally had found her cousin, Bertha Blair, with whom little Henrietta now lived. By the aid of radio telephony, too, Jessie and Amy and their friends were able to help in several charitable causes, including that of the building of the new hospital. In the second volume, "The Radio Girls on the Program," the friends had the chance to speak and sing at the Stratfordtown broadcasting station. It was an opportunity toward which they had long looked forward, and that exciting day they were not likely soon to forget. A week had passed, and during that time Jessie knew that little Henrietta had been taken to Stratfordtown by her Cousin Bertha, where they were to live with Bertha's uncle, who was the superintendent of the Stratford Electric Company's sending station. The appearance of the wildly excited little girl here in Roselawn on this occasion was, therefore, a surprise. Jessie Norwood seized hold of Henrietta by the shoulders and halted her wild career of dancing. She looked at Montmorency Shannon accusingly and asked: "Do you know what she is talking about?" "Sure, I do." "Well, what does she mean?" "She's been talking like that ever since I picked her up. This is Cabbage-head Tony's pony. You know, he sells vegetables down on the edge of town. Spotted Snake----" "Don't call Henrietta that!" cried Jessie, reprovingly. "Well, she gave the name to herself when she played being a witch," declared the Shannon boy defensively. "Anyway, Hen came down to Dogtown last evening and hired me to drive her over here this morning." "And when I get some of my money that's coming to me with that island," broke in Henrietta, "I'll buy Montmorency an automobile to drive me around in. This old pony is too slow--a lot too slow!" "Listen to that!" crowed Amy, in delight. "But do tell us about the island, child," urged Nell Stanley, likewise interested. "A man came to Cousin Bertha's house, where we live with her uncle. _His_ name is Blair, too; it isn't Haney. Well, this man said: 'Are you Padriac Haney's little girl?' And I told him yes, that I wasn't grown up yet like Bertha. And so he asked a lot of questions of Mr. Blair. They was questions about my father and where he was married to my mother, and where I was born, and all that." "But where does the island come in?" demanded Amy. "Now, don't you fuss me all up, Miss Amy," admonished the child. "Where was I at!" "You was at the Norwood place. I brought you," said young Shannon. "Don't you think I know _that_?" demanded the little girl scornfully. "Well, it's about Padriac Haney's great uncle," she hastened to say. "Padriac was my father's name and his great uncle--I suppose that means that he was awful big--p'r'aps like that fat man in the circus we saw. But his name was Padriac too, and he left all his money and islands and golf courses to my father. So it is coming to me." "Goodness!" exclaimed Nell Stanley. "Did you ever hear such a jumbled-up affair?" But Montmorency Shannon nodded solemnly. "Guess it's so. Mrs. Foley was telling my mother something about it. And Spot--I mean, Hen, must have fallen heiress to money, for she give me a whole half dollar to drive her over here," and his grin appeared again. "What I want to know is the name of the island, child?" demanded Amy, recovering from her laughter. "Well, it's got a name all right," said Henrietta. "It is Station Island. And there's a hotel on it. But that hotel don't belong to me. And the radio station don't belong to me." "O-oh! A radio station!" repeated Jessie. "That sounds awfully interesting. I wonder where it is!" "But the golf course belongs to me, and some bungleloos," added the child, mispronouncing the word with her usual emphasis. "And we are going out to this island to spend the summer--Bertha and me. Mrs. Blair says we can. And she will go, too. The man that knows about it has told the Blairs how to get there and--and--I invite you, Miss Jessie, and you, Miss Amy, to come out on Station Island and visit us. Oh, we'll have fun!" "That sounds better than any old farm," cried Amy, gaily. "I accept, Hen, on the spot. You can count on me." "If it is all right so that we can go, I will promise to visit you, dear," Jessie agreed. "But, you know, we really will have to learn more about it." "Cousin Bertha will tell you," said the freckle-faced child, eagerly. "I run away to come down here to the Foleys, so as to tell you first. You are the very first folks I have ever invited to come to live on my island." "Ain't you going to let me come, Spot--I mean, Hen?" asked Monty Shannon, who sat sidewise on the seat and was paying very little attention to the pony. As a matter of fact, the pony belonging to the vegetable vender was so old and sedate that one would scarcely think it necessary to watch him. But at this very moment a red car, traveling at a pace much over the legal speed on a public highway, came dashing around the turn just below the Norwood house. It took the turn on two wheels, and as it swerved dangerously toward the curb where the pony stood, its rear wheels skidded. "Look out!" shrieked Amy. "That car is out of control! Look, Jess!" Her chum, by looking at it, nor the observation of any other bystander, could scarcely avert the disaster that Amy Drew feared. But she was so excited that she scarcely knew what she shouted. And her mad gestures and actions utterly amazed Jessie. "Have you got Saint Vitus's dance, Amy Drew?" Jessie demanded. The red, low-hung car wabbled several times back and forth across the oiled driveway. They saw a hatless young fellow in front behind the wheel. In the narrow tonneau were two girls, and if they were not exactly frightened they did not look happy. Nell Stanley cried: "It's Bill Brewster's racing car; and he's got Belle and Sally with him." "Belle and Sally!" shrieked Amy. Belle Ringold and her follower, Sally Moon, were not much older than Amy and Jessie, but they were overbearing and insolent and had made themselves obnoxious to many of their schoolmates. Wishing to appear grown up, and wishing, above all things, to attract Amy's brother Darry and Darry's chum, Burd Alling, and feeling that in some way the two Roselawn chums interfered in this design, they were especially unpleasant in their behavior toward them. Sometimes Belle and Sally had been able to make the Roselawn girls feel unhappy by their haughty speech and what Amy called their "snippy ways." Just now, however, circumstances forbade the two unpleasant girls annoying anybody. The others had identified the reckless driver and his passengers. At least, all had recognized the party save Montmorency Shannon. He just managed to jump out of the phaeton in time. The pony was still asleep when the rear of the skidding red car crashed against the phaeton and crushed it into a wreck across the curbstone. CHAPTER III--A FLARE-UP The red car stopped before it completely overturned. Then, when the exhaust was shut off, the screams of the two girls in the back seat could be heard. But nobody shouted any louder than Montmorency Shannon. The red-haired boy had leaped from the phaeton and had seized the pony by the bit. Otherwise the surprised animal might have set off for home, Amy said, "on a perfectly apoplectic run." The little animal stood shaking and pawing, nothing but the shafts and whiffle-tree remaining attached to it by the harness. The rear wheels of the racing car were entangled in the phaeton and it was slewed across the road. "Now see what you've done! Now see what you've done!" one of the girls in the car was saying, over and over. "Well, I couldn't help it, Belle," whined the reckless young Brewster. "You and Sally Moon aren't hurt. And you asked to ride with me, anyway." "Oh, I don't mean you, Bill!" exclaimed the girl behind him. "But that horrid boy with his pony carriage! What business had he to get in the way?" "Hey! 'Tain't my carriage, you Ringold girl," declared Monty Shannon. "It's Cabbage-head Tony's. He'll sue your father for this, Bill Brewster. And you come near killing me and the pony." "I don't see how you came to be standing just there," complained the driver of the red car. "You might have been on the other side of the drive." "He ought to have been!" declared Belle Ringold promptly. "He was headed the wrong way. I'll testify for you, Bill. Of course he was headed wrong." "Why, you're another!" cried Monty. "If I'd been headed the wrong way you'd have smashed the pony instead of the carriage." "Never mind what they say, Monty," Jessie Norwood put in quietly. "There are three of us here who saw the collision, and we can testify to the truth." "And me. I seen it," added Henrietta eagerly. "Don't forget that Spotted Snake, the Witch, seen it all. If you big girls tell stories about Monty and that pony, you'll wish you hadn't--now you see!" and she began making funny gestures with her hands and writhing her features into perfectly frightful contortions. "Henrietta!" commanded Jessie Norwood, yet having hard work, like Nell and Amy, to keep from laughing at the freckle-faced child. "Henrietta, stop that! Don't you know that is not a polite way--nor a nice way--to act?" "Why, Miss Jessie, they won't know that," complained little Henrietta. "They are never nice or polite." At this statement Monty Shannon burst out laughing, too. The red-haired boy could not be long of serious mind. "Never you mind, Brewster," he said to the unfortunate driver of the red car, who was notorious for getting into trouble. "Never mind; we ain't killed. And your father can pay Cabbage-head Tony all right. It won't break him." "You impudent thing!" exclaimed Belle Ringold, who was a very proud and unpleasant girl. "You are always making trouble for people, Montmorency Shannon. It was you who would not finish stringing our radio antenna at the Carter place and so helped spoil our picnic." "He didn't! He didn't!" ejaculated Henrietta, dancing up and down in her excitement. "It was me--Spotted Snake! I brought down the curse of bad weather on your old picnic--the witch's curse. I'm the one that brought thunder and lightning and rain to spoil your fun. And I'll do it again." She was so excited that Jessie could not silence her. Sally Moon burst into a scornful laugh, but her chum, Belle, said, fanning herself as she sat in the stalled car: "Don't give them any attention. These Roselawn girls are just as low as the Dogtown kids. Thank goodness, Sally, we will get away from them all for the rest of the summer." "Your satisfaction will only be equaled by ours," laughed Amy Drew. "I don't know whether you will get rid of me or not, Belle," said Nell Stanley composedly. "If you mean to go to Hackle Island--" "Father has engaged the handsomest suite at the hotel there," Belle broke in. "I fancy Doctor Stanley will not feel like taking you all there, Nellie. It is very expensive." "Oh, no, if we go we sha'n't be able to live at the hotel," confessed the clergyman's daughter. "But the children will get the benefit of the sea air." "Oh!" murmured Amy. "Hackle Island is a nice place." "But it ain't as nice as mine!" Henrietta suddenly broke in. "My island is the best. And I wouldn't let those girls on it--not on my part of it." "What is that ridiculous child talking about?" demanded Belle scornfully, while Bill Brewster continued to crawl about under his car to discover if possible what had happened to it. "What does she mean?" "I got an island, and everything," announced Henrietta. "I'm going to be just as rich as you are, but I won't be so mean." "Then you would better begin by not talking meanly," advised Jessie, admonishingly. "Well," sniffed Henrietta, "I haven't got to let 'em on my island if I don't want to, have I?" "You needn't fret," laughed Sally Moon. "Your island is like your witch's curse. All in your mind." "Is that so?" flared out little Henrietta. "Your old picnic was just spoiled by my bad weather, wasn't it? Well, then, wait till you try to get on my island," and she shook a threatening head, and even her green parasol, in her earnestness. Sally laughed again scornfully. But Belle flounced out of the automobile. "Come on!" she exclaimed. "Bill will never get this car fixed." "Oh, yes, I will, Belle," came Bill's muffled voice from under the car. "I always do." "Well, who wants to wait all day for you to repair it, and then ride home with a fellow all smeared up with oil and soot? Come on, Sally." Sally Moon meekly followed. That was how she kept in Belle Ringold's good graces. You had to do everything Belle said, and do just as she did, or you could not be friends with her. "Well," Monty Shannon drawled, "as far as I think, you both can go. I won't weep none. But Bill's going to weep when he tells his father about this busted carriage." "All Bill has to do is to deny it," snapped Belle Ringold. "Nobody would believe you against our testimony." "Nobody but the judge," laughed Amy. "Don't be such a goose, Belle. We will all testify for Mr. Cabbage-head Tony." Bill crawled out from under his automobile as the two girls who had been passengers walked away. He was just as much smutted as Belle said he would be. But he looked after her and her friend without betraying any dissatisfaction. "It's all right," he said to Monty. "I guess you couldn't help being in the way. This car does go wrong once in a while. You can jump in the car and I'll take you home and tell the chap that owns the pony how it happened. He can come to my father and get paid." "Not much," said the Dogtown boy. "I'll have to lead the pony. But you can take Hen back to Dogtown." "Is it safe?" asked Jessie, for Henrietta had started for the red car at once. She was crazy about automobiles. "If it goes bad again I can get out," said the child importantly. "I won't wait for it to turn topsy-turvy." "She will be all right," said Bill Brewster gloomily. "Father will make me pay for this carriage out of my own money. I'm rather glad we are going where I can't use the machine for the rest of the summer. It eats up all my pocket money." "Where are your folks going, Billy?" asked Jessie politely. "Oh, we always go to Hackle Island." "Everybody is going to an island," laughed Amy. "I guess we'll have to accept Hen's invitation and go to her island, Jess." "It's a lot better island than that one those girls are going to," repeated Henrietta, with confidence, climbing into the red car. When the latter was gone, and Monty Shannon was out of sight, leading the brown and white pony, the three Roselawn girls discussed little Henrietta's story of her sudden wealth, and particularly of her possession of Station Island, wherever that was. "Of course, we won't understand the rights of the matter till we see Bertha," said Jessie. "She must know all about it." "I wonder where Station Island is situated?" Amy observed. "Let's hunt an atlas---- Oh, no, we won't! Here is something better." "Something better than an atlas?" laughed Nell. "A walking geography?" "You said it," rejoined Amy. "Papa knows all about such things. I can't even remember how New Melford is bounded; but you'd think he had been all around the world, and walked every step of the way." "And you never will know, Amy Drew, if you ask somebody every time you want to know anything and never stop to work the thing out yourself," admonished Jessie. "Oh, piffle!" exclaimed the careless Amy. "What's the use?" Mr. Drew was just coming out of his own grounds across the boulevard, and his daughter hailed him. "Want to ask you an important question, papa," cried Amy, running to meet him and hanging to his arm. "Ahem! If you expect advice, I expect a retainer," said the lawyer soberly. "Nothing like that! I know you lawyers. I am going to wait to see if your advice is worth anything," declared his gay daughter. "Now, listen! Did you ever hear of Station Island?" "I have just heard of it," responded the gentleman promptly. "Oh! Don't be so dreadfully smart," said Amy. "I know I am telling you----" "Wrong. I had just heard of it to-day--before you mentioned it," returned her father. "But I have known of it for a good many years, under another name." "Then you do know where Station Island is, Mr. Drew?" cried Jessie, eagerly. "We do so want to know." "That is the new name they have given the place since the big radio station was established there. It is really Hackle Island, girls, and has been known by that name since our great-grandparents' days." CHAPTER IV--UNCERTAINTIES "It is lucky Henrietta went away before papa came," observed Amy, after they had discussed the strange matter at some length. "She certainly would have been mad to learn that Belle and Sally were likely to visit what she calls her island, without any invitation from her." "What do you suppose it all means?" asked Jessie. "She must have heard some mixed-up account of an island that belonged to her family," Nell said, "and got it twisted. I can't see it any other way. But I must go home now, girls. The Reverend and the children need looking after by this time. Good-bye." Mr. Drew did not explain until evening about his previous knowledge of the island in question. Then he came over to smoke his after-dinner cigar on the Norwood's porch, and he and Jessie's father discussed the matter within the hearing of their two very much interested daughters. When their fathers did not object, Jessie and Amy often "listened in" on business conversations, and this one was certainly important to the minds of the two chums. "Did Blair telephone you to-day again about that matter?" Mr. Norwood asked his neighbor. "No. It was Mr. Stratford himself. Takes an interest in Blair's affairs, you know." "It really concerns that Bertha Blair who was of so much value to me in the Ellison will case. You remember?" observed Mr. Norwood. "And it concerns this little freckle-faced child the girls have had around here so much. Actually, if the thing pans out the way it looks, Norwood, that child has got something coming to her." "She has a good deal coming to her if she can prove she is the daughter of Padriac Haney," said Jessie's father, with vigor. "You are inclined to take the matter up?" "I am. I'll do all I can. Blair has no money to risk----" "He won't need any," said Mr. Drew, quite as decisively. "If you can spend your time on it, so can I. It won't break us, Norwood, to help the child." "Not at all," agreed Mr. Norwood, generously. "But is it really true, Daddy, that Hackle Island belongs to little Henrietta and Bertha?" asked Jessie. "A good part of it, apparently. All of the middle of the island," he returned. "The Government owns Sable Point where the old lighthouse stands and where the radio station is now established. That has been a government reservation for years. At the other end is the Hackle Island Hotel, always popular with a certain class of moneyed people." "I have been there," said Mr. Drew, nodding. "But there is a bunch of bungalows in between----" "By the way," interposed Mr. Norwood, "my wife said something about taking one of those for a month or two. I have the tentative offer of one." "O-oh!" gasped Amy, clasping her hands. Her father laughed outright. "See," he said to the other lawyer. "You are going to have a guest, if you go there. I can see that." "The bungalow is big enough for the girls and their friends," admitted Jessie's father. "That beats the farm!" cried Amy to Jessie. "It will be nice. And we can take Henrietta and Bertha along." "They are going in any case, I hear from Blair," said Mr. Norwood briskly. "His wife will take them. There is an old farmhouse that belongs to the Haney estate. You see, a part of the bungalow colony and the Club golf course are included in the old Haney place. The real estate men who exploited the island a few years ago did not trouble themselves to get clear title to the land. They made their bit and got out. Now there are two parties laying claim to the middle of the island." "Oh, dear!" cried Jessie. "Then it isn't sure that little Henrietta will get her island? Too bad!" "Personally I am pretty sure that she will," said Mr. Norwood, with conviction. "But it will cause a court fight. There is another claimant, as I say." "You are right," agreed Mr. Drew. "And he is a fighter. Ringold never gives up a thing until he has to." "Goodness!" breathed Amy. "Not Belle's father?" "It is the New Melford Ringold," said Mr. Drew. "His claim is based upon an old note that the original Padriac Haney gave some money-lender. Ringold bought the paper along with a lot of other fishy documents. You know, he has always been a note shaver." "I know something about that," said Mr. Norwood, grimly. "Don't worry too much about it. Ringold may have a lot of money, but he won't spend too much to try to make good a bad claim. He doesn't throw a sprat to catch a herring; he would only risk a sprat for whale bait," and he laughed. However, the two girls had heard quite enough to yield food for chatter for some time to come. Jessie had kept close watch of the time by her wrist-watch. She now beckoned her chum, and they ran indoors and up the stairs to Jessie's sitting-room. "It is almost time for the concert from Stratfordtown," Jessie said. "And Bertha telephoned me yesterday that she hoped to sing to-night." "Lucky girl!" said Amy, sighing. "It's nice to have an uncle who bosses a broadcasting station. But, never mind, Jess, we had fun the time we were on the program. Say! the boys will be home to-morrow." "No! Do you mean it?" "Papa got a wireless. The _Marigold_ now has a real radio telegraph sending and receiving set. Darry says it is great. But, of course, you and I can't get anything from them because we do not know Morse." "Let's learn!" exclaimed Jessie, excitedly. "Sometimes when you get your set tuned wrong you hear some of the code. But the telegraph wave-length is much, much longer than the phone lengths. Guess you'd have a job listening in for anything Darry and Burd Ailing would send from that old yacht." "We can learn the Morse alphabet, just the same, can't we?" demanded her chum. "Now, there you go again!" complained Amy. "Always suggesting something that is work. I don't want to have to learn a single thing until we go back to school in the fall. Believe me!" Her emphasis only made Jessie laugh. She adjusted the crystal detector, or cat's whisker, as the girls called it, and then began to tune the coil until, with the tabs at her ears, she could hear a voice rising out of the void, nearer and nearer, until it seemed speaking directly in her ear: "With which announcement we begin our evening's entertainment from the Stratfordtown Station. The first number on the program being----" "Do you hear that? It is Mr. Blair himself," whispered Amy eagerly. "And he says----" Jessie held up her hand for silence as the superintendent of the broadcasting station at Stratfordtown went on to announce, "Miss Bertha Blair, who will sing 'Will o' the Wisp,' Mr. Angler being at the piano. I thank you." The piano prelude came to the ears of the Roselawn girls almost instantly. Jessie and Amy smiled at each other. They were proud to think that they had something to do with Bertha's becoming a favorite on the Stratfordtown programs, and likewise that their interest in the girl first served to call the superintendent's attention to her. In "The Roselawn Girls on the Program" is told of Bertha's first meeting with her uncle who had never before seen her. They listened to the hour's program and then tuned the receiver to get what was being broadcasted from a city station--a talk on economics that interested to a degree even the two high-school girls. For frivolous as Amy usually appeared to be, she was a good scholar and, like Jessie, stood well in her classes. There was not much but a desire for fun in Amy's mind the next morning, however, when she ran across the boulevard to the Norwood place. It was right after breakfast, and she wore her middy blouse and short skirt, with canvas ties on her feet. She trilled for Jessie under the radio-room windows: "You-oo! You-oo! 'Mary Ann! My Mary Ann! I'll meet you on the corner!' Come-on-out!" Jessie appeared from the breakfast room, and Momsy, as Jessie always called her mother, looked out, too. "What have you girls on your minds for this morning?" she asked. "Our new canoe, Mrs. Norwood. You know, we gave the old one to those Dogtown youngsters, and our new one has never been christened yet." "Shall I bring a hat?" asked Jessie, hesitatingly. "What for? To bail out the canoe? Bill says it is perfectly sound and safe," laughed Amy. "You are getting wee freckles on your nose, Jessie," said Mrs. Norwood. "Why worry?" demanded Amy. "You can never get as many as Hen wears--and her nose isn't as big as yours." "It is by good luck, not good management, that you do not freckle, Amy Drew," declared her chum. "I'll take the shade hat." "Why not a sunbonnet?" scoffed Amy. But Jessie laughed and ran out with her hat. It floated behind her, held by the two strings, as she raced her chum down to the boat landing. The Norwood boathouse sheltered several different craft, among others a motor-boat that Amy's brother, Darrington Drew, owned. But Darry and his chum, Burd Alling, had lost their interest in the _Water Thrush_ since they had been allowed to put into commission, and navigate themselves, the steam-yacht _Marigold_, which was a legacy to Darry from an uncle now deceased. The girls got the new canoe out without assistance from the gardener or his helper. They were thoroughly capable out-of-door girls. They had erected the antenna for Jessie's radio set without any help. Both were good boatmen--"if a girl can be a man," to quote Amy--and they could handle the _Water Thrush_ as well as the canoe. They launched and paddled out from the shore in perfect form. The sun was scorching, but there was a tempering breeze. It was therefore cooler out toward the middle of the lake than inshore. The glare of the sun on the water troubled even the thoughtless Amy. "Oh, aren't you the wise little owl, Jess Norwood!" she cried. "To think of wearing a sun-hat! And here am I with nothing to shelter me from the torrid rays. I am going to burn and peel and look horrid--I know I shall! I'll not be fit to go to Hackle Island--if we go." "Oh, we're going, all right!" "You're mighty certain, from the way you talk. Has it been really settled? 'There's many a slip' and all that, you know." "Father asked Momsy about it at breakfast before he went to town, and she said she had quite made up her mind," Jessie said. "He will make the arrangements with the owner of the house." "Oh, goody! A bungalow?" cried Amy. "Yes." "How big, dear? Can the boys come?" "Of course. There are fourteen rooms. It is a big place. We will shut up the house here and send down most of the serving people ahead. We shall have at least one good month of salt air." "Hooray!" cried Amy, swinging her paddle recklessly. "And I've got just the most scrumptious idea, Jess. I'll tell you----" But something unexpected happened just then that quite drove out of Amy Drew's mind the idea she had to impart to her chum. She brought the paddle she had waved down with an awful smack on the water. The spray spattered all about. Jessie flung herself back to escape some of the inwash, and by so doing her gaze struck upon something on the surface of the lake, far ahead. "Oh! Oh!" she shrieked. "What is that, Amy? Somebody is drowning!" CHAPTER V--INTO TROUBLE AND OUT Amy Drew sat up in the canoe as high as she could and stared ahead. Jessie's observation suggested trouble; but Amy almost immediately burst out laughing. "'Drowning!'" she repeated. "Why, Jess Norwood, you know that you couldn't drown those Dogtown kids. And if that isn't some of them--Monty Shannon, and the Costello twins, and the rest of them--I'm much mistaken." "But see those barrels and tubs and what-all!" gasped her more serious friend. "Look there! It's Henrietta!" The fleet of strange barges that Jessie had first spied included, it seemed, almost every sort of craft that could be improvised. A rainwater barrel led the procession of "boats," and Montmorency Shannon was in that, paddling with some kind of paddle that he wielded with no little skill. There were two wooden washtubs in which the Costello twins voyaged. One was much lower in the water than the other, giving evidence of having shipped more water than its mate. In a water-trough that had been filched from somebody's barnyard was little Henrietta and Charlie Foley. "They will be overboard!" exclaimed Jessie, anxiously. "Drive ahead, Amy--do!" The wind was blowing directly in their faces and from the direction of the Dogtown landing, where the flotilla had evidently embarked. The tubs spun around and around, the half-barrel in which Monty Shannon sat tried to perform the same gyrations, but Henrietta and the Foley boy blundered ahead. It was plain to Jessie's mind that the reckless children could not have sailed in the other direction had they wished to do so. "What do you come out here for?" she shrieked when the canoe drew near. "Oh, Miss Jessie, we are going to the Carter place," sang out Henrietta. "But the Carter place is down the lake, not up!" exclaimed the exasperated Jessie. "Yes. But the wind shifted," said Henrietta. "Where is your big canoe?" demanded Amy, who could scarcely paddle from laughter, in spite of the evident danger the children were in. "That is what we started after," said Montmorency Shannon, his red head sticking out of the barrel like a full-blown hollyhock. "It got away in the night, or somebody let it go, and we saw it away down by the Carter place. So--so we thought we'd go after it." "And I warrant your mothers don't know what you are doing," Jessie said sternly. "Oh, they will!" cried Henrietta, virtuously. "When they miss the washtubs," put in Amy, with laughter. "When we tell 'em," corrected little Henrietta. "And we always tell 'em everything we do." "I see. After it is all over," Jessie commented. "We-ell," said Henrietta, pouting, "we can't tell 'em what we have done before we do it, can we? For we never know ourselves." "You certainly cannot beat that for logic," declared Amy. She drove the head of the canoe to the tub of the nearest Costello twin. "Get in here carefully, Micky. You are going down." "That's 'cause Aloysius always gets the best tub. _He_ ain't sinking none," said Michael Costello, scowling at his twin. "Quick!" commanded Amy, and the disgruntled Costello swarmed over the side of the canoe. "We can take in one more. Who is the nearest drowned?" "I'm sitting in half a foot of water," confessed the red-haired Shannon, grinning. "A little soaking will do _you_ good. I can guess who suggested this crazy venture," Jessie said. "Come, Henrietta." "I need her to trim ship!" cried Charlie Foley. "What do you want to trim your ship with--red, white and blue?" demanded Amy. "If that trough sinks I know you can swim, Charlie." The crowd would have had some difficulty in getting back to shore with the wind blowing as freshly as it did if the girls had not come along and, in relays, helped them all back. "What Mrs. Shannon will say when she sees her two washtubs floating off like that, I don't know," sighed Henrietta, after they were all ashore. "One of 'em's sunk, so she can't see it," Micky Costello said calmly. "Maybe the other will go down. Don't you big girls say anything and maybe she won't find it out." Jessie and Amy had headed for Dogtown in the first place without any expectation of playing a life-saving part. Jessie thought they ought to see Mrs. Foley, who was fleshy and easy of disposition, and ask her about Henrietta's visit. So they accompanied the freckle-faced little girl to the Foley house. "I ain't telling 'em all they can come to visit my island, Miss Jessie," said the little girl. "But of course, the Foleys could come. Mrs. Blair and Bertha wouldn't mind just them, of course. There's only Mrs. Foley and Charlie and Billy and the baby and three more boys and--and--well, that's all, only Mr. Foley. He wouldn't want to come." "You would better be sure of your island, and just how much you own of it, Hen," advised Amy Drew. "It may not be big enough to hold everybody you want to invite." "Why, Miss Amy, it's a awful big island," declared little Henrietta. "It's got a whole golf link on it. I heard Mr. Blair say so." The "bulgy" Mrs. Foley welcomed the Roselawn girls with her usual copiousness. Of course, she had the youngest Foley in her lap, and the housework was "at sixes and sevens," since little Henrietta had been at Stratfordtown for a week. "How I'm going to git used, young ladies, to havin' that child away is more than I can say. 'Tis a great mistake I have all boys for childers. There is nothing like a smart girl around the house." Jessie, very curious, asked the woman what she knew about Henrietta's wonderful story of wealth. "Sure, I've always expected it would come to her some day," declared Mrs. Foley. "Her mother, who was a good neighbor of mine before we moved out here to the lake, said Hen's father come of rich folks. They used to drive their own carriage. That was before automobiles come in so plenteous." "Did Bertha ever say anything about it, Mrs. Foley?" "Not much. 'Tis Hen will be the rich wan. Oh, yes. And glad I am if the child is about to come into her own. She's no business to be running down here every chance she gets. I had himself telephone to Bertha when he went to town this morning, and it is likely she will be here after the child. Hen's as wild as a hawk." Bertha Blair, in fact, appeared in a hired car before Jessie and Amy were ready to return in their canoe to Roselawn. She was quite as excited as Henrietta had been about the strange fortune that promised to come into their lives. Bertha could tell the chums from Roselawn many more particulars of the Padriac Haney property. "If little Henrietta will only be good and not be so wild and learn her lessons and mind what she's told," Bertha said seriously, "maybe she will have money and an island--or part of one, anyway. But she does not behave very well. She is as wild as a March hare." Little Henrietta looked serious for her; but Mrs. Foley took her part at once. "Sure don't be expectin' too much of the child at wance, Bertha. She's run as wild as the wind itself here. She's fought and played with these Dogtown kids since she was able to toddle around. What would ye expect?" "But she must learn," declared the older girl. "Mrs. Blair won't take us to the island this summer if she is not good." "Then I'll go myself," announced Henrietta. "It's my island, ain't it? Who has a better right there?" Jessie took a hand at this point, shaking her head gravely at the freckled little girl. "Do you suppose, Henrietta Haney, that your friends--like Mrs. Foley or Mrs. Blair, or even Amy and I--will want to come to your island to see you if you are not a good girl?" "Say, if I get rich can't I do like I want to--like other rich folks?" "You most certainly cannot. Rich people, if they are to be loved, must be even more careful in their conduct than poor folks." "We-ell," confessed the freckled little girl frankly, "I'd rather be rich than be loved. If I can't be both _easy_, I'll be rich." "Such amazing worldliness!" sighed Amy, raising her hands in mock horror. But Jessie Norwood truly wished the little girl to be nice. Poor little Henrietta, however, had much to unlearn. She chattered continually about the island she owned and the riches she was to enjoy. The smaller children of Dogtown followed her--and the green parasol--about as though they were enchanted. "'Tis a witch she certainly is," declared Mrs. Foley. "She's bewitched them all, so she has. But I'm lost widout her, meself. When a woman has six--and them all boys--and a man that drinks----" This statement of her personal affairs had been so often heard by the three girls that they all tried to sidetrack Mrs. Foley's complaint. It was Jessie, however, who advanced a really good reason for getting out of the Foley house. "I promised Monty Shannon I would look at his radio set," she said, jumping up. "You will excuse us for a little, Mrs. Foley? You are not going back to Stratfordtown at once, Bertha?" "Before long. I have only hired the car for the forenoon. The man has another job this afternoon. And I must find that Henrietta again," for the freckle-faced little girl was as lively, so Amy said, as a water-bug--"one of those skimmery things with long legs that dart along the surface of the water." The trio went out and across the cinder-covered yard to the Shannon house. The immediate surroundings of Dogtown were squalid, although its site upon the edge of Lake Mononset might have been made very pleasant indeed. "If these boys like Monty Shannon and some of the girls stay at home when they grow up they surely will improve the looks of the village," Jessie had said. "For Monty and his kind are altogether too smart not to want to live as other people do." "You've said it," agreed Amy, with enthusiasm. "He is smart. He has a better radio receiver than you have. Wait till you see." "How do you know?" asked the surprised Jessie. "He was telling me about it. You know how often some 'squeak box,' or other amateur operator, breaks in on our concerts." "We-ell, not so often now," Jessie said. "I have learned more about tuning and wave-lengths. But, of course, I have only a single circuit crystal receiving set. I have been talking to Dad about getting a better one." "Monty will show you," Amy said with confidence, as they knocked at the Shannon door. The little cottage was small. Downstairs there were but two rooms. The door gave access to the kitchen, and beyond was the "sitting-room," of which Monty's mother was inordinately proud. She was a widow, and helped herself and her children by doing fine laundry work for the wealthy people of New Melford. From the front room when the girls entered came sounds that they recognized--radio sounds which held their instant attention, although they were merely market reports at that hour in the forenoon. "Isn't it wonderful?" Bertha Blair said, clasping her hands. "I never can get over the wonder of it." "Same here," Amy declared. "When Jess and I listened to you singing the 'Will o' the Wisp' last night it seemed almost shivery that we should recognize the very tones of your voice out of the air." "Huh!" exclaimed Montmorency, grinning. "I got so I know the announcers, too. When that Mr. Blair speaks I know him. Of course, I know Mr. Mark Stratford's voice, for I've talked with him. I wouldn't have such a fine machine here, only he advised me." "Tell me," Jessie said, "what is the difference between my receiving set and yours, Monty?" "If you want to hear clearly and keep outside radio out of your machine, use a regenerative radio set with an audion detector. The whole business, Miss Jessie, is in the detector, after all. A regenerative set of this kind is selective enough--that's the expression Mr. Mark used--to enable any one to tune out all but a few commercial stations. And they don't often butt in to annoy you. For sure, you'll kill all the amateur squeak-boxes and other transmission stations of that class. "Now, I'm going to tune in for Stratfordtown. They are sending the Government weather reports and mother wants to know should she water her tomatoes or depend on a thunderstorm," and he grinned at Mrs. Shannon, who stood, an awkward but smiling figure, in the doorway between the two rooms. "'Tis too wonderful a thing for me to understand, at all, at all," admitted the widow. "However can they tell you out of that machine there is a thunderstorm coming?" "Listen!" exclaimed the boy eagerly. There was a horn on the set and no need for earphones. He had tuned the market reports out. From the horn came a different voice. But the words the visitors heard had nothing to do with the report on the weather. "What's the matter?" demanded Monty Shannon. "Listen to this, will you?" "... she will come home at once. This is serious--a serious call for Bertha Blair." "Do you hear that?" almost shrieked Amy Drew. "Why, it must mean you, Bertha!" CHAPTER VI--CHANGED PLANS "How ridiculous!" Jessie cried. "That surely cannot mean you, Bertha." "Hush!" begged Amy. "It's uncanny." Again the slow voice enunciated: "Bertha Blair will come home at once. This is serious--a serious call for Bertha Blair." "Criminy!" shouted Monty Shannon. "I know who that is. It's Mr. Mark Stratford." "He is calling for you, Bertha," said Jessie. "Can it be possible?" "Something has happened!" gasped Bertha, starting for the door of the cottage. "Where is that child?" "Never mind Henrietta. We will take care of her," Jessie called after the worried girl, wishing to relieve her anxiety. Bertha ran out of the house, and the next moment the Roselawn girls heard the car start. Bertha was being whisked away to Stratfordtown. The voice of Mark Stratford continued to repeat the call several times. Then he read the weather report, as expected. "I can tell you one thing," Jessie said eagerly to her chum and the Shannons. "Mark Stratford does not usually give out the announcements from that station. Now, does he, Monty?" "No, ma'am, Miss Jessie. Only once in a while." "Then something has happened at the Blair house, or to Mr. Blair himself. That is why they send out this call, hoping that somebody down here would get it and tell Bertha." "Think! How funny it must feel to hear your name called out of the air in that way," Amy remarked. "Why, we had that experience ourselves," Jessie said. "Don't you remember? Mark thanked us publicly for finding his watch." "But that was not just like this," replied Amy. "Anyway, there is something unsatisfactory about radio--and always will be--until we can 'talk back' as well as receive. See! If Monty had a sending set as well as a receiving, he could have answered Mark Stratford, and told him Bertha had heard the call and was starting home without any delay." "I am afraid something really serious has happened," Jessie said. "Let's go back home and call up Stratfordtown on the telephone." "We'll take Hen along with us," agreed Amy. "You said we'd take care of her." This the Roselawn girls did. When they set out from Dogtown in their canoe, Henrietta sat amidships. She was delighted to visit the Norwoods. She had stayed over night with Jessie before. They passed the flotilla of tubs and barrels that the Dogtown children had set afloat. Mrs. Shannon would never see her washtubs again. Meanwhile the Costello twins and Charlie Foley had set out to walk around the lake and recover the big canoe from the place where it had drifted ashore on the other side. "They certainly are the worst young ones," commented Amy Drew. "Always in mischief of some kind." "There ain't much else to get into at Dogtown," said little Henrietta soberly. "We don't have any boy scouts or girl scouts or anything like that. They have _them_ at Stratfordtown. Mrs. Blair told me about 'em. I guess I'll join the girl scouts and take 'em all out on my island." Little Henrietta was still intensely excited about "her island." What the Roselawn girls heard over the telephone when they got home again was not encouraging. It seemed at first that Henrietta must be disappointed. Jessie ran in to the telephone as soon as they arrived. She did not know the number of Mr. Blair's private telephone--if he had one. But she knew how to get in touch with Mark Stratford whether he was at his home or at the offices of the Stratford Electric Company. She was able to speak with the young man almost at once, and questioned him excitedly. "Yes. I know that Bertha has got home. I took a chance to reach her at Dogtown when I heard where she had gone," Mark Stratford said. "You know Monty Shannon is a protégé of mine, and I have an idea he is listening in most of the time at that set he has built." "But what is the matter? Has Mr. Blair been hurt?" "It is Mrs. Blair. She fell downstairs and has hurt herself severely. Did it not ten minutes after Bertha went out. Broke her leg. She will be in bed for weeks. I understand that they were planning to go away for the summer," said Mark, sympathetically. "But that cannot be now. At least, I suppose Bertha will have to remain to take care of her aunt." "Sh! Don't tell little Hen," begged Amy Drew, when she heard this. "The child will be heartbroken. Without Bertha and Mrs. Blair Hennie can't go to her island." Jessie made no audible reply to this. And she certainly had no intention of telling Henrietta the very worst. She discussed the situation with Momsy, and before Daddy Norwood returned from town that afternoon mother and daughter had just about perfected a very nice plan for little Henrietta. "Well, you are to go to Hackle Island, Momsy," Mr. Norwood said, when he first came in. "I have signed the agreement. You can send the people down to make the house ready to-morrow, if you like. I understand there will not be much to do about the place. We can all go by the end of the week." "You take my breath away--as usual," laughed Jessie's mother. "You are always so prompt, Robert." "And you will have a house full of company, I suppose?" he rejoined, but looking at Jessie with a smile. "We are going to have one guest you didn't expect, Daddy," rejoined his daughter. She told him swiftly of what had happened at the Blair home in Stratfordtown. "So that spoils it all for little Henrietta, you see, Daddy, if we don't take her. And you know she is crazy to see what she calls her island." "Sure that she won't make you and Momsy crazy, Jess?" he asked, his eyes twinkling. "That child is as lively as an eel and as noisy as a steam-roller." "How can you say such things, Daddy?" cried Jessie, shaking a reproving head. "We have agreed to take her if you and the Blairs are willing. And Momsy and I will try to teach her the things she'll need to know." "M-mm. Well, perhaps you will have success. You have done pretty well with me," laughed Mr. Norwood, who made believe that his wife and daughter had "brought him up by hand." "Being guided in any way will be a novel experience for little Hen, that is sure." He agreed so well with his wife's and Jessie's plans, however, that he called Mr. Blair up that evening and proposed to keep little Henrietta and take her to Hackle, or Station, Island, while Mrs. Blair was confined to her house. As Jessie's father, along with Mr. Drew, had taken legal charge of Henrietta's affairs for the time being, it was right that the orphan child should be in Mrs. Norwood's care. "There is an almost certain chance the child is going to be very wealthy," Mr. Norwood said seriously, to Jessie's mother. "Her education and improvement cannot begin too soon. She is as wild as a hawk and she needs encouragement and government both." Henrietta took quite as a matter of course every change that came to her. She had no particular affection for Mrs. Blair, for she had not known her long enough. She was delighted to go to "her island" with Jessie and her parents. As long as she got there and could survey her domain, little Henrietta was bound to be satisfied. But Jessie knew she would have to restrain the child in her desire to invite everybody she knew and liked to come to the island while she was there. The Norwood family had not even discussed how they were to travel to the island--by what route--when Amy Drew bounded in. Jessie and Henrietta were upstairs in Jessie's room listening to the bedtime story. A little girl not much older than Henrietta was telling the story, and Henrietta thought that was quite wonderful. "I know that Bertha and you other big girls sing into the radio," the freckle-faced child said, when it was over. "Do you suppose Mr. Blair would let me recite into it like that?" "What would you say?" asked Amy, laughing as her chum and the smaller girl removed their earphones. "Why--why," said Henrietta eagerly, "I would tell stories, too. Spotted Snake, the Witch, used to tell stories to Billy Foley and the other Dogtown kids to keep them quiet. And they liked 'em." "We'll see about that when we come back from your island, Henrietta," said Jessie, smiling. "And listen!" exclaimed Amy. "You remember I said I had a great idea about our going to Hackle Island. I didn't finish telling you, Jess." "That is right," her chum rejoined. "And no wonder, when we spied that crew of crazy ones venturing to sea in tubs!" and Jessie laughed. "Listen here," Amy said more seriously. "The boys have come home. I told you they were due. The _Marigold_ is all right now. Her engines and everything are working fine. So, why don't we take this opportunity to see what she is like. Darry has promised us long enough." "Oh, but we are going to Hackle Island!" cried Jessie. "Station Island," put in Henrietta. "My island." "Of course. That is what I mean," Amy hastened to say. "Instead of taking the train and then the regular boat, why not get the boys to take us all the way from the yacht club moorings to Station Island, or whatever it is called?" "Why, Amy, that would be fine!" cried Jessie. "Will Darry do it?" "He will or I shall disown him as a brother," declared her chum, with vigor. "Let's run and see what Momsy says!" exclaimed the eager Jessie. "We'd better go and _hear_ what she says," laughed the irrepressible Amy. "Come on, Hen! You want to be in it. Wouldn't you like a boat ride to your island?" "Why, how do you suppose I was going to get there?" demanded the little maid. "Automobiles don't run to islands--nor yet steam trains. But I hope the boat won't leak as bad as that trough me and Charlie Foley sailed in this morning," she added thoughtfully. CHAPTER VII--FORECASTS The plan Amy had originated for going to Station Island on her brother's yacht was approved by Jessie's mother and father, and in the end the Drew family agreed to make the voyage, too. Mrs. Norwood sent down her housekeeper and a staff of servants in advance so that everything would be in readiness for the yachting party. A few articles of clothing had been bought for Henrietta when she had gone to the Blairs. But, besides being few, they were hardly suitable for an outing on Station Island. So Jessie and Amy were allowed to use their own taste in selecting the child's outfit for the island adventure. And how they did revel in this novel undertaking! Being down town on these errands so much during the following two days, the Roselawn girls were bound to fall in with Belle Ringold and Sally Moon, as well as with other members of their class in the high school. Jessie, at least, would never have noticed Belle and her chum could she have avoided it. Amy had an overpowering fondness for a concoction called a George Washington sundae which was to be found only at the New Melford Dainties Shop. So, of course, each shopping "spree" must end with a visit to the confectionary shop in question. "Come on," Amy said, on the second day. "I told Darry and Burd we'd wait for them, and we might as well ride home as walk. They have our second car. Cyprian is driving mamma to a round of afternoon teas and other junkets. But the boys won't forget us. Come on." "'Come on' means only one place to come to," laughed Jessie. "I know you. What shall we do on that island, Amy, without any George Washington sundaes?" "Say not so!" begged the other girl. "There is a fancy hotel there, they say, and perhaps it has a soda fountain." "Hi! Amy Drew!" called a voice behind them, as they descended the two steps into the Dainties Shop. "Well, would you ever?" demanded Amy, looking around with no eagerness. "If it isn't Sally Moon and, of course, Belle." "Hi, Amy!" repeated Sally. "Let me ask you something." "Go ahead," returned Amy, but in no encouraging tone. "It's free to ask." Sally, however, was not easily discouraged. Evidently Belle had put her up to ask whatever the question was, and to keep friendly with Belle Ringold Sally had to perform a good many unpleasant tasks. "Your brother and Burd Alling have got back with that yacht, haven't they?" she demanded. "You are correctly informed," answered Amy lightly. "We want to see them. I suppose the boat is all right? That is, it is safe, isn't it?" "So far it hasn't sunk with them," returned Amy scornfully. "You needn't be so snippy, Amy Drew," broke in Belle. "We want to see your brother about the use of the _Marigold_. I suppose he will let it to a party--for a price?" "I don't know," said Amy, staring. "Why, that's absurd!" Jessie declared, without thinking. "It is a pleasure boat, not a cargo boat." Amy began to laugh when she saw Belle's face. "They don't even take passengers for hire," she said. "Is that what you want to know?" "We want to hire a yacht to take us to Station Island," Sally hastened to say. "And Belle remembered Darrington's boat----" "I don't suppose it is fit to take such a party as ours will be," interposed Belle. "I guess Darry won't want to let it," said Amy, seeing that the two girls were in earnest. "Besides, we are going down ourselves this week." "Who are going where?" demanded Belle, sharply. "It's the Norwoods' party, you know," Amy said, for Jessie had "shut up as tight as a clam." "Mrs. Norwood has taken a bungalow there." "On Station Island--Hackle Island it used to be called?" Sally cried. "That is the place. And Darry will take us all on the _Marigold_. So, I guess----" "We might have known it!" exclaimed Belle, angrily. "The Norwoods or some of that Roselawn crowd would tag along if we planned something exclusive." But Amy only laughed at this. "You don't own that island, do you? Remember what little Hen Haney said about owning an island? Well, Hackle, or Station Island, is the one she meant. She owns a big slice of it." "I don't believe it!" cried Belle. "She does. My father says so. And he and Mr. Norwood are going to get it for her." "They will have a fine time doing that," sneered Belle. "Why, _my_ father has a claim upon all the middle of the island, and he is going to make his claim good. That nasty little freckle-faced young one from Dogtown will never get a foot of Hackle Island--you'll see!" Amy shrugged her shoulders as she and Jessie took seats at a table. She knew how to aggravate Belle Ringold, and she sometimes rather impishly enjoyed bothering the proud girl. "And there's one thing," went on Belle, with emphasis, so exasperated that she did not see Nick, the clerk, who was waiting for her order, "I wouldn't go away for the summer unless we went to a really fashionable hotel. No, indeed! Cottagers at seaside places are always of such a common sort!" Amy only laughed. Jessie remained silent. It really did trouble her to have these controversies with Belle. It was not nice and she did not feel right after they were over. "There is something wrong with us, as well as with Belle," Jessie said once to Amy, on this topic. "I'd like to know what's wrong with us?" her chum demanded. "I like that!" "When we squabble with Belle and Sally we make ourselves just as common as they are." "Tut, tut! Likewise 'go to,' whatever that means," laughed Amy Drew. "Why, child, if we did not keep up our end of any controversy that those girls start they would walk all over us." However, on this occasion, and at Jessie's earnest desire, Amy hastened the eating of her George Washington sundae and the two friends got out of the shop before Darry and Burd Alling appeared in the car. "What's the matter?" asked Amy's brother, when the car stopped before the Dainties Shop and he saw his sister and Jessie waiting. "Spent all your money and waiting for us to take you in and treat you?" "We had ours," Jessie replied promptly, getting into the tonneau. "Yes, indeed. 'Home, James!'" Amy added, following her chum. "And so we are to be deprived of our needed nourishment because you piggy-wiggies have had enough?" demanded Burd Alling, with serious objection. "I--guess--not! Come along, Darry," and he hopped out of the car. "You'd better look ahead before you leap," giggled Amy. "What's that?" asked Darry, hesitating and looking at his sister curiously. "What's up her sleeve?" demanded Burd, with suspicion. "You can treat Belle and Sally instead of Jessie and me, if you go in," said Amy. "Oh, my aunt!" exclaimed Burd, and sprang into the automobile again. "Drive on, Darrington! If you love me take me away before those girls get their hooks in me." "Don't mind about you," growled Darrington, starting the car. "I will look out for myself, if you please. I hope I never meet up with those two girls again." At that his sister went off into uncontrollable laughter. "To think!" she cried. "And Belle and Sally are going to be all summer on Station Island!" "That settles it," announced Darry. "Burd and I will spend our time aboard the _Marigold_. How about it, Burd?" "Surest thing you know. At least we can escape those two on the yacht." And this amused Amy immensely, too. For was not Belle desirous of chartering the _Marigold_? CHAPTER VIII--ABOARD THE "MARIGOLD" Before she was ready to go to Station Island Jessie Norwood had a few purchases to make that had nothing to do with little Henrietta Haney. She had decided to disconnect her radio set and send the instrument down with the rest of the baggage. In addition, she was determined to take Monty Shannon's advice and buy the additional parts which made the Dogtown boy's set so much more successful than her own. "We'll buy wire for the antenna, of course," Jessie said to Amy. "Let our old aerial stand till we return. All we shall have to do will be to hook it up again when we set up the set in my room." So they bought the wire, the lightning switch, and the other small parts in New Melford and sent them all on the truck with the trunks to the dock where the _Marigold_ waited. The next day the two families, the Norwoods and the Drews, as well as Burd Alling and little Henrietta, were whisked to the yacht club dock in several automobiles. The girls had heard from Bertha over the telephone. And considering the state of mind and body that Mrs. Blair was in, the poor woman was probably very well content that Henrietta should be in Mrs. Norwood's care for a while. The freckle-faced little girl was wild with excitement when she got aboard Darry's yacht. She had never been on such a craft before. "I declare," said Amy, "we'll have to put a ball and chain on this kid, or she will be overboard." Henrietta stared at her. "Is that one of those locket and chain things you wear around your neck? I'm going to buy me one when I get my island. I never did own any joolry." This set Amy off into a breeze of laughter, but Jessie realized that Henrietta was perfectly fearless and would need watching while they were on the yacht. The _Marigold_ was by no means a new vessel, but it was roomy and seaworthy. That it was a coal-burner rather than a modern oil-burner, or with gasoline engines, did not at all decrease its value in the eyes of its young owner. Darry Drew was inordinately proud of the yacht. He ran it with a small crew, and he and Burd, or whoever of his boy friends he had aboard, did a share of the work. "I declare!" sniffed Amy, "I suppose you will expect Jess and me to go down and stoke the furnaces for you if you get short handed. Why not? You expect Mrs. Norwood and mamma to do the cooking." "Oh, that's only for this voyage. When we have only fellows aboard we all take turns cooking and get along all right." "Does Burd cook?" demanded Amy, in mock horror. "Well, he is pretty bad," admitted Darry, with a grin. "But we let him cook only on days when the sea is rough." "And why?" demanded his sister, with wide-open eyes. "We never feel much like eating on rough days," explained Darry. "You see, the _Marigold_ kicks up quite a shindy when the sea is choppy." "Let us hope it will be calm all the way to Station Island," Jessie cried. She had her wish. At least, the wind was fair, the sea "kicked up no combobberation," to quote her chum, and every one enjoyed the sail. If the _Marigold_ was not a racing boat, her speed was sufficient. They had no desire to get to the island until the following day. Darry's sailing master was a seasoned old mariner named Pandrick. They called him Skipper. At noon the yacht crossed one of the many "banks" to which New York fishing boats sail and the skipper pronounced the time opportune for fishing. "There's blackfish and flounders on the bottom and yellow-fin and maybe bass higher up. You won't find a better chance, Mr. Darry," observed the sailing master. Every one grew excited over this prospect, and the boys got out the tackle and bait. Even Henrietta must fish. Jessie had been about to suggest a cushioned seat in the cabin for the little girl, with a pillow and a rug, for she had seen Henrietta nodding after lunch. The child would not hear of anything like that. The anchor was dropped quietly and the _Marigold_ swung at that mooring while the fishermen took their stations. Darry gave his personal attention to Henrietta's bait and showed her how to cast her line. The little girl had been fishing many times, if only for fresh water fish, and she was not awkward. "Don't you bother 'bout me, Miss Jessie," she said to her mentor impatiently. "I bet I get a fish before you do. I ain't so slow." Amy had fixed a station for her chum beside her own in the shade of the awning. Mr. Norwood and Mr. Drew had brought their rods. Everybody was soon engaged in an occupation which really calls for the undivided attention of the fisherman. The boys ordered all of them to keep quiet. "You know," observed Burd sternly, "although these fish out here may be dumb, they are not deaf. You chatterboxes keep quiet." Jessie was greatly excited. She had a nibble on her hook, then a positive strike. "Oh! O-oh" she squealed under her breath. "There's--there's something!" "Is it a wolf or a bear?" demanded Amy, giggling. "Can you get it aboard, Jess?" asked Darry, from the other side of the deck. Jessie was not awkward. She had pulled in a good-sized fish before. This one splashed about a great deal and, when she raised it to the surface, it looked so much like a big rubber boot that Jessie squealed and almost dropped it. "Hey! What did I say about that stuff?" called out Burd. "You'll give all the fish nervous prostration. My goodness! What is that?" He hurried to give Jessie a hand in hauling up the heavy, slowly flapping fish. It was half as broad as a dining table, with one side grayish-white and the other slate color. The skipper gave it a glance and laughed. "Virgin," he said. "We don't eat that kind o' fish." "Oh, dear! isn't it a flounder?" wailed Jessie, disconsolately. "No, no. 'Tain't worth anything," said the skipper, unhooking the heavy and ugly-looking fish. They joked Jessie about the worthless flat-fish, but she laughed, too. Baiting again, she threw in, and just at that moment there was a heavy splash from the other side of the yacht. "Somebody else has got a strike," cried Amy. "Who is it?" Nobody answered. There seemed to be nobody excited over a bite. The two lawyers were forward. Darry and Burd were aft. Jessie suddenly dropped her line and shot across the deck to the other rail. "Oh, Amy!" she shrieked. "Where is little Hen?" "You don't mean she's gone overboard?" gasped her chum, excitedly, and she came running in the wake of Jessie. Henrietta's fish line was attached to a cleat on the yacht's rail. She had been standing on a coil of rope so as to be high enough to look over into the sea. The fear that clamped itself upon Jessie Norwood's mind was that the little girl had dived headlong over the rail. "Oh, Henrietta!" she cried. "She--she's gone! She's gone overboard, Amy." Her chum was quite as fearful as Jessie was, but she tried to soothe her chum. "It can't be, Jess! She--she wouldn't do that! She just wouldn't!" "But you heard that big splash, didn't you?" cried the frightened Jessie. Then she began to shout as loud as she could: "Help! Help! Henrietta's overboard! She's gone overboard, I am sure!" CHAPTER IX--GOSSIP OUT OF THE ETHER Jessie's cry startled everybody on deck and Darry and Burd came running from the stern. "Where is she? Do you see her? Throw out a buoy!" exclaimed the young owner of the yacht. "Hey, Skipper Pandrick! Lower the boat." "Man overboard!" shouted Burd Alling. "Get out!" exclaimed Darry. "It's not a man at all. It's little Hen. Is that right, Jessie? Did you see her fall?" "No-o," replied Jessie. "But she's not here. Where else could she have gone?" Burd stared up and all about. Amy said promptly: "You needn't look into the air, Burd. Hen certainly didn't fly away." The skipper arrived, but he was not excited. "Who did you say had gone overboard, Mr. Darry?" he asked. "What does it matter? Can't we save her without so much red tape?" snapped Darry. "Come on, Skipper! Get out the boat." "You mean the little girl who stood right here?" asked the man. "Well, now, I saw how she was playing her line. She didn't have it fastened to a cleat. And she sure didn't just now fasten it when she went overboard. No, I guess not." "Oh! Maybe he is right," cried Jessie, with much relief. "Well, I declare!" grumbled Darry. "It takes you girls to stir up excitement." "But where is little Hen?" Amy asked, whirling around to face her brother. They all stared at one another. The skipper wagged his head. "You'd better look around, alow and aloft, and see if she ain't to be found. If she did go down, she ain't come up again, that's sure." "But that splash!" cried Jessie, anxiously. "Wasn't any splash except when I threw that big flatfish overboard," said the skipper. "And the little girl didn't scream. I guess she's inboard rather than overboard--yes, ma'am!" The four young people separated and scoured the yacht, both on deck and below. At least, the girls looked through the cabin and the staterooms and the boys went into the tiny forecastle. They met again in five minutes or so and stared wonderingly at each other. Little Henrietta had as utterly disappeared as though she had melted into thin air. "What can have happened to the poor little thing?" cried Amy, now almost in tears. "Of course, she must be on the boat if she hasn't fallen overboard," Jessie replied hesitatingly. "That is wisdom," remarked Burd Alling, dryly. "She hasn't flown away, that's sure." The two mothers were on the afterdeck in comfortable chairs; Jessie hated to disturb them, for Mrs. Norwood and Mrs. Drew had not heard the first outcry regarding Henrietta. Mr. Norwood and Mr. Drew were busy with their fishing-lines. Neither of the four adult passengers had seen the child. "I'll be hanged, but that is the greatest kid I ever saw!" exclaimed Darry Drew with vigor. "She's always in some mischief or other." "I am so afraid she is in trouble," confessed Jessie. "You know, we are responsible to her cousin Bertha Blair for her safety." "If the kid wants to dive overboard, are we to be held responsible?" demanded Burd, somewhat crossly. "You hard-hearted boy!" exclaimed Amy. "Of course it is your fault if anything happens to Hennie." "I told you, Drew, that you were making a big mistake to let this crowd of girls aboard the _Marigold_," complained the stocky youth, sighing deeply. "While this was strictly a bachelor barque we were all right." Jessie, however, was really too much worried to enter into any repartee of this character. She ran off again to the cabin to have a second look for Henrietta. She found no trace of her except the doll she had brought aboard and the green parasol. She went back on deck. The fishermen were beginning to haul in weakfish and an occasional tautog, or blackfish. Amy, with a shout, hauled in Henrietta's line and got inboard a fine flounder. "Anyway, we'll have a big fish-fry for supper. The men will clean the fish and Darry and Burd will fry them. Your mother and mine, Jess, say that they have got through with the galley for the day." "Oh!" ejaculated Jessie and, whirling suddenly around, started for the galley slide. "Where are you going?" cried Amy. "Do help me with this flopping fish. I can't get the hook out." Her chum did not halt. She knew that nobody had thought to look into the cook's galley that had been shut up after lunch. She forced back the slide and peered in. There on the deck of the little compartment, with her back against the wall, or bulkhead, was Henrietta. On one side was a jar of strawberry jam only half full. Much of the sticky sweet was smeared upon the cracker clutched in the child's hand and upon her face and the front of her frock. Henrietta was asleep! "What is it?" demanded Amy, who had followed her more excited chum. "What's happened to her?" "Look at that!" exclaimed Jessie, dramatically. Darry and Burd drew near. Amy burst into stifled laughter. "What do you know about that kid? She asked me if she could have a bite between meals and I told her of course she could. But I never thought she would take me so at my word." Amy's laughter was no longer stifled. "Fishing in the jam jar is more to Hen's taste than fishing in the ocean," observed Darry. "Nervy kid!" exclaimed Burd. "I'd like some of that jam myself." "Bring him away," commanded Jessie, pushing to the slide. "She might as well sleep. We will know where she is, anyway." This little scare rather broke up the fishing for the Roselawn girls and the college boys. They went to the wireless room which had been built on deck behind the wheelhouse, and Darry put on the head harness and opened the key by which he took the messages he was able to obtain out of the air. The girls were particularly interested in this form of radio telegraphy at this time. Darry had bought and was establishing a regular radio telephone receiving set, too. He could give Jessie and Amy a deal of information about the Morse alphabet as used in the commercial wireless service. "Practice makes perfect," he told them. "You can buy an ordinary key and sounder and practice until you can send fast. While you are learning that you automatically learn to read Morse. But I'll have the radio set all right shortly and then we can get the station concerts." "How near we'll be to that station on the island!" Amy cried. "It ought to sound as though it were right in our ears." "Not through your radiophone," said her brother. "That station is a great brute of a commercial and signal station. It sends clear to the European shore. No concerts broadcasted from there. Now, let's see if we can get some gossip out of the air." The girls took turns listening in, even though they could not understand more than a letter or two of Morse. Darry translated for their benefit certain general messages he caught. They learned that operators on the trans-Atlantic liners and on the cargo boats often talked back and forth, swapping yarns, news, and personal information. Occasionally a navy operator "crashed in" with a few words. Calls came for vessels all up and down the North Atlantic. Information as to weather indications were broadcasted from Arlington. The air seemed full of voices, each to be caught at a certain wave-length. "It is wonderful!" Jessie exclaimed. "'Gossip out of the air' is the right name for it. Just think of it, Amy! When we were born there was very little known about all this wonderful wireless." "Sh!" commanded her chum. "Don't remind folks how frightfully young we are." CHAPTER X--ISLAND ADVENTURES The _Marigold_ loafed along within sight of the beaches that evening and the girls and their friends reclined in the deck-chairs and watched the parti-colored electric lights that wreathed the shore-front. Jessie was careful to keep Henrietta near by. She began to realize that looking after the freckle-faced little girl was going to be something of a trial. Henrietta finally grew sleepy and Jessie and Amy took her below, helped her undress, and tucked her into a berth. The Roselawn girls' mothers were much amused by this. Their daughters had taken a task upon themselves that would, as Mrs. Norwood said, teach them something. "And it will not hurt them," Mrs. Drew agreed, with an answering smile. "Amy, especially, needs to know what 'duty' means." "Anyway, we'll know where she is while she is asleep," Jessie said to her chum, as they left the little girl. "If she isn't a somnambulist," chuckled Amy. "We forgot to ask Mrs. Foley or Bertha that." The ground swell lulled the girls to sleep that night, and even Henrietta did not awake until the first breakfast call in the morning. Through the port-light Jessie and Amy saw Burd Alling "bursting his cheeks with sound" as he essayed the changes on the key-bugle. The _Marigold_ was slipping along the coast easily, with the northern end of Station Island already in sight. The castle-like hotel sprawled all over the headland, but the widest bathing beach was just below it. Next were the premises of the Hackle Island Gold Club, with its pastures, shrubberies, and several water-holes. It was to a part of these enclosed premises that Mr. Norwood said little Henrietta Haney was laying claim. "And I believe she will get it in time. Most of the land on which those summer houses beyond the golf course stand is also within the lines of the Padriac Haney place." He explained this to them while they all paced the deck after breakfast. The yacht was headed in toward the dock near the bungalows, some of which were very cheaply built and stood upon stilts near the shore. The tall gray staff of the abandoned lighthouse was the landmark at the extreme southern end of the island. The sending and receiving station of the commercial wireless company was at the lighthouse, and the party aboard the _Marigold_ could see the very tall antenna connected therewith. The yacht landed the party and their baggage about ten o'clock. Mrs. Norwood's servants were at hand to help, and a decrepit express wagon belonging to a "native" aided in the transportation of the goods to the big bungalow which was some rods back from the shore. There were no automobiles on the island. "Is this my house?" Henrietta demanded the moment she learned which dwelling the party of vacationists would occupy. "It may prove to be your house in the end," Jessie told her. "When's the end?" was the blunt query. "How long do I have to wait?" "We can't tell that. My mother has the house for the summer. She has hired it for us all to live in." "Who does she pay? Do I get any of the money?" continued the little girl. "If this island is going to be mine some time, why not now? Why wait for something that is mine?" It was very difficult for Jessie and Amy to make her understand the situation. In fact, she began to feel and express doubts about the attempt that was being made to discover and settle the legal phases of the Padriac Haney estate. "If I don't get my money and my island pretty soon somebody else will get it instead," was the little girl's confident statement. "Oh, Jess!" exclaimed Amy under her breath, "suppose that should be so. You know Belle Ringold's father is trying to prove his title to the same property." "Hush!" said Jessie. "Don't let little Hen hear about that. She is getting hard to manage as it is. Henrietta! Where are you going now?" she called after the little girl. "I'm going out to take a look at some of my island," declared the child, as she banged the screen door. "She's sure to get into trouble," Jessie observed, sighing. "Oh, let her go," Amy declared. "Why worry? You can't watch her every minute we are here. She can't very well fall overboard from this island." "I don't know. She manages to do the most unexpected things," said Jessie. But there was so much to do in helping settle things and make the sparsely furnished bungalow comfortable that Jessie did not think for a while about Henrietta. Besides, she was desirous of setting up the radio instruments at once and stringing the antenna. Darry and Burd helped the girls do this last. They worked hard, for they had first of all to plant in the sands some distance from the house an old mast that Mr. Norwood bought so as to erect the wires at least thirty feet above the ground. The antenna were not completed at nightfall. Then, of a sudden, everybody began to wonder about Henrietta. Where was she? It was remembered that she had not been seen during most of the afternoon. "Oh, dear!" worried Jessie. "It is my fault. I should not have let her go out alone that time, Amy." "She said she wanted to see her island, I remember," admitted her chum, with some gravity. "And this island is a pretty big place, and it is growing dark." "She could not get into any trouble if she stayed on Hackle Island," declared Darry. "What a kid!" "And she certainly couldn't have got off it," suggested Burd. "We must look around for her," said Jessie, with conviction. "Don't tell Momsy. She will worry. She thinks I have had my eye on the child all the time." "You certainly would have what they call a roving eye if you managed to keep it on Henrietta," giggled Burd Alling. "She darts about like a swallow." Jessie felt it to be no joking matter. The four young people separated and went in different directions to hunt for the missing child. Station, or Hackle, Island at this end was mostly sand dunes or open flats. A little sparse grass grew in bunches, and there were clumps of beach plum bushes. Towards the golf course the land was higher and there real lawn and trees of some size were growing. The low sand dunes stretched in gray windrows right across the island. Jessie tried to think what might have first attracted Henrietta at this end of the island. She did not believe that she would go far from the bungalow, although Amy wanted to start at once for the hotel. That was the object that attracted her first of all. Jessie ran toward the far side of the island. It was growing dark and everything on both sea and shore looked gray and misty. The seabirds swept overhead and whistled mournfully. Jessie shouted Henrietta's name as she ran. But she began to labor up and down the sand dunes with difficulty. It frightened Jessie Norwood very much whenever Henrietta got into mischief or into danger. No knowing what harm might come to her on this lonely part of Station Island. Nor was this fear in Jessie's mind bred entirely by the feeling that it was her duty to look out for Henrietta. The child was an appealing little creature, though she had had little chance in the world thus far to develop her better and worthier qualities. The pity that Jessie Norwood had felt for the untamed girl at first was now blossoming into love. "What would I ever say to Bertha and Mrs. Foley if anything happened to the child!" Jessie murmured. CHAPTER XI--TROUBLE Jessie was beginning to learn that to guard the welfare of a lively youngster like Henrietta was no small task. The worst of it was, she was so fond of the little girl that she worried about her much of the time. And Henrietta seemed to have a penchant for getting into trouble. Jessie called, and she called again and again, as she ploughed through the sand, and heard in reply only the shrieks of the gulls and peewees. Gray clouds had rolled up from the Western horizon and covered completely the glow of sunset. It was going to be a drab evening, and all the hollows were already filled with shadow. Jessie toiled up the slope of one sand-hill after another, calling and listening, calling and listening, but all to no avail. What _could_ have become of Henrietta Haney? Suddenly Jessie fairly tumbled into an excavation in the sand. Although she could not see the place, her hands told her that the hole was deep and the sand somewhat moist. The hole had been dug recently, for the surface of the dunes was still warm from the rays of the sun. She stumbled down the slope of the sand dune and found another hole, then another. Dark as it was in the hollow, when she kicked something that rattled, she knew what it was. "Henrietta's pail and shovel!" Jessie exclaimed aloud. "She has been here." She picked up the articles. Before leaving New Melford she had herself bought the pail and shovel for the freckle-faced little girl. Where had the child gone from here? Already Jessie was some distance from the group of bungalows. As Henrietta insisted upon believing that most of the island belonged to her "by good rights," there was no telling what part of it she might have aimed for after playing in the sand. Jessie shouted again, her voice wailing over the sands almost as mournfully as the cries of the sea-fowl. Again and again she shouted, but without hearing a human sound in reply. She labored on, and it grew so dark that she began to wish one of the others had come with her. Even Amy's presence would have been a comfort. She came to the brink of a yawning sand-pit, the bottom of which was so dark she could not see it. She began skirting this hollow, crying out as she went, and almost in tears. Suddenly Darry's voice answered her. She was fond of Darry--thought him a most wonderful fellow, in fact. But there was just one thing Jessie wanted of him now. "Have you seen her?" she cried. "Not a bit. I have been away down to the lighthouse. Nobody has seen her there." "Oh! Who you lookin' for?" suddenly asked a voice out of the darkness. "Henrietta!" shrieked Jessie, and plunged down into the dark sand-pit. "Who's lost?" asked the little girl again. "Ow-ow! I--I guess I been asleep, Miss Jessie." "Has that kid shown up at last?" grumbled Darry, climbing to the sand ridge. "Is it night?" demanded Henrietta, as Jessie clasped her with an energy that betrayed her relief. "Why, it wasn't dark when I came down here." "How did you get down there?" demanded Darry from above. "I rolled down. I guess I was tired. I dug so much sand----" "Did you dig all those holes I found, Henrietta?" demanded the relieved Jessie. "Why, no, Miss Jessie. I didn't dig holes. I dug sand and let the holes be," declared the freckle-faced little girl scornfully. Darry sat down and laughed, but while he laughed Jessie toiled up the yielding sand hill with her hand clasping Henrietta's. "Ow-ow!" yawned the child again. "When do we eat, Miss Jessie? Or is eating all over?" "Listen to the kid!" ejaculated Darry. "Here! Give her to me. I'll carry her. Want to go pickaback, Hen?" "Well, it's dark and nobody can see us. I don't mind," said Henrietta soberly. "But I guess I'm too big to be lugged around that way in common. 'Specially now that I own this island--or, most of it--and am going to have money of my own." "She's harping on that idea too much," observed Darry to Jessie, in a low tone. The latter thought so too. Funny as little Henrietta was, the stressing of her expected fortune was going to do her no good. Jessie began to see that this fault had to be corrected. "Goodness!" she thought, stumbling along after the young collegian and his burden, "I might as well have a younger sister to take care of. Children, as Mrs. Foley says, are a sight of trouble." They heard Amy and Burd shouting back of the bungalow, and they responded to their cries. "Did you find that young Indian?" cried Burd. "You've hit it. This little squaw should be named 'Plenty Trouble' rather than 'Spotted Snake, the Witch.'" "Why," said Henrietta, sleepily, "_I_ never have any trouble--of course I don't." It was about as Jessie said, however: They were never confident that the freckled little girl was all right save when she was asleep. She had bread and milk and went right to bed when they got home with her. Then the evening was a busy one for the quartette of older young folks. The radio set was put into place in the library of the bungalow. They had brought the two-step amplifier and proposed to use that for most of their listening in, rather than the headphones. Although Darry and Burd helped in this preliminary work, the girls really knew more about the adjustment of the various parts than the college youths. But in the morning Darry and Burd strung the wires and completed the antenna. The house connection was made and the ground connection. By noon all was complete and after lunch Jessie opened the switch and they got the wave-length of a New York broadcasting station and heard a brief concert and a lecture on advertising methods that did not, in truth, greatly interest the girls. After that they tuned in and caught the Stratfordtown broadcasting. They recognized Mr. Blair's voice announcing the numbers of the afternoon concert program. But radio did not hold the attention of these young people all the time, although they had all become enthusiasts. They were at the seashore, and there were a hundred things to do that they could not do at home in Roselawn. The sands were smooth, the surf rolled in white ruffles, and the cool green and blue of the sea was most attractive. One of the safest bathing beaches bordering Station Island was directly in front of the bungalow colony. At four o'clock they were all in their bathing suits and joined the company already in the surf or along the sands. In any summer colony acquaintanceships are formed rapidly. Jessie and Amy had already seen some girls of about their own age whom they liked the looks of, and they were glad to see them again at the bathing hour. "Is it a perfectly safe beach?" Mrs. Norwood asked, and was assured by her husband that so it was rated. There were no strong currents or undertows along this shore. And, in any case, there was a lifeguard in a boat just off shore and another patrolling the sands. "I ain't afraid!" proclaimed Henrietta, dashing into the water immediately. "Come on, Miss Jessie! Come on, Miss Amy, you won't get drowned at my island." "What a funny little thing she is," said one of the friendly girls who overheard Henrietta. "Does she think she owns Station Island?" "That is exactly what she does think," said Amy, grimly. "I never!" drawled the girl. "And there is a girl up at the hotel who talks the same way. At least, when she was down here yesterday she said her father owns all this part of Station Island and is going to have the bungalows torn down." Jessie and Amy looked at each other with understanding. "I guess I know who that girl is," said Amy quickly. "It's Belle Ringold." "Yes. Her name is Ringold," said their new acquaintance. "Do you suppose it is so--that her father can drive us all out of the cottages? You know, we have already paid rent for the season." CHAPTER XII--A DOUBLE RACE Amy Drew scoffed at the thought of Belle Ringold's tale of trouble for the "bungalowites" being true. "She is always hatching up something unpleasant," she told the neighbor who had spoken of Mr. Ringold's claim to a part of Station Island. "We know her. She comes from our town." But little Henrietta continued to tell anybody who would listen that _she_ owned a part of the island and expected to take possession of the golf links almost any day. The funny little thing, however, was very generous in inviting people to remain on "her island," no matter what happened. "Something has got to be done about that child," said Jessie, sighing. "I can't control her. She does say the most awful things. She has no manners at all!" "He, he," chuckled Amy. "Hen was built without any controller. I wouldn't worry about her, Jess. She'll come out all right." "I hope she comes out of the water all right," murmured her chum, starting again after the very lively little girl who occasionally made dashes for the surf as though she proposed to go right out to sea. But for one person Henrietta had some concern. That was Mrs. Norwood. She thought Jessie's mother was a most wonderful person. And when Mrs. Norwood had a chair and umbrella brought to the sands and sat down within sight of Henrietta, the older girls had some opportunity of having a little amusement with the college boys. "Come on," Darry Drew said. "This staying inshore is no fun. Beat you to the raft, girls, and give you ten yards start." "O-oh! You can't!" cried his sister, dashing at once for the sea. "Hold on! Hold on!" commanded Darry. "I don't believe you even know how long ten yards is. Both you girls go in and stand even with that pile yonder. You are headed for the raft. You see the life saver beyond it, I hope?" Amy made a face at him, settled her bathing cap more firmly, and looked at Jessie. "Ready, Jess?" she asked. "We'll just beat them good," declared her chum. "They always think they can do things so much better than us girls." "'We' girls," corrected Amy, giggling. "'We' or 'us'--it doesn't so much matter, as long as we win the race," said Jessie. "All ready out there?" demanded Darry. "They're edging out farther," observed Burd Alling. "It wouldn't matter if you gave them a mile start; they'd take more if they could. Give 'em an inch and they'll take an ell," he quoted. "You don't know what an ell is," scoffed his friend. "It's something you put on a house after you think you've got all the rooms you'll ever need. I know," declared Burd, grinning. "Come on out!" retorted Darry. "Cut the repartee. You have got to swim your little best, for those two girls are no slow-pokes." "You've said something," agreed Burd. "Shoot! I am ready, Gridley." "Huh!" exclaimed his chum. "You have even forgotten your Spanish War history." "Shucks! They change history so fast now you don't more than learn one phase than you have to forget it and learn some other fellow's 'hindsight' of important events. The only way to get history straight," declared the philosophical Burd, "is to be Johnny-on-the-spot and see things happen." "Now!" shouted Darry to the girls. The four splashed in, the girls starting with a breast stroke and the boys having to run for some distance until the sea was deep enough to enable them to swim. The water beyond the ruffle of surf was almost calm. At least, the waves did not break, but heaved in, in smooth rollers. As Amy had said: The sea was taking deep-breathing exercises. Just now, however, she was not making jokes. The two girls were doing their best to win the race. Darry was a long, rangy fellow, and his over-hand stroke was wonderful. Burd Alling--"tubby" as he was--was an excellent swimmer. The girls started with a dash, however, and they kept up their speed for some rods before either felt any fatigue. The diving raft was a long distance out from the beach, because the sandy bottom here sloped very gradually. This part of the island was ideal for swimming and bathing. If it was finally proved that the old Padriac Haney estate belonged to little Henrietta, she would control the longest strip of beach on the island. Amy flashed a glance over her shoulder to see how close they were pursued, and almost lost stroke. "Come on!" panted Jessie. "Don't let them beat you." "Ain't--go-ing--to," gasped her chum, in four short breaths. They were more than half way to the raft, and it really seemed as though the stronger--and longer--arms of the two college boys were not aiding them to overtake the Roselawn girls. The latter began to congratulate each other upon this--with glances. They did not waste any more breath in speech. Rising high to change stroke, Jessie turned on her side and did the over-hand. It heaved her ahead of her chum for a yard or so; and it likewise enabled her to see over the raft. The raft chanced to be deserted, nor were there any swimmers between her and the boat of the lifeguard beyond the raft. The man in the boat suddenly stood up. He began waving his arms and shouting. As he was looking shoreward Jessie thought he must be cheering her and her chum on. She forged still farther ahead of Amy, and the lifeguard became more energetic in his motions. Suddenly he dropped upon the seat of his boat, grabbed the oars, and pulled the bow of the craft around, heading it seemed, for the raft. He did act peculiarly. From behind her Jessie heard faintly a cry from her chum: "Oh, Jess! What's that? What is it?" "Why, it is the lifeguard," rejoined Jessie Norwood, flashing another glance over her shoulder, but continuing to thrash forward at her very best speed. "No, no! That thing! In the water!" At first Jessie saw nothing ahead but the raft. She thought the lifeguard was hurrying to the raft to meet Amy and herself if they won the race. Another glance that she flashed back swept the smooth, rolling sea as far as Darry and Burd, endeavoring to overcome the handicap they had given the two girl chums. It was only then that Jessie realized that something must be happening--some threatening thing that she did not understand. From the rear Darry's hail reached Jessie's ear: "Turn back! Come back, Jess!" "Why! what does he think?" considered Jessie, amazed. "That I am going to stop and let him and Burd beat us? I--guess--not!" Then she heard the voice of the lifeguard. He was driving his boat inshore with mighty strokes; but he sat facing shoreward, too, using his oars back-handed. He shouted: "Shark! Shark! Look out for the shark!" And behind Jessie Norwood her chum took up the cry: "Shark! Oh, Jess! Shark!" The word, which had never meant much to Jessie Norwood in her life before, being merely the name of a quite unknown fish, suddenly became the most important of words! She whirled over and took up the breast stroke. She rose high in the water again to look. Off at one side and seemingly swimming toward them from a tangent, came a gray, sail-like thing, the like of which the Roselawn girl had never seen before. She accepted as true however the identification of the lifeguard. He should know. The race to the raft became suddenly a double race. More than ever did Jessie Norwood wish to win it! She desired to outswim the dangerous fish of which she had heard such terrible stories. CHAPTER XIII--MORE THAN ONE ADVENTURE Jessie was badly frightened, but she was not too scared to swim as hard as she could for the diving raft. The lifeguard drove his boat around the end of the raft toward the gray, sail-like object which had so startled them all. Jessie remembered of reading that the dorsal fin of a shark shows above water when it swims at the surface. This odd looking thing must be it--it must be! She measured the distance between it and herself with some calculation. It came on in a halting, undecided way. Perhaps the shark had not yet caught sight of any of the swimmers. Jessie flung up her arm and shouted at the top of her voice to her chum: "Come on! Come on! Don't let him get you!" Amy was struggling so hard to reach the raft now that she had no breath left for speech. Jessie saw her splashing on in her wake. Behind, the boys were making a great splashing too, and Jessie realized that it was for an object. The shark might be frightened away if they made disturbance enough in the water. Jessie was now very near the raft and the other three were bunching up not far behind her. The lifeguard shot by in his boat, yelling like mad. Darry shouted: "Get aboard the raft, girls! Burd and I will beat him off till you are landed!" "You come right on here, Darrington Drew!" sputtered his sister. "What good will you ever be if you get your leg bit off?" Jessie reached the raft and seized a loop of rope hanging from it. If it had not been for this assistance she doubted if she could have hauled herself out of the water. When Amy arrived, her chum was lying over the edge of the refuge, and reached one arm out for her. "Quick! Quick!" cried Jessie. "Do--don't scare me so!" gasped Amy. "I--I feel just as though he was nibbling at my toes right now!" But it seemed no laughing matter to Jessie Norwood. Her chum, however, would find a joke in even the most serious circumstance. And the moment she lay on the raft beside Jessie she began to laugh, gaspingly. "This is no laughing matter!" Jessie declared. "How can you, Amy? Darry and Burd----" At that instant a wild shout rose from the two collegians and from the lifeguard who had rowed so energetically to their rescue. Amy broke off suddenly in her nervous laughter. "He's got 'em!" she shrieked. "Oh! Oh!" But, strange though it seemed to her, Jessie realized that Darry and Burd were laughing. And the astonished expletives that the guard emitted did not seem to show fear. "What is the matter?" Jessie demanded, standing up. "And where is the shark?" asked Amy, likewise scrambling to her feet. The boys were hanging to the side of the guard's boat. He was fishing for something in the water with an oar. He finally got the object and raised it aloft. "What is it?" repeated Jessie. "The shark!" shrieked her chum. It actually was all the shark there was--a pair of partly deflated swimming wings which, carried here and there by the wind, had looked like a shark's dorsal fin at a distance. "Good thing you girls saw it," declared Darry, when the boys lumbered along to the raft. "If you hadn't been so scared you never would have beat us. Would they, Burd?" "Of course not," agreed his friend. "And how Jess can swim--when there is a man-eating shark after her!" "Don't make fun," Jessie said, somewhat exasperated. "It might have been a shark. Then where would you have been?" "Either here or inside the shark," said Darry. "One thing sure, he never could have caught you girls." "Well," Amy sighed, "we had all the excitement of racing with a shark, even if the shark was only in our minds. I'll never be so scared by one again." "Goodness!" exclaimed Jessie. "I know I shall always be nervous in the water here after this. I'll always be looking for one. What an awful feeling it is to try to swim when one is being pursued by----" "By a pair of swimming wings," chuckled Burd. "Some imagination you've got, my dear Jess." There was a serious side to the matter, however. Although the shark scare had proved to be groundless, the quartette decided to say nothing about it to those ashore. "Especially to Momsy," Jessie Norwood said. "I don't want to make her nervous. Little things annoy her." "She'll be some annoyed by little Hen, then," chuckled Amy. "Hen is worse than any shark you ever saw." "How terrible!" cried Jessie. "She is not a bad child at all, but she is wild enough." When they swam ashore later they found Henrietta on her good behavior with Momsy. Nobody on the sands had chanced to see the excitement out by the raft. Or, if they had, it was merely supposed that the four young people from Roselawn were playing in the water. Jessie, however, felt rather serious about it. And she knew she would never go into the sea again at Station Island without thinking about sharks. While they were playing hand-ball on the beach, still in their bathing suits, a low-wheeled pony carriage came along the drive from the upper end of the island, and Amy's sharp eyes spied and recognized the two girls seated on the back seat of the vehicle. "And that's Bill Brewster driving!" cried Amy. "Some difference between the speed of that quadruped and his sports car." "One thing sure," chuckled Burd. "He can't do so much damage with that old Dobbin as he did with the car he drives about New Melford." "Belle and Sally have got a hen on," said the slangy Amy to Jessie. "See them whispering together?" "I can see what they are up to from right where I stand," announced Darry, dropping the ball. "Come on, Burd! Let's beat it for the raft again. That's one place those two girls can't follow us without bathing suits." "He, he!" giggled his sister. "I hope they sit right down here and wait for you to come ashore." "Send out our supper by the lifeguard," called Burd, as he followed his chum into the surf. "We fear sharks less than we do a certain brand of featherless biped." "I suppose it would be too pointed for us to run away," said Amy to Jessie, as Bill Brewster drove the pony carriage out on to the beach. "Belle has got her eye on us, that is a fact," agreed Jessie. She was curious, especially after what their new friend had told them an hour before about the story that Belle Ringold was circulating. Belle was eager to talk--as she always was. "So your folks got one of these bungalows, did they, after all, Jess Norwood?" she began. "I suppose you know there is no surety that you can keep it a month?" "I don't know about that. I guess father attended to the lease. And he is a lawyer, you know," said Jessie, quietly. "Pooh! Yes," said Belle, tossing her head. "But there are lawyers and lawyers! My father has the smartest lawyer in New York working for him. And I suppose you know about the claim he has against all the middle of this island?" "We have heard that _you_ have a claim on the island--or think you have," said Amy slyly. "But, then, Belle, you always did think you owned the earth." "Now, Miss Smartie, don't be too funny! Father is going to prove his right to the golf course and all these bungalows. Don't you fear-- Why! There's that terrible Henrietta Haney! How did she come here?" "She is with us," said Jessie shortly. "Oh, indeed! One of your week-end guests, I suppose?" scoffed Belle. "We are entertaining General O'Bigger and Mrs. O'Bigger at the hotel. Of course, we would not live in one of these small bungalows--not even if we needed a vacation." "You wouldn't," said Henrietta promptly, "because I wouldn't let you." "Oh! Oh! Hear that child!" cried Sally Moon. "Nor you, neither," declared Henrietta. "All them houses are mine--or they are going to be." "Hush, Henrietta," commanded Jessie, in a low voice. "Didn't the funny little thing say something before about owning an island?" asked Belle, somewhat puzzled. "And this is it," said Henrietta. "You just try to come into any of them bungleloos! I'd get a policeman and have him take you out. So now!" "_Will_ you behave?" said Jessie, feeling like shaking the child, and in reality leading her away. Amy came running after them in the midst of Jessie's berating of the freckle-faced girl. "Did you ever hear such nonsense?" Jessie's chum demanded. "Belle declares the case is coming up in court next week and that her father is going to win. Did you ever?" Mr. Norwood was sitting with his wife when they came near to that lady's beach chair. Jessie was anxious enough to ask about Belle's statement regarding the imminent court investigation of the controversy over Station Island. "Why, yes, Ringold's lawyers claim they have found new evidence entitling him to be heard as a claimant to the Padriac Haney estate," the lawyer acknowledged. "But there may not be anything in it." "But is there a possibility, Robert?" Momsy asked, seeing how anxious both Jessie and the little girl looked. "There is nothing sure in any case that comes into court," declared her husband. "Besides, those attorneys of Ringold's are sharp fellows. He may make his claim good." "Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" burst out Henrietta. "And then I won't have nuthin'? No island, nor golf link, nor--nor nuthin'? Oh, dear me!" "Never mind, honey," Jessie begged. "You have friends. You have _me_." And she sat down on the sands and took the freckle-faced little girl in her arms. "Ye-es, Miss Jessie. I know I got you," sobbed Henrietta. "But--but you ain't a golf link, nor you ain't a bungleloo. And--and I want to turn that Ringold girl off my island, I do!" CHAPTER XIV--SOMETHING NEW IN RADIO The Stanleys arrived at Station Island the next day, the doctor having arranged for a substitute preacher at the Roselawn Church for two Sundays. The bungalow they had arranged to occupy was one of the colony not far from the big house the Norwoods and their party were staying in. Darry and Burd began to spend a good deal of their time on the yacht after that first day. Amy accused her brother of being afraid of a flank attack by Belle Ringold and Sally Moon, and he admitted that he had hoped to escape those two "troublesome kids" when he came to the island. "I came here as the guest of little Hen Haney," he declared soberly. "And I don't wish to be annoyed by any girls older than she is." But he did not say this within Henrietta's hearing. The little girl went around with a very long face indeed. She seemed to think that she was going to lose her island. Even Nell Stanley, who was a general comforter at most times, could not alleviate little Henrietta's woe. With the coming of the Stanleys, however, Henrietta became less of a trial to Jessie. For Sally Stanley was just about Henrietta's age and the two children got along splendidly together. Bob and Fred, those lively and ingenious youngsters, made their own friends among the boys of the bungalow colony. The three girls from Roselawn--Jessie, Amy, and Nell--found plenty to do and enjoyed themselves thoroughly during the next few days. Being all interested in radio they naturally spent some time at Jessie's set. But unfortunately it did not work as well here as it had at home. "And I do not know why," Jessie ruminated. "I have been studying up about it and the more I read the less I seem to know. There are so many different opinions about how an amateur set should be built. Do you know, sometimes I feel as though I should have an entirely different kind of outfit. There is a new super-regenerative circuit that is being talked about." "But some people say it is not practicable for amateurs," broke in Nell. "I've read so, anyway." "I should like to talk with some professional--some radio expert--about that," Jessie confessed. "If I had thought before we left home I would have spoken to Mr. Blair." "You'll have to wait until you get back, then," said Amy promptly. "Why?" cried Nell suddenly. "There must be experts over at that Government station." "That is so," agreed Jessie, thoughtfully. "Do you suppose they would----" "Let's go and see," urged Nell. "I'm crazy to see the inside of that station, anyway." "It's wireless--like the little outfit aboard the _Marigold_," Amy suggested. "But so much bigger," Jessie chimed in eagerly. "If they admit visitors, let's go." Mr. Norwood found out about that particular point for the girls and reported that if they went over to the station in the late afternoon the operator on duty would be glad to show them "the works" and give them all the information in his power. The three friends went alone, for the collegians were off fishing that day on the _Marigold_. They left the little girls in Mrs. Norwood's care and slipped away about four o'clock and walked to the station, which was some distance from the bungalow colony. They had to climb the stairs in the old shaft of the lighthouse to the wireless room. The room was half darkened and they heard the snapping of the spark, and even saw the faint blue flash of it when they came to the door. The operator, with his head harness on, was busy at his set. Jessie, at least, had spent some time trying to learn the Morse code since talking the matter over with Darry on the yacht. But although the signals the operator received were in dots and dashes, she could not understand a single thing. "I am afraid it will take us a long time to learn," she said to Amy, sighing. "We shall have to buy a regular telegraph set and learn in that way." "I wish you wouldn't talk about learning anything!" cried her chum. "Vacation is slipping right away from us." After a few moments the spark stopped snapping, the operator closed his switch and removed his harness. He wheeled around on the bench and welcomed them. He was really a very pleasant young man, and he explained many things about both the radio-telegraph and radio-telephone that the girls had not known before. He was so friendly that Jessie ventured to ask him about the new super-regenerative circuit in which she was interested. "Yes. I'm strong for that new thing," said the wireless operator, enthusiastically. "In the first place, it was invented by the man who originated the ordinary regenerative circuit so much in use at present, and also of the super-heterodyne circuit. I understand this new circuit permits a current amplification up to a million times, and all with three tubes. You know, to reach such a high mark with your ordinary regenerative circuit, many more tubes would be necessary." "I understand that," said Jessie. "But can an amateur build and practically work this new circuit?" "Why not? If you follow directions carefully. And with the new outfit a loop is just as effective an antenna as an outside aerial. They say, too, that to catch broadcasting for not more than twenty-five miles, not even a loop is needed, the circuits themselves acting as the absorbers of energy." "I'm going to try it," declared Jessie, with more confidence. "But I feel that I understand so little about the various forms of radio, after all." "You have nothing on me there," laughed the operator. "I am learning something new all the time. And sometimes I am astonished to find out how, after five years of work with it, I am really so ignorant." The girls had a very interesting visit at the station; and from the operator Jessie and Amy gained some particular instruction about sending and receiving messages in the telegraph code. He received several messages from ships at sea while the girls remained in the station, and likewise relayed other messages received from inland stations both up and down the coast and to vessels far out at sea. "It is a wonderful thing," said Nell, as the girls walked homeward. "I never realized before how great an influence wireless already was in commercial life. Why, how did the world ever get along without it before Marconi first thought of it?" "How did the world ever get along without any other great invention?" demanded Amy. "The sewing machine, for instance. I've got to run up a seam in one of my sports skirts, for there is no tailor, they say, nearer than the hotel. I do wish a sewing machine had been included in the furnishings of your bungalow, Jess. I hate to sew by hand." The boys had come in before the Roselawn girls returned for dinner, and they were very enthusiastic over a plan for taking a part of the bungalow crowd on an extended sailing trip. They had met Dr. Stanley walking the beaches, and he had expressed a desire to go to sea for a day or two, and at once Darry and Burd had conceived a plan for the young folks to be included. "The doctor is a good enough chaperon," said Darry, with a laugh. "Nell shall come. Her Aunt Freda will be down to look after the children." "And Henrietta?" asked Jessie, hesitatingly. "For pity's sake!" cried Darry, in some impatience. "Don't be tied down to that kid all the time. You'd think you were a grandmother." "Well, I like that!" exclaimed Jessie. "I'm not sure that I want to go on your old yacht, Darry Drew." "Aw, Jess----" "Well, I'll think about it," murmured Jessie, relenting. CHAPTER XV--HENRIETTA IN DISGRACE Darry and Burd seemed to have little time to spend ashore these days. They said that they had a lot to do to fix up the _Marigold_ for the proposed trip seaward. But Amy accused them of being afraid of Belle Ringold and Sally Moon. "Belle is determined that she shall get an invitation to sail aboard your yacht, Darry," teased his sister. "Don't forget that." "Not if we see her first," responded Burd, promptly. "And don't you ring her in on us, for if you do we'll not let you aboard the _Marigold_ either. How about it, Darry?" "Good enough," agreed Amy's brother. "Oh, I promise not to ring Belle Ringold in on you," giggled Amy. "It is perfectly disgraceful how you boys teach these girls slang," Mrs. Drew remarked with a sigh. "Why, Mother!" cried Darry, his eyes twinkling, "they teach it to us. You accuse Burd and me wrongfully. We couldn't tell these girls a single thing." This was at breakfast at the Norwood bungalow. After breakfast the young folks separated. But Jessie and Amy had no complaint to make about the boys. They had their own interests. This day they had agreed to explore the island with Nell Stanley as far as the hotel grounds. They took Henrietta and Sally Stanley along, and carried a picnic lunch. The older girls were rather curious to see the extent of "Henrietta's domain," as Amy called it. The pastures included in the Hackle Island Golf Club grounds covered all the middle of the island, and consisted of hills and dells, all "up-and-down-dilly," Amy observed, and from a distance, at least, seemed very attractive. Of course, they could not go fast with the two smaller girls along, although Henrietta seemed tireless. "But Sally ain't a tough one, like me," declared the little girl who thought she was going to own an island. She approved of Sally Stanley very much because the minister's little girl was dainty, and kept her dresses clean, and was soft-spoken. "I got to run and holler once in a while or I thinks I'm choking," confessed Henrietta. "But your mamma, Miss Jessie, says I'll get over that after a while. She says I'll go to school and learn a lot and that _maybe_ I'll be as nice as Sally some day." "I hope you will," said Jessie warmly. "That's hardly to be expected," Henrietta rejoined in her old-fashioned way. "Sally was born that way. But I always was a tough one." "There is a good deal in that," sighed Jessie to the other Roselawn girls. "The poor little thing! She never did have a chance. But Momsy is already talking about sending her away to school to have her toned down and----" "Suppose the Blairs won't hear to it?" suggested Amy. "Leave it to Momsy to work things out her way," said Jessie, more gaily. They soon left the sand dunes behind them and marched up over what the natives of the island called "the downs" to a scrubby pasture at the edge of the golf links. Crossing the links watchfully they only had to dodge a couple of times when the players called "Fore!" and so got safely past the various greens and reached the patch of wood between the club premises and the hotel grounds. There was a spring here which they had been told about, and it was near enough noon for lunch to occupy an important place in their minds. They spent an hour here; but after that, much as she had eaten, Henrietta began to run around again. She could not keep still. Her voice was suddenly stilled and she halted in the path and stood like a pointer flushing a covey of birds. The older girls were surprised. Amy drawled: "What's the matter, Hen? You don't feel sick, do you?" "I hear something," declared Henrietta, her freckled face clouding. "I hear somebody talk that I don't like." "Who is that?" asked Nell. "She makes me feel sick, all right," grumbled the little girl. "Oh, yes! It's her. And if she says again that she owns my island, I'll--I'll----" "Belle Ringold!" exclaimed Amy, much amused. "Can't we go anywhere without Belle and Sally showing up?" The two girls whom they all considered so unpleasant appeared at the top of the small hill and came down the path. They were rather absurdly dressed for an outing. Certainly their frocks would have looked better at dinner or at a dance than in the woods. And they strutted along as though they quite well knew they had on their very best furbelows. "Oh, dear me! there's that awful child again," drawled Belle, before she saw the older girls sitting at the spring. "She must be lost away up here," said Sally Moon, idly. "Say, kid, run get this folding cup filled at the spring." "What for?" demanded Henrietta. "Why, so I can drink from it, foolish!" "You bring me a drink first," said the freckle-faced girl stoutly. "Nobody didn't make me your servant to run your errands--so now!" "Listen to her!" laughed Belle. "She waits on Jess Norwood and Amy Drew hand and foot. Of course she is a servant." "You ain't a servant when you wait on folks for _love_," declared Henrietta, quickly. Amy clapped her hands together softly at this bit of philosophy. Jessie stood up so that the girls from the hotel could see her. "Oh! Here's Jess Norwood now," cried Sally. "You might know!" Little Henrietta was backing away from the two newcomers, but eyeing them with great disfavor. She suddenly demanded of Jessie: "Is this spring on a part of my land, Miss Jessie?" "It may be," said Amy, quickly answering before Jessie could do so. "Like enough all this grove is yours, Hen." "Why," gasped Belle Ringold, "my father is just about to take possession of this place. He is going to have surveyors come on the island and survey it." "This is my woods!" cried Henrietta. "It's my spring! You sha'n't even have a drink out of it--neither of you girls!" "What nonsense!" drawled Belle. "Who will stop us, please?" and she came on down the path toward the spring. The other girls had now got up. Jessie tried to reach out and seize Henrietta; but the latter was so angry that she jerked away. She stood before Belle and Sally with flashing eyes and her hands clenched tight. "You go away! This is my woods and my spring! You sha'n't have a drink!" "The child is crazy," said Belle, harshly. "Let me pass, you mean little thing!" At that Henrietta stooped and caught up dirt in each grubby hand. It was a little damp where she stood, and the muck stuck to her palms. She shrieked hatred and defiance at Belle and, running forward, smeared the dirt all up and down the front of the rich girl's fine dress. Belle shrieked quite as loudly as the angry Henrietta and threatened all manner of punishment. But she could not catch the freckled girl, who was as wriggly as an eel. "I'll--I'll have you whipped! You ought to be spanked hard!" panted Belle Ringold. "And it is your fault, Jess Norwood. You egged her on." "I did not," said Jessie, angrily. But she was vexed with Henrietta, too. She ran after and caught the panting, sobbing little thing. She really was tempted to shake her. "What do you mean, Henrietta Haney, by acting this way and talking so? Do you want to disgrace us all? For shame!" "I don't talk no worse than the Ringold one," declared Henrietta. Jessie tried a new tack. She said more quietly: "But _you_ know better, Henrietta." "Yes, ma'am." "And perhaps she doesn't," ventured Jessie. "Well--er--she's got money," pouted Henrietta. "Why doesn't she hire somebody to teach her better? You know I never did have any chance, Miss Jessie." She felt she was in disgrace, however, and the older girls let her feel this without compunction. Belle was frightfully angry about her frock. She sputtered and threatened and called names that were not polite. Finally Jessie said: "If you feel that way about it, Belle, send the dress to the cleaner's and then send the bill to my mother. That is all I can say about it. But I think you brought it on yourself by teasing Henrietta." In spite of this speech to Belle, Henrietta felt that she was in disgrace as Jessie marched her away from the spring. Little Sally Stanley came to her other side and squeezed Henrietta's dirty hand in sympathy. "Huh!" snuffled Henrietta. "It's too bad you've got the same name as that Moon girl, Sally. Why don't you ask the minister to change it for you? He christens folks, doesn't he?" "Why, yes," murmured Sally, uncertainly. "But I was christened, you know, oh, years and years ago." "That don't cut no ice," replied Henrietta, unconscious that her language was not all it ought to be. "You just have him do it over again. And don't be no 'Sally,' nor no more 'Belle.'" CHAPTER XVI--"RADIO CONTROL" Jessie Norwood had talked over the matter of the new super-regenerative circuit with her father and had got him interested in the idea of using one to improve their own radio receiving. It was not difficult to interest Mr. Norwood in it, for he had become a radio enthusiast like his daughter since the Roselawn girls had broken into the wireless game. With the large party now in the Norwood's bungalow in Station Island, it was not convenient to use only the head-phones when the radio concerts were to be received out of the ether. The two-step amplifier Mr. Norwood had formerly bought did not always work well, especially, for some unknown reason, since they had come to the seashore. In addition, the sounds through the horn seemed to be scratchy and harsh, a good deal like the sounds from a poor talking machine. From what Jessie had read, she understood that these harsh noises would be obviated if the super-regenerative circuit was put in. Her father had telegraphed for the material to build the super-regenerative and amplifier circuit, and the material came by express the morning after the picnic on which Henrietta had disgraced herself. "We will try the thing here on the island," Mr. Norwood said to Jessie. "If it works here it will surely work back at Roselawn, for the temperature, or humidity, or something, is different there from what it is here. At least, so it seems to me, and the state of the air surely influences radio." "Static," said Jessie, briefly, reading the instructions in the book. Amy, of course, was quite as interested in the new invention as her chum; and Nell, too. But they were not so clear in their minds as was Jessie about what should be done in building the new set. Jessie was glad to have her father show so much interest, for he was eminently practical, and when the girls were uncertain how to proceed it was nice to have somebody like the lawyer to turn to. He even let Mr. Drew and the two mothers go off to the golf course that day without him, while he gave his aid to the girls. The boys were cleaning up the yacht in preparation for the voyage they expected to make in a short time. Nell's Aunt Freda had arrived that morning, so the minister's daughter did not have to worry at all about Bob and Fred and Sally. "And to help out," Amy said, with a giggle, "Henrietta is invited over to the Stanley bungalow to play with little Sally." "I guess Aunt Freda will get along all right with them," observed Nell, with some amusement. "But Fred pretty nearly floored her at the start. She says it takes her several hours to get 'acclimated' when she comes to our house." "What did Fred say--or do?" asked Jessie, interested. "There was something Aunt Freda advised him to do and he said he would--'to-morrow.' "'Don't you know,' she asked him, 'that "to-morrow never comes"?' "'Gee! and to-morrow's my birthday,' grumbled Fred. 'Now I suppose I won't have any.'" "What kids they are!" gasped Amy, when she had recovered from her laughter. "I don't know whether a younger brother is worse than an older brother or not. I've had my troubles with Darrington," and she sighed with mock seriousness. "Ha!" exclaimed Jessie. "I guess he's had his troubles with you. Do you remember when you smeared your hands all up with chocolate cake and tried to wipe them clean on Darry's new trousers?" Nell shouted with laughter at this revelation, but it did not trouble Amy Drew in the least. "Yes," she admitted. "My taste in the art of dressing, you see, was well developed even at that early age. Those trousers, I remember, were of an atrocious pattern." "Nonsense!" cried Jessie. "They were Darry's first long pants, and you were mad to think he was so much older than you that he could put on men's clothes." "Dear me!" sighed Amy. "You make me out an awful creature, Jess Norwood. But, never mind. Darry has paid me up and to spare for that unladylike trick. He _has_ been a trial--and is so yet. He doesn't know how to pick a decent necktie. His shirts--some of them--are so loud that you can see him coming clear across The Green. Why! they tell me that his shirts are as well known in New Haven, and almost as prominently mentioned by the natives, as the Hartley Memorial Hall; and almost _nobody_ gets away from the City of Elms without being obliged to see that." "What a reckless talker you are, Amy!" Jessie said, smiling. "And I will not hear you run Darry down. I think too much of him myself." "Don't let him guess it," said the absent Darry's sister, with a grin. "It will spoil him--make him proud and hard to hold." "That's a good one!" laughed Nell. "You think Darry can be as easily spoiled by praise as the Chinese servant Reverend tells about that he had in California. This was before I was born. Father and mother got a Coolie right at the dock. You could do that in those days. And John scarcely knew a word of English, not even the pidgin variety. "But Reverend says that when John acquired a few English words he was so proud that there was no holding him. He asked the name of every new object he saw and mispronounced it usually in the most absurd manner. Once John found a sparrow's nest in the grapevine and shuffled into Reverend's study to tell him about it. "'Is there anything in the nest yet, John?' Reverend asked him. "'Yes,' the Chinaman declared, puffed up with his knowledge of the new language, 'Spallow alle samme got pups.'" While they chattered and laughed the three girls were as busy as bees with the new radio arrangement. Amy said that Jessie kept them so hard at work that it did not seem at all as though they were "vacationing." It was good, healthy work for all. "It does seem awfully quiet here without Hen," went on Amy, hammering on a board with a heavy hammer and making the big room where the radio set was, ring. "She keeps the place almost as tomb-like as a boiler shop--what?" "You can make a little noise yourself," Jessie told her. "What's all the hammering for?" "So things won't sound too tame. How are we getting on with the new circuit?" "Why, Amy Drew! you just helped me place this vario-coupler. Didn't you know what you were doing?" "Not a bit," confessed Amy. "You are away out of my depth, Jess. And don't try to tell me what it all means, that's a dear. I never can remember scientific terms." "Put up the hammer," said Nell, laughing. "You are a confirmed knocker, anyway, Amy. But I admit I do not understand this tangle of wires." They did not seek to disconnect the old regenerative set that day, for there was much of interest expected out of the ether before the day was over. One particular thing Jessie looked for, but she had said nothing about it to anybody save her very dearest chum, Amy, and the clergyman's daughter, Nell. Two days before she had done some telephoning over the long-distance wire. Of course there was a cable to the mainland from Station Island, and Jessie had called up and interviewed Mark Stratford at Stratfordtown. Mark was a college friend of Darry and Burd, but he was likewise a very good friend of the Roselawn girls--and he had reason for being. As related in a previous volume, "The Radio Girls on the Program," Jessie and Amy had found a watch Mark had lost, and as it was a valuable watch and had been given him by his grandmother, Mark was very grateful. Through his influence--to a degree--Jessie and Amy had got on the program at the Stratfordtown broadcasting station. And now Jessie had talked with the young man and arranged for a surprise by radio that was to come off that very evening at "bedtime story hour." Henrietta and little Sally and Bob and Fred Stanley, as well as some of the other children of the bungalow colony, crowded into the house at that time to "listen in" on the Roselawn girls' instrument. The amplifier worked all right that evening, and Jessie was very glad. The little folks arranged themselves on the chairs and settees with some little confusion while Jessie tuned the set to the Stratfordtown length of wave. There was some static, but after a little that disappeared and they waited for the announcement from the faraway station. By and by, as Henrietta whispered, the radio began to "buzz." "Now we'll get it!" cried the little Dogtown girl. "I hope it is about the little boy with the rabbit ears that he could wiggle." "S-sh!" commanded Jessie, making a gesture for silence. And then out of the air came a deep voice: "We have with us this evening, children, the Radio Man, who, just like Santa Claus, knows all our little shortcomings, as well as our virtues. Have you all been good boys and girls to-day? Don't all say 'Yes' at once. Better stop and think about it before you speak. "Before the bedtime story," went on the voice out of the horn, "the Radio Man must tell some of you that you must take care, or you will get on the black list. Here is a little girl, for instance, who may be rich when she grows up. But she must have a care. People who grow up rich and own islands must be very nice." "Oh! Oh! That's me!" gasped Henrietta. "How'd he know me?" "So I have to warn Henrietta, the little girl I speak of, that there is a lot she must do if she wishes in time to enjoy the wealth which she expects." At that the other children began to exclaim. It was Henrietta. They almost drowned out the first of the bedtime story with their excited voices. "Well," exclaimed Henrietta, "I guess everybody knows about my owning this island, so that Ringold one needn't talk! But Miss Jessie's mother told me what I had got to do to deserve my island." "What have you got to do?" asked Amy, curiously. "The Radio Man says you must be good." "Miss Jessie's mother says I've got to make folks love me or I won't enjoy my island at all--so now. But," she added confidentially, "I don't believe I ever shall want that Ringold one and Sally Moon to love me. Do you s'pose that's nec-sary?" After the children had gone the older girls discussed a point that Amy brought up regarding the incident. Of course, Amy was in fun, for she said: "Listen! Didn't I read something about 'radio control' in one of our books, Jess? Well, there is an example of radio control--control of children. Henrietta is going to remember that she is on the Radio Man's list. She'll be good, all right!" Mr. Norwood laughed. "How do we know what great developments may come within the next few years in the line of radio control? Already the control of an aeroplane has been tried, and proved successful. A submarine may be governed from the shore. The drive of a torpedo has already been successfully handled by wireless. "In time, perhaps a farmer may sit before a keyboard in his office and manage tractors plowing and cultivating his fields. Ships of all descriptions will be managed by compass control. And automobiles----" "I hope Bill Brewster learns to handle his red car by wireless," chuckled Amy. "It will then be less dangerous to himself and to his friends, if not to pedestrians," and this quaint idea amused all the Roselawn girls. CHAPTER XVII--THE TEMPEST Jessie, Amy, and Nell had spied, on their hike and picnic, an inlet in the shore of the island facing the mainland, on the sands of which were several fish houses and several rowboats and small sailboats that the girls were sure might be had for hire. "We might have shipped our new canoe down here and had some fun," Amy said. "That bay is a wonderful place to sail in. Why, you can scarcely see the port on the other side of it. And the island defends it from the sea. It is as smooth as can be." Nell was very fond of rowing, and she expressed a wish that they might go out in one of the open boats. She would row. So the three chums escaped the younger children the next afternoon and slipped over to the other side of the island, across the sand dunes. They found an old fisherman who was perfectly willing to hire them a boat, and, really, it was not a bad boat, either. At least, it had been washed out and the seats were clean. The oars were rather heavier than Nell Stanley was used to. "You need heavy oars on this bay, young lady," declared the boat-owner. "Nothing fancy does here. When a squall comes up----" "Oh, but you don't think it looks like a squall this afternoon, do you?" Jessie interrupted. "Dunno. Can't tell. Ain't nothing sartain about it," said the pessimistic old fellow. "Sometimes you get what you don't most expect on this bay. I been here, man and boy, all my life, and I give you my word I don't know nothing about the weather." "Oh, come on!" exclaimed Amy, under her breath. "What a Job's comforter he is! Who ever heard of a fisherman before who didn't know all about the weather?" "Maybe we had better not go far," Jessie, who was easily troubled, said hesitatingly. "Come on," said Nell. "He just wants to keep us from going out far. He is afraid for his old tub of a boat." She said this rather savagely, and Jessie thought it better to say nothing more of a doubtful nature, having two against her. Besides, the sky seemed quite clear and the bay was scarcely ruffled by the wind. The old man sat and smoked and watched them push off from the landing without offering to help. He did not even offer to ship the rudder for them, although that was a clumsy operation. When Jessie and Amy had managed to secure it in place, while Nell settled herself at the oars, the old man shouted: "That other thing in the bow is a anchor. You don't use that unless you want to stay hitched somewhere. Understand?" "He must think we are very poor sailors," said Jessie. "I feel like making a face at him--as Henrietta does," declared Amy. "I never saw such a cantankerous old man." Nell braced her feet and set to work. She was an athletic girl and she loved exercise of all kind. But rowing, she admitted, was more to her taste than sweeping and scrubbing. Amy steered. At least, she lounged in the stern with the lines across her lap. Jessie had taken her place in the bow, to balance the boat. They moved out from shore at a fine pace, and even Amy soon forgot the grouchy old fisherman. There were not many boats on the bay that afternoon--not small boats, at least. The steamer that plied between the port and the hotel landing at the north of the island at regular hours passed in the distance. A catboat swooped near the girls after a time, and a flaxen-haired boy in it--a boy of about Darry Drew's age--shouted something to them. "I suppose it is something saucy," declared Amy. "But I didn't hear what he said and sha'n't reply. I don't feel just like fighting with strange boys to-day." Jessie was the first to see the voluminous clouds rising from the horizon; but she thought little of them. The descending sun began to wallow in them, and first the girls were in a patch of shadow, and then in the sunlight. "Don't you want me to row some, Nell?" Jessie asked. "I'm doing fine," declared the clergyman's daughter. "But--but I guess I am getting a blister. These old oars are heavy." "We ought to have made him give us two pairs," complained Amy. "Then the two of you could row." "Listen to her!" cried Jessie. "She would never think of taking a turn at them. Not Miss Drew!" "Oh, I am the captain," declared Amy. "And the captain never does anything but steer." They had rowed by this time well up toward the northerly end of the island. Hackle Island Hotel sprawled upon the bluff over their heads. It was a big place, and the grounds about it were attractive. "I don't see Belle or Sally anywhere," drawled Amy. "And see! There aren't many bathers down on this beach." "This is the still-water beach," explained Jessie. "I guess most of them like the surf bathing on the other side." There were winding steps leading up the bluff to the hotel. Not many people were on these steps, but the seabirds were flying wildly about the steps and over the brow of the bluff. "Wonder what is going on over there?" drawled Amy, who faced the island just then. Nell stopped rowing to look at the incipient blister on her left palm. Jessie bent near to see it, too. Nobody was looking across the bay toward the mainland. "You'd better let me take the oars," Jessie said. "You'll have all the skin off your hand." "Why should you skin yours?" demanded Nell. "These old oars are heavy." "How dark it is getting!" drawled Amy. "Even the daylight saving time ought not to be blamed for this." Jessie looked up, startled. Over the mainland a black cloud billowed, and as she looked lightning whipped out of it and flashed for a moment like a searchlight. "A thunderstorm is coming!" she cried. "We'd better turn back." But when Nell looked up and saw the coming tempest she knew she could never row back to the inlet before the wind, at least, reached them. "We'll go right ashore," she said with confidence. "What do you say, Amy?" Jessie asked. "Far be it from me to interfere," said the other Roselawn girl, carelessly, and without even turning around to look. "I'm in the boat and will go wherever the boat goes." Nell, settling to the oars again with vigor, remarked: "One thing sure, we don't want the boat overturned and have to follow it to the bottom. Oh! Hear that thunder, will you?" Amy woke up at last. She twitched about in the stern and stared at the storm cloud. It was already raining over the port, and long streamers of rain were being driven by the rising wind out over the bay. "Wonderful!" she murmured. "Where are you going, Nell?" suddenly shrieked Jessie. "The boat is actually turning clear around!" "Don't blame me!" gasped Nell. "I am pulling straight on, but that girl has twisted the rudder lines. Do see what you are about, Amy, and please be careful!" "My goodness!" gasped the girl in the stern. "It's going to storm out here, too." She frantically tried to untangle the rudder lines; but while she had been lying idly there, she had twisted them together in a rope, and she was unable to untwist them immediately. Meanwhile the thunder rolled nearer, the lightning flashed more sharply, and they heard the rain drumming on the surface of the water. Little froth-streaked waves leaped up about the boat and all three of the girls realized that they were in peril. CHAPTER XVIII--FROM ONE THING TO ANOTHER "Let 'em alone, Amy!" begged Jessie, from the bow. "You are only twisting the boat's head around and making it harder for Nell to row." "I--could--do better--if the rudder was unshipped," declared Nell, pantingly. Immediately Amy jerked the heavy rudder out of its sockets. Fortunately she had got the lines over her head before doing this, or she might have been carried overboard. For the rudder was too much for Amy. The rising waves tore it out of her hands the instant it was loose, and away it went on a voyage of its own. "There!" exclaimed Jessie, with exasperation. "What do you suppose that grouchy old man will say when we bring him back his boat without the rudder?" "He won't say so much as he would if we didn't bring him back his boat at all," declared Amy. "I'll pay for the rudder." Jessie felt that the situation was far too serious for Amy to speak so carelessly. She urged Nell to let her help with the oars; and, in truth, the other found handling the two oars with the rising waves cuffing them to and fro rather more than she had bargained for. Jessie shipped the starboard oar in the bow and together she and Nell did their very best. But the wind swooped down upon them, tearing the tops from the waves and saturating the three girls with spray. "I guess I know what that white-haired boy tried to tell us," gasped Amy, from the stern. "He must have seen this thunderstorm coming." "All the other boats got ashore," panted Nell. "We were foolish not to see." "Nobody on lookout--that's it!" groaned Amy. "Oh!" A streak of lightning seemed to cross the sky, and the thunder followed almost instantly. Down came the rain--tempestuously. It drove over the water, flattening the waves for a little, then making the sea boil. "Hurry up, girls!" wailed Amy. "Get ashore--do! I'm sopping wet." Jessie and Nell had no breath with which to reply to her. They were pulling at the top of their strength. The shore was not far away in reality. But it seemed a long way to pull with those heavy oars. The rain swept landward and drove everybody, even the few bathers, to cover. The shallow water was torn again into whitecaps and a lot of spray came inboard as Jessie and Nell tried their very best to reach the strand. Amy could do nothing but encourage them. There was no way by which she might aid their escape from the tempest. One thing, she did nothing to hinder! Even she was in no mood for "making fun." In fact, this tempest was an experience such as none of the three girls had seen before. Jessie and Nell were well-nigh breathless and their arms and shoulders began to ache. "Let me exchange with one of you, Nell! Jess!" cried Amy, her voice half drowned by the noise of wind and rain. "Stay where you are!" commanded Jessie, from the bow, as her chum started to come forward. "You might tip us over!" "Sit down!" sang the cheerful Nell. "Sit down, you're rocking the boat!" "But I want to help!" complained Amy. "You did your helping when you got rid of that rudder," returned Nell, comfortingly. "Do be still, Amy Drew!" "How can one be still in such a jerky, pitching boat?" gasped the other girl. "Do--do you think you can reach land, Jessie Norwood?" "I've hopes of it," responded her chum. "It isn't very far." "I wonder how far it is to--to land underneath the keel?" sputtered Amy. "For pity's sake stop that!" cried Nell Stanley. "Don't suggest such gloomy and gruesome things." "Well," grumbled Amy, "I believe it's the nearest land." "I shouldn't be surprised," panted Jessie. "But don't talk about it, Amy." The rain swept over and past the small boat in such heavy sheets that finally the girls could scarcely see the shore at all. Amy found something to do--and something of importance. Although not much water slopped into the boat over the sides, the rain itself began to fill the bottom. The water was soon ankle deep. "Bail it! Bail it!" shouted Nell. "Oh! is that what the tin dipper is for?" gasped Amy. "I--I thought it was to drink out of." Afterward "Amy's drinking cup" made a joke, but just then nobody laughed at the girl's mistake. She set to work with vigor to bail out the boat, and kept it up "for hours and hours" she declared, though the others insisted it was "minutes and minutes." At last they reached the strand. One of the bathing house men ran out to help pull the bow of the boat up on the sands. "Run along up to the hotel!" he cried. "There is no good shelter down here for you." The moment they could do so the three girls leaped ashore. Thus relieved of their weight, the boat was the more easily dragged out of the reach of the waves, which now began to roll in madly. The lightning increased in its intensity, the thunder reverberated from the bluff. The tempest was at its height when they hastened to mount the winding wooden stair. "Oh, my blister! Oh, my blister!" moaned Nell, as she climbed upward. "Everything I've got on sticks to me like a twin sister," declared Amy Drew. "Oh, dear! How shall we ever get home in these soaked rags?" "We must go to the hotel," cried Jessie. "Come on." She was the first to reach the top of the stairs. There was a garden and lawn to cross to reach the veranda. As the rain was beating in from this direction none of the hotel guests was on this side of the house. The three wet girls ran as hard as they could for shelter. Just as Jessie, leading the trio, came up the veranda steps, she heard a loud and harsh voice exclaim: "Well, of all things! I'd like to know what you girls think you are doing here? You have no business at this hotel. Go away!" Jessie almost stopped, and Amy and Nell ran into her. "Oh, do go on!" cried Amy. "Let us get inside somewhere----" "Well, I should say _not_!" broke out the harsh voice again, and the three Roselawn girls beheld Belle Ringold and Sally Moon confronting them on the piazza. "Just look at what wants to get into the hotel, Sally! Did you ever?" "They look like beggars," laughed Sally. "The manager would give them marching orders in a hurry, I guess." "Do let us in out of the rain," Jessie said faintly. She did not know but perhaps the hotel people would object to strangers coming inside. But Amy demanded: "What do you think you have to say about it, Belle Ringold? Is this something more that you or your folks own? Do go along, Belle, and let us pass." "Not much; you won't come in here!" declared Belle, setting herself squarely in their way. "No, you don't! That door's locked, anyway. It belongs to Mrs. Olliver's private suite--Mrs. Purdy Olliver, of New York. I am sure she won't want you bedrabbled objects hanging around her windows." "Go around to the kitchen door," said Sally Moon, laughing. "That is where you look as though you belonged." "Oh, that's good, Sally!" cried Belle. "Ex-act-ly! The kitchen door!" At that moment another flash of lightning and burst of thunder made the two unpleasant girls from New Melford cringe and shriek aloud. They backed against the closed door Belle had mentioned as being the wealthy Mrs. Olliver's private entrance. Amy and Nell screamed, too, and the three wet girls clung together for a moment. The rain came with a rush into the open porch, and if they could be more saturated than they were, this blast of rain would have done it. "We have got to get under shelter!" shouted Jessie, and dragged her two friends farther into the veranda. Belle and Sally might have been mean enough to try to drive them back, but at this point somebody interfered. A long window, like a door, opened and a lady looked out, shielding herself from the wind by holding the glass door. "Girls! Girls!" she cried. "You will be drowned out there. Come right in." "Fine!" gasped Amy, not at all under her breath. "Belle doesn't own the hotel, after all!" "It's Mrs. Olliver!" exclaimed Sally Moon in a shrill voice, as she and Belle came out of retirement and likewise approached the open window. "Come right in here," said the lady, cheerfully, as Jessie and her friends approached. "You are three very plucky girls. I saw you out in your boat when the storm struck you. Come in and I'll have my maid find you something dry to put on." "Oh, fine!" sighed Amy again. The trio of storm-beaten girls hastened in out of the wind and rain; but when Belle and Sally would have followed, Mrs. Olliver stopped them firmly. "Don't you belong in the hotel?" she asked. "Then go around to the main entrance if you wish to come in. You are at home." She actually closed the French window--but gently--in the faces of the bold duo. Amy, at least, was vastly amused. She winked wickedly at Jessie and Nell Stanley. "This will break Belle's heart," she whispered. CHAPTER XIX--BOUND OUT Jessie thought that the very wealthy Mrs. Purdy Olliver was no different from Momsy or Mrs. Drew or Nell's Aunt Freda. She was just polite and kind. Secretly the girls from Roselawn thought the lady was very different from Belle's mother and Mrs. Moon. Perhaps that fact was one reason why the unpleasant Belle Ringold had spoken in some awe of the New York woman. She had a really wonderful suite at the Hackle Island Hotel, for she had furnished it herself and came here every year, she told her young visitors. There was a lovely big bath room with both a tub and a Roman shower. "Though, you can believe me," said Amy, "I don't have any idea that many of the old Romans had baths like this. It was 'the great unwashed' that supported Cæsar. 'Roman bath' is only a name." "Wrong! Not about Cæsar's crowd, but about the Romans in general as bathers," answered Jessie. "Read your Roman history, girl. Or if not that--and you won't--some historical novels." "Humph!" sniffed Amy, but made no further reply. The girls laughingly disrobed and tried the shower, while the maid dried their outer clothing, furnishing each of the guests with kimono or negligee. Then they came out into Mrs. Olliver's living room and took tea with her. They did not get their own clothes back until nearly six o'clock, and saw nothing of Belle and Sally when they came out of the hotel. Perhaps that was because they left by Mrs. Olliver's private door and ran right down the steps to the beach where they had left the boat. The kind woman had asked them to come and see her again, and was especially cordial when she knew that Jessie was the daughter of the Mrs. Norwood who had been chairman of the foundation fund committee of the Women's and Children's Hospital of New Melford. "I think that idea of having a radio concert by which to raise funds for the hospital was unusually good," the New York woman said. "It was the first thing that interested me in radio-telephony. I mean to have a set put in here soon. There is a big one in the hotel foyer, but it does not work perfectly at all times." "Dear me," said Nell, as the girls descended to the beach, "you run into radio fans everywhere, don't you? How interesting!" The boat was all right, only half filled with water. The bathhouse man came and turned the craft over for them and emptied it. Jessie thanked and tipped him and he pushed them off. Jessie and Amy each took an oar and made Nell sit in the stern and nurse her blister. "It really is something of a blister," Amy remarked, looking at it carefully. "There's water in it already, and it hurts!" wailed the clergyman's daughter. "I see the water," declared Amy. "It may be an ever-living spring there. You know, people have water on the brain and water on the knee; but seems to me a spring in your hand must be lots worse." "You never will be serious," said Nell, half laughing. "If the blister was on your hand----" "Don't say a word! I think I shall have one before we reach the landing," declared Amy. "And, girls, what do you suppose that grouchy old fisherman will say when he sees we lost his rudder?" "He won't see that," replied Jessie. "What! Why, listen to her!" gasped Amy. "Is she going to try to get away before he misses the rudder?" "Not at all," returned her chum calmly, while Nell began to laugh. "It was _you_ who lost the rudder, Amy Drew. Nell and I had nothing to do with that crime." "Ouch!" cried Amy. "I wouldn't have lost it if it hadn't been for the thunderstorm coming down on us so suddenly. And that old fellow didn't warn us of any squall." "He warned us that squalls were prevalent on the bay," replied Nell. "He said he knew nothing about the weather. And I guess he told the truth." "There is a great lack of unaminity in this trio," complained Amy. "If I lost the rudder, didn't we all lose it?" When they reached the inlet, however, the old fisherman was just as surprising as he had been in the first place. "Don't blame me," he said when the girls came ashore. "I told you I didn't know anything about the weather. I wouldn't have been surprised if you'd lost the boat." "We only lost a part of it," said Amy quickly. "The rudder." "Well, it wasn't much good. I can find another around somewhere. Lucky to get the hull of the boat back, I am." "You didn't get the whole of it back, I tell you," said Amy, soberly. He blinked at her, and without even a smile, said: "Oh! You mean that for a joke, do you? Well, I don't understand jokes any more than I do the weather. No, you needn't pay me for the rudder. 'Tain't nothing." The trio had a good deal to talk about when they got home, but Darry and Burd came in at dinner with the news that the _Marigold_ was all ready for sea and that they would get under way right after breakfast the next morning. Dr. Stanley and his daughter and Jessie and Amy were to be the boys' guests on this trip, and the idea was to go along the coast as far as Boston and return. Mrs. Norwood had become used by this time to the boys going back and forth in the yacht and after her own voyage down to the island had forgotten her fears for the young folks. "I am sure Darry will not expose the girls to danger," she said to her husband. "But I am glad Dr. Stanley is going with them. He has such good sense." Henrietta wanted to go along. She did not see why she could not go on the yacht if "Miss Jessie and Miss Amy" were going. She might have whined a bit about it, if it had not been that she was reminded of the Radio Man. "You want to look out," Amy advised her. "You know the Radio Man is watching you and like enough he'll tell everybody just how bad you are." "Gee!" sighed Henrietta. "It's awful to be responsible for owning an island, ain't it?" The girls were eager to be off in the morning, and they scurried around and packed their overnight bags and discussed what they should wear for two hours before breakfast. Burd was not to be hurried at his morning meal. "No knowing what we may get aboard ship," he grumbled. "If it comes up rough there may be no chance at all to eat properly." "Now, Burd Alling!" exclaimed Amy. "How can you?" "How can I eat? Perfectly. Got teeth and a palate for that enjoyment." "But don't suggest that we may have bad weather. After that tempest yesterday----" "You'll have no hotel to run to if we get squally weather," laughed her brother. "I think, however, that after that shower we should have clear weather for some time. Don't let the 'Burd Alling Blues' bother you." "Anyway," said Jessie, scooping out her iced melon with some gusto, "we have a radio on board and we can send an S O S if we get into trouble, can't we?" "Come to think of it," said Darry, "that old radio hasn't been working any too well. You will have to give it the once over, Jess, when you get aboard." This made Jessie all the more eager to embark on the yacht. She was so much interested in radio that she wanted, as Amy said, to be "fooling with it all of the time!" But when they got under way and the _Marigold_ steamed out to sea there were so many other things to see and to be interested in that the girls forgot all about the radio for the time being, in the mere joy of being alive. Darry had shipped a cook; but the boys had to do a good deal of the deck work to relieve the forecastle hands. Stoking the furnace to keep up steam was no small job. The engines of the _Marigold_ were old and, as Skipper Pandrick said, "were hogs for steam." To tell the truth the boilers leaked and so did the cylinders. The boys had had trouble with the machinery ever since Darry had put the _Marigold_ into commission. But the young owner did not want to go to the expense of getting new driving gear for the yacht. And, after all, the trouble did not seem to be serious. The speed of the boat, however, was all the girls and other guests expected. The sea was smooth and blue, the wind was fair, the sun shone warmly, and altogether it was a charming day. Nobody expected trouble when everything was so calm and blissful. But some time before evening haze gathered along the sealine and hid the main shore and Hackle Island, too. Nobody expected a sea spell, however, from this mild warning--not even Skipper Pandrick. "This is a time of light airs, if unsettled," he said. "Thunderstorms ashore don't often bother ships at sea. There's lightning in them clouds without a doubt, but like enough we won't know anything about it." It was true the _Marigold's_ company was not disturbed in the least during the evening. After dinner the heavy mist drove them below and they played games, turned on the talking machine, and sang songs until bedtime. Sometime in the night Jessie woke up enough to realize that there was an unfamiliar noise near. "Do you hear it?" she demanded, poking Amy in the berth over her head. "Hear what?" snapped Amy. "I do wish you would let me sleep. I was a thousand miles deep in it. What's the noise?" "Why," explained Jessie, puzzled, "it sounds like a cow." "Cow? Huh! I hope it's a contented cow, I do, or else the milk may not be good for your coffee." "She doesn't sound contented," murmured Jessie. "Listen!" The silence outside the portlight was shattered by a mournful, stuttering sound. Nell Stanley sat up suddenly on the couch across the stateroom and blinked her eyes. "Oh, mercy!" she gasped. "There must be a terrible fog." "Fog?" squealed Amy. "And Jessie was telling me there was a cow aboard. Is that the fog-horn? Well, make up your mind, Jess, you'll get no milk from that animal." CHAPTER XX--SOMETHING SERIOUS The three girls did not sleep much after that. The grumbling, stuttering notes of the foot-power horn seemed to fill all the air about the _Marigold_. Darry told them at breakfast that he used this old-fashioned horn on the yacht because it took too much steam if they used the regular horn. "This is a great old tub," complained Burd, who had spent the previous hour at the device. "She makes only steam enough to blow the horn when you stop the engines. Great! Great!" "You'd kick if you were going to be hung," observed his chum. "Might as well be hung as sentenced to the treadmill. I suppose I have to go back and step on the tail of that horn after breakfast?" "You'll take your turn if the fog does not lift." "What could be sweeter!" grumbled Burd, and fell to on the viands before him with a just appreciation of the time vouchsafed him for the meal. Burd's appetite never failed. The fog, however, lifted. But it was a gray day and the girls looked upon the vessels which appeared out of the mist about them with an interest which was half fearful. "Suppose one of those _had_ run into us?" suggested Jessie. "And there is a great liner off yonder. Why, if that had bumped us we must have been sunk----" "Without trace," finished Amy, briskly. "The old cow's mooing did some good, I guess, Jess," and she chuckled. She had told the boys about her chum thinking there must be a cow aboard in the night, and of course they all teased Jessie a good deal about it. She laughed with them at herself, however. Jessie Norwood was no spoil-sport. The _Marigold_ steamed into the east all that afternoon. But the weather did not improve. The hopes of a fair trip were gradually dissipated, and even the skipper looked about the horizon and shook his head. "Seems as though there was plenty of wind coming, Mr. Darrington," he said to the owner of the yacht. "If these friends of yours are easily made sea-sick, we'd better get into shelter somewhere." "Where'll we go?" demanded Darry. "Here we are off Montauk." "With the direction the wind is going to blow when she gets going, we'd better run for the New Harbor at Block Island and get in through the breech there. It'll be calm as a millpond, once we're inside." When Darry asked the others, however, the consensus of opinion was that they keep on for Boston. "Can't we take the inside passage--go through the Cape Cod Canal?" asked Dr. Stanley. "That should eliminate all danger." "Oh, there's no danger," Darry said. "The yacht is as seaworthy as can be. But I don't want any of you to be uncomfortable." "I'm a good sailor," declared Nell. "You know Jess and I are used to the water," Amy hastened to say. "Let us go on, Darry." But the wind sprang up a little later and began to blow fitfully. The skipper considered it safer to keep well out to sea. Inshore waters are often dangerous even for a craft of as light draught as the _Marigold_. The crowd sat on deck, keeping as much as possible in the shelter of the deckhouse, and were just as jolly as though there was no such thing on the whole ocean as a storm. Dr. Stanley told them several of his funny stories, and amused the young folks immensely. In the midst of the general hilarity Nell went below for something. She was gone for some minutes and Jessie, at least, began to wonder where she was when she saw Nell's hand beckoning to her from an open stateroom window. Jessie got up and moved toward the place, wondering what the doctor's daughter had discovered that so excited her. "What is it, Nell?" Jess whispered. "Come down here--do!" exclaimed the other girl, her tone half muffled. "What is the matter?" Jessie exclaimed, in wonder. But she slipped around to the other side of the cabin, faced the gale, and reached the companionway. She darted down, being careful to shut tight the slide behind her. Already the waves were buffeting the small yacht and spray was dashing in over the weather rail. Jessie found some difficulty in keeping her feet in the close cabin. It was so dark outside that the interior of the yacht was gloomy. She groped her way to their stateroom, which was the biggest aboard. "What is the matter, Nell?" demanded Jessie, pushing open the door and peering in. Nell Stanley's face was white. She stood by the open window. At Jessie's appearance she began to sob and tremble. "I--I'm so frightened, Jess!" she gasped. "Why, you silly! I thought you said you were a good sailor?" "It isn't that," Nell told her. "Don't--don't you smell it?" "Don't I smell what?" "Come in and shut the door. Now smell--smell _hard_!" Jessie began to giggle. "What do you mean? Why! I see a little haze of smoke by the window. Do I, or don't I?" "I opened the window to let it out. But--but it comes more and more, Jessie," stammered the clergyman's daughter. "I believe the yacht is on fire, Jessie!" "Oh! Don't say that!" murmured Jessie Norwood, suddenly frightened herself. "When I came in the room was full of smoke and--don't you smell it?" "It doesn't smell very nice," admitted her friend. "Where does the smoke come from? Where _can_ it come from?" "It must come from below--from the hold under us." "But what can be burning? This is not a cargo boat," said the puzzled Jessie. "We don't want to frighten them all, especially if it amounts to nothing." "I know. That is why I called you first," Nell declared, anxiously. "I--I wasn't sure." "Well, I am sure of one thing," said Jessie confidently. "What is that?" "This is a very serious thing if it is serious. We must tell Skipper Pandrick at once. Let him decide what is to be done." "You wouldn't tell Darry?" "The skipper is responsible. We won't frighten the boys if we don't need to," and Jessie tried to open the door again. "Come on. Don't stay here and get asphyxiated." "It is all right with the window open," said Nell. She turned to follow her chum and saw Jessie tugging at the door-knob and stopped, amazed. The other girl used both hands, but could not turn the knob. She tugged with all her strength. "Why, Jessie Norwood! what is the matter with it?" whispered Nell, anxiously. "The mean old thing won't open! It's a spring lock. How did it get locked this way, do you suppose?" "You slammed it when you came in, Jess," Nell said. "But I had no idea that it could be locked that way. Especially from the outside. Oh, dear! Shall I shout for one of the boys? Shall I?" "Don't!" gasped Jessie, still struggling with the door-knob. "Don't you know if one of them comes here and sees this smoke, everybody will know it?" "They'll have to know it pretty soon," said Nell. "The smoke is coming in all the time, Jess." Jessie could see that well enough. She shrank from creating a panic aboard the yacht, realizing fully what a terrible thing a fire at sea can be. If this hovering fog of smoke meant nothing serious, their outcry for help at the stateroom window would create trouble--maybe serious trouble. Jessie had the right idea, if she could but carry it out--to tell the sailing master of the yacht, and only him. The brass knob seemed as firmly fixed in place as though it had never been moved since it came from the shop. Jessie, at last, came away from it. She peered out of the small window. If she could only catch the skipper's eye! But she could not. At that moment there was not a soul in sight from the window. She saw sea and sky, and that was all. "Oh dear, Jess!" murmured Nell Stanley, at last giving way to fear. "What shall we do? We'll be burned up in here!" "Don't talk so, Nell!" commanded Jessie. "Do you want to scare me to death?" "It's enough to scare anybody to death," proclaimed the minister's daughter. "I'm going to scream for father." "You'll do nothing of the kind!" her friend declared. "Shrieking about this will do no good, and may do harm. Can't you see----" "Not much, with all this smoke in my eyes," grumbled Nell. "Don't be a goose! If we yell, everybody will come running, and will get excited when they see the smoke." "But, Jess," Nell said very sensibly, "all the time we delay the fire is gathering headway." "If it _is_ a fire." "Goodness me! Where there's so much smoke there must be fire. How you talk!" "I don't want to be shown up as a 'fraid cat and a killjoy," cried Jessie. "The boys are always laughing at us, anyway, because we get scared at little things: mice, and falling overboard, and a puff of wind. I am deadly sick of hearing: 'Isn't that just like a girl?' So there!" "Well, for pity's sake!" gasped the clergyman's daughter. "That is just like a girl! Afraid of what boys will say of one! Not me!" "Girls ought to be just as fearless as boys, and have as much initiative. Now, Nell Stanley, suppose Darry and Burd were shut up in this stateroom under these circumstances. What do you suppose they would do?" Nell laughed aloud, serious as the situation was. "I guess Burd would put his head out of that window and bawl for help." "Darry wouldn't," declared Jessie, firmly. "He would know what to do. He would realize that it would not do to start a panic." "But if the door has been locked on us?" "Darry would know what to do with that old lock. He'd--he'd find a way. Find out what the matter with it was." Jessie sprang at the door again. She stooped down and looked at the under side of the brass lock. Then she uttered a shrill squeal of delight. "What is it now?" gasped Nell. "I've got it! There is a snap here that holds the knob so you can't turn it! I must have snapped it when I came in!" She jerked the door open and ran. "Come on, Nell!" "Well, of all things!" gasped her friend. But she followed her friend out of the stateroom. They ran as well as they could through the cabin and got out upon the open deck. Skipper Pandrick, in glistening oilskins and sou'wester was far aft with his glasses to his eyes. He was watching a dark spot upon the stormy horizon that might have been steamer smoke, or a gathering storm cloud. The girls ran up to him, but Jessie pulled Nell's sleeve to admonish her to say nothing that might be overheard by the other passengers. "What's doing, young ladies?" asked the skipper, curiously, seeing their flushed and excited faces. "Will--will you come below--to our stateroom--for a moment, Mr. Pandrick?" stammered Jessie. "There is something we want to show you. It is really something serious. Please come below at once." CHAPTER XXI--WORK FOR ALL The skipper looked rather queerly at the two excited girls, but he went below with them without further objection. In fact, Skipper Pandrick was a man of very few words; he proved this when Nell opened the stateroom door and he saw the smoke swirling about the apartment. "I reckon you girls ain't been smoking in here," he said grimly. "Then I reckon that smoke comes from below." "Is the ship really on fire?" gasped Jessie. "Something's afire, sure as you're a foot high," said the skipper vigorously, and stormed out of the stateroom and out of the cabin. There was a hatch in the main deck amidships. He called two of the men and had it raised. The passengers as yet had no idea that anything was wrong, for Jessie and Nell kept away from them. But they watched what the skipper did. He had brought an electric pocket torch from below and he flashed this before him as he descended the iron ladder into the hold. Almost at once, however, a whiff of smoke rose through the open hatchway. "Glory be, Tom!" said one sailor to his mate. "What do you make of that?" "You can't make nothing of smoke, _but_ smoke," returned the other man. "It's just as useless as a pig's squeal is to the butcher." But Jessie believed that the incident called for no humor. If there was a fire below---- "Hi, you boys!" came the muffled voice of Skipper Pandrick from below, "couple on the pump-line and send the nozzle end below. There's something here, sure enough." As he said this another balloon of smoke floated up through the open hatch. It was seen from the station of the passengers. Darry jumped up and ran to the hatchway. "What's he doing? Smoking down there?" he demanded. "It's sure a bad cigar, boss, if he's smoking it," said one of the men, grinning. "Oh, Darry!" gasped Jessie. "The yacht is on fire!" "Nonsense!" exclaimed the young man, rather impolitely it must be confessed. He started to descend into the hold. The skipper's voice rose out of it: "Get away from there! This ain't any place for you, Mr. Darry. Hustle that pipe-line." "Is it serious, Skipper?" demanded the young collegian, anxiously. "I don't know how bad it is yet. Tell the helmsman to head nor'east. Maybe we'd better make for some anchorage, after all." Darry ran to the wheelhouse. The other passengers began to get excited. Nell ran to her father and told him what she had first discovered. "Well, having discovered the fire in time, undoubtedly they will be able to put it out," said Dr. Stanley, comfortingly. But this did not prove to be easy. Skipper Pandrick had to come up after a while for a breath of cool air and to remove his oilskins. Darry and Burd got into overalls and helped in handling the hose. The steam needed to work the pump, however, brought the engines down to a very slow movement. The _Marigold_ scarcely kept her headway. The fire, which had undoubtedly been smouldering a long time, was obstinate. The water the skipper and his helpers poured upon it raised the level of water in the bilge until Darry declared he feared the yacht would be water-logged. Meanwhile the wind grew in savageness. Instead of being gusty, it blew more and more violently out of the northeast. When the helmsman tried to head into it, under the skipper's relayed instructions by Darry, the lack of steam kept the old _Marigold_ marking time instead of forging ahead. "If we have to put the steam to the pump to clear the bilge after this," grumbled the pessimistic Burd, "we'll never reach any shelter. Might as well run for the Bermudas." "Won't that be fine!" cried Amy. "I have always wanted to go to the Bermudas, and we've never gone." "Fine girl, you," retorted Burd. "You don't know when you are in danger." "Fire's out!" announced Amy. "The skipper says so. And I am not afraid of a capful of wind." There was more danger, however, than the girls imagined. The water that had been poured into the yacht's hold did not make her any more seaworthy. It was necessary to start the pump to try to clear the hold. The clapperty-clap; clapperty-clap! of the pump and the water swishing across the deck to be vomited out of the hawse holes was nothing to add to the passengers' feelings of confidence. Besides, the water came very clear, and at its appearance the skipper looked doleful. "What's the matter, Skipper?" asked Darry, seeing quickly that something was still troubling the old man. "Why, Mr. Darry, that don't look good to me, and that's a fact," the sailing master said. "Why not? The pump is clearing her fast." "Is it?" grumbled Pandrick, shaking his head. "Of course it is!" exclaimed Darry, with some exasperation. "Don't be an Old Man of the Sea." "That's exactly what I am, Mr. Darry," said the skipper. "I'm so old a hand at sea that I'm always looking for trouble. I confess it. And I see trouble--and work for all hands--right here." "What do you mean?" asked Jessie, who chanced to be by. "The pump works all right just as Darry says, doesn't it?" "But, by gorry!" ejaculated the skipper, "it looks as though we were just pumping the whole Atlantic through her seams." "Goodness! What do you mean?" Jessie demanded. "You think she is leaking?" asked Darry, in some trouble. "Bilge ain't clean water like that," answered Pandrick. "That's as clear as the sea itself. Mind you! I don't say she leaks more'n enough to keep her sweet. But if those pumps don't suck purt' soon, I shall have my suspicions." "Darry!" ejaculated Jessie, "your yacht is falling apart. What are we going to do?" "I don't believe it," muttered Darry. He had, however, to admit it after a time. It seemed as though the _Marigold_ were suffering one misfortune after another. The fire, which might have been very serious, was extinguished; but the yacht lay deep in the troubled sea, rolling heavily, and the water pumped through the pipe was plainly seeping in through the seams of her hull. "Goodness me! shall we have to take to the boat and the life raft?" demanded Amy. It was scarcely possible to joke much about the situation. Even Amy Drew's "famous line of light conversation" could not keep up their spirits. The wind continued to blow harder and harder. The yacht could no longer head into it. Dr. Stanley looked grave. Nell, first frightened by her discovery of the fire in the hold, was now in tears. To add to the seriousness of the situation, there was not another vessel in sight. CHAPTER XXII--A RADIO CALL THAT FAILED "Of course," Amy said composedly, "if worse comes to worst, we can send the news by radio that the yacht is sinking and bring to our rescue somebody--somebody----" "Yes, we can!" exclaimed Burd Alling. "A revenue cutter, I suppose? Don't you suppose the United States Government has anything better to do than to look out for people who don't know enough to look out for themselves?" "That seems to be the Government's mission a good deal of the time," replied Dr. Stanley, with a smile. "But you don't think it will be necessary to call for help, do you, Darrington?" he asked the sober-looking owner of the yacht. "Well, the fire's out, that's sure----" "You bet it is!" growled Burd. "It had to be out, there's so much water in the hold." "But we are not sinking!" cried Amy. "Lucky we're not," said Burd. "The radio doesn't work." "Why, how you talk," Nell said admonishingly. "You would scare us if we did not know you so well, Burd." "You don't know the half of it!" exclaimed the young fellow. "Fuel is getting low, too. Skipper wants us to work the pump by hand. That means Darry and me to 'man the pumps.'" "And we can help," said Jessie, cheerfully. "If the skipper thinks he needs to make more steam for the engines, why can't we all take turns at the pump?" "Sounds like a real shipwreck story," her chum observed, but doubtfully. "It will cause a mutiny," declared Burd. "I didn't ship on the _Marigold_ to work like Old Bowser on the treadmill. And that is about how I feel." "You can get out and walk if you don't like it," Darry reminded him. "And I suppose you think I wouldn't. For two cents----" Just then the yacht pitched sharply and Burd almost lost his footing. The waves were really boisterous and occasionally a squall of rain swooped down and, with the spray, wet the entire deck and those upon it. Jessie was not greatly afraid of the elements or of what they could do to the yacht. But she was made anxious by the repetition of the statement that the radio was out of order. Originally the _Marigold_ had had a small wireless plant, with storage batteries. Signals by Morse could be exchanged with other ships and with stations ashore within a limited distance. But when Darry had bought the radio receiving set he had disconnected the broadcasting machine and linked up the regenerative circuit with the stationary batteries. As he had explained to Jessie, both systems could not be used at once. They had found that neither the receiving set nor the old wireless set worked well. It looked as though the boys had overlooked something in rigging the new set and the radio girls quite realized that in this emergency a general and perhaps a thorough overhauling of the wires and connections would be necessary to discover just where the fault lay. Jessie called Amy, and they went up into the little wireless room behind the wheelhouse where everything about the plant but the batteries were in place. This was a very different outfit from that in the great station at the old lighthouse on Station Island, which they had visited several days before. "If we only knew as much as that operator does about wireless," sighed Jessie to her chum, "there might be some hope of our untangling all this and finding out the trouble." "He said he had been five years at it and didn't know so very much," Amy reminded her dryly. "Oh, there will always be something new to learn about radio, of course," her chum agreed. "But if we had his training in the fundamentals of radio, we would be equipped to handle such a mess as this. To tell you the truth, Amy, I think these two boys have made a cat's cradle of this thing." "And Darry spent more than a year aboard a destroyer and was trained to 'listen in' for submarines and all that!" "An entirely different thing from knowing how to rig wireless," commented Jessie, getting down on her knees to look under the shelf to which the posts were screwed. "Oh, dear!" she added, as she bumped her head. "I wish this boat wouldn't pitch so." "So say we all of us. What can I do, Jess?" "Not a thing--for a moment. Let me see: The general rules of radio are easily remembered. The incoming oscillations that have been intercepted by the antenna above the roof of the house are applied across the grid and filament of the detector tube----" "That's this jigger here," put in Amy, as Jessie struggled up again. "Yes. That is the tube. Through the relay action of the tube, an amplified current flows through the plate circuit--_here_. Now," added Jessie thoughtfully, "if we couple this plate circuit back--No! This is a simple circuit. It is like our old one, Amy. We can't get much action out of this set. It is not like the new one we are putting in the bungalow." "Well, the thing is, can we use it?" Amy demanded. "Can you link the power, or whatever you call it, up with the sending paraphernalia and get an S O S over the water?" "Goodness, Amy! Don't talk as though you thought we were really in danger." "Humph! I see the Reverend, as Nell calls him, out there with his coat off, in his shirt-sleeves, taking a turn with Burd at the pumps. They have rigged it for man power and are saving steam for the engines." "Let me see!" cried Jessie, peering out of the clouded window too. "You'd never think he was a minister. Isn't he nice?" Amy began to laugh. "Are all ministers supposed to be such terrible people?" "No-o," admitted Jessie, going back to the radio set. "But good as they usually are, we have the very best minister at the Roselawn Church, of any." "Yep. So we must plan to save him if anything happens," giggled Amy. "Let's open the switch and see if we can get anything," her chum said reflectively, picking up the head harness. "You mean _hear_ if we can get anything," corrected Amy. "Never mind splitting hairs, my dear. Is that the switch? Yes. Now!" She put on the rigging, but all she got out of the air, as she sadly confessed, were sounds like an angry cat spitting at a puppydog. "It isn't just static," she told Amy. "You try it. There is something absolutely wrong with this thing. See! We don't get a spark." "If we did we couldn't read the letters." "I believe I could read some Morse if it came slowly enough," said Jessie, nodding. "But it is sending, not receiving, I am thinking of, Amy Drew." Amy began to look more serious. Jessie was harping on a possibility she did not wish to admit was probable. She went out and, hunting up Darry, demanded to know just how bad he thought they were off, anyway. "Well, Sis, there is no use making a wry face about it," the collegian said. "But you see how hard the Reverend and Burd are working, and they can't keep ahead of the water. The poor old _Marigold_ really is leaking." "Is she going to sink? Can't we get to land--somewhere? Can't we go back to the island?" "Shucks, Sis! You know we are miles from Station Island. We are off Montauk--or we were this morning. But we are heading out to sea now--sou'-sou'east. Can't head into this gale. She pitches too much." "And--and isn't there any help for us, Darry Drew?" "We don't need any help yet, do we?" he demanded pluckily. "She is making good weather of it----" Just then the yacht rolled so that he had to grab the rail with one hand and Amy with the other, and both of them were well shaken up. "Woof!" gasped Darry, as they came out of the smother of spray. "Oh!" exploded Amy. "I swallowed a pail of water that time. Ugh! How bitter the sea is. Now, Darry, I guess we'll have to send out signals, sha'n't we?" "How can we? I've tried the old radio already. She is as dumb as the proverbial oyster with the lockjaw." "Jessie is going to fix it," said Amy, with some confidence. "Yes she is! She's some smart girl, I admit," her brother observed. "But I guess that is a job that will take an expert." "You just see!" cried Amy. "You think she can't do anything because she's a girl." "Bless you! Girls equal the men nowadays. I hold Jessie as little less than a wonder. But if a thing can't be done----" "That is what you think because you tried it and failed." "Huh!" "We radio girls will show you!" declared Amy, her head up and preparing to march back to her chum the next time the deck became steady. But when she started so proudly the yacht rolled unexpectedly and Amy, screaming for help, went sliding along the deck to where Dr. Stanley and Burd were pumping away to clear the bilge. She was saturated--and much meeker in deportment--when Burd fished her out of the scuppers. CHAPTER XXIII--ONLY HOPE The condition of the _Marigold_ was actually much more serious than the Roselawn girls at first supposed. Jessie and Amy were so busy in the radio house for a couple of hours and were so interested in what they were doing that they failed to observe that the hull of the yacht was slowly sinking. Fortunately the wind decreased after a while; but by that time it was scarcely safe to head the yacht into the wind's eye, as the skipper called it. She wallowed in the big seas in a most unpleasant way and it was fortunate indeed that all the passengers were good sailors. Nell came and looked into the radio room once or twice; then she felt so bad that she went below to lie down. The doctor worked as hard as any man aboard. And his cheerfulness was always infectious. The minister knew that they were in peril. He would have been glad to see a rescuing vessel heave into sight. But he gave no sign that he considered the situation at all uncertain or perilous in the least. The afternoon was passing. Another night on the open sea without knowing if the yacht would weather the conditions, was a matter for grave consideration. The doctor and Darry conferred with Skipper Pandrick. "'Tis hard to say," the sailing master observed. "There is no knowing what may happen. If the yacht was not so water-logged we might get in under our own steam----" "But we can't make steam enough!" cried Darry. "Well, no, we don't seem to," admitted the skipper. "And to what port would you sail?" asked Dr. Stanley. "Well, now, there's not any handy just now, I admit. If we head back for the land we may be thrown on our beam-ends, I will say. The waves are big ones, as you see." "You are not very encouraging, Skipper," said the minister. "I wouldn't be raising any false hopes in your mind, sir," said Pandrick. "You're a jolly old wet blanket, you are," declared Darry to the sailing master. "What shall we do?" "We'll have to take what comes to us," declared the skipper. "You are a fatalist, Mr. Pandrick," said the minister, and Darry was glad to hear him laugh cheerily. "No, sir. I'm a Universalist," declared the seaman. "And I've all the hope in the world that we'll come out of this all right." "But can't we do something to help ourselves?" demanded the exasperated Darry. "Not much that I know of. Here's hoping the wind goes down and we have calm weather and see the sun again." "Hope all you like," growled the young fellow. "I am going to see if the girls aren't able to bring something to pass with that radio." He found his sister and Jessie rearranging a part of the circuit on the set-board. They were very much in earnest. Thus far, however, they had been unable to get a clear signal out of the air, nor could they send one. "If we could reach another vessel, or a shore station, and tell them where the yacht is and that she is leaking, we'd be all right, shouldn't we, Darry?" Jessie asked earnestly. "But I am not at all sure we need help," he said, in doubt. "We may need it!" exclaimed his sister. "Why--yes, we may," he admitted, though rather grudgingly. "Then we want to get this fixed," Jessie declared. "But there is something wrong here. Do you see this Darry? It seems to me that there must be a part missing. When you and Burd set this up are you sure you followed the instructions of the book in every particular?" "Of course we did," Darry said. "Of course we didn't!" exclaimed Burd's voice from the doorway. "What are you saying?" demanded his friend, promptly. "What I know. Don't you remember that you lost the instruction book overboard sometime there, when we were getting the bothersome thing fixed?" "So I did," confessed Darry. "But, say! she was all right then." "She hasn't ever been all right," accused his chum, "and you know it." "We sent code signals by the old machine, all right." "But we've never been able to since we linked it up with this receiving set, and you know it," said Burd. "It sounds to me," said Amy, "as though neither one of you boys knew so awfully much about it." "I know one thing," said Jessie, with determination. "All the parts are not here. These connections are not like any I ever saw before. It is a mystery to me----" "Hold on!" exclaimed Darry Drew suddenly. "What did we do with all those little cardboard boxes and paper tubes the parts came in? Couldn't be we overlooked anything, Burd?" "Don't try to hang it on me!" exclaimed his chum. "I never claimed to know a thing about radio. You were the Big Noise when we put the contraption together." "Aw, you! Where did we put the things left over?" "There he goes!" exclaimed the confirmed joker. "He's like the fellow who took the automobile apart to fix it and had a bushel of parts left over when he was done. He doesn't know----" "Beat it out of here," roared Darry, "and find that box we put the stuff into. _You_ know." Dr. Stanley came up to the radio room while Burd was searching for the rubbish box. The clergyman spoke cheerfully, but he looked very grave. "Is there any likelihood of our being able to send out a call for assistance, Jessie?" he asked, quietly. "I don't see how we can, Doctor Stanley, until we fix this radio set. We can't get any spark. We have to be able to get a spark to send a message. The message will be stumbling enough, I am afraid, even if we fix the thing, for none of us understands Morse very well. Unless Darry----" "Don't look to me for help," declared the collegian. "I haven't sent a message since we put the yacht in commission. We had a fellow aboard here until the other day who knew something about wireless and he was the operator. Not me." "Amy and I have a code book with the alphabet in it," said Jessie slowly. "I think if somebody read the dots and dashes to me I could send a short message. But there is something wrong with this circuit." Just then Burd Alling came back. He brought with him a big corrugated cardboard container. In that the various parts of the radio outfit had been packed. "What do you think about it?" he asked. "There _is_ something here that I never saw before. See this jigamarig, Jess? Think it belongs on the contraption?" "Oh!" cried Jessie, eagerly, pouncing on the small object that Burd held out to her. "I know what that is." "Then you beat me. I don't," declared Burd. "Let's see what else there is," said Darry, diving into the box. "I left you to get out the parts, Burd; you know I did." "Oh, splash!" exclaimed his friend. "We might as well admit that we don't know as much about radio as these girls. They leave us lashed to the post." But Jessie and Amy did not even feel what at another time Amy would have called "augmented ego." The occasion was too serious. The day was passing into evening, and a very solemn evening it was. The wind whined through the strands of the wire rigging. The waves knocked the yacht about. The passengers all felt weary and forlorn. The two girl chums felt the situation less acutely than anybody else, perhaps, because they were so busy. That radio had to be repaired. That is what Jessie told Amy, and Amy agreed. The safety of the whole yacht's company seemed dependent upon what the two radio girls could do. "And we must not fall down on it, Jess," Amy said vigorously. "How goes it now?" "This thing that Burd found goes right in here. We have got to reset a good part of the circuit to do it. I don't see how the boys could have made such a mistake." "Proves what I have always maintained," declared Amy Drew. "We girls are smarter than those boys, even if the said boys do go to college. Bah! What is college, anyway?" "Just a prison," said Burd sepulchrally from the doorway. "Close that door!" exclaimed Jessie. "Don't let that spray drift in here." "Yes. Do go away, Burd, and see if the yacht is sinking any more. Don't bother us," commanded Amy. The men were keeping the pumps at work, but it was an anxious time. It was long dark and the lamps were lighted when Jessie pronounced the set complete. Darry and Burd came in again and asked what they could do? "Root for us. Nothing more," said Amy. "Jessie has fixed this thing and she is going to have the honor of sending the message--if a message can be sent." "Well," remarked Burd Alling, "I guess it is up to you girls to save the situation. I have just found out that there isn't as much provender as I was given reason to believe when we started. We ought to be in Boston right now. And see where we are!" "That is exactly what we can't see," said Jessie. "But we must know. Did you get the latitude and longitude from the skipper, Darry?" "Yes. Here it is, approximately. He got a chance to shoot the sun this noon." "The cruel thing!" gibed his sister. "But anyway, I hope he has got the situation near enough so some vessel can find us." "Let us see, first, if we can send a message intelligibly," said Jessie, putting on the head harness, and speaking seriously. "It will be awful, perhaps, if we can't. I know that the yacht is almost unmanageable." "You've said something," returned Burd. "The fuel is low, as well as the supplies in the galley. We haven't got much left----" "But hope," said Jessie, softly. CHAPTER XXIV--THE MYSTERIOUS MESSAGE Henrietta Haney was a very lonely little girl after the yacht sailed from Station Island. Not that she had nobody to play with, for she had. There were other children besides Sally Stanley of her own age, or thereabout, in the bungalow colony. And as she had been in Dogtown, Henrietta soon became the leading spirit of her crowd. She even taught them some of her games, and once more became "Spotted Snake, the Witch," and scared some of the children almost as much as she had scared the Dogtown youngsters with her supposed occult powers. She was running and screaming and tearing her clothes most of the time when she was away from Mrs. Norwood, but in the company of Jessie's mother she truly tried to "be a little lady." "Be it ever so painful, little Hen is going to learn to be worthy of you and Jessie, Mary," laughed Mrs. Drew, who was like her daughter in being able always to see the fun in things. "What do you really expect will come of the child?" "I think she will make quite a woman in time. And before that time arrives," added Mrs. Norwood, "she has much to learn, as you say. In some ways Henrietta has had an unhappy childhood--although she doesn't know it. I hope she will have better times from now on." "You are sure to make her have good times, Mary," said Mrs. Drew. "I hope she will appreciate all that Jessie and you do for her." "She is rather young for one to expect appreciation from her," Mrs. Norwood said, smiling. "But the little thing is grateful." Without Jessie and Amy, however, Henrietta confessed she was very lonely. Sometimes she listened to the radio all alone, sitting quietly and hearing even lectures and business talks out of the air that ordinarily could not have interested the child. But she said it reminded her of "Miss Jessie" just to sit with the ear-tabs on. She had heard about the older girls going to the lighthouse station to interview the wireless operator there, and although Henrietta knew that the government reservation at that end of the island was no part of the old Padriac Haney estate, she wandered down there alone on the second day of the yacht's absence and climbed up into the tower. The storm had blown itself out on shore, and the sun was going down in golden glory. Out at sea, although the waves still rolled high and the clouds were tumultuous in appearance, there was nothing to threaten a continuation of the unsettled weather. Henrietta had no idea how long it would be before the yacht reached Boston, although she had heard a good deal of talk about it. She had watched the _Marigold_ steam out of sight into the east, and it seemed to the little girl that her friends were just there, beyond the horizon line, where she had seen the last patch of the _Marigold's_ smoke disappear. The wireless operator had seen Henrietta before, cavorting about the beach and leading the other children in their play, and he was prepared for some of her oddities. But she surprised him by her very first speech. "You're the man that can send words out over the ocean, aren't you?" "I can send signals," he admitted, but rather puzzled. "Can folks like Miss Jessie and Miss Amy hear 'em?" demanded Henrietta. "Only if they are on a boat that has a wireless outfit." "They got it on that _Marigold_," announced Henrietta. "Oh! The yacht that sailed yesterday! Yes, she carried antenna." "And she carried Doctor Stanley and Miss Nell Stanley, too, besides the boys, Mr. Darry and Mr. Burd," said Henrietta. "Then they can hear you?" "If they know how to use the wireless they could catch a signal from this station." "Miss Jessie knows all about radio," said Henrietta. "She made it." "Oh, she did?" "Yes. She made it all up. She and Miss Amy built them one at Roselawn. That was before Montmorency Shannon built his. Well, Miss Jessie is out there on the _Marigold_." "So I understand," said the much amused operator. "I wish you would--please--send her word that I'd like to have her come back to my island." "Are you the little girl who owns this island? I've heard about you." "Yes. But there ain't much fun on an island if your friends aren't on it, too. And Miss Jessie is one of my very dearest friends." "I understand," said the operator gravely, seeing the little girl's lip trembling. "You would like to have me reach your friend, Miss Jessie----" "Her name's Norwood, too," put in Henrietta, to make sure. "Oh, indeed? She is the lawyer, Mr. Norwood's daughter. I have met her." "Yes, sir. She came here once." "And you wish to send her a message if it is possible?" "Yes, sir. I want you should ask her to get to Boston as quick as she can and come back again. We would all like to have her come," said the little girl, gravely. "I am going to be on duty myself this evening and I will try to get your message through," said the operator kindly. "The _Marigold_, is it?" and he drew the code book toward him in which the signal for every vessel sailing from American ports, even pleasure craft, that carries wireless, is listed. He turned around to his instrument right then and began to rap out the call for the yacht. He kept it up, off and on, between his other work, all the evening. But no answer was returned. The operator began to be somewhat puzzled by this fact. Knowing how much interested in radio the girls were who had visited him, he could not understand why they would not be listening in at some time or other on the yacht. He kept throwing into the ether the signal meant for the _Marigold's_ call until almost midnight, when he expected to be relieved by his partner. Towards ten o'clock there was some bothersome signals in the ether that annoyed him whenever he took a message or relayed one in the course of the evening's business. "Some amateur op. is interfering," was his expression. "But, I declare! it does sound something like this station call. Can it be----?" He lengthened his spark and sent thundering out on the air-waves his usual reply: "I, I, OKW. I, I, OKW." Then he held his hand and waited for any return. The same mysterious, scraping sounds continued. A slow hand, he believed, was trying to spell out some message in Morse. But it was being done in a very fumbling manner. Of course, half a dozen shore stations and perhaps half a hundred vessels might have caught the clumsy message, as well. But the operator at Station Island, interested by little Henrietta in the _Marigold_ and her company, felt more than puzzlement over this strange communication out of the air. "Listen in here, Sammy," he said to his mate, when the latter came in. "Is it just somebody's squeak-box making trouble to-night or am I hearing a sure-enough S O S? I wonder if there is a storm at sea?" "There is," said his mate, sitting down on the bench and taking up the secondary head harness. "The evening papers are full of it. Northeast gale, and blowing like kildee right now." "Arlington gave no particulars at last announcement." "Don't make any difference. The boats outside know it. Hullo! What's this? 'S-t-a-t-i-o-n I-s-l-a-n-d.' What's the joke? Somebody calling us without using the code letters?" "Don't know 'em, maybe," said the chief operator. "Set down what you get and see if it is like mine." The other did so. They compared notes. That strange message set both operators actively to work. One began swiftly to distribute over the Eastern Atlantic the news that a craft needed help in such and such a latitude and longitude. The other operator, without his hat, ran all the way to the bungalows to give Mr. Norwood and Mr. Drew some very serious news. CHAPTER XXV--SAVED BY RADIO Jessie Norwood was not tireless. It seemed to her as though her right arm would drop off, she pressed the key of the wireless instrument so frequently. They had written out a brief call of distress, and finally she got it by heart so that Amy did not have to read her the dots and dashes. But it was a slow process and they had no way of learning if the message was caught and understood by any operator, either ashore or on board a vessel. Hour after hour went slowly by. The _Marigold_ was sinking. The pumps could not keep up with the incoming water; the fuel was almost exhausted and the engines scarcely turned over; the buffeting seas threatened the craft every minute. Dr. Stanley remained outwardly cheerful. Darry and the others took heart from the clergyman's words. "Tell you what," said Burd. "If we are wrecked on a desert island I shall be glad to have the doctor along. He'd have cheered up old Robinson Crusoe." As the evening waned and the sea continued to pound the hull of the laboring yacht the older people aboard, at least, grew more anxious. The young folks in the radio room chattered briskly, although Jessie called them to account once in a while because they made so much noise she could not be sure that she was sending correctly. Darry tried to relieve her at the key, but he confessed that he "made a mess of it." The radio girls had spent more time and effort in learning to handle the wireless than the collegians--both Darry and Burd acknowledged it. "These are some girls!" Darry said, admiringly. "You spoil 'em," complained Burd Ailing. "Want to be careful what you say to them." "Oh, if anybody can stand a little praise it is Jess and I," declared Amy, sighing with weariness. Nobody cared to turn in. The situation was too uncertain. The boys could be with the girls only occasionally, for they had to take their turn at the pumps. It had come to pass that nothing but steady pumping kept the yacht from sinking. They were all thankful that the wind decreased and the waves grew less boisterous. Towards midnight it was quite calm, only the swells lifted the water-logged yacht in a rhythmic motion that finally became unpleasant. Nell was ill, below; but the others remained on deck and managed to weather the nauseating effects of the heaving sea. Meanwhile, as often as she could, Jessie Norwood sent out into the air the cry for assistance. She sent it addressed to "Station Island," for she did not know that each wireless station had a code signal--a combination of letters. But she knew there was but one Station Island off the coast. The clapperty-clap, clapperty-clap of the pumps rasped their nerves at last until, as Amy declared, they needed to scream! When the sound stopped for the minute while pump-crews were changed, it was a relief. And finally the spark of the wireless began to skip and fall dead. Good reason! The storage batteries, although very good ones, were beginning to fail. Before daybreak it was impossible to use the sender any more. Somehow this fact was more depressing than anything that had previously happened. They could only hope, in any event, that their message had been heard and understood; but now even this sad attempt was halted. Jessie was really too tired to sleep. She and Amy did not go below for long. They changed their clothes and came on deck again and were very glad of the hot cup of coffee Dr. Stanley brought them from the galley. The cook had been set to work on one of the pump crews. The girls sat in the deck chairs and stared off across the rolling gray waters. There was no sign of any other vessel just then, but a dim rose color at the sea line showed where the sun would come up after a time. "But a fog is blowing up from the south, too," said Amy. "See that cloud, Jess? My dear! Did you ever expect that we would be sitting here on Darry's yacht waiting for it to sink under us?" "How can you!" exclaimed Jessie, aghast. "Well, that is practically what we are doing," replied her chum. "Thank goodness I have had this cup of coffee, anyway. It braces me----" "Even for drowning?" asked Jessie. "Oh! What is that, Amy?" "It's a boat! It's a boat! Ship ahoy!" shrieked Amy, jumping up and dancing about, dropping the cup and saucer to smash upon the deck. "It's a steamboat!" cried Darry Drew, from the deck above. "Head for it if you can, Bob!" commanded Skipper Pandrick to the helmsman. But before they could see what kind of craft the other was, the fog surrounded them. It wrapped the _Marigold_ around in a thick mantle. They could not see ten yards from her rail. "We don't even know if she is looking for us!" exclaimed Dr. Stanley. "That is too bad--too bad." "Whistle for it," urged Amy. "Can't we?" "If we use the little steam left for the whistle, we will have to shut down the engines," declared Darry. "This is a fine yacht--I don't think!" scoffed Burd Alling. "And none of you knows a thing about rescuing this boat and crew but me. Watch me save the yacht." He marched forward and began to work the foot-power foghorn vigorously. Its mournful note (not unlike a cow's lowing, as Jessie had said) reverberated through the fog. The sound must have carried miles upon miles. But it was nearly an hour before they heard any reply. Then the hoarse, brief blast of a tug whistle came to their ears. "_Marigold_, ahoy!" shouted a well-known voice across the heaving sea. "Daddy!" screamed Jessie, springing up and dropping _her_ cup and saucer, likewise to utter ruin. "It's Daddy Norwood!" The big tug wallowed nearer. She carried wireless, too, and the _Marigold's_ company believed, at once, that Jessie's message had been received aboard the _Pocahontas_. "But--then--how did Daddy Norwood come aboard of her?" Jessie demanded. This was not explained until later when the six passengers were taken aboard the tug and hawsers were passed from the sinking yacht to the very efficient _Pocahontas_. "And a pretty penny it will cost, so the skipper says, to get her towed to port," Darry complained. "Say!" ejaculated Burd, "suppose she didn't find us at all and we were paddling around in that boat and on the life raft? _That_ would take the permanent wave out of your hair, old grouch!" The girls, however, and Dr. Stanley as well, begged Mr. Norwood to explain how he had come in search of the _Marigold_ and had arrived so opportunely. "Nothing easier," said the lawyer. "When the operator at the lighthouse station got your message----" "Oh, bully, Jess! You did it!" cried Amy, breaking in. "Did you send that message, Jessie?" asked her father. "Well, I am proud of you. The operator came to the house and told me. Although his partner was sending the news of your predicament broadcast over the sea, he told me of the tug lying behind the island, and that it could be chartered. "So," explained Mr. Norwood, "I left Drew to fortify the women--and little Henrietta--and went right over and was rowed out to the _Pocahontas_ by an old fisherman who said he knew you girls. I believe he pronounced you 'cleaners,' if you know what that means," laughed the lawyer. "Henrietta, by the way, was doing incantations of some sort over the wind and weather when I left the bungalow. She said 'Spotted Snake' could bring you all safe home." "Bless her heart!" exclaimed Jessie. That afternoon when the tug worked her way carefully into the dock near the bungalow colony on Station Island, Henrietta was the first person the returned wanderers saw on the shore to greet them. She was dancing up and down and screaming something that Jessie and Amy did not catch until they came off the gangplank. Then they made the incantation out to be: "That Ringold one can't have my island--so now! The court says so, and Mr. Drew says so, too. He just got it off the telephone and he told me. It's my island--so there!" "Why, how glad I am for you, dear!" cried Jessie, running to hug the excited little girl. "Come ashore! Come ashore! All of you!" cried Henrietta, with a wide gesture. "I invite all of you. This is my island, not that Ringold's. You can come on it and do anything you like!" "Why, Henrietta!" murmured Jessie, as the other listeners broke into laughter. "You must not talk like that. I am glad the courts have given you your father's property. But remember, there are other people who have rights, too." "Say! That Ringold one--and that Moon one--haven't any prop'ty on this island, have they?" Henrietta demanded. "No." "Then that's all right," said the little girl with satisfaction. "I'll be good, Miss Jessie; oh, I'll be good!" and she hugged her friend again. "And don't call them 'that Ringold one' and 'that Moon one,' Henrietta. That is not pretty nor polite," admonished Jessie. "All right, if you say so, Miss Jessie. What you say goes with me. See?" It took some time, after they were at home, for everything to be talked over and all the mystery of the radio message to be cleared up. The interested operator from the lighthouse came over to congratulate Jessie on what she had done. After all, aside from the girl's addressing the station by name, the message had not been hard to understand. And considering the faulty construction of the yacht's wireless and the weakness of her batteries, Jessie had done very well indeed. The young people, of course, would have much to talk about regarding the adventure for days to come. Especially Darry. When he learned what he would have to pay for the towing in of the yacht and what it would cost to put in proper engines and calk and paint the hull, he was aghast and began to figure industriously. "Learning something, aren't you, Son?" chuckled Mr. Drew. "Your Uncle Will pretty near went broke keeping up the _Marigold_. But I will help you, for I am getting rather fond of the old craft, too." "We all ought to help," said Mr. Norwood. "I sha'n't want you to scrap the boat, Darry, my boy. I like to think that it was my Jessie saved her from sinking--and saved you all. To my mind radio is a great thing--something more than a toy even for these boys and girls." "Quite true," Mr. Drew agreed. "When your Jessie and my Amy first strung those wires at Roselawn I thought they were well over it if they didn't break their limbs before they got it finished. When we get back home I think Darry and I would better put up aerials and have a house-set, too. What say, Darry?" "I'm with you, Father," agreed the young collegian. "But I won't agree to rival Jess and Amy as radio experts. For those two girls take the palm." THE END PEGGY STEWART SERIES By GABRIELLE E. JACKSON Peggy Stewart at Home Peggy Stewart at School Peggy, Polly, Rosalie, Marjorie, Natalie, Isabel, Stella and Juno--girls all of high spirits make this Peggy Stewart series one of entrancing interest. Their friendship, formed in a fashionable eastern school, they spend happy years crowded with gay social affairs. The background for these delightful stories is furnished by Annapolis with its naval academy and an aristocratic southern estate. The Goldsmith Publishing Co. NEW YORK, N. Y. CLASSIC SERIES Heidi By Johanna Spyri Treasure Island By Robert Louis Stevenson Hans Brinker By Mary Mapes Dodge Gulliver's Travels By Jonathan Swift Alice in Wonderland By Lewis Carroll Boys and girls the world over worship these "Classics" of all times, and no youth is complete without their imagination-stirring influence. They are the time-tested favorites loved by generations of young people. The Goldsmith Publishing Co. NEW YORK, N. Y. 
31393	----	BOOKS BY MARGARET VANDERCOOK THE RANCH GIRLS SERIES The Ranch Girls at Rainbow Lodge The Ranch Girls' Pot of Gold The Ranch Girls at Boarding School The Ranch Girls in Europe The Ranch Girls at Home Again The Ranch Girls and their Great Adventure THE RED CROSS GIRLS SERIES The Red Cross Girls in the British Trenches The Red Cross Girls on the French Firing Line The Red Cross Girls in Belgium The Red Cross Girls with the Russian Army The Red Cross Girls with the Italian Army The Red Cross Girls Under the Stars and Stripes STORIES ABOUT CAMP FIRE GIRLS The Camp Fire Girls at Sunrise Hill The Camp Fire Girls Amid the Snows The Camp Fire Girls in the Outside World The Camp Fire Girls Across the Sea The Camp Fire Girls' Careers The Camp Fire Girls in After Years The Camp Fire Girls in the Desert The Camp Fire Girls at the End of the Trail [Illustration: Sally and Lieutenant Fleury were Walking Side by Side Away from the Farm House.] THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS ON THE FIELD OF HONOR BY MARGARET VANDERCOOK Author of "The Ranch Girls" Series, "The Red Cross Girls" Series, etc. ILLUSTRATED PHILADELPHIA THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO. PUBLISHERS Copyright, 1918, by The John C. Winston Company STORIES ABOUT CAMP FIRE GIRLS List of Titles in the Order of their Publication The Camp Fire Girls at Sunrise Hill The Camp Fire Girls Amid the Snows The Camp Fire Girls in the Outside World The Camp Fire Girls Across the Sea The Camp Fire Girls' Careers The Camp Fire Girls in After Years The Camp Fire Girls at the Edge of the Desert The Camp Fire Girls at the End of the Trail The Camp Fire Girls Behind the Lines The Camp Fire Girls on the Field of Honor CONTENTS I. An Old House 7 II. Explanations 24 III. "A Long Time Going Over There" 39 IV. Chaperoning the Chaperon 47 V. The Confession 66 VI. A French Farm House on the Field of Honor 78 VII. Becoming Adjusted 98 VIII. The Old Château 113 IX. A Mystery 126 X. Breakers Ahead 138 XI. The Return 154 XII. Other Days and Other Ways 165 XIII. A Departure and an Arrival 176 XIV. A Warning 193 XV. The Discovery 205 XVI. An Unexpected Shelter 223 XVII. Two Officers 233 XVIII. The Expected Happens 254 XIX. The Field of Honor 263 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS Sally and Lieutenant Fleury were Walking Side By Side away from the Farm House Frontispiece Have You Nothing Better to do than Steal? 14 The Figure Was that of a Young Soldier 122 She and Old Jean Took an Entirely Opposite Direction 208 THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS ON THE FIELD OF HONOR CHAPTER I AN OLD HOUSE There are certain old houses in New York City built of rose-colored brick and white stone which face Washington Square. On this morning in early winter a light snow covered the ground and clung to the bare branches of the shrubs and trees. In a drawing-room of one of the old houses a young girl was moving quietly about at work. She was alone and the room was almost entirely dismantled, the pictures having been taken down from the walls, the decorations stored away and the furniture protected by linen covers. The girl herself was wearing an odd costume, a long frock made like a peasant's smock with an insignia of two crossed logs and a flame embroidered upon one sleeve. With her dark eyes, her dark, rather coarse hair, which she wore parted in the middle over a low forehead, and her white, unusually colorless skin, she suggested a foreigner. Nevertheless, although her mother and father were born in Russia, Vera Lagerloff was not a foreigner. However, at this moment she was talking quietly to herself in a foreign tongue, yet the language she was making an attempt to practice was French and not Russian. Since the entry of the United States into the world war, New York City had been exchanging peoples as well as material supplies with her Allies to so large an extent that _one_ language was no longer sufficient even for the requirements of one's own country. Finally, still reciting her broken sentences almost as if she were rehearsing a part in a play, Vera walked over to a front window and stood gazing expectantly out into the Square as if she were looking for some one. It was about three o'clock in the afternoon and the neighborhood was almost deserted. In the paths beyond the Washington Arch a few children were playing. Now and then an occasional man or woman passed along the street, to vanish into a house or apartment building. A few taxis and private cars rolled by, but not one made even a pretence of stopping before the rose-colored brick house. After about five minutes of waiting, sighing and then, smiling at her own folly, the girl turned away and began slowly to climb up the old colonial stairs leading to the second floor. "When will human beings cease demanding the impossible?" she asked of herself, yet speaking aloud. "I know that Mrs. Burton and Bettina cannot arrive for another half hour, nevertheless I am wasting both time and energy watching for their appearance." During the past month Vera Lagerloff had been the guest of Mrs. Richard Burton in her New York home. Together they had been closing the house for an indefinite period and making their final arrangements for sailing for France. Within a few days the American Sunrise Camp Fire unit, with Mrs. Burton as their guardian, was to set sail to help with the work of reclamation in the devastated area of France and also to establish the first group of Camp Fire girls ever recognized upon French soil. Since their summer "Behind the Lines" in southern California, Vera had been studying with these two purposes in mind. In the front of the house on the second floor Mrs. Burton's private sitting-room was to be left undisturbed until the day of her departure, and it was toward this room Vera was making her way. Except for the two servants, man and wife, engaged only a short time before, who were presumably busy downstairs, she supposed herself alone. Now as she approached the sitting-room, through the open door she caught sight of the blue and silver of the walls, a pair of old blue curtains and a tea-table decorated with a tea-service and a blue bowl of yellow jonquils. Then an unlooked-for sensation made the girl pause within a few feet on the far side of the threshold, almost holding her breath, for she had the extraordinary impression that the room she had presumed empty was already occupied. The next instant Vera discovered that a man was standing in front of a small mahogany desk endeavoring to break into a locked drawer. He had not heard her approach, for he did not turn toward her, nevertheless she immediately recognized the man and the situation. The day before, in order to meet the expenses of the journey to France, Mrs. Burton had drawn a large sum of money from bank, placing it in her desk for safe keeping. To the members of her own household she had made no secret of this, and now one of them was taking advantage of his knowledge. Vera recognized that she must think and act quickly, or it might be possible that all their hopes and plans for service in France would vanish in one tragic instant. In the bedroom in the rear of the hall she knew there was a telephone. Yet the moments occupied in having the telephone answered and in calling the police seemed interminable. In far less time surely the thief must have accomplished his design! Yet naturally after her call had been answered Vera knew she must return to make sure and equally naturally she feared to face the man were he still upstairs. In the right hand corner of Mrs. Burton's dressing table was a silver mounted pistol. This had been Captain Burton's parting gift to his wife before his own departure for Europe a few weeks before. Vera distinctly remembered her own and Mrs. Burton's nervousness over the gift and Captain Burton's annoyance. They were about to make their home in a devastated country recently occupied by the enemy and yet were afraid of so simple a method of self-protection! Vera had shared in Captain Burton's lecture and in his instructions. Moreover, ordinarily she was not timid, but instead possessed a singular feminine courage. So an instant later, holding the small pistol partly concealed by her skirt, Vera slipped noiselessly back again into the hall, moving along in the shadow near the wall. Within a few feet of the sitting-room suddenly the thief appeared in the doorway. The next instant, startled by her appearance, he made a headlong rush down the stairs with his purpose too nearly accomplished to think of surrender. As Vera followed she wondered if, when the thief reached the front door, where he must pause in opening it, would she then have the courage to fire? Much as she desired to secure the stolen money, she felt the instinctive feminine dislike of wounding another human being. Yet now she discovered that, in spite of having failed to notice the fact on her way upstairs, the front door was not locked. It had been purposely left slightly ajar so that there need be no dangerous delay. But before the thief actually reached the front door majestically it was flung open. From the outside a voice called "Halt." [Illustration: "Have You Nothing Better to do than Steal?"] Immediately after, instead of a policeman as she anticipated, Vera beheld one of the most singular figures she had ever seen. For the moment, in her excitement and confusion, she could not tell whether the figure was a woman's or a man's. A long arm was thrust forward, then, such was the thief's surprise, that he allowed the stolen pocketbook to be removed from his grasp without opposition. As Vera regained sufficient equanimity to cover him with her pistol she heard a rich Irish voice unmistakably a woman's, saying: "Sure, man alive and have you nothing better to do than steal when the world is so hard put for honest soldiers and workmen to carry on her affairs. Now get you away and pray the saints to forgive you, for the next time you'll not be let off so easily." Glad to take the newcomer at her word, the man vanished. Then before Vera could either move or speak, the surprising visitor marched up to her. "Put that pistol away, child, and never handle it again, or you will injure yourself! Now take me upstairs to Polly Burton's sitting-room and make me some tea, for the plain truth is I am famished. I have just arrived in New York from Boston, and travel in war times certainly has its drawbacks. But if you will wait I'll first bring my suitcase inside the hall until we feel more like carrying it upstairs." Before Vera could offer her assistance a shabby suitcase was brought indoors. Immediately after she found herself, not leading the way, but following the unexpected intruder to the second floor. Evidently the elderly woman was familiar with the house, for she made her way directly to the sitting-room and, seating herself upon the divan, began untying her bonnet strings. In spite of her own confusion and excitement and the visitor's surprising appearance, Vera believed herself in the presence of an important personage. She understood this, notwithstanding the fact that the woman's costume was conspicuously shabby and she herself extremely plain. The bonnet which she removed without waiting to be asked followed a fashion of about a quarter of a century before. When her traveling coat had been laid aside the black dress underneath was almost equally old-fashioned in design. "Here, child, please take this money and hide it in the same place, or find a safer one," she announced. "Yet it may be just as well not to mention the robbery to Polly Burton. She is sure to need more strength than she possesses to be able to start on this perilous journey to France almost at the beginning of winter, with only you foolish children as her companions. Besides, I presume Polly left the money in the most conspicuous place in the house; she never has learned not to trust the entire world. I allowed the thief to escape so we need give no further time to him. But tell me the whole story--who are you, how did the man get into the house and why are you here alone?" At last, in the first opportunity which had been vouchsafed her, Vera endeavored to explain what had occurred. As she spoke she could feel herself being observed with the keenest, most searching scrutiny. Yet for some reason, although never having heard the name or seen her companion before, she had no thought of disputing her visitor's right to whatever information she desired. The dark eyes in the weather-beaten old face were wise and kind; the manner belonged to a woman accustomed to being obeyed. Later Vera and her guest made a careful tour of the lower part of the house. Of course the cook had vanished soon after her husband. But they were downstairs in time to meet the police when they finally made their appearance. Vera opened the door, yet she stood aside to hear her companion announce. "You can go away again. No, we have no need of you, the telephone call was a mistake." Finally when the police had disappeared without requiring a great deal of persuasion, for the second time Vera followed her unknown companion upstairs. "You understand, child, it would have been the greatest interruption to our present plans if I had not permitted the thief to escape. Some one would have had to appear in court and doubtless Polly Burton would have had newspaper reporters coming to the house at all hours. They would have liked a story in which a woman of her prominence played a part." Fifteen minutes later, having presented the unexpected guest with the tea she had requested, Vera was sitting beside the tea table waiting to satisfy her further needs, when she caught the sound of a key being turned in the lock of the front door downstairs and the next instant Mrs. Burton's voice, followed by Bettina Graham's, calling for her. With a hurried apology and really fearful that her autocratic companion might attempt to detain her, Vera ran out of the room. Over the banisters she could see Bettina Graham, who had just arrived from Washington, and Mrs. Burton, who had gone down to the Pennsylvania station to meet her. Standing near Bettina was a girl whom Vera had never seen before. As soon as she joined them Bettina introduced her explaining: "Vera, this is Mary Gilchrist, who is going abroad to drive a motor in France. She had no friends with whom she could cross, and as we were intending to sail on the same steamer, I suggested when we met in Washington the other day that she might like to join our Camp Fire unit. At the depot I introduced her to Tante, who of course insisted that she come home with us rather than stay in a hotel alone." During this conversation, Mrs. Richard Burton, the Sunrise Camp Fire guardian of former days, having passed by the group of girls, was making her way upstairs alone. She had moved so quickly that, in her effort to be polite to Bettina's new friend, Vera had no opportunity to mention the presence of another stranger in the house. When she did murmur something, Mrs. Burton did not hear. Reaching her own sitting-room she gazed uncertainly for half an instant at the tall figure on the divan, who, having poured herself another cup of tea, was now engaged in drinking it. The next she clasped her hands together and with a manner suggesting both nervousness and apology, began. "Aunt Patricia, please don't say you have come to argue with me about taking my group of Sunrise Camp Fire girls to work with me in the devastated area of France. It is really too late now to interfere. I was finally able to secure my husband's permission." Miss Patricia Lord carefully set down her tea-cup. "Come and kiss me, Polly Burton, and tell me you are glad to see me. I don't like your fashion of greeting an unexpected guest. But there--you look tired out from too much responsibility before it is time to set sail! As a matter of fact, I have not come to try to _prevent_ your going to France. Has anybody ever made you give up anything you had firmly set your heart upon? But, mavourneen, I have come to go with you. Do you suppose for a moment, after receiving yours and Richard's letters telling me of your plans, that I dreamed of allowing you to undertake such a project as you have in mind alone? Why, you won't be able to look after yourself properly, to say nothing of more than half a dozen young girls! I am told there are eight hundred and forty thousand homeless people in the devastated districts of France at the present time and I cannot understand why you wish to add to the number. But as you will go, well, I am determined to go with you." A moment later, seated close beside the older woman, Mrs. Burton had slipped an arm inside hers and was holding it close. "Oh, Aunt Patricia, I am so relieved," she murmured. "I have not confided this fact to any one before, but sometimes I have been so nervous over the prospect of looking after my group of Camp Fire girls in France that I have wanted to run away and hide where no one could ever discover me. Of course I am not afraid of disaster for myself, Richard is in France and then nothing ever happens to me! Besides, no one has a right to think of oneself at present. But to be responsible to so many mothers for the safety of their beloved daughters! I rise up each morning feeling that my hair must have turned white in the night from the very thought. But if you are with me, why, I will not worry! Still I don't see just how you can arrange to sail with us; perhaps you can manage to cross later, but our passage has been engaged for weeks and----" Miss Patricia Lord arose and walked over to the tea table, where she devoted her energy to pouring her hostess a cup of tea. "You need not trouble about _my_ arrangements, Polly. I secured my ticket on the steamer upon which you are to sail some time ago and also my passport. I sent my trunk directly to the boat. Of course I am taking but few clothes with me, as a matter of fact, I have all I shall require in my suitcase downstairs. But later there will be many things necessary for our housekeeping in France of which you may not have thought." CHAPTER II EXPLANATIONS "Bettina, who on earth is Miss Patricia Lord? A more formidable lady I never imagined!" Sitting before a fire in their bedroom, which they had chosen to share so as to be able to talk for as long a time as they wished before retiring, were the two Sunrise Camp Fire girls, Bettina Graham and Vera Lagerloff. Both girls had changed conspicuously in manner and appearance since the summer before when they had been in camp together "Behind the Lines" in southern California. However, there comes a day in every girl's life when with entire suddenness she seems to understand and accept the revelation of her womanhood. To Bettina Graham had been given an added social experience. During the past few months, without being formally introduced into society, nevertheless she had been assisting her mother in receiving in their home in Washington. In spite of the fact that there had been but little entertaining on a large scale because of the war, Bettina had gone to occasional dinners and small dances, and on account of her father's prominence and her mother's popularity, had shared in the best opportunities. Moreover, Washington had never been so crowded with interesting men and women, and yet scarcely a day passed when Bettina did not whisper to herself that nothing could make her enjoy a conventional society existence. It was only because of the universal absorption in the war at the present time that society had become more endurable. But to continue the life indefinitely demanded an impossible sacrifice. One afternoon in late fall Bettina and her father, Senator Graham, in an hour of mutual confidence, imparted the information to each other that they regarded themselves as social failures. "You see, Bettina, my dear, I was not to the manner born in this social game and had no one to teach me until I married your mother," Senator Graham announced with a certain embarrassment. "Indeed, I never had entered a drawing-room until I was a grown man and then had not the faintest idea how the confounded thing should be done. You don't think you could have inherited a social awkwardness from me?" Then, fearing to have wounded his daughter's feelings Senator Graham added quickly: "I don't mean that you have not charming manners, little Betty, as charming as any in the world aside from your mother's. And personally I have not seen a prettier girl in Washington or elsewhere. But if you really are unhappy among strangers and would like to go to France with your old friends to help with the work over there, why, I will try to see how matters can be arranged. I don't think I would speak of your idea to your mother, not just at present, as there is no point in worrying her." In answer Bettina had laughed and promised. Always she was touched by her father's use of her old childhood name now that she had become nearly as tall as he himself was. "But, father, don't think I mind sharing a social disability with you. I am afraid my infirmity goes somewhat deeper," Bettina answered. "As a matter of fact, I heard one of mother's friends say the other day that there was no more brilliant or agreeable man in Washington society than Senator Graham, once he could be persuaded to throw aside his social hauteur and condescend to ordinary mortals," she continued, imitating the visitor's voice and manner, to the Senator's deep amusement. "But of course I won't annoy mother until I am sure our Camp Fire unit has a real chance of being accepted for the work in France. It is hard upon mother to have had Tony inherit all the family beauty and charm. However, he will make up to her some day for my failures!" Bettina was doing herself an injustice. In reality she was unusually handsome and as she grew older her tall stateliness increased her distinction. Tonight she looked especially attractive as she sat braiding her long yellow hair into two heavy plaits, with a blue corduroy dressing gown worn over her night-dress. "Aunt Patricia? It is odd, Vera, you have never heard her name mentioned! Yet I confess my personal acquaintance with Aunt Patricia also began this afternoon, although I have known of her for a long time and my mother is one of her great friends. "Years ago when Tante was first married Aunt Patricia arrived in this country from Ireland, and as she seemed to be frightfully poor she secured a position at the theatre as wardrobe woman. Right away she adopted Tante and Uncle Richard and they have been devoted to one another ever since. Later on Aunt Patricia's brother died, leaving her an enormous fortune. Then it developed that she had come to this country from Ireland because he had sent for her and afterwards had refused to live with him or accept a cent of his money because he would not do what she wished, or because for some reason or other she disapproved of him. "After Aunt Patricia inherited the money she has spent as little as possible for her own needs, but instead gives away large sums in eccentric fashions which appeal to her. Nevertheless I confess I am not happy over the prospect of her going to France to be with us, although Tante seems immensely relieved to have her companionship and our families will be glad to know she will not have to bear so much responsibility alone. It is a good deal of a task to look after seven or eight girls." Vera frowned somewhat ruefully. "But I thought we were going to France to care for other people not to be looked after ourselves. However, if Miss Lord's behavior this afternoon is a fair criterion I shall certainly become as a little child. For the entire time we were together I don't think I dared do anything except what she commanded. But isn't it wonderful that our entire Camp Fire unit is to go to France for the reclamation work? I thought when Mrs. Burton offered me the opportunity last summer that I should go alone." Within the past months Vera Lagerloff had also changed, but the transformation was unlike Bettina Graham's. After Billy Webster's death in California Vera had made astonishingly little open protest. But for that reason the effect upon her character had been the deeper. Since her earliest childhood there had been but little in her life for which she cared intensely, save her friendship with the odd dreaming boy, whose ambitions for his own future had absorbed so much of her time and thought. Until Billy died Vera really had never considered her own future apart from his. In many ways she was superior to the members of her own family, which in itself makes for a certain spiritual loneliness. Yet her parents were Russians, and Russia is at present offering more contradictions in human nature than any other race of people in the world. However, if her parents were peasants and had but little education, they had possessed sufficient courage to emigrate to the United States at a time when the Czar and autocracy ruled in their own land. Afterwards Vera's father had become a small farmer on Mr. Webster's large place, and here Vera and Billy had grown up together. But at least Vera's family made no effort to interfere with her. The other children appeared content to follow in the ways of their ancestors, living with and by the land. In a measure they were proud that Vera cared for books and people who could never be their friends. Yet perhaps Vera's character had been largely influenced by her one singular friendship. Now it remained to be seen what she could accomplish with her own life uninspired by a dominating affection. She was an unusual looking girl, and not handsome according to Anglo-Saxon standards. She was tall and ruggedly built, with broad shoulders and hips, indicating strength more than grace. Her heavy dark hair, growing low over her forehead, had a unique quality of vitality. Her nose and mouth were both a little heavy, although her mouth gave promise of future beauty, and she had the fine Slavic eyes with the slight slant. Vera and Bettina afforded a marked contrast. The one girl, whatever her brilliant father might say of his antecedents, showed only the evidences of high breeding, both its charm and limitations. Yet, thinking more deeply, was not after all Vera's the older ancestry since the first men and women must have been those who lived nearest to nature? At this moment, when the one girl finished speaking, leaning over Bettina rested her chin in her slender hand. She had not seen Vera for some time and was now trying to discover in her companion's face what she knew would never be confided to her, to what extent Vera had recovered from her sorrow over Billy Webster's death. But instead of speaking of this, Bettina continued: "Yes, it is extraordinary that our entire Camp Fire unit is so soon to cross over to France. I only wish the rest of us were as well prepared for the work as you are, Vera. You have been studying cooking and the care of children, besides the first aid and the farm work, which you must have known already? I was able to find time for only a short period of intensive study. Yet fortunately I know a good deal of French. Ever since I was a tiny child I have been speaking French and certainly I am familiar with our Camp Fire training and ideals. I only learned recently that, although there are organizations similar to our Camp Fire in England, China, Japan and Australia, there is none in France. Is it not a wonderful thing that we are to be the pioneers of the Camp Fire movement in France? Don't you feel that if we can arouse sufficient enthusiasm among the French girls to induce them to form a national organization it will bring American and French girls into closer touch with each other? "Do you know, Vera, so many times in the past year I have heard prominent men in Washington declare that the French, British, Italians and Americans, having fought together on common ground for a common ideal, can never in the future be anything but brothers in spirit. Yet never once have I heard any one speak of the same need for intimate association among the women of the different nations. Why is this not equally important? The women of the future must also acquire something of the new international spirit, must also learn to work and play together. I think our Camp Fire embodies all these inspiring principles and ideas for girls, and so I hope our work in France may be the beginning of an international Camp Fire organization all over the world." Vera Lagerloff, who had apparently been watching the flickering yellow and rose flames in their tiny fire while Bettina talked, now looked toward her and smiled. "Be careful, Bettina, you are a dreamer. Remember, the world has room for but a few dreamers. I suppose that is why Billy went away. After all, you know it is the small, hard sacrifices that are required of women and girls in time of war." Then getting up, Vera began walking up and down the room as if finding relief in action. "By the way, Bettina, have you heard the latest news from Gerry Williams?--oh, I should have said Gerry Morris, I forgot her married name." Vera went on, apparently desiring to change the subject: "She hopes to see us after we reach our headquarters in France, if she and her father-in-law are not too far away. I have sometimes wondered if Mr. Morris did not give the money he had recently inherited to help with the restoration work in France as a thank offering because Felipe was required to serve only a short sentence for having tried to escape the draft? Soon after he was permitted to enlist. Mr. Morris and Gerry are living in one of the tiny ruined villages, assisting the old men and women and children to rebuild their little homes." Bettina frowned, hardly aware that her expression had become slightly skeptical. "Yes, I was told that Gerry had sailed with her father-in-law, although so far as I know Felipe is still in an American training camp," Bettina replied. "But, Vera, I am not yet an enthusiast over Gerry. However, as we have never liked each other, perhaps I am not fair. I do not believe that people's natures ever entirely change, even if circumstances do affect one for a time. So I shall have to behold the miracle of a transformed Gerry before I am convinced of the change I am told has taken place in her." At this instant Bettina suddenly ceased speaking because a faint knock had just sounded on their bedroom door. When Vera opened the door another girl stood outside. She was small and dark and had an upward tilt to her nose and indeed to her entire face. "I know this is the hour for confidences and so I won't interrupt you long," she began. "Only I thought it might be just as well if I present you with a short outline of my history. Miss Graham was kind enough to allow me to travel to Washington with her after meeting me at the home of a mutual friend. She does not know much about me, so I think she is especially kind. But perhaps we girls are beginning to take one another more for granted! As a matter of fact, my name is Mary Gilchrist, although I am usually called 'Gill' by my friends, because my father insists I am so small I represent the smallest possible measure. I have no mother and have spent all my life with my father on our big Wheat ranch in Kansas. I suppose I should have been a boy, because I adore machinery and have been driving a car for years, even before the law would have permitted me to drive one. Of course I only motored over our ranch at first. Now I am hoping I can be useful in France. For the last few years I have been able to manage a tractor for the plowing and harvesting of our fields. My father has given me my own motor to take to France. He said he could do nothing less, since he had no son to devote to his country's service and, as he was too old to fight himself, felt he could do his best work in increasing our output of wheat. But I did not intend saying so much about myself, only to thank you and Mrs. Burton for agreeing to allow me to make the crossing with you. I shall try not to be a nuisance. Good-night." Then actually before Vera or Bettina could reply the other girl vanished. Yet she left behind her an affect of energy and warmth, her glowing, piquant face, the red lights in her brown hair, even the freckles on her clear, lightly tanned skin gave one the impression that courage and action were essential traits of her character. After she had gone Vera smiled. "Well Bettina, I believe your new friend is original, whatever else she may be." And Bettina nodded in agreement. CHAPTER III "A LONG TIME GOING OVER THERE" In a week Mrs. Burton and the Sunrise Camp Fire unit sailed from a port somewhere in the United States to a port somewhere in France. Not only were they accompanied by Miss Patricia Lord, but apparently they were led by her. Whenever any information had to be imparted it was always Miss Patricia who gave it and she also appeared to settle all questions and all disputes. Under ordinary circumstances the Camp Fire girls would have been annoyed, but at present they were too absorbed in a hundred interests and as many emotions to be more than vaguely aware of Miss Patricia's existence. Mrs. Burton, in spite of finding her own position frequently usurped and her opinions regarded as of small value, nevertheless from the moment of leaving New York felt a sensation of gratitude each time she glanced at Aunt Patricia's homely and uncompromising countenance. In time past they had weathered many storms together; if there were storms ahead Miss Patricia could be counted upon to remain firm as the Rock of Gibraltar. Difficult and domineering, yet behind her brusqueness there was great good sense. Moreover, Mrs. Burton knew that Miss Patricia possessed the gift of kindness which is the rarest of human qualities. The Irish humor was there also, although now and then it might be hidden out of sight and only used by Miss Patricia as she used her Irish brogue in moments of special stress. Conscious that her group of Camp Fire girls was not pleased by the addition of a new member to their party, Mrs. Burton hoped in time they might come to appreciate Miss Patricia's real value, although she made no effort to propitiate them at the start. The leave-taking these days is perhaps the hardest portion of the journey to France. One must say farewell with apparent cheerfulness to one's family and friends, assuming that whatever dangers may lie in wait for other people, for you there can be only plain sailing, since this is the gallant spirit these tragic times demand. But for the Camp Fire girls there was also a certain fear that they might find themselves unfit for the service they wished to offer. However, there was no faltering and no regret, but only tremendous inspiration in the knowledge that they were to be the first American Camp Fire girls to enter France upon a special mission and with a special message to French girls. Of the date or the port from which passenger vessels sail these days there is no published record. It is enough to state that the Camp Fire party sailed one morning in the early winter a little before noon from a small harbor south of New York City. The morning had been cold and rainy and the fog lay thick upon the water many miles from the land. In spite of the fact that their vessel was to form one of a convoy of a dozen ships, each boat left port at a different hour, to meet further out at sea. Soon after their own sailing, Mrs. Burton retired to her state-room. Aunt Patricia and the Camp Fire girls insisted upon remaining on deck for an indefinite length of time. At what point the United States considers her ships have entered the danger zone on this side of the Atlantic only persons who have lately crossed to the other side can know. When this hour arrived the Camp Fire girls were standing close together, although separated into small groups. Peggy Webster, Vera Lagerloff and Bettina Graham were talking to one another; Sally Ashton and Alice Ashton stood a short distance off with their arms about each other, drawn together only in moments of excitement. Within a few feet Marta Clark was beside Mary Gilchrist, with Aunt Patricia not far away, but apparently paying no attention to any of them. In truth, it was Aunt Patricia who gave the first signal. The ships which until now had been at some distance apart were deliberately forming into the position necessary for their convoy. It was almost as if they were making ready for a naval attack; the boats slowed down, mysterious whistles were blown, signals were run up. An hour or so later and the entire convoy, guarded by United States torpedo destroyers, were steaming rapidly ahead. Bettina Graham was leaning over the ship's railing looking toward the western line of the horizon through a pair of long-distance glasses. In another moment she offered the glasses to Vera. "I wonder if you can see the destroyers more distinctly than I can manage, Vera? The fog is so heavy and the boats are so nearly the same color. No wonder they are known as the 'gray watch-dogs of the sea!' I suppose one should feel safer because we are so surrounded, and yet in a way I am more nervous. Certainly the destroyers do not allow one to forget the reason for their presence, and I really had not thought a great deal of our danger from submarines until they appeared." For a few seconds as she stared through the glasses Vera made no reply. As she turned to present the glasses to Peggy, Vera shook her head. "Then I am a better American than you are, Bettina, because I most assuredly do not feel as you do. Our guard of destroyers gives me an almost perfect sense of security. It may be absurd of course and a kind of jingoism, but I do not consider that we can possibly come to grief, protected by our own navy." As they stood thus close together the Camp Fire girls were wearing the uniforms which had been especially designed for their trip abroad. Their ordinary Camp Fire outfit was of course not suitable; nevertheless the new costumes had been made to follow as closely as possible the idea and the model of the old. For military reasons they had chosen a darker shade of brown than the ordinary khaki color. At present over their serviceable brown serge traveling dresses they wore long coats of a golden brown cloth made with adjustable capes to conform with the changes of climate. The only suggestion of the Camp Fire was the insignia of the crossed logs with the ascending flames embroidered upon one sleeve. Their hats were of soft brown felt. In spite of the variety of striking and interesting uniforms on board ship, already the Camp Fire girls had excited a good deal of quiet attention. However, this may not have been due to their uniforms alone. As a matter of fact, they were younger than the other passengers and many persons were curious with regard to the work they were planning to undertake in France. Sailing upon the same vessel there chanced to be a Red Cross unit of twenty other girls who were to do canteen work among the French and American soldiers. But except for one conspicuous exception, this unit of girls was noticeably older. This made the one girl appear rather an outsider; moreover, the Camp Fire girls learned that she was not an American girl, but a French girl returning to her own country. There were no passengers on the ship who were not sailing to France for urgent reasons and for reasons which the United States government considered of sufficient importance to permit of their crossing. There were a number of business men whose affairs were not only of importance to themselves, but to the Allied interests as well. There was a medical unit with a staff of doctors, nurses and assistants, three or four newspaper and magazine men, one well-known woman writer. But the most distinguished among the travelers were several returning Frenchmen who had been in the United States upon a special mission. CHAPTER IV CHAPERONING THE CHAPERON One afternoon about midway in the voyage across the Atlantic, Mrs. Burton was seated upon the upper deck in her steamer chair enveloped in a fur rug and a fur coat. A small sealskin turban completely covered her hair, so only her face was revealed, her brilliant blue eyes, long slender nose and chin, and her cheeks upon which two spots of color were glowing. She was talking in French with a great deal of animation to a man who sat beside her. From his manner and appearance and also from his pronunciation it was self-evident that he was a Frenchman. Moreover, he revealed a certain intellectual distinction typically French. Monsieur Georges Duval was of middle age with clear-cut, aristocratic features, keen dark eyes and iron-gray hair. In comparison with him Mrs. Burton looked like a girl. It was just before tea time and the deck was crowded with the ship's passengers. Since no lights were permitted after dark, it was necessary to enjoy all the daylight possible out of doors. This afternoon was clear and lovely, with a serene blue sky and sea. A number of the Camp Fire girls were strolling about talking to new acquaintances. But if Mrs. Burton had any knowledge of their presence she gave no sign, being too deeply interested in her conversation with her present companion. "You are extremely kind, Monsieur, and I am most happy to receive any advice you can give me. Later on I shall probably ask for your aid as well. Now and then I have wondered if in coming to France to offer our services to your country many American women may not prove more of a burden than a help. I hope this may not be true of me or of my companions. We intend to settle down somewhere in one of the devastated districts and do whatever we can to be useful. But chiefly the group of girls I have with me want to offer their services to French girls. I have so often thought, Monsieur, that perhaps the greatest problem of the future rests with the young girls of the present day. When the war is over it will be their task to care for the wounded men and for many others whom these long years of warfare will have made unfit for work. More than this, there will be so many of these girls who can never have husbands or children. Our Camp Fire organization in the United States has a special message for the women of the future. But I must not bore you with this when you have so many matters of more importance to hold your attention." Monsieur Duval shook his head. "You are not boring me, Madame. You could not do that, but in any case remember you are talking to a Frenchman about the women of his own country. Sometimes I think we Frenchmen confuse our women and our country; to us they are so much one and the same thing. When we fight for France, we are fighting for our women, when we fight to protect our women we are fighting to save France. I do not believe the world half realizes what great burdens the French women bore after the Franco-Prussian war, only forty years ago, not only in working shoulder to shoulder with their men, but by inspiring them after a bitter and cruel defeat. The courage, the steadfastness which France has revealed in the four long years of this present war is one way in which we have tried to pay our immense debt to them." Unable to reply because of the tears which she made no effort to conceal, Mrs. Burton remained silent for a few moments. When she finally spoke it was with a kind of diffidence: "Monsieur Duval, has it ever occurred to you how strange it is that, aside from our American Revolution, most of the great modern wars for democracy have been fought upon French soil? I have thought of this many times and sorrowed over what seems the injustice to your race. Forgive me if I appear too fanciful! Recently I have recognized why France always is represented by the symbolic figure of a woman. She has endured the birth of the world's freedom inside her body and her soul." In Mrs. Burton's speech there was perhaps nothing original, but always there was the old thrilling beautiful quality to her voice which stirred her audience, whether large or small. Monsieur Duval did not attempt to hide both his admiration and interest in his companion. The second day out at sea they had been introduced to each other by Mrs. Bishop, the woman novelist, with whom Mrs. Burton had a slight acquaintance in New York City. Indeed, they had met only upon one occasion, but on shipboard one is apt to renew acquaintances which one would have considered of no special interest at other times. Since their original meeting Mrs. Burton and the French commissioner, whom she had discovered to be a member of the French senate as well, had spent several hours each day in talking together. There were many subjects in which they were both interested, although of course the war absorbed the greater part of their thought. "I only hope France may prove worthy of the sympathy and aid your country pours out upon her so generously. But I think when you reach France you will have no reason to complain of her lack of gratitude," the Frenchman answered. "Of course our cause at present is a common one and our soldiers are fighting as brothers. But long before your men fought with ours, you American women were rendering us every possible service. Please be sure if I can be of the least assistance to you in making your plans for work in France I shall be more than happy. In spite of all our conversations you never have told me definitely what it is you intend doing." Mrs. Burton smiled. A cool breeze was blowing in from the sea so that she hid herself closer inside her rug. "Just a moment then, Monsieur Duval, I will talk of our plans and then we must discuss something frivolous. Every morning as I waken I make up my mind not to speak of the war for at least a few hours, but somehow I never manage to keep my promise to myself. We intend undertaking a certain amount of reclamation work in one of the ruined French villages. Our present scheme is first to find an old farm house and establish ourselves there in order to make a home where our neighbors can come to us as they will. My Camp Fire girls thus hope to form friendships with the French girls and later to induce them to become interested in our Camp Fire ideas. "You may be amused, Monsieur Duval, but another thing we intend is to teach the French women and girls to make corn bread, so as to help in the wheat conservation. I was told by a woman in Washington, who had just come back from the devastated regions, that this would be a real service to France, if once we could persuade the French people to our use of corn. The Indians taught us. As our Camp Fire is more or less modeled upon their institutions, we hope to carry on the Indian message of the corn. But enough of this; you have been kind to listen to me so long." Monsieur Duval shook his head courteously. "What you say is interesting and worth while, Madame, but I have an idea that you need not personally give all of your own time to these efforts. These matters your companions and other women may be able to accomplish with equal success. But you, you probably will find more important work to do in France. Perhaps you will allow me to see you later. I do not wish our acquaintance to end with our voyage, and it may be I can persuade you to additional tasks. But in any case I hope you will talk personally with many of my country people, men and women; there is no one so well adapted to make our nations understand each other as a gifted and charming American woman. I have many friends in Paris and before you leave I trust I may be allowed the privilege of presenting at least a few of them to you." Feeling agreeably flattered, as any woman is flattered by the homage of a clever man, Mrs. Burton was about to reply, when suddenly the tall figure of Miss Patricia Lord appeared, rising before her like a pillar of darkness. She gave Monsieur Duval a curt nod; except for this she made no explanation of her presence, continuing standing until the courteous Frenchman felt constrained to offer her his chair. However, not until he had walked away did she condescend to accept his place and then she managed to sit perfectly upright, which is a _difficult_ feat in a reclining chair. "What is the matter, Aunt Patricia?" Mrs. Burton at once demanded, feeling suddenly disturbed by Miss Patricia's severe expression. "Surely nothing has happened to any one of the Camp Fire girls! I think I have noticed nearly all of them strolling about on deck in the past half hour." Gloomily Miss Patricia frowned. "I am not here to discuss with you the girls whom you are suppose to be chaperoning. I wish to speak of your conduct, Polly Burton. I have been considering the subject for the past twenty-four hours. Under the circumstances you might as well know _first as last_ that I do not approve of your present intimacy with this unknown Frenchman, this _Mr._ Duval." Miss Patricia scorned the use of the French title. "I have no idea of attempting to pronounce the foolish word the French employ for plain 'Mister.' However, you realize perfectly well that from the day following our sailing you have spent the greater part of your time in his society. Sorry as I am to speak of this, my respect for your husband compels me to warn you----" Here Aunt Patricia was interrupted by an explosion of laughter as fresh and ingenuous as a girl's. "My dear Aunt Patricia, really I beg your pardon, but I supposed you were coming with me to France to help me chaperon my Camp Fire girls! I never dreamed of your also feeling obliged to chaperon me. Remember, I am pretty old and never was particularly fascinating, even as a girl. I am afraid you will have a hard time to persuade my husband to jealousy. Richard is the fascinating member of our family! As a matter of fact, I have simply been boring Monsieur Duval for the past hour by discussing our plan of campaign after we reach France. You don't consider the subject a dangerous one?" But neither Miss Patricia's face nor figure relaxed. "I may not be original, Polly Burton; as a matter of fact, I have no idea that you _said_ anything of the least importance to your Frenchman. With you it is the old story; it is not _what_ you say, but the _way_ you say it. I have been watching you and you may pretend to have noticed the Camp Fire girls. However, if you tell the truth, you have not been aware of anything or anybody except Mr. Duval during the entire afternoon." At this moment Miss Patricia appeared so annoyed and suspicious that it was difficult for Mrs. Burton to decide whether she were the more amused or irritated. However, it made no difference; either attitude would be entirely lost upon Miss Patricia Lord. "I am sorry you don't approve of me," Mrs. Burton returned with a pretence of meekness, yet dropping her eyelids to conceal the expression of her eyes. "It is not that I do not approve of you, Polly, for I so seldom do that," Aunt Patricia replied. "It is that I also feel it _my duty_ to recall you to _your_ duty. You speak of having lately observed the Camp Fire girls wandering about near you. I feel it an effort to believe this because only a short time ago, while undoubtedly you were enjoying yourself with a foreigner concerning whom you know absolutely nothing, I discovered Sally Ashton seated upon a coil of rope in an obscure portion of this vessel, flirting outrageously with a young American physician. Your niece, Peggy Webster, is walking up and down the lower deck with a French officer; lower deck not the upper, mind you, where she might have been seen by you, although I doubt it. The other girls are----" By this time Mrs. Burton had become seriously annoyed. She was obliged to remember, of course, that Miss Patricia was a much older woman, yet, nevertheless her eyes darkened and her color deepened a little ominously. "Please Aunt Patricia, you are making a mistake," she began warmly. "I am not in the habit of spying upon my Camp Fire girls and I am sure you will never find such a proceeding necessary." Then, ashamed of the word she had employed, she continued more gently. "So you have been making a tour of investigation because you considered that I was neglecting my duty? All I can say, Aunt Patricia, is that you will always discover Sally Ashton flirting if there is an agreeable man in sight. I cannot make up my mind whether or not Sally is unconscious, yet flirting with her is either an instinct, an art, or both. However, every man who sees her immediately succumbs. But as for Peggy, Peggy is an absolutely trustworthy person! Did I not tell you that Peggy considers herself engaged to Ralph Marshall, who is in the aviation service in France at the present time? None of Peggy's family will acknowledge her engagement; we feel she is too young, yet Ralph's parents are old friends of my sister and brother-in-law. After a time I am sure you will understand the Camp Fire Girls better." There was undeniably a tone of condescension in Mrs. Burton's voice, and Aunt Patricia sniffed. "I understand the girls as well as I consider necessary, Polly Burton, and probably better than you do. I have always insisted that you have little knowledge of human nature. As for thinking that a girl of Peggy's age, with almost no experience of life, can have any idea of the character of man she could or should marry----" But here, realizing that Miss Patricia was mounted upon one of her favorite hobbies and that nothing she could say or do would stop her, Mrs. Burton, pretending to offer a polite attention, in reality allowed her mind to wander. Miss Patricia was usually antagonistic to all male persons safely past their babyhood. Among her friends it was an open question whether Aunt Patricia had been jilted at an early age, or whether she had never condescended to an admirer. "All men are idiots," is what she had been known to remark when hard pressed. Gradually Mrs. Burton allowed herself to slip back in her chair, resting her head more comfortably against a brown velvet cushion. It was strange that she had felt so little fear of the submarine menace during the present voyage, when she had expected to be fearful the entire way across. There were odd moments at night when one could not sleep, thinking of the possible, even the probable danger that might manifest itself at any moment. But aside from obeying the ship's rules with regard to life belts and lights, the keeping of one's state-room door unlatched, what was there to do save trust in a higher power? Actually at this moment Mrs. Burton, while presumably listening, was deciding that she was enjoying the very crossing to France she had so much dreaded. It would never do to shock Aunt Patricia, yet in a number of years she had not met so agreeable a man as the French senator. Moreover, she was entertained by the opportunity to form a new and stimulating intimacy with a clever woman. Mrs. Bishop, known to her public as Georgianna Bishop, having written several successful novels, was at present traveling to Europe to write of the American soldiers life in the trenches. In spite of the fact that Miss Patricia seemed also to regard Mrs. Bishop with disfavor, Mrs. Burton had invited her to spend a part of her time in France with them, if it could possibly be arranged. At this moment, if Miss Patricia would only stop talking, Mrs. Burton believed that she would like to have Mrs. Bishop sit beside her during the hour of afternoon tea. Tea would be served in a few moments. Perhaps, if Miss Patricia would decide to move, one of the Camp Fire girls would appear to act as messenger and find Mrs. Bishop. With this thought in mind, glancing carelessly up and down the deck, Mrs. Burton discovered Vera Lagerloff and Bettina Graham coming hurriedly toward her. What was more surprising, they were accompanied by the new friend with whom she had been talking a few moments before. Both girls looked so white and frightened that Mrs. Burton, making a hasty movement in attempting to jump up from her chair, found herself entangled in her steamer rug. As Monsieur Duval endeavored to extricate her, he said quietly: "I hope we have not alarmed you, but a most unfortunate accident has just occurred on board ship, which I hope may not develop into a tragedy. A young French girl, traveling with the American Red Cross unit, is supposed to have attempted to take her own life. I am by no means sure of this, she may be ill and have fainted from some cause. I was sent for, I presume because of my nationality, then some one suggested you." But before Monsieur Duval had more than finished speaking, Mrs. Burton was hurrying away, accompanied by Bettina and Vera. "I really do not know how to explain what has happened," Bettina continued. "You remember the French girl we have noticed because she appeared so much younger than the other members of her Red Cross unit? It seems that at the beginning of the war all her people were killed and her home in France destroyed, so that she is now entirely alone. She was living with friends in the United States, but suddenly decided that she wished to return to France. Unexpectedly she must have lost her courage. However, all Vera and I really know it what one of the other Red Cross girls told us, asking us to tell no one else." By the end of Bettina's speech, Mrs. Burton and the two girls had left the deck, and Vera was leading the way down one of the narrow corridors bordered on either side by small state-rooms. At the door of one of the rooms a woman in the uniform of a Red Cross nurse, after making a little motion to command silence, stepped quietly out. "There is nothing serious the matter, Mrs. Burton. It was hardly worth while to disturb you. At present the young French girl who was crossing with us to her former home is suffering from an attack of hysteria. As I have not been able to quiet her and as you are here, perhaps you will come and see what you can do." Then she turned to Vera and Bettina. "If there is any other story of what has occurred being told on board ship, will you please do your best to contradict it? A ship is a hopeless place for gossip. However, I am afraid Yvonne will scarcely be fit for the work our Red Cross unit expects to undertake. I must find some one to befriend the child after we reach Paris." Bettina and Vera moved away, followed by the older woman. At the same instant Mrs. Burton, entering the half open door of the state-room, discovered a young girl of about seventeen or eighteen, with large brown eyes and fair hair, lying huddled on the bed. She was not crying, yet instantly put up her hands before her face as if to escape observation. Mrs. Burton sat down on the edge of the berth beside her. CHAPTER V THE CONFESSION "Don't talk if you prefer not; perhaps you may be able to sleep after a little if I sit here beside you," Mrs. Burton said gently. "But I would prefer to be alone," the young French girl answered, speaking English with a pretty foreign accent. Instantly Mrs. Burton rose, intending to leave the tiny state-room; however, having gone but a few steps she heard the he same voice plead: "No, please don't leave me. I have been watching you and your friends ever since our ship sailed, and as I must talk to some one, I wish it to be you. If you only knew how sorry I am to have created a scene and to have given so much trouble, when everybody has been so kind." Then the girl began to cry again, but softly as if her desire for tears was nearly spent. Without replying Mrs. Burton took her former position. Occasionally she had a moment of thinking that perhaps after her years of experience as a Camp Fire guardian she was beginning to understand something of the utterly unlike temperaments of varying types of girls. Moreover, in spite of Aunt Patricia's judgment, her work had afforded her unusual opportunities for the study of human nature. Now, as she sat silently watching the young French girl in her effort to regain her self-control, Mrs. Burton realized that hers would be no ordinary story. Her friend had chosen to protect her by stating that she was suffering from an attack of nerves, yet this instant the girl was making an intense effort to gain a fresh hold upon herself both mentally and physically. "I am sorry," she repeated a moment later, "for I realize now I should never have made the attempt to return home to France, although I thought after nearly three years in the United States surely I had the courage! Still, for the past few days I have been becoming more and more convinced that I was going to fail, that I had not the strength for the work ahead of me. What you were told just now, that I had merely fainted, was not true. I had made up my mind that since I was not going to be able to be of service to my country I would not add to her burden. I could not do that; there had to be some way out, and I _had_ to find the way." Sitting up, Yvonne now leaned forward, resting her small head with its heavy weight of fair hair upon her hands, clasped under her chin. She was not looking at her companion. Her eyes held an expression which betrays an inner vision. "I did make an effort to do what you suspect. I wonder if I was wrong? Certainly I was unsuccessful, since I do not even feel ill in consequence. I suppose I ought to explain that I had written a note to apologize for the mistake I had made in urging the Red Cross unit to bring me with them to France and to say I regretted the distress and trouble I must give. Then as I was carrying the letter to the room of the friend whom you found here with me I think I must have fainted. She was shocked and angry when she learned what I had attempted to do and I have given my word I will not try again." Yvonne was silent for a moment and then added with another catch in her voice: "Do you think it wicked of me, because I am still a little sorry I failed in what I attempted? But I don't think you will when I have told you my history." Under ordinary circumstances Yvonne's broken and incoherent story would have annoyed Mrs. Burton. She had scant sympathy and could make but slight excuse for the neurotic persons who have no fortitude with which to meet life's inevitable disasters but expend all their energy in compassion for themselves. Especially did she resent this characteristic in a young girl, having grown accustomed to the sanity and the outdoor spirit engendered by the Camp Fire life. Moreover, one has at present no time or pity save for real tragedies. Yet Yvonne's attitude had not so affected her. Instead she realized that the girl's suffering had been due to a vital cause and that the secret of her action still remained hidden. "Had you not better rest and talk to me later?" Mrs. Burton inquired. "I think you are very tired, more so than you realize. After a time perhaps you will see things more clearly. You are young, Yvonne, to believe there is nothing more for you in life that is worth while." "I know that would be true if these were not war times, Madame," the girl answered. "Will you please listen to my story now? There may be no opportunity at another time." Slipping out of her berth, Yvonne proffered the one small chair the state-room afforded to her visitor. "Won't you sit here? You may be more comfortable," she suggested. Then she found a seat for herself on the lounge which ran along one side of the room. By this time the little French girl was looking so completely exhausted that Mrs. Burton would have liked again to urge her to wait. Yet after all perhaps it might be a relief to have her confession over! "I was living in a château with my mother and two brothers when the war began," Yvonne said, going directly to the heart of her story. "After the news came that war was declared and the Germans had invaded our country, my older brother, Andre, left at once to join his regiment near Paris. At that time we did not dream there could be danger near our home, which seemed so far from the front. I do not know whether you have noticed my name on our passenger list, Yvonne Fleury, and our home was called the Château Yvonne. It is not in existence any longer. But I am afraid I am not telling my story clearly. Sometimes I grow confused trying to remember when things actually happened, as they all came quickly and unexpectedly. After my brother and our men servants had gone my mother and I tried to carry on the work at the château as well as we could with only the women to help. We were not rich people; my father had died some years before, soon after my younger brother was born. But we had a good deal of land and a beautiful orchard. It seems strange to think that even the orchard has been destroyed!" As Yvonne talked she had a little habit of frowning, almost as if she were doubting the truth of her own story. Nevertheless, however unique and impossible her story might sound to her own ears, stories like hers had grown only too familiar since the outbreak of the war in Europe. A moment later and she seemed confused, as if scarcely knowing how to take up the threads of her own history. Afterwards she tried to speak more slowly, her voice sounding as if she were worn out both from her recent suffering and from the effort to recount her own and her country's tragedy. "For weeks after the war started we had almost no news of any kind to tell us what was taking place. My brother could not send us a letter, as all our trains were devoted to carrying our troops. Now and then, when an occasional motor car passed through our village, a soldier or an officer would drop on the roadside an _edition speciale de la Presse_. Perhaps one of the old peasants, picking up the paper, would bring it to our château. Afterwards a number of them would gather around while either my mother or I read aloud the news. In those first days the news was nearly always sad news." Then for a little while Yvonne made no effort to continue her story and Mrs. Burton understood her silence. "As soon as we could, my mother and I organized a little branch of La Croix Rouge in our village and did what we could. We had many people to help and so spent most of our time making bandages from old linen. We were told then that the wounded might be sent back across the Marne to be cared for by us and that our houses must be made ready to use as hospitals. But the wounded were not cared for by us, not in those early weeks of the war. You know what took place, Madame. Our soldiers were defeated; it is now an old story. One night when the battle line was drawing closer and closer to our home we were warned to flee. But my mother could not, would not believe the word when it came and so we waited too long. We had only a farm wagon and an old horse with which to make our escape, our other horses and car having been requisitioned for the army." This time, when Yvonne hesitated, Mrs. Burton had a cowardly wish that she would not go on with her story, so easy it was to anticipate what might follow. In this moment Yvonne lived over again the night in her life she could never forget. Instead of the soft lapping of the waves against the sides of the ship, the young French girl was hearing the booming of guns, the shrieking of shells and the final patter of bullets like a falling rain. "I would prefer not to tell you anything more in detail, Mrs. Burton," Yvonne afterwards added more calmly than one could have thought possible. "The night of our attempted escape we were overtaken by the enemy and my little brother was killed; a few days later my mother died of the shock and exposure. I don't know just how things happened. I remember I was alone one night in a woods with a battle going on all around me. Next morning I believe the Germans began a retreat. A French soldier found me and took me with him to the home of some French people. I think I must have been with them several weeks before I was myself again. Then I learned that our château had been burned and my brother reported killed. "One day an American friend, who had learned of our family tragedy, came to see me and decided that it would be wiser to take me home to his own family in the United States. I was so dazed and miserable he believed I would be happier there and would sooner learn to forget. Of course after a time I was happier, but of course one can never forget. So at last I persuaded my friends I must be allowed to return to my own country, that I must help my people who were still going through all that I had endured. My friends were opposed to the idea, but because I insisted, at last they gave their consent. Then after our boat sailed I felt I could not go back to France. I was afraid. I remembered the long night in the woods--the German soldiers----" Mrs. Burton's arms were about the girl. "Please don't talk any more of the past, Yvonne. Try to remember, my dear, that the enemy is no longer in the neighborhood of your old home. He has been driven further and further back until some day, please God, the last German soldier shall have disappeared forever from the sacred soil of France. "Sleep now, I shall sit here beside you. Later I will talk to you about joining my group of girls in France. You are not strong enough for the Red Cross work at present, but a great deal of our work will be among young French girls and you could be of the greatest aid to us if you care to help. Yet there will be time enough later to speak of our Camp Fire plans." However, when Yvonne had crawled back into her berth, more exhausted than she had realized, Mrs. Burton continued sitting beside her. Then, hoping the sound of her voice might be soothing and in order to help Yvonne to sleep and also because of the power of suggestion, she repeated a Camp Fire verse: "As fagots are brought from the forest, Firmly held by the sinews which bind them, I will cleave to my Camp Fire sisters Wherever, whenever I find them. "I will strive to grow strong like the pine tree, To be pure in my deepest desire; To be true to the truth that is in me And follow the Law of the Fire." CHAPTER VI A FRENCH FARM HOUSE ON THE FIELD OF HONOR "Is the French country more tragic or less so than you anticipated, Vera?" Peggy Webster inquired. She and Vera Lagerloff were walking along what must once have served as a road, each girl carrying a large, nearly empty basket on her arm. "Do you mean the actual country?" Vera questioned. "Then, yes, conditions are worse than I expected to find them, certainly in a neighborhood like this, where the work of restoration is only just beginning." She frowned, shaking her head sadly. "I could never have imagined God's earth could be transformed to look like a place of torment, and yet this countryside suggests one of the hells in Dante's 'Inferno.' But if you mean are the French people more tragic than I thought to find them, then a thousand times, no! Was there ever anything so inspiring or so amazing as their happiness and courage in returning to their old homes? The fact that their homes are no longer in existence seems not to discourage them, now their beloved land has been restored. When we have been working here a longer time I hope I shall recover from my desire to weep each time I see an old man or woman happily engaged in rebuilding one of their ruined huts. It is a wonderful experience, Peggy, this opportunity to appreciate the spiritual bravery of the French people. I hope I may learn a lesson from them. I have needed just such a lesson since Billy's death." For a moment Peggy Webster made no reply. The entire countryside through which they were passing lay between the line of the German advance into France at the beginning of the war and the famous Hindenburg line to which the Boches were forced back. The Germans had so devastated the French villages and country, it was as if the plague of the world had swept across them. The valley had also suffered the bombardment of the enemy and the returning fire from their own guns. Yet on this winter day the sun was shining brilliantly on the uptorn earth, which once had been so fair, while in a bit of broken shell not far from the road an indomitable sparrow had builded her nest. There were no shrubs and the trees were gaunt scarred trunks, without branches or leaves, reminding one of an ancient gloomy picture in the old-time family Bible, known as "Dry Bones in the Valley." "Well, even the French country does not make me sorrowful, not just at present," Peggy replied. "If only the enemy can be forced further back next spring when the expected drive takes place, what a wonderful opportunity for us to be allowed to continue to help with the restoration of the French country. I do not believe many years will be required before the land will be lovely and fruitful again. But then you know I am a tiresome practical person. You don't suppose by any chance this portion of France will ever be destroyed by the enemy a second time? Yes, I know even such a suggestion sounds like disloyalty and I do not of course believe such a tragedy could occur. Just think, Vera, what only a handful of American women have accomplished here in the Aisne valley! Ten American women have had charge of the rehabilitation of twenty-seven villages and with the aid of the soldiers during their leaves of absence from the trenches have placed five thousand acres of land under cultivation. I hope we make a success of our work, Vera, yet whatever the future holds, we must stick to our posts." The two Camp Fire girls were walking ankle deep in the winter mud. Where the roads had been cut into furrows by the passing of heavy artillery, miniature streams of melted snow ran winding in and out like the branches of a river. Now and then a gulley across the road would be so deep and wide that one had to make a flying leap to cross safely. About a quarter of a mile away the Aisne watered the countryside and the towns. Not far off was the classic old town of Rheims with her ancient Cathedral already partly destroyed. Encircling the landscape was the crown of low hills where not for days but years the tides of battle have surged up and down from victory to defeat, from defeat to victory, until during the winter of 1917 and 1918 there was a lull in the world conflict. Finally the two girls came in sight of a field. Already a devoted effort was being made to prepare the ground for an early spring plowing. Stray bits of shell, the half of a battered helmet, the butt of a broken gun had been laid in a neat pile, the larger stones had been placed beside them. Standing in front of a tiny hut which evidently had been partly burned down, were an old man and woman busily at work trying to rebuild their house. A small quantity of new lumber lay on the ground beside them. "Dear me, I wish I were a carpenter, a mason, a doctor, I don't know what else, and a million times a millionaire, then one might really be useful!" Peggy exclaimed, as she and Vera stopped to gaze sympathetically at the old couple. The next instant their attention was also attracted by a child who was sitting near the pile of broken stones and shells nursing something in her arms. At first she did not observe the two American girls, although they were facing her and not many yards away. Her shock of dark hair looked as if it had been cut from her head in the darkness, she had large unhappy black eyes and a thin, haggard face. Finally discovering the two older girls, with an unexpected cry of terror, she made a flying leap toward the house, still clasping her broken doll, and hid herself inside. At the child's cry the man and woman also turned as if they too were frightened and yet unable to flee. For an instant Vera and Peggy saw in their faces a suggestion of what they all too recently had endured. The next moment the old peasants were bowing and smiling with unfailing politeness. "Do you think we might speak to them, Vera?" Peggy inquired. "Of course we do not wish to be obtrusive, but I have a few groceries which I did not give away in the village still remaining in my basket. It is possible they might find them useful. How glad I am Yvonne Fleury is living with us! Already she has taught me more than I could ever learn in any other way about the French people, their gentleness, their infinite industry and patience and above all their beautiful manners. I hope no one of them will ever feel any American tries to help in a spirit of patronage; as for myself, each day I pray for a fresh gift of tact." Vera started forward. "Come with me, Peggy, I think I can persuade the two old people to realize we only wish to be helpful. You see, my own people were Russian peasants and there ought to be a bond of sympathy between us. It is true the French earned their liberty over a century ago, while our liberty yet hangs in the balance, now that German autocracy is trying to replace the Russian. I believe I am a better carpenter than these old people; if they are friendly I intend to ask them to allow me to return to assist them with their work tomorrow." Afterwards for ten or fifteen minutes the two girls remained talking happily with their new acquaintances. Like many other Americans, both Vera and Peggy had firm faith in their knowledge of the French language until their arrival in France. Assuredly they could understand each other perfectly as well as other Americans and English friends who spoke French slowly and deliberately. But unfortunately the French folk apparently speak with greater rapidity than any other nation on the face of the earth and with a wealth of idioms and unexpected intonations, leaving the foreigner who has never lived in France floundering hopelessly in pursuit of their meaning. In contrast with their other new French acquaintances the two American girls now found the old peasant and his wife a real satisfaction. Their vocabularies were not large and they spoke in a halting, simple fashion not difficult to translate. Their story was not unlike the story of thousands of other families in the stricken regions of France. During the period of victory the Germans had been quartered in the nearby village, but as the village was not large and the soldiers were numerous, a few of them had been sent to live with the small peasant farmers not far from the town. They were ordered not only to live upon them, but also to secure whatever livestock they owned, or whatever food of value. Père and Mère Michét had possessed a daughter and a son-in-law. The son they thought still alive and fighting for France. Their daughter, Marguerite Michét, had disappeared. "La petite Marguerite, she has never been herself since her mother was taken," Mère Michét explained. "I tell her always _la bonne mère_ will return, but she is afraid of strangers; you will pardon her?" When at last the girls had been permitted to leave their small offerings and had started toward their new home, Vera had agreed to return next day to render what assistance she could toward the restoration of the little house. Peggy was to come back in order to persuade the little French girl to make friends and perhaps pay them a visit at the farm. After walking on for a short added distance, both girls finally reached their own French farm house. It was now late afternoon and the old battered building appeared homely and forbidding. Once upon a time, with the French love of color, the farm house had been painted a bright pink, but now the color had been washed off, as if tears had rolled down the face of some poor old painted lady, smearing her faded cheeks. A fire had evidently been started when the Germans began their retreat, which for some freakish reason had died down after destroying only the rear portion of the building. After the arrival of the Camp Fire unit in France the entire party had gone straight to Paris as they planned, where their credentials had been presented to the proper authorities, as well as a brief outline of the work which they hoped to be allowed to undertake. Their idea was at once so simple and so practical that no objection was raised. The Camp Fire unit looked forward to establishing a community farm in one of the ruined districts of France. So after a short stay in Paris, following the advice of the American Committee, Mrs. Burton and Aunt Patricia set out to find a home for their unit. Later the Camp Fire girls joined them at the old farm house on the Aisne. Only a little time had passed, nevertheless the farm already suggested home. As Peggy and Vera entered the open space where a gate had once stood, they discovered the entire Camp Fire community outside in the yard. As usual, Aunt Patricia was giving orders to everybody in sight, while Mrs. Burton in her effort to be of assistance as she urged the others not to attempt too much, was fluttering about, as often as not in the way. As a matter of fact, the Camp Fire girls were paying but little attention either to her or to Aunt Patricia. Mary Gilchrist, a few moments before, having driven her motor into the farm yard, the girls were at present helping her to unload. After crossing to France with the Sunrise Camp Fire Unit, Mary had become so much one of them that she had concluded to remain with them for a time, certainly until she could find more useful work. Therefore her motor and her services were temporarily at their disposal. It is amazing what women and girls are accomplishing these days without masculine aid, and whether or not this is a fortunate state of affairs, the war has left no choice. Since they were both strong and energetic, Vera and Peggy were glad to have reached home at so critical a moment. However, the other girls were getting on quite comfortably without their aid. Bettina and Alice Ashton, having placed a plank at the end of the car, managed so that the large boxes and packing cases could slide onto the ground without being lifted. Nearly every box of any size bore the name of "Miss Patricia Lord." Finally, "Gill," for the Camp Fire girls were by this time calling Mary Gilchrist by her diminutive title, as she seemed to prefer it, standing up on the seat of her motor, began signaling for attention. "Be quiet for a moment everybody, please, and listen as diligently as you can. I am not a magician, nor yet a ventriloquist, yet if you will be perfectly silent you will think I am one or both." The next instant and Mary's audience became aware of an extraordinary combination of familiar noises proceeding from the depths of her motor. One felt like a guest at a "mad tea-party," although of a different nature from Alice's. The noises were a mingled collection of squawks and cackles and crowing, and pitched in a considerably lower key, a rich but unmistakable grunt. Alone Aunt Patricia appeared gratified, almost exultant. Stepping over toward the car with her long, militant stride, she gave her commands briefly. "Here, Vera, you have more brains than the other girls, help me to move these crates. Polly Burton considered it possible to run a community farm without a farm animal within twenty miles. But then she was not brought up on a small place in Ireland where we kept the pig in the parlor!" And here Miss Patricia's rich Irish brogue betrayed her cheerfulness for she only gave sway to her Irish pronunciation in moments of excitement. The next moment, not only with Vera's but also with Peggy's and Alice Ashton's aid, the four women dragged forward a large wooden box with open slats containing a noble collection of fowls, then another of geese and ducks. Finally with extreme caution they engineered the landing of a crate which had been the temporary home of a comfortable American hog and her eugenic family. "Good gracious, Aunt Patricia, how did you ever manage to acquire such valuable possessions?" Mrs. Burton demanded. "By ordering them shipped from my own farm in Massachusetts a month or more before we sailed for France and then by forwarding my address to the proper persons after we landed here," Miss Patricia answered calmly. Ignoring any further assistance, she began opening a box which was filled with grain. "I presume other things have arrived for me as well, Mary Gilchrist?" Miss Patricia questioned. Mary nodded and laughed. She looked very fetching in her motor driver's costume of khaki with the short skirt and trousers and the Norfolk jacket belted in military fashion. On her hair, which had ruddy red brown lights in it, she wore a small military hat deeply dented in the center. "Goodness gracious, Aunt Patricia, dozens of things!" she replied. "You must have chartered an entire steamer to bring over your gifts to the French nation. Best of all, there are two beautiful cows waiting for you in Soissons at this moment. I could not bring them in the motor, nor did I dare invite them to amble along behind my car. But I have arranged with an old man in the town to escort the cows out to our place tomorrow, or as soon as possible." No one did anything but stare at Miss Patricia for the next few seconds. Whether or not this condition of affairs made her unusually self-conscious, or whatever the reason, finally she rested from her labor of opening boxes to gaze first at Mrs. Burton and then slowly from one girl's face to the other's. "I don't mean to add to your burdens by asking any one of you to assist me in running my farm," she began in a tone which might have been considered apologetic had it emanated from any one than Aunt Patricia. "I intend to find an old man to help and to do the rest myself." Then a peculiar expression crossed the rugged old face. "You see, I was raised on a tiny farm in Ireland and used sometimes to know what it meant to be hungry until my brother came over to the United States and made a fortune in ways I am more or less ashamed to remember. I have been telling Polly Burton that I crossed over to France because I wished to look after her and also to help her care for you girls. But that was not the whole truth. I think I came largely because I could not sleep in my bed of nights knowing how many old people and babies there were in this devil-ridden portion of France who were hungry. Oh, there are many people as well as the governments interested in keeping the soldiers well fed! Maybe it's a crime these days for the old and for babies to require food! Yet they do need it. So if you don't mind, Polly, I want the people in our neighborhood to feel that they can come to our farm for milk and eggs, or whatever we have to give them. I left word with the manager of my farm near Boston to ship livestock to me in France whenever the chance offers. I am hoping after a little, when these old people get back on their farms that we may be able to give each family sufficient stock to keep them going until their young men and women return home. But remember, I don't wish to interfere with what you children are doing, nursing the sick and opening schools and starting play centers. Heaven only knows what you are not undertaking! As I said before, I'll just look after my farm." Here Miss Patricia attempted to return to her usual belligerent manner, but found it difficult because Mrs. Burton had placed her arm about her. Try as Aunt Patricia might to conceal her adoration of Mrs. Burton, it was nearly always an impossible feat. Besides Mrs. Burton was exclaiming with a little catch in her voice: "You dear, splendid, old Irish gentlewoman! Is there anybody in the world in the least like you? Of course you were right when you announced that I never would think of the really practical things we should require for our work over here. But, although I spent as much money as I could possibly afford, I have realized every day since our arrival, that if I had expended every cent I ever hope to possess, it would have amounted to nothing. Yet I never once thought of the shipping of stock for the little farms in our neighborhood, Aunt Patricia. I am sure you will make life more worth while for every man and woman in this part of the French country before many months." Instead of appearing gratified by these compliments, Miss Patricia was heard to murmur something or other about Polly Burton's fashion of exaggeration. Then, perhaps partly to conceal embarrassment, she began tearing the slats from the side of one of her crates. Afterwards, driving her travel-worn flock of chickens toward the chicken house, which she herself had made ready, and shooing them with her black skirt, Miss Patricia temporarily disappeared. Through tears Mrs. Burton laughed at the picture. Vera followed Miss Patricia, whom she had learned to like and admire since the afternoon of their extraordinary introduction. "I hope to be allowed to help with the farm work, Aunt Patricia," she urged. "You know I too was brought up on Mr. Webster's farm in New Hampshire, besides, all my people in Russia were peasant farmers." Miss Patricia did not cease for an instant to continue to care for her brood. However, she did answer with unusual condescension: "You are a sensible girl, Vera. I observed the fact on the afternoon I met you in New York City when you made no effort to argue with me in connection with the escape of that ridiculous burglar." CHAPTER VII BECOMING ADJUSTED It was not a simple matter for the Sunrise Camp Fire unit to become accustomed to their new life in the devastated French country. The conditions were primitive and difficult. More than once in the first few weeks Mrs. Burton wondered if in bringing the Camp Fire girls with her to work in France hers had not been the courage of folly? Tet they started out with excellent military discipline. Life at the farm house was modeled upon the precepts of the "Waacs," the Womans' Army Auxiliary Corps of the British army in France. These girls, many thousands in number, are performing every possible service behind the British armies in the field. Unexpectedly it was Sally Ashton who first demanded that a proper routine of life and work be laid down and obeyed. Also the household work must be equitably divided, each girl choosing her portion according to her tastes and talents. Each day's calendar, written by Mrs. Burton upon her typewriter, was hung in a conspicuous place in the front hall at the French farm. The domestic schedule read: "Breakfast 8 o'clock, bedrooms cleaned immediately after. Dinner 1 P. M. Supper 6.30 P. M. No work after 8.30 P. M. Bedtime 10 o'clock." In the proper observance of the hours for meals Sally Ashton was particularly interested, as she had volunteered to undertake the direction of the housekeeping, which consisted of deciding upon the menu of the simple meals and assisting in their preparation. It was not possible that Sally alone should do all the cooking for so large a family without wearing herself out and leaving no time for other things. However, soon after their arrival Mrs. Burton had secured the services of an old French woman whom she had discovered wandering about the country homeless, her little hut having been entirely destroyed by the Germans. Not knowing what else to do, Mrs. Burton originally invited her to live with them at the farm temporarily. But she had proved such a help in getting settled and the girls had become so fond of her that no one of them willingly would have allowed Mère Antoinette to depart. After the wonderful fashion of French cooks, Mère Antoinette could make nourishing and savory dishes out of almost nothing, so she and Sally had principal charge of the kitchen. Notwithstanding, two of the Camp Fire Girls were to prepare supper each evening, so that they should not forget their accomplishments and in order to relieve the others. Marie, Mrs. Burton's maid, had accompanied her to France, although none too willingly. It was not that she did not adore her afflicted country, but because she feared the dangers of the crossing and the hardships she might be forced to endure. Marie, alas! was a patriot of a kind each country produces, a patriot of the lips, not of the heart or hand. It must be confessed that she had wandered far from her chosen work as maid to a celebrated American actress. Would any one have dreamed in those early days when Marie had first entered her service that Mrs. Burton would have followed so eccentric a career as she had wilfully chosen in the past few years? First to wander about the United States, living outdoors in Camp Fire fashion with a group of young girls, then with the same group of girls and two additional ones to undertake the present reclamation work in France! Having accomplished the journey across the sea in safety, Marie would cheerfully, yes, enthusiastically have remained in Paris, even if it were a Paris unlike the gay city she remembered. She would have enjoyed accompanying her "Madame" to the homes of distinguished persons, caring in the meantime for her wardrobe and urging her to return to her rightful place upon the stage. But since Mrs. Burton for the present would do none of these things and since Marie had refused positively to be separated, once more she had to make the best of a bad bargain. So voluntarily Marie offered to take charge of the greater part of the housework and to devote the rest of her time to sewing for the French children in their vicinity, whose clothes were nothing but an odd assortment of rags. Marie had her consolations. It was good to be out of a country which produced men of the type of Mr. Jefferson Simpson, who having _once_ proposed marriage and been declined, had not the courtesy to renew his suit. Also it was good to speak one's own tongue again, and although at present there were but few men to be seen in the neighborhood under sixty, there were military hospitals in the nearby villages. Moreover, there was always the prospect of the return of some gallant French _poilu_ for his holiday from the trenches. So Marie was unable to feel entirely wretched even while undergoing the hardships of an existence within a half-demolished farm house on the Aisne. As a matter of fact, the old farm house was not in so unfortunate a condition as the larger number of French homes, which had been wrecked by the enemy before he began his "strategic retreat." Only a portion of the left wing of the house had been demolished. This had comprised a large kitchen, a pantry and the dining room. However, a sufficiently large amount of space remained for the uses of the Camp Fire unit. In the center the house was divided by a long hall. On one side were two comfortably large rooms. The back one was chosen for the dining room and the front for the living room. The pantry was restored so that it could serve for the kitchen; as the old stove had been destroyed, a new one was ordered from Paris. This developed into a piece of good fortune, as it required far less fuel than the old, and fuel was one of the greatest material problems in France, coal selling at this time for $120 a ton. A single long room occupied the other side of the hall; this room had a high old-fashioned ceiling and was paneled in old French oak as beautiful as if it had adorned a French palace. Mère Antoinette explained that the farm house had been the property of Madame de Mauprais, a wealthy French woman who had lived in the château not far away. It had been occupied by her son, who had chosen to experiment in scientific farming for the benefit of the small peasant farmers in the neighborhood. The war had banished Monsieur de Mauprais and whatever family he may have possessed, so that Mrs. Burton had been able to rent his farm for a small sum through an agent who lived in the nearest village. It is possible that the farm house had been spared in a measure by the German soldiers because of their greater pleasure in the destruction of the old château which was only about half a mile away. At the present time the château appeared only as a mass of fallen stone. This single spacious room the Camp Fire girls chose for their school room for the French children in the neighborhood. The better furniture of the farmhouse had been hacked into bits of wood by the German soldiers and was fit only for burning. The simple things had not been so destroyed. Fortunately their camping life out of doors had accustomed this particular group of American girls to exercising ingenuity, so that the problem of furnishing and making attractive their school room with so little to go upon rather added to their interest. Two long planks raised upon clothes-horses discovered in the barn formed a serviceable table. Stools and odd chairs were brought down from the attic. On the floor were two Indian rugs Mrs. Burton had induced the Indian woman near the Painted Desert in Arizona to weave for her with the special Camp Fire design, the wood-gatherer's, the fire-maker's and the torch-bearer's insignia, inserted in the chosen shades of brown, flame color, yellow and white. On the walls hung a few Camp Fire panels and the coverings of sofa cushions and some outdoor photographs of the Sunrise Camp during former camping experiences which the girls had brought over with them. Besides these larger articles, they had managed to store away in their trunks the materials necessary for the regulation Camp Fire work, honor beads and the jewelry indicating the various orders in the Camp Fire. If they were to interest French girls in the movement, they must have the required paraphernalia. But the school at the farm house was not primarily a place where the French girls of the neighborhood were only to be interested in Camp Fire ideas. It was also a practical school. During the past year Marta Clark had been studying kindergarten. She, with Yvonne to help her, had charge of the tiny French children whom they were able to persuade to come daily to the big farm house. They were such starved, pathetic children, some of them almost babies! Yet they had been through so much suffering, their eyes had looked upon such hideous sights, that many of them were either nervous wrecks or else stupefied. Surely there could be no better service to France than this effort to bring back to her children a measure of their natural happiness! Yvonne and Marta devised wonderful games in one end of the big school room. At midday Vera and Peggy always appeared with a special luncheon for their small guests and for the older ones as well. Bettina Graham and Alice Ashton took charge of the older pupils, and in teaching it appeared that Alice at last had found her metier. Vera and Peggy also worked at the farming out of doors. More important than any other of Miss Patricia Lord's gifts to the community farm and the surrounding country was a motor tractor, which one day had rolled unconcernedly into the farm house yard, an ugly giant, proving of as much future value to the poor farmers in the neighborhood as any good giant of the ancient fairy tales. Fortunately Mary Gilchrist was able to explain its use to the French peasants who had never seen the like before, and to show them how speedily their devastated land might again be turned into plowed fields. Vera and Peggy made frequent trips to the nearby villages, gaining the friendship of the country people, inviting the younger ones to their farm and helping in whatever ways they could. Now and then Sally Ashton went with them and sometimes Sally played with the smallest of the children, but nearly always her interests were domestic. In contrast, Mary Gilchrist never remained in the house an hour if it were possible to be away. Besides engineering the tractor and being a general express delivery for the entire neighborhood, she had formed the habit of motoring into Soissons, which was one of the large towns nearby, and offering her services and the use of her car to the hospitals. Occasionally she spent days at a time driving invalided soldiers either from one hospital to another, or else in taking them out on drives for the fresh air and entertainment. It would therefore appear as if each member of the Sunrise Camp Fire unit had arranged her life with the idea of being useful in the highest degree, except the Camp Fire guardian. As a matter of fact, Mrs. Burton often used to say that she found no especial reason for her presence at the farm now that Aunt Patricia had become the really important and authoritative guardian. Nevertheless, with that rare quality of personality which as a girl Polly O'Neill had infused into every interest of her life, there was nothing which took place at the farm or in the neighboring country which she did not in a measure inspire. Once their household had been adjusted, it was true Mrs. Burton did not do a great deal of the actual work. Instead, and oftentimes alone, she wandered from one end of the French countryside to the other, occasionally returning so late to the farm that Aunt Patricia would be found waiting for her at the front door in a state of fear and indignation. Nevertheless the country people began to watch and wait for her coming. After a time she brought newspapers with her. Then they began to gather together in one of the larger huts to listen while she read aloud the war news, with not always a perfectly correct French accent, and yet one they could understand. When they were weary of the reading she used to talk, speaking always of the day when France would be free and the invader driven beyond her boundaries, never to return. And among her audience were a few of the old peasants who could recall the Franco-Prussian war. How amazingly these talks cheered the old men and women! Actually the daily round of toil once more became worth while, so near seemed the return of Victor and Hugo and Etienne. They would be happy to find the little homes restored and the fields green that had been drenched in blood. Occasionally Mrs. Burton made her audience laugh until the tears ran down their wrinkled faces with funny stories of the trenches, of their own _poilus_, and the British Tommies and the new American Sammees. Never had the great actress used her talent to a better purpose. At least it gained for her from these simple and almost heart broken peasants the eternal tribute of laughter and tears. Her greatest triumph was when Grand'mère, one of the oldest women in the little village of M--, was at last persuaded to pour forth her story. In more than three years she had not spoken except to answer "Yes" or "No," or now and then to make known her simple needs, not since the Germans carried off her granddaughter, Elsie. Elsie was the acknowledged beauty and belle of the countryside and engaged to marry Captain François Dupis, who was fighting with his regiment at Verdun. Mrs. Burton had gotten into the habit of stopping at Grand'mère's tiny hut, which her neighbors had restored. At first she brought the old woman little gifts of food in which she seemed not to take the least interest. Now and then she talked to her, although the old woman seldom replied except to nod her head with grave courtesy. Then one day without any warning as Mrs. Burton was standing near, Grand'mère drew her new friend down into her lap and poured out her heart-broken story. It left the younger woman ill and shaken. Afterwards returning late to the farm alone and entirely unafraid, so completely had the country people become her friend, Mrs. Burton wondered what had given the French nation its present faith and courage. Nothing approaching it has the world ever before witnessed! Then she recalled that having paid so dearly for their freedom in those mad days of the revolution, the French people would never again relinquish the supreme gift of human liberty. CHAPTER VIII THE OLD CHÂTEAU One afternoon the French farm house was deserted except for Sally Ashton, Mère 'Toinette and Miss Patricia. As a matter of fact, Miss Patricia was not in the house, but in the farm yard which was separated from the house by a newly planted kitchen garden. It was here that she spent the greater part of her time working far more diligently than if she had been engaged for a few dollars a week. Yet in Massachusetts Miss Patricia Lord's three-hundred-acre farm was one of the prides of the state. In ordinary times she was accustomed to employing from twenty-five to fifty men, although always Miss Patricia acted as her own overseer. As she had announced, for the present she had managed to secure the services of an old French peasant, nearer seventy years of age than sixty, to act as her assistant. But Jean was possessed of a determination of character only equaled by Miss Patricia's. Not a word of any language did he know except French, while Miss Patricia's French was one of the mysteries past finding out. Also Jean was nearly stone deaf. This misfortune really served as an advantage in his relation with Miss Patricia, as he never did anything at the time or in the way she ordered him to do it, there was consolation in the thought that he had not understood the order. Jean had his own ideas with regard to farming matters and an experience which had lasted through more than half a century. Therefore with the assistance of Peggy and Vera the outdoor work on the Sunrise Camp Fire farm was progressing with surprising success. The supply of livestock had been increased by a second shipment from the United States. This shipment Miss Patricia had divided with her French neighbors. Beside old Jean there was at this time another rebel in Miss Patricia's camp, Sally Ashton. The other girls were frequently annoyed by the old lady, nevertheless, appreciating her gallant qualities and for the sake of their Camp Fire guardian, they usually agreed to her demands when it was impossible to evade them. But Sally was not fond of doing _anything_ she was told to do. Not that Sally was disagreeable, and it was not in her nature to argue, she simply ignored either suggestions or commands, always pursuing her own sweet way. This afternoon, for example, several of the girls had invited her to walk with them to one of the French villages. Once a week they distributed loaves of bread and a few grocery supplies to the neediest of the peasants, those who had been unable to rebuild their huts or find regular occupation. Sally had declined with entire frankness. She had done her duty by making the bread for the others to give away and more successfully than any one of the girls could have made it. She disliked long, fatiguing walks. Mrs. Burton had gone off alone on one of her dramatic pilgrimages. Mary Gilchrist had again motored into Soissons and Sally would have enjoyed accompanying her. To have driven about through the French country with convalescent soldiers would have been extremely entertaining. But Mary had not asked her, preferring to take Yvonne, whom the American girls all appeared to adore. So in consequence Sally was vexed and a little jealous. Observing the others depart and that apparently Sally had nothing of importance to occupy her, Miss Patricia had ordered her to come out into the yard and help with the young chickens. They seemed to be afflicted with some uncomfortable moulting disease. To this invitation Sally had made no reply. She especially disliked foolish, feathery outdoor things and had no intention of sacrificing her well-earned leisure. The school had a semi-weekly half holiday and for once the house was quiet. Yet after a little more than an hour of leisure, Sally found herself bored. Many times of late she had missed her old friendship with Gerry Williams, since this was her first Camp Fire experience without Gerry, who had married Felipe Morris the summer before in California. At least Gerry occasionally had been frivolous! Certainly these were war times and yet could one be serious forever and ever, without an intermission? The other Camp Fire girls now and then got upon Sally's nerves. As she was seldom warm enough these days, covered with her steamer blanket Sally had been curled up on the bed in her room which she shared with her sister. First she had taken a short nap and then attempted to read a French novel which she had discovered in the attic of the farm. The French puzzled her and it was tiresome to have to consult a dictionary. So Sally lay still for a few moments listening to Mère 'Toinette singing the Marseillaise in a cracked old voice as she went about her work downstairs. Finally, stretching in a characteristically indolent fashion, Sally rose and walked over to a window. She could only see through one small opening. All the glass in the countryside had been smashed by the terrific bombardments, and as there was no glass to be had for restoring the windows, glazed paper had been pasted over the frames. The one small aperture had been left for observation of climate and scenery. Even without her birdseye view, Sally was conscious that the sun was shining brilliantly. A long streak had shone through the glazed paper and lay across her bed. She decided that she might enjoy a short walk. She really had forgotten Mrs. Burton's suggestion that no one of the girls leave the farm alone and had no thought of deliberately breaking an unwritten law. Mère 'Toinette and Sally had become devoted friends and also there was an unspoken bond of sympathy between her and Jean, expressed only by the way in which the old man looked at her and in certain dry chucklings in his throat and shakings of his head. As Sally was about to leave the front door suddenly Mère 'Toinette appeared, to present her with a little package of freshly baked fruit muffins. Sally's appetite in war times, when everybody was compelled to live upon such short rations, was a standing household joke and one which she deeply resented. Mère 'Toinette resented the point of view equally, preferring Sally to any one of the other girls, and also it was her idea that the good things of this world are created only for the young. There was no measure to her own self-sacrifice. A few yards beyond the house Sally discovered old Jean, who was doubtless coming to find her, as he bore in his hand a French fleur-de-lis, the national wild flower, which he had found growing in a field as hardy and unconquerable as the French spirit. Sally accepted his offering with the smile of gratitude which seemed always a sufficient reward for her many masculine admirers. With Mère 'Toinette's gift in her Camp Fire knapsack and with Jean's flower thrust into her belt, Sally then made a fresh start. She had not thought of going far, as the roads and fields were in too disagreeable a condition. Pausing about an eighth of a mile from the farm house, she considered whether after all it were worth while to remain out of doors. Even if the afternoon were enchanting, walking through the heavy upturned soil was unpleasant. Then by accident Sally chanced to observe the ruins of the old French château shining under the rays of the winter sun. It was not far away and suddenly she made up her mind to go upon an exploring tour. Half a dozen times in the past few weeks the Camp Fire girls had discussed paying a visit to the château to see what interesting discoveries they might unearth among the ruins. But no one of them had so far had the opportunity. Ordinarily Sally Ashton was the least experimental of the entire group of girls. Instinctively, as a type of the feminine, home-staying woman, she disliked the many adventurous members of her own sisterhood. With not a great deal of imagination, Sally's views of romance were practical and matter of fact. Young men fell in love with one and she had no idea of how many lovers one might have and no thought of limiting the number so far as she was personally concerned. Then among the number one selected the man who would make the most comfortable and agreeable husband, married him, had children and was happy ever afterwards. So you see, a romance which might bring sorrow as well as happiness had no place in Sally Ashton's practical scheme of life. Therefore the fates must have driven her to the old French château on this winter afternoon. The walk itself occupied about half an hour. Around the château in times past there had been a moat. For their own convenience the German troops quartered at the old place had left the bridge over the moat undisturbed, else Sally would never have hazarded a dangerous crossing. The house had been built of gray stone and it was difficult to imagine how the enemy had managed so completely to reduce it to ruins. An explosion of dynamite must have been employed, for the château appeared to have fallen as if it had been destroyed by an earthquake. Certain portions of the outer walls remained standing, but the towers in the center had caved in upon the interior of the house. [Illustration: The Figure Was that of a Young Soldier.] As Sally drew near she felt a little desolate and yet she was not frightened, although a proverbial coward. The place appeared too abandoned to fear that any living thing could be in its vicinity. It was only that one felt the pity of the destruction of this ancient and beautiful home. The waste and confusion of war troubled Sally as it does all women. So hard it is to see why destruction is necessary to the growth and development of human history! Wondering what had become of the French family who formerly had lived in the château before the outbreak of the war, Sally walked up closer to the ruins. From a space between two walls, forming an insecure arch, a bird darted out into the daylight. Not ordinarily influenced by the beauties of nature or by unexpected expressions of her moods, nevertheless Sally uttered a cry of enchantment. Between the walls she had spied the ruins of an old French drawing room. The bird must have flown through the opening into the room and then quickly out again into the sunshine. A little table remained standing with an open book upon it, laid face down. There was a rug on the floor, now thick with mould, and yet it was a rare Aubusson rug with sturdy cupids trailing flowery vines across its surface. There were pieces of broken furniture and bric-a-brac strewn over the floor. Sally must have continued staring inside the room for several moments before she slowly became aware that there was a human figure seated in a chair in the shadow near one of the half fallen walls. The figure was that of a young soldier. He was asleep when Sally discovered him and incredibly dirty. His hair was long and matted, hanging thick over his forehead. One arm was wrapped in a soiled bandage. Yet Sally did not feel frightened, only faint and ill for an instant from pity. Coming to their farm house after a few days in Paris, Sally had seen trains filled with wounded soldiers. In Paris she also had noticed blinded and invalided men being led along the streets by their families or friends, yet never so piteous a figure as this. CHAPTER IX A MYSTERY Sally's little cry of astonishment must have awakened the soldier. The terror on his face when he first beheld her took away any thought of fear from the girl. Besides it was all too strange! Why should he, a soldier, be afraid, and of her? And why should he be in hiding in this queer tumble-down old place? For he _was_ in hiding, there was no doubt of this from his furtive manner. Some instinct in Sally, or perhaps the fact that she had seen so much hunger since her arrival in this portion of France, made her immediately take out her little package of bread which Mère 'Toinette had given her and thrust it forward. She was standing framed in the arch made by the two fallen walls, not having moved since the moment of her amazing discovery. The soldier's hunger was greater than his fear, for he almost snatched the food from Sally's hands and, as he ate it she could not bear watching him. There is something dreadful in the sight of a human being ravenously hungry. Afterwards, when he did not speak, Sally found herself making the first remarks, and unconsciously and stupidly, not realizing what she was doing at the moment, she spoke in English. The next instant, to her surprise, the soldier replied in the same tongue, although it seemed to Sally that he spoke with a foreign accent, what the accent was she did not know. Sally had not a great deal of experience, neither was she particularly clever. "What are you doing here?" is what she naturally inquired. The soldier hesitated and placed his hand to his forehead, looking at the girl dazedly. "Why am I hiding here?" he repeated. Then almost childishly he went on: "I am hiding, hiding because no one must find me, else I would be shot at once. I don't know how long I have been here alone. I am very cold." "But I don't understand your reason," Sally argued. "Why don't you find some one to take care of you? You cannot be living here; besides you could not have been here long without food or water or you would have died." "But I have had a little food and water," the soldier replied. "I found a few cans of food in a closet and there is water in one of the rooms." His voice had a complaining note which was an expression of suffering if one had understood. Then his face was feverish and wretched. "But you don't look as if you had used much water," Sally remarked in her usual matter-of-fact fashion. She had a way of pursuing her own first idea without being influenced by other considerations. "It is hard work when one's arm is like this," the soldier returned fretfully. Again Sally surveyed the soiled bandage with disfavor. Apparently it had not been changed in many days, since it was encrusted with dirt and blood and having slipped had been pulled awkwardly back into place. Temprementally, Sally Ashton hated the sight of blood and suffering. In the years of the Camp Fire training she had been obliged to study first aid, but she had left the practical application to the other girls. Her own tastes were domestic and she therefore had devoted her time to domestic affairs. Now something must be done for the soldier whose presence in the old château and whose behavior were equally puzzling, and as there was no one else, Sally had no idea of shirking the immediate task. In her Camp Fire kit she always carried first aid supplies. "If you will go to the room where you found the water and wash your arm as thoroughly as you can I will put on a fresh bandage for you," she offered. "Don't argue and don't be long, for something simply has to be done for you, you are in such a dreadful condition." Even in the midst of feeling a little like Florence Nightingale, Sally preserved a due amount of caution. She had no idea of wandering about a tumble-down château with a strange soldier. In reality she was not so much afraid of him as of the house itself. She had the impression that the walls were ready to topple down and bury her. When the soldier did not move, Sally beckoned him imperiously toward the open arch where she had remained standing just outside the walls. "You are to come here, while I take off the old bandage. No one will see you and I am afraid to enter so dangerous a place." The man obeyed, and Sally cut away the soiled linen, trying not to get too distinct an impression of the wound underneath. Yet what she saw alarmed her sufficiently, for she knew enough to realize that the wound required more scientific treatment than she felt able to give. "Now go and wash your arm," she directed, and without a word he went off. During the ten minutes her self-imposed patient remained away, Sally seriously considered his puzzling situation and determined upon the advice she would offer. In the first place, so far he had given her no explanation for his conduct. Why was he in concealment? The possibility that the soldier might have committed a wrong which made it incumbent that he hide from justice did not occur to Sally. She simply determined that they would discuss the subject to some satisfactory end on his return. The young man did look much better, having made an effort to cleanse his face as well as his wound, but as Sally took hold of his hand before beginning her task, she was startled to discover that he was suffering from a fever through neglect of his injury. This made her the more determined. Although appreciating her own inefficiency and disliking the work, there was nothing to be done at present but to go ahead with her own simple first-aid treatment. She had a bottle of antiseptic and clean surgical gauze. As she wound the bandage, wishing she had taken the trouble to learn the art more skilfully, Sally announced: "You must see a physician about your arm as soon as possible. You never have explained to me why you are hiding here. But in any case you cannot remain when you are ill and hungry and cold and require a great deal of attention. You must go into one of the villages to a hospital. While you were away I have been thinking what to do. You look to me too ill to walk very far and, as I am living not more than half a mile away, I will go back to our farm and tell my friends about you. Later I think I can arrange to come back for you in a motor and then we will drive you to one of the hospitals. I don't know as much about the French hospitals as my friends do, but of course everybody is anxious to do whatever is possible for the Allied soldiers." Sally placed a certain amount of stress on the expression "Allied soldiers," but never for an instant believing in the possibility that her patient could belong to an enemy nationality. "If you tell anyone you have discovered me here in hiding, it will be the last of me," the soldier declared. By this time Sally was beginning to be troubled. Why did the young man look and speak so strangely? He seemed confused and worried and either unable to explain his actions, or else unwilling. Yet somehow one had the impression that he was a gentleman and there need be no fear of any lack of personal courtesy. It was possible from his appearance to believe that he might be suffering from a mental breakdown. Sally recalled that many of the soldiers were affected in this way from shell shock or the long strain of battle. "I suppose I must tell you something. In any case, I have to trust my fate in your hands and I know there is not one person in a thousand who would spare me. I was a prisoner and escaped from my captors. I don't know how I discovered this old house. I don't know how long I have been wandering about the country before I came here, only that I hid myself in the daytime and stumbled around seeking a place of refuge at night. If you report me I suppose I will not be allowed even a soldier's death. I shall probably be hung." Suddenly the soldier laughed, such an unhappy, curious laugh that Sally had but one desire and that was to escape from the château and her strange companion at once and forever. Yet in spite of his vague and uncertain expression, the soldier's eyes were dark and fine and his features well cut. He was merely thin and haggard and dirty from his recent experiences. From his uniform it was impossible to guess anything; at least, it was impossible for Sally, who had but scant information with regard to military accoutrements. But even in the face of his confession she was not considering the soldier's nationality. He looked so miserable and ill, so like a sick boy, that the maternal spirit which was really strongly rooted in Sally Ashton's nature awakened. He could scarcely stand as he talked to her. "Please sit down. I don't know what you are to do," she remonstrated. "I don't know _why_ you ran away or from whom, but no fate could be much worse than starving to death here in this old place alone. Yet certainly I don't want to give you up to--to anybody," she concluded lamely, as a matter of fact not knowing to whom one should report a runaway soldier. This was a different Sally Ashton from the girl her family and friends ordinarily knew. The evanescent dimple had disappeared entirely and also the indolent expression in her golden brown eyes. She was frowning and her lips were closed in a firmer line. At her suggestion the soldier had returned to the chair which he had been occupying at the moment of her intrusion. But Sally saw that although he was seated he was swaying a little and that again he had put up his uninjured arm to his head. "Perhaps I can get away from here, if you will help me. I have escaped being caught so far. I only ask you to bring me a little food. Tomorrow I shall be stronger." Unconsciously Sally sighed. What fate had ever driven her forth into this undesired adventure? She did not like to aid a runaway prisoner, nor did she wish him to meet the disagreeable end he had suggested through any act of hers. Any other one of the Camp Fire girls, Sally believed, would have given the soldier a lecture on the high ideals of patriotism, or of meeting with proper fortitude whatever fate might overtake him. At least he would have been required to divulge his nationality, and if he were an enemy, of course there could be no hesitation in delivering him to justice. However, Sally only found herself answering: "Yes, I suppose I can manage to bring you something to eat once more. But I cannot say when I can get here without anyone's knowing, so you must stay where you can hear when I call. Afterwards you must promise me to go away. I don't know what I ought to do about you." Sally had gone a few yards from the château when she glanced back an instant toward the old stone ruins. The atmosphere of the afternoon had changed, the sun was no longer shining and the château lay deep in shadow. A cold wind was blowing across the desolate fields. Sally was not ordinarily impressionable, yet at this moment she felt a curious sense of foreboding. CHAPTER X BREAKERS AHEAD A little tired and also because her attention was occupied with her recent experience, Sally did not choose her way over the rough countryside so carefully and therefore managed to take a much longer time for her return to the farm. Now that the sun had disappeared, the countryside seemed to have grown depressingly desolate. In the gray afternoon light the blackened tree trunks which had been partly burned were stark and ugly. Under ordinary circumstances Sally was particularly susceptible to physical discomfort, yet this afternoon she was too concerned over her problem to be more than vaguely disturbed by her surroundings. One thought continually assailed her. Would it be possible to appear among the other girls looking and behaving as if nothing unusual had occurred? For Sally had an honest and profound conviction that she had no talent for deception. How could she realize that she belonged to the type of women with whom dissimulation is a fine art once the exigencies of a situation required it? She had come to one definite conclusion, she would not betray the presence of the runaway soldier in the château for at least another twenty-four hours. She would take him food the next day and he might have the opportunity to attempt an escape. In all probability he would soon be captured and punished, and this was doubtless the fate he deserved; nevertheless Sally was glad that, in a cowardly fashion, she would not be directly responsible. She looked forward to the evening and the next day with no joy, bitterly regretting that she had not spent her leisure hours in resting and reading as she had at first intended. Surely repose and a contented spirit were more to be desired than unexpected adventures! Weary and dispirited, Sally finally arrived at home, only to be met in the front hall by Miss Patricia, who at once showed signs of an approaching storm. As a matter of fact, she was excessively annoyed over a piece of information she had just received, so it was unfortunate that Sally should return at a moment when she must bear the brunt of it. Moving a little listlessly up the broad uncarpeted stairs toward the bedroom she shared with her sister, the girl scarcely noticed the older woman's presence. She was hoping that Alice had not yet returned and that she might have a few moments to herself. Miss Patricia opened the attack with her usual vigor. "What do you mean, Sally, by going off this afternoon, knowing that I particularly needed your help? You must understand that it is highly improper for a young girl to tramp about over this French country alone. Even if Polly Burton has permitted you Camp Fire girls the most extraordinary amount of freedom, she surely has realized this and warned you against such indiscretion. There is no way of guessing into what difficulty you may have already managed to entangle yourself!" Sally felt herself flushing until her clear skin was suffused with glowing color. "I am sorry, Miss Patricia," she said, "but remember that I am not a child and cannot have you speak to me as if I were a disobedient one. I have been for a walk and----" But fortunately Sally was not required to complete her sentence. Suddenly Mrs. Burton had appeared out of her bedroom and began to hurry downstairs. "Sally!" she called with a suggestion of appeal in her voice. "The excitement over your disappearance is my fault, so please don't you and Aunt Patricia quarrel. A little while ago when I returned home and Mère 'Toinette told me that you had gone out alone and she did not know in what direction, why, I became uneasy. You will not again, will you? Really I am afraid it is not safe for you children, although with me of course the case is different. Aunt Patricia is not disposed to think so, forgetting my advanced age. Still, Sally, no matter how enthusiastic we may feel over our work here in the shell-torn area of France, we must remember these are war times when one never knows what may happen next. Besides, the French do not always understand our American ideas of liberty for young girls." By this time having reached the foot of the stairs, Mrs. Burton slipped her hand inside Sally's, glancing back with a slightly amused and slightly apologetic expression toward Miss Patricia. "Really, Aunt Patricia, I do regret your being so annoyed, yet you must not take my news too seriously. Our guests are sure not to remain with us long." To the latter part of her Camp Fire guardian's remark Sally Ashton paid not the slightest heed, so concerned was she with the first part of her speech. Why of all times should this question of her personal liberty come up for discussion _this_ afternoon? Of her own free choice Sally felt convinced that she would never willingly go out alone. Nevertheless, how was she to keep her word to the young soldier unless she returned next day to the château? with the food she had promised him and without confiding the fact to any one else? Oh, why had she allowed herself to be drawn into this reckless promise? At this moment if she could only slip into her Camp Fire guardian's room and ask her advice! Miss Patricia would insist that if the soldier were a deserter he straightway should be brought to justice. But Sally understood her Camp Fire guardian well enough to appreciate that, once hearing the soldier in hiding was ill and wounded, she would be as reluctant as Sally herself to follow her manifest duty. Confidence on this particular subject was for the present out of the question, and as soon as she conveniently could Sally disappeared inside her own room. Later, when the other girls had returned, weary from their long errand of mercy in the next village and yet immensely interested in their experience, Sally pretended to have a slight headache. During supper she scarcely listened to the ever steady stream of conversation which flowed unceasingly each evening. In the daytime the American newcomers to the old French farm on the Aisne were too much engaged to allow opportunity for conversation. After supper they gathered in their improvised sitting-room to talk until their early bedtime. The sitting-room was oddly furnished with whatever furniture could be rescued after the commandeering of the more valuable possessions by the Germans. In the attic a few broken chairs stored away for years had been brought down and repaired. These were beautiful pieces of furniture in conspicuous contrast to the couches and stools which originally had arrived at the farm as large wooden boxes containing provisions. With old Jean's assistance, Peggy and Vera had developed unexpected talents as carpenters. Moreover, whatever her faults, Miss Patricia Lord was an unfailing source of supply. During her brief stay in Paris, without mentioning the fact to any one else, she had purchased thirty yards of old blue and rose cretonne, perhaps with the knowledge that beauty even of the simplest kind helps one to happiness and accomplishment. Therefore the two couches in the sitting-room were covered with the cretonne, and half a dozen box chairs; and there were cretonne valances at the windows. Save a single old lamp which had been left in the sitting-room, it had no other ornaments. The lamp was of bronze and bore the figure of a genie holding the stand, so that obviously it had been christened "Aladdin's lamp." It was supposed to gratify whatever wish one expressed, but the Camp Fire girls were too busy with the interests of other people at present to spend much time in considering their personal desires. There was one other object of interest in the room, a large photograph of the ruined Rheims Cathedral, which Mrs. Burton had bought in the neighborhood of Rheims not long before. The classic French city was not many miles from the present home of the group of American girls. As beautiful almost in destruction as it had been in its former glory, the photograph stood as a symbol of the imperishable beauty of French art. Also it represented another symbol. Here on the white wooden mantel of the French farm house "on the field of honor" it called to the American people to continue their work for the relief and the restoration of France. Tonight as she lay resting upon one of the couches, dressed in a simple dinner dress of some soft violet material, Mrs. Burton had glanced several times toward the photograph. As a tribute to her headache and a general disinclination to associate with her companions, Sally had been permitted to occupy the other couch which stood on the opposite side of the room. In their one large chair, close to the table with the lamp, Aunt Patricia sat knitting with her usual vigor and determination. Aside from Sally, the Camp Fire girls were grouped about near her. After having been quiet for the past half hour, Mrs. Burton suddenly asked: "Would any of you care to hear a poem concerning the destruction of the Cathedral at Rheims, written by a Kentucky woman? A friend sent it to me and it was so exquisite I have lately memorized it. In the last few moments while I have been looking at our photograph I have repeated the lines to myself. I wonder if it would interest you?" The girls replied in a chorus of acquiescence, but Mrs. Burton did not venture to begin until she also had received a nod of agreement from Aunt Patricia. Between the older and younger woman there was a bond of strong affection. Nevertheless, mingled with Mrs. Burton's love and respect, there was also a certain humorous appreciation. Since their arrival in France the Camp Fire girls had been compelled to spend their evenings in doors. This was unlike their former custom. Recently, when they had grown weary of talking, perhaps for only a half hour before bedtime, some one of them had fallen into the habit of reading aloud to the others. Apart from the pleasure, Mrs. Burton regarded this as useful education. Not a great many newspapers and magazines reached the old farm house in comparison with other days at camp; nevertheless they arrived in sufficient number both from the United States and Paris to keep one fairly in touch with world movements. The reading of the French papers and magazines was of course especially good practice. Yet, as a matter of fact, Mrs. Burton could seldom be persuaded to be anything save a listener. After reading or talking the greater part of the day to her new French friends, she was apt to be worn out by evening. Tonight she began to speak in a low voice as if she were tired, yet as her little audience was so near it did not matter and her voice never failed in its beautiful quality. "Rheims "It was a people's church--stout, plain folk they, Wanting their own cathedral, not the king's Nor prelate's, nor great noble's. On the walls, On porch and arch and doorway--see, the saints Have the plain people's faces. That sweet Virgin Was young Marie, who lived around the corner, And whom the sculptor knew. From time to time He saw her at her work, or with her babe, So gay, so dainty, smiling at the child. That sturdy Peter--Peter of the keys-- He was old Jean, the Breton fisherman, Who, somehow, made his way here from the coast And lived here many years, yet kept withal The look of the great sea and his great nets. And John there, the beloved, was Etienne, And good St. James was François--brothers they, And had a small, clean bakeshop, where they sold Bread, cakes and little pies. Well, so it went! These were not Italy's saints, nor yet the gods, Majestic, calm, unmoved, of ancient Greece. No, they were only townsfolk, common people, And graced a common church--that stood and stood Through war and fire and pestilence, through ravage Of time and kings and conquerors, till at last The century dawned which promised common men The things they long had hoped for! O the time Showed a fair face, was daughter of great Demos, Flamboyant, bore a light, laughed loud and free, And feared not any man--until--until-- There sprang a mailed figure from a throne, Gorgeous, imperial, glowing--a monstrosity Magnificent as death and as death terrible. It walked these aisles and saw the humble ones, Peter the fisherman, James and John, the shopkeepers, And Mary, sweet, gay, innocent and poor. Loud did it laugh and long. 'These peaceful folk! What place have they in my great armed world?' Then with its thunderbolts of fire it drove These saints from out their places--breaking roof, Wall, window, portal--and the great grave arch Smoked with the awful funeral smoke of doom. "Thus died they and their church--but from the wreck Of fire and smoke and broken wood and stone There rose a figure greater far than they-- Their Lord, who dwells within no house of hands; Whose beauty hath no need of any form! Out from the fire He passed, and round Him went Marie and Jean and Etienne and Francois, And they went singing, singing, through their France-- And Italy--and England--and the world!" When Mrs. Burton began her recitation she sat up on the edge of her couch and leaning forward kept her eyes fastened sometimes on the floor, sometimes on the picture of the great cathedral. Now and then her gaze quickly swept the faces of her audience. She was wondering if the poem had bored any one of them. It was a long poem and perhaps its spiritual meaning would not be altogether plain. However, as the poem reached its conclusion, and her voice with its dramatic power and sweetness made the picture of the peasant people and their peasant church a visible and compelling thing, she no longer felt fearful. The faces of the girls before her were fine and serious; Bettina and Marta, who cared more for poetry and art than the others, had flushed and their eyes were filled with tears. As Mrs. Burton finished, it was as if one could actually hear the new spirit of brotherhood which Christ preached two thousand years ago, "singing, singing, through the world." Yet in the silence which was a fitting tribute to the poem, suddenly the entire audience broke into a ripple of laughter. From the far side of the room a gentle snore had been Sally Ashton's sole expression of appreciation. Following the sound of the laughter, Sally sat up and began blinking her soft golden brown eyes, looking for all the world like a sleepy kitten. "I think you had far better give yourself up to justice and have someone take care of you properly," she announced in a far-away voice. This was the conclusion which Sally had just reached at the end of her half-sleeping and half-waking dream of her runaway soldier. She did not know that she was to make such an extraordinary remark aloud, but fortunately no one had the faintest knowledge of her meaning. Indeed, no one really heard her, as the girls were too amused over Sally's characteristic habit of falling asleep on occasions when conversation or entertainment bored her. Immediately after the laughter, Sally, not understanding its cause, nevertheless arose and began her journey to bed. She was annoyed but not seriously, since in waking she had reached the conclusion she desired. In the morning at dawn, before the other members of her household were awake, she would make a second trip to the château. She would carry provisions to the soldier and then advise him to leave the neighborhood immediately. Unless he departed of his own free will, taking his chances as he must, she then would be compelled to tell that he was in hiding. CHAPTER XI THE RETURN Before daylight Sally rose softly and began to dress, feeling extremely irritated. She disliked getting up in the mornings and this scheme of arising early was so annoying that it had kept her awake the greater part of the night. Besides she had but little hope of not arousing Alice. Once as she was searching quietly on the floor for her shoes, Alice sat up, asking severely: "What on earth are you doing, Sally Ashton? If you are not ill, come on back to bed. If you are ill, come back in any case and let me get whatever it is you desire." Sally murmured something vague and indeterminate about endeavoring to discover a lost pillow and Alice fell comfortably asleep again, nor did she awaken when Sally at last slipped out of the room and down stairs. In case any one else heard her or called, she had made up her mind to explain that she was seeing about some preparation for breakfast. As "housekeeper extraordinary" this statement _might_ be believed, even if it were unlike her to start her ministrations so early. But no one was disturbed and Sally got her little bundle of provisions together quickly, since she knew just where the supplies of food were kept. They had not a great deal, considering the demands that were constantly being made upon them by the people in the neighborhood who were less well off, so Sally felt that she had not the right to be over-generous, and made her selections with due discretion. It was more than ever her determination to demand that the soldier leave the château at once this morning, if he could be induced to see the wisdom of such a proceeding, but if not by nightfall. Also Sally had made up her mind to ask no questions. If the soldier were arrested later she wished to know as little as possible concerning him. He had spoken of being captured and of running away from his captors. This suggested that he was a German or an Austrian who had been taken prisoner and was trying to effect an escape. If this were true Sally felt a fierce condemnation of her own cowardly attitude. But was it not remotely possible that the soldier had committed some offense and had then run away from his own regiment? However, this point of view was but little in his favor. As he spoke English with an accent and as foreign accents were all of an equal mystification to Sally, it was possible that she need never know his origin. Outdoors and slipping through the garden, to Sally's surprise and consternation she nearly ran into old Jean, who appeared to have been up all night caring for his stock. He looked like a gnome with his wrinkled skin, his little eyes, his muddy gray hair and even his clothes almost of a color with the earth. He was carrying a lantern, but instead of speaking beckoned mysteriously to Sally to follow him out to Miss Patricia's barn, where a half dozen cows were now installed. Not knowing what else to do, Sally stood by until she found herself presented with a small pail of milk, and still with no comments, for immediately after Jean went on with his morning's work. She did not waste time, however, in puzzling over the old servant man. After drinking a small quantity of the milk, not wishing to throw the rest away or to return to the house, Sally concluded to take it with her as a part of her offering. Yet she had no real desire to give refreshment to her accidental acquaintance. Some curious feminine force must have moved Sally Ashton on this occasion. Most women find it difficult to allow a human being to endure physical suffering, once the person is delivered into their care. As she made her way to the château for the second time Sally loathed the cold dark morning and there was no beauty nor significance to her in the gray leaden sky which lay like a mourning veil over the sad French landscape. Sally considered that she was engaged in an almost unjustifiable action. Yet she could not make up her mind to leave the soldier to starve, or to betray his presence in the château. Moreover, Sally was haunted by a small nervous fear, which may have been out of place in the face of the larger issues which were involved. As the soldier in hiding had no reason to believe she would arrive so early in the morning, he might still be asleep. Sally disliked the idea that thus she might be called upon to awaken him. The conventions of life were dear to her, she had a real appreciation of their value and place in social life and no desire to break with any one of them. The food could be left in the dismantled old drawing-room, under its arch of leaning walls, but Sally wished to leave a command as well as the food. After this one unhappy pilgrimage she would do nothing more for the soldier's safety and comfort. He must take his chances and slip away. The entire neighborhood was disturbingly quiet. An owl of late habits would have been almost companionable. Upon one point Sally considered herself inflexible. She would not enter the château; she might call softly from the outside if it were necessary. If no one replied she would return to the farm and nevermore would the château be honored by her presence. In an entirely different state of mind she approached the old house on this second occasion and made her way to the opening between the walls. Inside there seemed an even more uncanny silence. Yet how could one call to an utter stranger whose name, whose identity, whose nationality were all unknown? "Halloo!" Sally cried in a faint voice, not once but three or four times. There was no reply. She called again. Then she entered the drawing-room quickly with no other idea than to put down her offerings and flee away as soon as possible. Sally was possessed of the impression that, however long the wrecked walls might remain in position while she was outside them, once inside she would be buried beneath a descending mass. A few feet within the arch she discovered her soldier. He had made for himself a bed out of an old mattress which he had dragged from some other room, using a torn covering which once had been a beautiful eiderdown quilt. As he had no pillow and his face was completely uncovered, Sally realized he was in a stupor and so ill that he had not heard her approach or her repeated calls. Fortunately Sally Ashton was essentially practical. Moreover, in an extraordinary fashion for so young and presumably selfish a girl she immediately forgot herself. She was living in an atmosphere of unselfishness and devotion to others, so the thought that the object of her present care was not a worthy object did not at the moment influence her. In a matter-of-fact and skillful fashion Sally first poured a small amount of milk inside her patient's parted lips. Except that the soldier became half aroused by her act and seemed to wish more, there was no difficulty. Then unwrapping the arm which she had bandaged the day before, she cleansed the wound a second time with the antiseptic she had brought for the purpose. Afterwards, realizing that she must find the water she had been told was still to be had in one of the rooms of the château, without considering her previous fears, Sally climbed and crawled through one dangerous opening after the other, in spite of her awkwardness in any unaccustomed physical exertion. Finally she discovered the water. Then in a half broken pitcher, secured in passing through one of the wrecked bedrooms, she carried a small amount to the drawing-room. Without hesitation or embarrassment the girl bathed her undesired patient's face and hands. He had fine, strong features; there was nothing in the face to suggest weakness or cowardice. Still it remained impossible to decide his nationality or whether he was an officer or merely a common soldier, since his outfit was a patchwork of oddly assorted garments. Sally's acquaintance with uniforms was limited. She knew that the French wore the horizon blue and the British and Americans a nearly similar shade of khaki. Her patient's outfit was like no other she had seen. Yet over these minor details she did not trouble. In spite of her lack of experience, Sally was convinced that the soldier was now suffering from blood poison due to neglect of his wound and the unhealthy and unsanitary conditions in which he had been living. The day before she had thought he looked and acted strangely and had half an idea that he may have been partly delirious then, so she was not altogether surprised by the present situation. During her journey across the fields daylight had come; because she would not otherwise have been able to accomplish her present task even so inadequately as she had accomplished it, Sally was pleased. Yet when the moment arrived and she had done all she could for the soldier's comfort she had to face her real difficulty. There is no mistake in this world more serious than to judge other people's problems in the light in which they appear to us. The problem which is nothing to one human being appears insurmountable to another. So with Sally Ashton's present difficulty. She had made up her mind to tell the soldier that unless he left the château before the following day she would be compelled to tell her friends of his hiding place and ask advice. But she had meant to warn him of her intention and allow him to take his chances if he preferred. Now he appeared defenceless and entirely at her mercy. Should she betray him at once? Certainly there was a possibility that he would die of neglect if left alone at the château. But then he must have faced this possibility and deliberately chosen it. Sally wondered what would become of an escaped prisoner if he were discovered to be desperately ill? It did not seem possible that the military authorities would be so severe as he had anticipated. Yet she knew very little of the ways of military authorities, and an escaped prisoner would scarcely be an object of devoted attention. Although not aware of the fact, already Sally had assumed a protective attitude toward the soldier. One thing she might do and that was to wait another twenty-four hours. It was barely possible that he might not be so ill as she now believed. At present she must not remain a moment longer at the château. Instead she must run back across the fields, since it was her plan to reach the farm house and be discovered in the act of assisting Mère 'Toinette in the preparation of breakfast. CHAPTER XII OTHER DAYS AND OTHER WAYS Under the new conditions of life in the devastated country of France, it has been difficult to set down the effect which the change of environment, the change of interest and of inspiration had upon each individual member of the Sunrise Camp Fire unit. Certainly their present daily life bore but a faint resemblance to their former outdoor summer encampments in various picturesque places in the United States. Nevertheless the Camp Fire girls always had considered that they were doing useful work merely by following the rules of their camp fire and by gaining the honors necessary to the growth of their organization and their own official rank. Now they realized that all their efforts had been but a preparation for the service they were at present undertaking. There was no detail of their past experience which was not of service, their Health Craft, Camp Craft, Home Craft, Business and Patriotism. Why, their very watch cry, "Wohelo"--work, health and love--embodied the three gifts they were trying to restore to the poverty-stricken French people in this particular neighborhood upon "the field of honor!" On this afternoon, in spite of the cold, the girls had arranged to hold their first out-of-doors Camp Fire meeting since their arrival in France. For weeks they had been working among the young French girls in the villages and the country near at hand, persuading them to spend whatever leisure they had in studying the Camp Fire ideas and activities. Bettina Graham and Alice Ashton had introduced as much Camp Fire study as possible into the regular routine of the school which they held daily in the big schoolroom at the farm. Even with the younger children there were like suggestions of play and of service which Marta Clark and Yvonne were able to give. But until this afternoon there had been no actual organization of the first group of Camp Fire girls in France. Strange that with Camp Fires in England, Australia, Africa, Japan, China and other foreign places, there should have been none in France! But Yvonne Fleury could have explained that, unlike American girls, French girls were not accustomed to intimate association with one another, their lives up to the time of their marriage being spent in seclusion among the members of their own family. Indeed, upon this same afternoon Yvonne was thinking of this as she dressed slowly before going outdoors to join the other girls. The house was empty save that Mère 'Toinette was working downstairs. Marta Clark and Peggy had been kind enough to make her a simple Camp Fire costume, the khaki skirt and blouse, which formed their ordinary service costume. Notwithstanding she had been studying the Camp Fire manual and trying to acquire the necessary honors, this was the first time Yvonne had worn the costume. How utterly unlike anything she had ever dreamed were these past weeks in her life! From the moment of her confession of weakness and the telling of her story to Mrs. Burton, Yvonne had deliberately chosen to remain with her rather than continue with the canteen work which she had originally planned to do in returning to her own country. For one reason she had fallen under the spell of Mrs. Burton's sympathy and charm; moreover, the girls in the Camp Fire work were nearer her own age and were to undertake a character of occupation in which she felt herself able to be useful. They were also going to live in the neighborhood of her old home before the outbreak of the war. As a matter of fact, although Yvonne had preferred not to confide the information to any one except Mrs. Burton, she was at present not fifty miles from the château in France where she had lived until the night word came that she and her family must fly before the oncoming horde of the enemy. Well, more than three years had passed since that night, three years which sometimes seemed an eternity to Yvonne. She had no wish to revisit the ruins of her old home, no wish to be reminded of it. There was no one left for whom she cared except perhaps a few neighbors. However, in the last few weeks Yvonne ordinarily did not permit herself to become depressed. This much she felt she owed to Mrs. Burton's kindness and to the comradeship which had been so generously given to her by the Camp Fire girls. Yvonne felt a particular affection for each one of them. She could not of course feel equally attracted. So far she cared most for Peggy Webster and for Mary Gilchrist, possibly attracted toward Mary because she also was an outsider like herself. Then Mary's boyish attitude toward life, her utter freedom even from the knowledge of the conventions in which Yvonne had been so carefully reared, at first startled, then amused the young French girl. But for Peggy Webster, Yvonne had a peculiar feeling of love and admiration. This may have been partly due to the fact that Peggy was Mrs. Burton's niece and so shared in the glamor of the great lady's personality, but it was more a tribute to Peggy's own character. After Yvonne's pathetic account of her history, Mrs. Burton had told at least a measure of her story to Peggy. She had asked Peggy to invoke the compassion and aid of the other girls and to do what she could for Yvonne herself. To Peggy's strength, to the freedom and the courage of her outlook upon life, Yvonne's tragic story had appealed strongly, but more Yvonne's timidity. Often the young French girl appeared unwilling to go on with the daily struggle of life when everything for which she had ever cared had been taken from her. Among the American Camp Fire girls there was only one girl for whom Yvonne felt a sensation of distrust which almost amounted to a dislike, and this was Sally Ashton. Nevertheless, in the early days of their acquaintance, Yvonne had not this point of view. Then she had admired Sally's prettiness, the gold brown of her hair and eyes, her white skin and even her indolent manners and graces. Yet recently Yvonne had become aware of a circumstance, or rather of a series of circumstances, which had first surprised, then puzzled and finally repelled her. In a few moments Yvonne left the farm house. If she were late at their first outdoor camp fire she realized she would have no difficulty in discovering the site they had selected, although it was at some distance away. Some time had passed since the arrival of the Camp Fire party in this neighborhood of France and now even in the winter fields there was a suggestion of approaching spring. As Yvonne walked on she felt an unselfish joy, a greater lightness of heart. Surely the spring would bring back some of her lost happiness to France. There would be another great drive, another tragic contest of strength, but the British and French lines would hold. Yvonne had the great faith and courage of her people, now she had learned to lay aside her personal sorrow. In a few more weeks Miss Patricia's American tractor, which was indeed a "strange god in a machine," would be able to turn these fields into plowed land ready for the spring planting. But now in a meadow, while still some distance away, Yvonne beheld an American, a French and a British flag set up on temporary staffs, and blending their colors and designs in a symbolic fashion as they floated in the wind. Yvonne paused for a moment to watch the group of her acquaintances and friends. Standing apart from the girls were Miss Patricia Lord, Mrs. Burton, and the two visitors who had arrived only a few days before. They were the guests whose approaching visit to the farm house Miss Patricia had so openly deplored, one of them Mrs. Bishop and the other Monsieur Duval, both of them ship acquaintances. Mrs. Bishop was in France to represent an American magazine and was at present intending to write a series of articles on the reclamation work along the Aisne and the Marne. Monsieur Duval had given no explanation for his appearance save to announce that he had some especial work on hand for his government in the southern districts of France. In spite of the fact that fuel was of such tremendous value in France at the present time, the Camp Fire girls had permitted themselves the extravagance of a fire to inaugurate their first outdoor Camp Fire ceremony. The boxes in which Miss Patricia's various purchases had come to the farm had proved useful for more than one service. In a circle near the camp fire were eight young French girls who this afternoon were to receive the wood-gatherers' rings. Just beyond them the American girls were seated. Peggy had been chosen to present the rings. Possibly they were waiting for Yvonne's arrival, for no sooner had she slipped silently into her place than Peggy Webster arose and recited the Wood-gatherer's Desire. "As fagots are brought from the forest, Firmly held by the sinews which bind them, I will cleave to my Camp Fire sisters Wherever, whenever I find them. "I will strive to grow strong like the pine tree, To be pure in my deepest desire; To be true to the truth that is in me And follow the Law of the Fire." Then she offered each one of the French girls a silver ring. When she came to Yvonne, clasping the Fire Maker's bracelet about her wrist, she whispered: "We feel, Yvonne, that you have a right to a higher order in our new Camp Fire group than the other members because of the help you have given us in whatever work we have attempted since our arrival in France. In fact, you are the leading French Camp Fire girl!" A moment later, in answer to a signal, Mrs. Burton walked over and stood just beyond the two circles of girls and the camp fire and close to the Allied flags. "There is not much I feel able to say to you," she began, speaking in a simple and friendly fashion. "I think perhaps you are already beginning to understand how intensely the people of the United States desire to render to France a part of the debt we owe her. It is France who has saved our liberty and the liberty of the entire world. "Now I hope that the first group of Camp Fire girls in France will later carry the flaming torch until the news of the Camp Fire movement has spread through all the French land. In the Camp Fire life we look for the romance, the beauty and the adventure which may be hidden in the smallest task. More important than these things I hope Camp Fire girls the world over may become a part of the new spirit everywhere growing up among women, the spirit of union, the ability to work and play together as men have in the past. For once all girls and women are united, there will be a new league for peace among the nations such as this world has never known." CHAPTER XIII A DEPARTURE AND AN ARRIVAL One evening two days later a little after the hour for bedtime at the farm, Mrs. Burton knocked softly at Miss Patricia's door. Miss Patricia quickly opened it. "You are ill, Polly Burton. Well, it is just what I have been expecting ever since the arrival of that strange man and woman. It seems to me that we had quite enough to do without entertaining guests. Besides, it strikes me as pure waste of energy, this riding about through the country with strangers when you should be at some _real_ work." During her speech Miss Patricia had drawn the younger woman into her room, closed the door behind her and was now gazing at her severely but it must be confessed solicitously as well. "But I am not ill, Aunt Patricia," Mrs. Burton protested as soon as she was allowed an opportunity to speak. "I only came in to have a talk with you about something important." Aunt Patricia's bedroom was large and empty, for there was more space at the old farm house than furniture. A great old-fashioned French bed had been spared from the general wreckage and upon this Mrs. Burton seated herself, drawing her feet up under her and her lavender dressing gown about her, since with so little heat in the house the bedrooms were uncomfortably cold. There was but one solitary stiff-backed chair, in which Miss Patricia sat perfectly erect. "Why not come here and sit beside me? There is plenty of room, and you will be more comfortable," Mrs. Burton urged. Aunt Patricia shook her head. "I am quite comfortable where I am. Moreover, Polly Burton, if I am an old woman and you no longer a young one, at the same time I am aware that you have every idea of trying to persuade me to some point of view of which you do not think I will approve. I have seen your methods before this evening. Thank you, I shall remain where I am." Mrs. Burton laughed. Aunt Patricia did look so uncompromising in a hideous smoke-gray dressing gown made without any attempt at decorations. Her small knot of hair was screwed into a tight coil at the back of her head. Mrs. Burton's own hair had kept its beautiful dusky quality, it had the dark sheen of the hair of the mythical Irish fairies, for only in Anglo-Saxon countries are fairies of necessity fair. Tonight Mrs. Burton's hair was unbound and hung about her shoulders as if she were a girl. Fearing that Miss Patricia might regard her frivolous appearance with disfavor, she now began braiding it into one heavy braid. "What ever it is you desire to say, I do wish you would begin, Polly, so that we both can go to bed," the elderly spinster remarked. Mrs. Burton shook her head. "You are not in a good humor, are you, Aunt Patricia? But at least there is one thing you will be glad to hear: our guests, Monsieur Duval and Mrs. Bishop, are leaving our farm the day after tomorrow." "A good riddance," Miss Patricia answered sharply. Then observing that her companion had flushed and undoubtedly was annoyed by her plain speaking, Aunt Patricia's manner became slightly mollified. "It is not that I have anything personal against your friends, Polly. I must say they have both endeavored to be very agreeable since their arrival and to give as little trouble as possible. But I told you on board ship I did not like the attitude of that Frenchman toward you. It was no surprise to me when he discovered he had important business in this part of France. Of course it should not be necessary for me to remind you that you are a married woman, with your unfortunate husband serving his country in France many miles from here and also that you are chaperoning a group of young girls. I suppose you will simply tell me that I do not understand French manners, but that is neither here nor there, Polly Burton. Your Frenchman is polite to your friend, Mrs. Bishop, I must confess he is also courteous to me; but I am obliged to repeat that his manner neither to Mrs. Bishop nor to me is in the least like his manner to you." "Aunt Patricia, you are so ridiculous! Still I don't feel like laughing this time; you really are making me angry," Mrs. Burton answered. "I have made a great many persons angry in my life, Polly. I cannot even flatter myself that this is the first time I have offended you. However, I feel compelled to speak the truth." Miss Patricia's tone remained imperturbable. "But that is just the trouble, Aunt Patricia, you are not speaking the truth, although of course I know you don't realize it and I beg your pardon," Mrs. Burton argued. "But why do you allow yourself to acquire such prejudices and such foolish impressions? I simply refuse to discuss the suggestion you have just made. Please never speak of it to me again." Ordinarily when the celebrated Mrs. Burton assumed an air of offended dignity such as she wore at present her world was apt to sue for pardon. Miss Patricia revealed no such intention. As a matter of fact, as she remained resolutely silent and as Mrs. Burton had not yet explained the reason for her visit, it was she who had to resume the conversation in a conciliatory manner. "I presume you won't approve then, Aunt Patricia, of what I wish to speak to you. Monsieur Duval has been ordered to southern France on some work for his government and has asked Mrs. Bishop and me to accompany him, because it is work in which he thinks we may be useful. You know the Germans have been sending back some of the French refugees whom they drove before them in their retreat. There are groups of five hundred at a time who now and then are sent over the border either from Germany or Switzerland. They are penniless and not only have no money or food or clothes; they do not know whether their families are living or dead and in any case have no way to reach them. The French government is to try to arrange some plan by which homes may be secured for these unfortunate people until they can communicate with their relatives or friends." "An excellent idea, but I do not exactly see your connection with it," Miss Patricia returned. Mrs. Burton shrugged her shoulders impatiently. In all her life she never remembered any one who had opposed her desires in exactly the same fashion Miss Patricia did. Then, a little ashamed of herself, she answered gently but firmly: "My connection is that I am interested and that Mrs. Bishop and I have both decided to accompany Monsieur Duval. It is barely possible that we may be useful and able to offer a certain amount of advice. So many of the refugees are young women who have suffered impossible things and may require special care and shelter. Besides, I am very deeply anxious to see more of the country. We expect to travel south in the sector the Germans held three years ago. I will thus be able to find out how much restoration work has already been accomplished and how great a task remains. Moreover, Aunt Patricia dear, I have a personal errand. Surely you will think this important. "You remember my talking to you of the old peasant whose granddaughter, Elsie, had been driven into exile. Except to me the old woman has never spoken of her loss. Now there is a possibility that Elsie has been sent back into France and I have promised Grand'mère to search for her. "Moreover, Aunt Patricia, each village in the devastated districts has been ordered to prepare a list of names of the missing who disappeared at the time of the German retreat. These lists are to be turned over to Monsieur Duval. A committee is to be appointed near the frontier to take charge of the lists and see that the refugees get in touch with their own people as soon as possible. Don't you think this a wonderful scheme?" As Mrs. Burton unfolded the plan which had been carefully worked out with a great deal of foresight and care, in her enthusiasm she forgot Miss Patricia's chilling attitude. She had spent many hours during the brief visit at the farm of Mrs. Bishop and Monsieur Duval in the outline she had just explained. Aunt Patricia continued to look unimpressed and uninspired. "I told you before, Polly, that I had no idea of criticizing Monsieur Duval's efforts in behalf of his government. I know the situation you speak of is extremely deplorable. Still I fail to see any reason for your assistance. There is sufficient work for you in this immediate neighborhood. However, I presume you have definitely made up your mind," Miss Patricia concluded. Before replying, Mrs. Burton waited a moment, watching for a sign of yielding in her companion. But as Miss Patricia gave none, she nodded her head. "Yes, Aunt Patricia, I am going with Mrs. Bishop and Monsieur Duval, although I am sorry you do not approve of my making the trip. I won't be away more than two weeks and I feel I may be of greater service than by remaining here." "You also feel that traveling about through the French country with a distinguished French politician and a woman author will be far more exciting than staying at the farm and doing your duty, Polly Burton," Miss Patricia added, allowing her accumulated anger to overflow at last. "Do, please, whatever else you wish to add by way of camouflage, at least confess the truth. I presume it is your idea to leave me to look after the group of girls you undertook to chaperon in France?" In spite of the fact that by this time, Mrs. Burton, whose amiability was never her strong point, was in as bad a temper as her antagonist, she had to confess to herself that in Miss Patricia's last speech the scales dropped in her favor. "Why, yes, Aunt Patricia, that is what I wish you to do. But will it be such a serious responsibility? The work at the farm is so splendidly organized now and the girls are so deeply interested, I don't see why you should have any especial difficulty if you will just allow things to go on as they are at present." Of her own free will Miss Patricia at this moment rose from her stiff chair and came and sat on the edge of the bed facing the younger woman. She showed no sign of relaxing either physically or mentally, or of any softening in her rigid point of view. "I wonder, Polly Burton, if you have any reason for believing that things usually go on in exactly the same fashion in this world, after one has carefully arranged that they should? Of course I shall do my best to look after the Camp Fire girls, although they do not like me and I do not understand them. There is no telling what may occur in your absence," Miss Patricia ended so gloomily that Mrs. Burton's eyes shone with merriment, although she carefully lowered her lids. At the same instant, to her surprise, she felt Miss Patricia lean over and seize her by both shoulders. For a second she wondered if Aunt Patricia had made up her mind to shake her because of her rebellion. Instead Miss Patricia added unexpectedly: "Polly, my dear child, I really don't wish you to go on this wild goose chase, partly for the reasons I have given you, but also because I am afraid for you. You know the world is expecting another great German offensive this spring and no one understands why it has been delayed so long. Well, you must realize that as you travel farther south in France the line between the German and the French armies grows narrower and narrower. Only a few miles of victory and the Germans will again occupy their old line! It is possible you might arrive at some district at a crucial moment when a battle was beginning. Then the saints alone could preserve you!" With the last few words of her long speech Miss Patricia reverted to her Irish brogue and her Irish faith. Afterwards Mrs. Burton was glad to remember that, although Aunt Patricia certainly was not regarding her with affection at the moment, nevertheless, she slipped her arm about the elderly lady's hard and upright shoulders. "You are a dear, Aunt Patricia! But please don't worry. We are not going into any dangerous neighborhoods. The drive will not begin for many weeks. In any case there will be no retreat. Yet indeed we mean to take every possible precaution and at no time will we be near the German line. It is good of you to think I am worth worrying over, but this time it is not necessary." "Have you your husband's permission for this trip, Polly? I presume you have written Richard Burton of your new French friend?" Aunt Patricia demanded as a last forlorn hope. In reply Mrs. Burton smiled and nodded. "Yes, I have done both of those things. I wrote Richard about Monsieur Duval soon after our meeting on shipboard. But of course I have had no reply to my letter with regard to my trip south with Mrs. Bishop and Monsieur Duval, for there is not time for me to hear before we leave." "And nothing will change your decision, Polly?" Mrs. Burton had slid down on to the floor from the high old bed and now stood before Miss Patricia, hesitating for the fraction of a second. "I do wish you would not put the question in such a way, Aunt Patricia. You make me think of what Sally Ashton said to you, as if I too were a disobedient child, and I am more than twice Sally's age. Of course I do not wish to do anything you oppose, but the trip to southern France and the work I hope to be able to accomplish will be a great opportunity and a great experience. I hope you will make up your mind to feel as I do before we start the day after tomorrow." Before Aunt Patricia could reply, Mrs. Burton made a hasty and carefully designed retreat. Being fully cognizant that there was no possibility of Miss Patricia's relenting, she wished to pretend to believe she might change her mind and at the same time to announce the proposed time for her own departure. Fortunately for Mrs. Burton's courage and decision, her plan met with no especial opposition from any other member of the Camp Fire group. The girls regretted her leaving, and Sally Ashton more than the others; nevertheless it appealed to them as it had to Mrs. Burton, as a wonderful chance for service and at the same time a thrilling adventure. Two days later, even at the moment when the automobile appeared at the door to bear off Mrs. Burton and her two companions, Miss Patricia's attitude remained unchanged. Mrs. Burton devoted the last five minutes before her departure to begging Aunt Patricia to bestow her final consent and parting blessing. Aunt Patricia steadfastly refused. She also declined to see the automobile leave the farm. Instead, during the final farewells, turning her back upon the assembly, she marched up alone to her own room. Once inside, it is true she wiped away several tears, but immediately after set herself to writing a letter to Captain Richard Burton. And Captain Burton and Miss Patricia only were to know what the letter contained! Fortunately Captain Burton understood Miss Patricia and her devotion to his wife. Moreover, the extent of her devotion was to be proven later. The following day, perhaps because of Miss Patricia's prediction that nothing in life runs on continuously in the same groove, an unexpected telegram was brought out to the French farm house for Peggy Webster. In the telegram Lieutenant Ralph Marshall of the United States Aviation Service in France stated that, having been slightly injured by a fall, he had secured a few day's leave of absence. Would he be permitted to spend his leave with Mrs. Burton and the Camp Fire girls at their farm house on the Aisne? To Peggy Webster there appeared to be but one possible answer to this amazing piece of good fortune, and fortunately she was able to persuade Aunt Patricia to the same point of view. Miss Patricia did not approve of young men, but she did approve of Peggy and understood the situation in regard to Ralph. Therefore the return telegram read: "Yes." Except for brief intervals, Peggy and Ralph had seen but little of each other since their summer together in Arizona, a summer which had been fateful for them both. It had not occurred to Peggy that either she or Ralph would ever change their minds with regard to their future marriage, in spite of the fact that she was but eighteen years old and Ralph not much older. There remained only the question of persuading their two families to share their view. In the last two years Ralph had been redeeming his former idleness. Having volunteered for aviation work before the entry of the United States into the world war, he had been able to secure a commission and already had been in France a number of months. CHAPTER XIV A WARNING It was the morning after the departure of Mrs. Burton and her guests and three days before the arrival of Ralph. Marshall for his visit at the farm house on the Aisne. Having completed her work downstairs, Sally Ashton had hurried up to her bedroom where at present she was making little nervous preparations as if intending to go outdoors and anxious not to be observed. There was no reason why she should feel alarmed. So far as she knew, every member of her household was occupied with the day's work. From the schoolroom below she could hear the voices of the children singing a little French chanson, and now and then one of the older girls either asking a question or reciting. Alice Ashton and Bettina Graham, Marta Clark and Yvonne Fleury were engaged with their pupils. An hour before Peggy and Vera had driven off in the motor with Mary Gilchrist, since Mary had promised to transport a number of wounded soldiers from a train to a nearby convalescent hospital, and was uncertain whether she would find anyone at the railroad station to help. Therefore she had asked the two girls to accompany her. Peggy also desired to mail a letter to Ralph Marshall which might reach him before he started upon his journey. Always Aunt Patricia was occupied outdoors from breakfast until lunch time. So in spite of the fact that Sally Ashton showed a degree of suppressed excitement both in her manner and appearance, there would seem to have been no apparent excuse. A certain timorousness once wholly unlike her, lately had appeared in Sally's attitude. She also had grown thinner and her big golden brown eyes had lost their sleepy expression and acquired an anxious appeal. The lines about her full, rather pouting lips were strained and apprehensive. Having at the moment pulled a small traveling bag down from a shelf overhead and allowed it to fall on the floor, Sally did not hear the swift opening and closing of her bedroom door. Therefore, when she had secured her bag and was straightening up, she gave an exclamation of surprise on discovering her sister standing within a few feet of her. Except that she was handsomer, Alice looked very like her mother, the Esther of the first Camp Fire days, yet she and Sally bore no possible resemblance to each other either in disposition or appearance. Alice was tall and slender, with a grave, severe air. She wore her dark red hair parted and bound about the back of her head in a heavy braid. She was a little angular. There was a suggestion that unless life dealt generously with her, granting her the gifts which make for tenderness and softness in a woman's nature, she might in time have the appearance one is supposed to associate with an old maid. However, old maids are as unlike as the rest of the human species. Certainly at the present moment her expression was austere, although uneasy and distressed as well. "What are you doing, Sally?" she inquired, her voice gentle and solicitous, yet observing that a wave of color had swept over Sally's face even before she had spoken. The next moment Sally flung her bag down on the floor again, answering petulantly: "What am I doing? Well, really, Alice, I do not see what difference it makes to you, or why you should slip into our room so quietly that you frightened me. As a matter of fact, I got down my traveling bag to--to----" Sally's voice trailed off helplessly for an instant. The next instant, gathering force, she repeated: "I pulled down my bag because I wished to store away some odds and ends which I wish to keep safely." Then losing her temper in a most suspicious fashion, suddenly Sally stamped her foot as if she were an angry child and at the same time her eyes grew unexpectedly dark and lovely. "That is not what you came into this room to announce to me, Alice. So please say whatever it is you wish and be through. I am going out for a little walk before lunch." In any event Sally was no coward! "Then sit down. You do not look very well and I am afraid you won't like what I must say," Alice returned. "Understand, it gives me no pleasure; instead, I am tremendously worried and unhappy. I suppose I should have talked the situation over with Tante before she went away, but I knew it would interfere with her trip and so avoided troubling her." In answer to her sister's suggestion Sally seated herself upon a tall, old-fashioned wooden chair, so that only her toes were able to reach the ground. All at once she had felt as if she would be more comfortable seated. It was not because of Alice's suggestion that she had agreed, but because of a sudden sensation of weariness, almost of physical weakness, although this last idea seemed absurd. Yet somehow Sally appeared so like a tired and rebellious child that her sister found it difficult to continue their conversation. However, she must introduce the accusation she had been schooling herself to make before entering the room. "Is there anything you would like to talk to me about, Sally? Outside our daily life and work here at the farm is there anything which has been interesting you recently and which you have preferred not to mention to anybody?" Alice inquired gently, her voice shaken by her effort to hide her concern, while a fine line appeared between her level brows. Pretending to be bored rather than affected in any other fashion by her sister's speech, first Sally shrugged her shoulders. Then making a pretence of yawning, she placed her fingers lightly over her lips. "Really, Alice, what on earth is troubling you in connection with me? Have you had me on your conscience more than usual recently? Can't you ever get over your unattractive habit of treating me as if I were a refractory pupil and you an offended schoolmarm? In spite of being born in New England, there is no reason to affect this pose, as it is unnecessary and I think most unbecoming." Sally's manner was a little too self-assured, but otherwise she appeared as enigmatic as an accomplished actress. Gazing at her earnestly, there was nothing in her expression at present to suggest any emotion save a natural annoyance at being catechized. But Alice was not deceived. "Please don't assume such an air of offended virtue, Sally. You are far too fond of employing it when anyone reproaches you," Alice continued, but really too sincerely disturbed to feel angered by her sister's behavior. "Evidently you do not wish to confide in me, so I suppose there is no use wasting either your time or mine. For the past two weeks--I don't know the exact length of time, although you are aware of it, Sally--you have been disappearing from the farm almost every day. At first I did not notice. You seem to have been careful that neither Aunt Patricia, nor Tante, nor I should know. And you have been clever. But you could not escape everybody's observation and the other Camp Fire girls have seen you and been puzzled and at last worried to guess what you could be doing. You need not ask who the girls were; I shall not tell you. But finally several of them felt compelled to speak to me and to suggest that I ask your confidence. Oh, don't pretend you think you have been spied upon and badly treated. You know, Sally, that unless the girls cared for you they would not have troubled? But we have lived almost as one family and our interests are bound together. Do tell me what you have been doing, dear? What has taken you away from home so many times alone? I have been watching you myself recently. When I came into our room only a few minutes ago you were preparing to slip away." Sally was biting her lips and had lost her childish look. "This is not a criminal court, Alice; neither are you the public prosecutor. As a matter of fact, I refuse to answer your questions or to gratify either your curiosity or the curiosity of the Camp Fire girls. What I have been doing has harmed no one; at least I do not think it has, and I have not always been alone. Old Jean has been with me much of the time and has helped in every way. But by the time Tante returns I think I shall be free to tell her everything. Can't you trust me until then?" Sally's voice and manner had suddenly changed from bravado to pleading, but Alice was too angry and too frightened to be influenced. Moreover, she was suffering from a frequent elderly sister attitude. She felt herself called upon not only to examine Sally in regard to her proceedings but to condemn her without any real evidence. "Very well, Sally, unless you decide to confide in me immediately I shall be obliged to speak to Aunt Patricia." At the conclusion of this speech Alice beheld in her sister's face the expression of sheer unrelenting obstinacy in which Sally was an adept. It was a contradiction to her pretty softness, her indolent manner and even to the elusive dimple which recently had vanished. "I also warn you, Sally, that I intend to watch you and find out your proceedings for myself. In truth, I am frightened about you. If only Tante were here she could influence you, but Aunt Patricia will only become bitterly angry. I confess I don't know what she will say or do when she learns that I have no choice but to tell her." If Alice Ashton had one characteristic which predominated over all others, it was a fine sense of honor, a high ideal of personal integrity. As a matter of fact, she had never demanded the same standards from Sally she had asked of herself. It was a family custom to regard her younger sister as a person chiefly to be gratified and adored. Yet it had never occurred to Alice that Sally could fail in any essential thing such as straightforwardness and sincerity. "I don't like to speak to you, Sally, or even to suggest the idea, but I am afraid a few of the girls may be criticizing what you are doing in a fashion you can scarcely imagine. They do not speak before me, but I can hardly fail to guess what they are thinking from their manner. Sally, can't you realize that we are in a foreign country where the language, the customs, the ideas are not like ours? Even if what you are doing might not be considered wrong at home, can't you see that here in France you may be misunderstood? Please confide in me dear. You promised----" But Sally's soft shoulders stiffened in resistance. "Evidently you do not trust me yourself, Alice, and naturally your opinion is more important to me than anyone's else. Yet when one has lived with the same people a long time one does expect a certain amount of faith and understanding. I am sorry, for I cannot tell you what you wish to know at present. I may be able to in a very few days, if you will be good enough to wait and not speak to Aunt Patricia. It is hardly worth while to make a difficulty between us! Personally I am glad Tante _is_ away; at least, I am glad she is away today, since it would have been more difficult to refuse my confidence to her than to any one else. But I shall regret it if I am able to make my confession before her return. She at least would have tried to believe I have not intended to do anything wrong. Now please leave me alone, Alice. You were right, I am going out on an important errand. You need not worry over my going alone this time, because old Jean has promised to go with me as soon as he is free and I shall wait for him." Then, although Alice lingered for several moments longer, when Sally would neither speak to her, nor look at her, she slowly left the room. Afterwards when Alice had disappeared Sally's pretence of courage vanished and she sat with her hands clasped tightly together while the tears ran down her face. All very well to pretend to Alice that she was convinced she had been doing no wrong. But was this true? In the end would she not have to pay dearly in the continuing condemnation and distrust of her friends? When her confession was finally made, would they even then understand and forgive her? CHAPTER XV THE DISCOVERY A little more than an hour later Sally and Jean started forth upon their mysterious pilgrimage. To have been spared the ordeal of this morning's visit to the French château Sally would have given a great deal. On other occasions she had been nervous and fearful, but never to the extent to which the recent conversation with her sister had reduced her. More than once within the hour of waiting before she and Jean could slip away, Sally concluded to abandon her plan and never go near the château again, regardless of results. Then she remembered that she had given her word and that upon this visit many things were to be explained and arranged. Having endured so much of struggle, strain and suspicion, one must not fail in the end. And in spite of Sally's apparent indolence and softness, failure had no part in her mental make-up. Yet in being compelled to spend an hour of watching before daring to make her escape there was a sense of humiliation, almost of degradation. Nevertheless, what else could she do except wait until Alice was again absorbed in her teaching and until there was no one about the farm house or in the yard who would pay any especial attention to her actions? Sally's final misfortune was in encountering Yvonne as she passed through the hall downstairs. It may have been her imagination, due to her conversation with her sister. Sally felt almost convinced that Yvonne shrank away from her as she passed, almost as if she were drawing her skirts aside. In return Sally suffered a wave of indignation and the conviction that she would never be able to forgive Yvonne. She even had an impulse some day to avenge the other girl's injustice. She and Jean did not immediately move off in the direction of the château. She and old Jean took an entirely opposite direction, until in a field about half a mile away, altering their course, they walked rapidly toward the château. Sally never ceased to gaze behind them every few moments, fearing they might be followed. Small wonder that with the unaccustomed walks and the burden of a serious responsibility Sally Ashton had altered in the past few weeks! Indeed, her only solace had been the loyal faith and allegiance which the old French peasant, Jean, had given to her cause and to her. From the first day, when in halting and broken French she had begged him to accompany her to the château to assist in the care of a wounded soldier, he had not asked a question or refused his services. When it was impossible for him to escape Miss Patricia's vigilance at the hour Sally asked, she always found that he had managed to make the trip sometime later, during the day or night, and accomplished what was necessary. What he may have thought of the situation, what questions he may have asked himself behind the inscrutability of his weather-beaten countenance with its misty, coal-black eyes, Sally never inquired. There were enough problems to meet without this. The important fact was that Jean never failed her and that he made an otherwise impossible task possible. [Illustration: She and Old Jean Took an Entirely Opposite Direction.] After discovering the serious illness of the wounded soldier in hiding, Sally Ashton had continued the amazing task of caring for him at the château. She did not come to this decision immediately; indeed, it had grown so slowly that at times it did not appear as a decision at all. Nor did Sally attempt to justify herself. She felt compelled to take a courageous attitude with her sister, but she never had been convinced of her own patriotism or good sense. Even up to the present time she was not sure of the nationality of her patient, although it had been a relief that during his delirium he had spoken occasionally in French. The truth is that as the days passed on and Sally's responsibility increased her attitude toward the soldier changed. At first she had been annoyed, bored with the entire adventure and with the circumstances resulting from it. But as the young man's illness became more alarming and Sally's anxiety increased, a new characteristic awoke in her. Sally Ashton belonged to the type of girl who is essentially maternal. She would be one of the large group of women who love, marry and bring up a family and are nearly always adored by their husbands, but feel no passionate affection until the coming of their children. So unconsciously the wounded soldier's dependence upon her for food and attention, for life itself, aroused Sally's motherly instinct, although she did not dream of the fact and would have been angry at the suggestion. One convincing proof. In the beginning she had been both physically and mentally repelled by the soiled and blood-stained soldier and by his confused confession. She had not surrendered him to justice because she did not feel called upon to appear as the arbiter of any human being's fate and because she had not the dramatic instinct of most girls. But Sally had presumed the soldier would be arrested later and was not particularly concerned with his future one way or the other. Now her point of view had completely altered. At first her idea was merely that the soldier should recover with no other nursing save that which she and old Jean could bestow upon him. But now that he was recovering, she was equally determined he should be saved from whatever enemy he had feared before being delivered into her hands. Before parting on the previous afternoon Sally had agreed with her patient that they discuss his situation on her next visit to the château. As the old man and girl crept cautiously inside the opening between the arch of walls, they could see their soldier lying asleep upon his mattress, but between clean sheets and covered with blankets which Sally had managed to secure from the supply at the farm. The half-dismantled room was cold but fragrant with the odors of the woods and fields. Perhaps the fresh air which had at all times flooded the odd sick-room had been in a measure responsible for the ill man's recovery, having taken the place of other comforts he had been obliged to forego. He opened his eyes at the approach of his two friends and looked a little wistfully at Sally. "You have come at last! I was afraid you would not be able to manage. How kind you have been!" Sally made no reply except to offer him a glass of milk and to stand silently by until he had finished drinking it. She looked very sweet. Today her walk and the excitement of her morning had tired her so that she was paler than usual; yet her lips were full and crimson and her brown hair had a charming fashion of curling in little brown rings on her forehead as if she were a tiny child. The soldier no longer wore any look of mental confusion except that his expression was puzzled and questioning. "You are much better. I am glad," Sally said at last. "You see I do not know how often I can come to the château after today, unless you should become very ill again and then I would come in any case." Sally's direct fashion of speaking had its value amid the complexities of human relations. Old Jean had disappeared to bring fresh water and to accomplish other tasks so that Sally and the soldier were alone for a little time. As a matter of fact, Jean's had been the really difficult nursing. Night after night when the soldier's condition had been most critical Jean had made no pretence of going to bed, but had hobbled over at bedtime to remain until dawn by the ill man's side. "Perhaps you will sit down for a little so that I can ask you a great many questions," the soldier suggested. "Now that I am getting back my senses, you can scarcely imagine what a mystery my present situation is." Nodding agreement, Sally drew a beautiful French chair across the strange drawing-room and seated herself within a few feet of her patient's bed. It was odd that she had never felt any fear of the old walls tumbling down upon her from the hour she had begun her nursing, although before that time she had believed nothing could force her to trust herself inside the ruins. "I would like to ask you to begin at the beginning. In what condition and how long ago did you find me here? If I could only guess the time! But I am under the impression I have not been myself for several weeks until these last few days. Yet I have a vague recollection of finding my way to this old house and of seeing you standing one day framed in that open arch. After that I have no memory of anything else until I became conscious of your face and of old Jean's bending over me and then of this extraordinary place. If I have been ill, why have I not been cared for in a hospital? "I remember escaping from the Germans who had taken me prisoner and then wandering, wandering about in a country where there were no trees, no grass, no houses, nothing but the upturned earth and exploded shells. Afterwards I was not sure I had reached the French country. I know I used to hide in the day time and prowl around at night. I think I must have become ill soon after my escape, because I have an indistinct impression that I was trying to find my old home, the château where I lived before the outbreak of the war. I suppose that is one reason why I hid myself in here. But nothing I can remember explains _you_." Sally sighed. "I do not understand what you are talking about, at least not exactly. I am not even convinced you do. But if you really are a French soldier and managed to escape from the Germans, I am glad. I know you will think me stupid, but still how could I have been expected to understand that you were a French soldier when you seemed so horribly afraid of being discovered? You were in your own country and among your own people! Personally there is very little for me to tell about myself. "I am an American girl, I don't suppose you consider me French, and I am living at a farm house not far away with some American friends. One day I was taking a walk and just from curiosity slipped over here to look more closely at the château. It frightened me when I discovered you were hiding in here. You can never guess how you startled me! At our first meeting you told me some mixed-up story and asked me to bring you some food. I thought you were an escaped prisoner and I did not want to have anything to do with you. But you insisted if you were caught you would be hung. The next day when I arrived with the food you were too ill to recognize me. There is nothing more to tell." "That is all," the soldier repeated. "But that sounds more like the beginning, does it not? You were not even sure of my nationality and yet you have been coming here every day to care for me. Suppose I had been your enemy?" By this time the soldier was sitting up and intently studying the face of the girl before him. He was wearing a faded dark blue shirt which Jean had generously bestowed upon him the day before, this being the first occasion for which he had made an effort to dress himself. "Strange human beings, women! I wonder if we men will ever understand you? I have no doubt you would blow up the united armies of the Central Empires if it were possible without a qualm and yet you would make any sacrifice to save the life of one prisoner." "But I was never convinced about you," Sally apologized. "Then after you became so seriously ill I never thought. But I am sure I beg your pardon. As you are a Frenchman of course you would have been infinitely better cared for in a hospital. If anything had happened to you it would have been my fault. But really I did not know what was done to prisoners who ran away from their captors and you suggested such an uncomfortable fate for yourself. "Now you are better I don't think I will come back to the château again. You see you made me promise not to tell anyone that you were hiding here, and my sister and friends think it strange because I have been spending so much time away from the farm recently. I don't suppose I shall ever be able to make anyone understand. It is hard, isn't it, to be blamed for things and then find they have been of no use? Jean will do whatever is necessary for you until you are entirely well. He can bring me news of you and he will take a message to anyone you care to see if you do not feel strong enough to be moved to a hospital immediately." Sally rose as if she meant to leave at once, then something in her companion's expression made her sink down into her chair. "No, you must not come to see me again," he answered, "although I shall wish to see no one else. Perhaps it will not be long before I am able to call upon your friends if you will allow me. I am stronger than you realize; but you have not told me what you are doing in this neighborhood." Unexpectedly Sally had a remarkable sensation. It was as if suddenly her position and the soldier's changed and as if he had begun to think of her welfare rather than to have her devote herself to his. "Oh, we are doing reclamation work," Sally returned; "that is, my sister and friends are. I have not accomplished anything that is important. I told you I was stupid." All at once Sally's soldier broke into a peal of clear boyish laughter which was of more benefit to him than either of them appreciated. "No, you have done nothing except save my life. It is not kind of you under the circumstances to announce you consider it unimportant. Some day when I am able to rejoin my regiment perhaps I may be able to prove your work worth while. Thanks to you, perhaps I shall again serve France as I have never served her before! The enemy has taken from me everything else, my mother, my sister, my little brother and my home. I made up my mind that they should not hold me a prisoner whatever might befall me. If I had to give up my life I meant to die in the open." Then more excited and exhausted than either he or Sally had appreciated, the soldier lay down again, closing his eyes. It was a part of Sally's recent training which made her continue sitting quietly beside him for the next few moments without speaking or moving. In the interval she studied the soldier's face. For the first time he was appearing to her as a man. Up until now he had simply been a human being who must be cared for, allowed to suffer as little as possible and at last be restored to health. In considering him at present Sally did not particularly admire his appearance. She thought his nose was rather too large and his lips too thin and in spite of Jean's devotion, his services as a barber left a good deal to be desired. "Your arm is nearly well, still I think I should like to bandage it once more before I go," Sally suggested. "You do not realize it, of course, but I have learned a great deal about nursing since I began to look after you. I don't like sick people, else I suppose I could become a Red Cross nurse after more training if I wished. But I don't think I should like the work." As Sally talked she was accomplishing her task, certainly with a good deal more skill than she had shown several weeks before. However, her patient was not conscious of the fact. At present he was not thinking of his wound but of his nurse. There was something about her so deliciously frank and ingenuous. At least she seemed ingenuous to him, although it was difficult always to be sure concerning Sally. When she had finished the young Frenchman took one of her hands and touched it lightly with his lips. "Will you tell me your name, please, and where to find you before you say farewell? I am Lieutenant Robert Fleury of the French-cuirassiers." Ten minutes later Sally was walking back home alone to the farm house, having left Jean to continue to care for their patient. She was not to go back to the château again and she was to tell her friends exactly what had taken place in the past few weeks. She seemed to have promised this to her patient. Yet Sally was not sure when she would tell her story. She had no desire to make a confession to Alice, and Aunt Patricia was not to be considered. If only she might arrange to wait until Mrs. Burton's return from her journey into southern France. CHAPTER XVI AN UNEXPECTED SHELTER It was after the hour for their midday dinner when Sally finally arrived at the farmhouse; however, she was able to reach her own room without any questions being asked concerning her delay. Undressing slowly with the idea of lying down for a little while before facing her friends, Sally was interrupted for the second time that day by the unexpected appearance of her sister. On this occasion Alice's expression made any further discussion not only unnecessary but impossible. "Will you come with me, please, to Aunt Patricia's room?" she began at once. "I have been talking to Aunt Patricia and she says it is only fair that we should hear your explanation before passing judgment. I have spoken to no one else, although I suppose it will be impossible to hide the facts from the other girls. In reality, I believe they already have guessed a great deal and have been trying to keep the truth from me." At the moment of her sister's entrance Sally had been slipping into a little blue dressing gown which had been her mother's final gift the day before their parting. The dressing gown did not have a utilitarian appearance, since it was made of a soft blue, light woolen material with little clusters of yellow roses scattered over the design and with blue ribbons and lace about the throat and sleeves. In response to her sister's speech Sally gathered about her the dressing gown, which she had not yet fastened, and immediately started to leave the room. "I shall be very glad indeed to talk to Aunt Patricia, but not to you, Alice, nor do I ever intend to forgive you. I suppose you followed old Jean and me to the château and have drawn your own inference from what you observed. Do you know, Alice, I have often wondered why the puritanical conscience is always so suspicious of other people?" And in this last speech of Sally's there was more of truth that she could fully appreciate. But if in this final analysis she were speaking the truth, the first part of her remark had been a complete falsehood. At the present time there was nothing she desired so little as being forced into making her confession to Miss Patricia Lord, a severe spinster with no consideration for human folly. Would any one else on earth be more difficult or more unrelenting? In the past hour or more, following her conversation at the château, Sally had been facing one of the hardest experiences of life. Her weeks of self-sacrifice and devotion had been not only unnecessary, they had been absurd. If only she could have enjoyed the inward satisfaction of considering herself a heroine or a martyr! But she had risked her own reputation and the young French officer's life to what end? As the two girls entered Miss Patricia's room, Sally, accompanied by her sister, whose existence on earth she refused to recognize, considered that Miss Patricia appeared as implacable as a stone image. Yet one could scarcely compare her to the Sphinx. That ancient stone figure with the head of a woman and the body of a lioness looks as if she had devoted the many centuries since her creation to solving the riddles of human life. Miss Patricia would consider anything but plain speaking a sheer waste of energy and truth. There were no riddles in Miss Patricia's mental category. Nevertheless, Miss Patricia's voice did not sound unkind when she suggested that Sally occupy the solitary chair in her bedroom, although undoubtedly this would leave the elderly woman standing as well as Alice. But then Sally did not realize how appealing her appearance was at this moment even to so harsh a critic of human nature. Sally indolent, Sally dreaming her own small and rather selfish dreams, or a Sally self-assured and self-content were not unfamiliar figures to her world. But Sally confused and tired, hurt and bewildered, not by her own actions or any one's else, but by a web of circumstance, was a new study. "No, I would prefer not to sit down, Miss Patricia, and in any case I would not have you stand," Sally answered, still with an innate sense of her own dignity and value which at no time in her life was she ever wholly to lose. "Alice seems to have told you some disagreeable story about me. So I think it just as well for me to tell you the exact truth. I hope I can make you understand. I suppose I should have confided in some one before, but until a few hours ago I did not feel that I had the privilege." Sally's golden brown eyes with the heavy upcurling lashes, which gave to her face the expression of unusual softness, were now gazing upward into Miss Patricia's. The latter's eyes were gallant also and steadfast, nor did Sally find them so distrustful as she had anticipated. "Very well, my dear, go on with your story. I thought Alice was too much excited," Miss Patricia returned, seating herself in her upright chair, as Sally seemed to prefer her to be seated. Then with her little dressing gown wrapped about her as if it had been a Roman toga, Sally told the history of the past weeks, her unexpected discovery of the wounded soldier amid the ruins of the old French château, her belief that he was a runaway prisoner and notwithstanding this, her effort, with Jean's assistance, to restore him to health. Sally's explanation was less confused than her conversation with the French soldier a short time before. However, since that hour many things had become clearer in her own mind. She did not break down until her story was completed and only then when she turned toward her sister. "I don't know, Alice, what you and the other Camp Fire girls have been thinking of me, and I don't believe I care to guess. I know you have not been generous. But since I don't wish to discuss the subject with any one save Aunt Patricia, and with Tante of course when she returns, I wish you would offer the other girls any interpretation of my behavior you care to give." At this Sally's voice broke in spite of her efforts at self-control. When Alice made a step toward her with her arms outstretched to ask forgiveness, Sally stepped back only to find herself enfolded by Miss Patricia and to hear Miss Patricia declare: "I think it would be wiser, Alice, for you to leave Sally and me alone for a little time; she is tired and unstrung. If you and the other girls have been unfair, you will have an opportunity to apologize later. Then Sally herself will feel more inclined to be reasonable." Afterwards, when Alice had reluctantly disappeared, unexpectedly Sally found herself seated as if she were a child in Aunt Patricia's lap and listening to a very wise and tender conversation, one she was never to forget, from a woman of deep and broad experience. When she grew less disturbed Aunt Patricia made no effort not to scold Sally for her unwisdom and her lack of reliance upon older judgment than her own. But the great fact was that Aunt Patricia was never unfair, that she had no sentimental suspicions and made no accusations with which Sally could not fairly agree. In their half hour together Sally Ashton learned to appreciate for the rest of her life Aunt Patricia's value, learned to understand why Mrs. Burton cared for her so devotedly and considered her a tower of strength in adversity. In this uncertain world in which we live there are fair weather and foul weather friends. Miss Patricia belonged to the number who not only fail to strike other people when they are down, but who spend all their energy and strength in the effort to lift them up again. Later on the other Camp Fire girls were also to form a new estimate of Miss Patricia's character, but simply by force of circumstance Sally was the first one of them to be admitted inside the stern citadel with which the elderly spinster surrounded her great heart. "In the morning, Sally, when you have rested, and if I were you, child, I would spend this afternoon in bed, why I intend to walk over with you to your château and make the acquaintance of your soldier. If he is a gentleman my dear, or even if he is a real man, I mean to bring him here to the farm house to remain as our guest until he has completely recovered. Now, don't argue with me, Sally. Mrs. Burton will tell you that I am a hopeless old woman with whom to have an argument. I simply never do any one's way except my own. I do not wish to discuss this side of the situation with you to any extent, but don't you see, my dear, that it is better for you that we have your soldier here? No one shall think your friends have not understood and approved of your care of this young Frenchman." Sally murmured her acquiescence and her gratitude. Yet suddenly she felt that she wished never again to see the young officer who for the past few weeks had been her constant thought and care. He had recovered sufficiently no longer to need her services and although he was not wilfully responsible, nevertheless he had given her a great deal of care and trouble. "Of course you must do what you think best, Aunt Patricia," Sally added a moment later, as she was preparing to start to her own room. "But don't you think we had best wait until Tante's return?" Aunt Patricia shook her head. "What Polly Burton may think or desire in the matter will not have the slightest influence with me. She cheerfully surrendered you girls into my charge in order to make this trip, of which she knew I thoroughly disapproved. However, in spite of the fact that I am very angry with her, I do not wish any one else to feel uneasy, although I shall not have a happy moment until she returns." CHAPTER XVII TWO OFFICERS A week later two young officers were guests at the farm house on the Aisne, one of them an American aerial lieutenant, the other a lieutenant in the French cavalry. Following his telegram within a few days, Lieutenant Ralph Marshall had arrived to spend a short furlough, ostensibly with the entire group of American Camp Fire girls, although in reality his visit was to Peggy Webster. Notwithstanding the fact that he and Peggy were not supposed to be engaged, chiefly because of Peggy's youth, they shared a different conviction from their families. The other young officer was none other than "Sally's soldier." Absurd as the title appeared, particularly to Sally herself, nevertheless under this name he was discussed secretly and at length in the Camp Fire household. Toward late afternoon on the day after Sally's enforced confession, accompanied only by Old Jean, Miss Patricia Lord had tramped across the fields to the French château and had there interviewed its inmate with a directness and a searchlight quality worthy of a public prosecutor. As a result she had received more valuable information than Sally Ashton had acquired in the hour of their mutual and confused avowal. Among other things Miss Patricia had learned that the wounded officer's extraordinary outfit was due to the fact that he believed it would make his escape more feasible. But whatever the details of his story, he was able to inspire Miss Patricia with sufficient interest and faith to admit him as a temporary guest at the farm house in spite of the absence of Mrs. Burton. However, although undoubtedly a guest, he was a guest according to rules and restrictions laid down and adhered to by Miss Patricia and her household. In the first place, until he had completely recovered he was to remain in his room at the farm house, cared for only by old Jean with occasional visits from Miss Patricia. Under no circumstances was he to see or meet for the present a single one of the Camp Fire girls. This rule was particularly to be observed with regard to Sally Ashton. Miss Patricia made no effort to conceal her intention of making a thorough investigation of the account of his life the French officer had imparted to her. She knew it would not be so difficult to verify his statements. It was possible to communicate with the commander of his regiment and also his friends, as he claimed to have lived in the French country not many miles away from their neighborhood in the valley of the Aisne. After his recovery doubtless he would be able to find a number of his former acquaintances by returning to his old home. It was in his favor that the French officer entirely agreed with Miss Patricia's attitude in every particular save one. But he was wise enough not to argue with her concerning this. In truth, thirty-six hours after his installation at the farm house, the young Frenchman and Miss Patricia had become surprisingly intimate friends. One could explain this by stating that the officer had a delightful sense of humor and a valuable appreciation of character. Miss Patricia announced that no friendship could have been possible between them if Lieutenant Fleury's mother had not had the good sense to have him taught English by an English governess when he was a small boy. His accent Miss Patricia considered as peculiar as her own French one, nevertheless they were able to understand each other amazingly well. One brilliant morning Miss Patricia entered the French officer's room bearing a cup of bouillon to find him staring out a window which he had just opened in order to let in the air and for another purpose which Miss Patricia instantly suspected. "Breaking parole," she commented tersely. The young officer had not heard her entrance. In return he swung round and laughed. "Is that fair, Miss Lord? A cat may look at a king, _comme cá_ why not at a number of queens? Besides, don't you realize it is a miracle for a French soldier to be able to dream that these devastated fields of France are soon to become green and fruitful again? Having lost everything in the early days of the German invasion, my family, home, my small fortune, nevertheless I rejoice that for other French soldiers there may be a happier future when they return to their former homes, thanks to the great hearts of the American people!" The young officer's deep feeling and his quiet self-contained manner caused a lump to rise in Miss Patricia's throat and a mist before her eyes. Therefore her manner became more belligerent than ever. "Here, sit down and drink this," she commanded. "I suppose you consider that you have entirely recovered your strength and that I am the veriest old termagant not to permit you to enjoy your convalescence with a group of more or less charming American girls. But as a matter of fact I am really protecting you as well as the girls. We have lived without masculine society, unless you wish to count old Jean, ever since our arrival at the farm house. So whatever your impression, I am afraid you would soon be overpowered with attention once I allowed you to leave this room." Lieutenant Fleury finished his bouillon with a proper degree of gratitude and enthusiasm before replying. Afterwards he gazed at Miss Patricia for several moments in silence as if carefully considering a number of important matters. The young French officer was of more than medium height, had dark eyes and hair, and except when he was talking, his expression was grave and sad. His arm remained bandaged. "Miss Patricia, I do not wish to meet _all_ your Camp Fire girls. I agree with you I am not strong enough to make myself agreeable to them. But I do wish to see _one_ of them again. You are aware that I mean Miss Ashton. If ever a man had cause to be grateful to a girl-----" "Nonsense!" Miss Patricia interrupted, picking up the empty cup as if she were intending to leave the room immediately. "Sally was a goose and ran the risk of being the death of you instead of saving your life as you like to think. Besides, she has not the slightest desire to see you; she told me this herself. She feels now that she was ridiculous. She should never have paid any attention to the disjointed tale of an ill man, or to the promise which you seem to have exacted of the poor child in your original interview. As for being grateful to Sally, that is also a waste of energy when you have none too much to spare. The one dream of every girl in the world these days is to be allowed the privilege of caring for a good-looking soldier. Sally had her opportunity under particularly romantic and nonsensical circumstances. Besides, men will always be grateful to Sally Ashton for something or other as long as she lives, grateful because she is pretty and soft and selfish and, dear me, I suppose she is what one calls essentially feminine! I confess I have rather a tender feeling toward the child myself." And without further answer to his request Miss Patricia hurriedly departed. Outdoors at the same time Sally was occupied in the garden digging in a desultory fashion. As soon as there was no further danger of the ground freezing the Camp Fire girls were planning to plant a garden. Sally was alone at her task and alone because she preferred solitude. After her fantastic escapade had been disclosed to the other Camp Fire girls, those of them who had been particularly annoyed by her mysterious behavior were frankly regretful of their condemnation. They did not whole-heartedly approve of what she had done, but no one doubted Sally's good intention or the unselfishness of her motive. Aside from Yvonne, whose attitude continued puzzled and distrustful, each girl individually had approached Sally with a carefully veiled apology. However, Sally, who was not in a friendly state of mind toward the world at present, received their advances coldly. The only two persons whose opinion she really valued were Aunt Patricia's and Mrs. Burton's. Aunt Patricia had been kinder and more understanding than any human being could have dreamed possible. Mrs. Burton had not yet returned from her journey into southern France. Indeed, no word had been heard from her in a number of days, so that not alone did Aunt Patricia suffer from uneasiness. The great German drive so long expected was fanning the long line of the French battlefront into fiercer and more terrorizing flames. At any hour the greatest struggle in human history would once more burst upon the world. An hour later Sally Ashton knocked shyly upon Lieutenant Fleury's closed door. She did not do this in accordance with her own wishes, but because of an urgent appeal made by Miss Patricia. As a matter of fact, for some days Miss Patricia had been haunted by the story of his life, since the outbreak of the war, which the young French officer had recounted to her. He was not conscious of asking for sympathy, nor did he consider his story unusual. Nevertheless it occurred to Miss Patricia this morning that she was unwilling to add loneliness to the difficulties which he must face during the hours of his return to health. Up to the present time he had been too engaged with his soldiering to allow much opportunity for reflection. Miss Patricia was also convinced of the truth of what Lieutenant Fleury had told her of himself, although she had no thought of not adding the necessary proof to her instinctive conviction. But in the meantime if he really earnestly desired to see and talk to Sally Ashton and to express his gratitude, what possible harm could come of allowing them an interview? Their acquaintance had been achieved under such remarkable circumstances, to meet in a more ordinary and formal fashion would doubtless be best for them both. Afterwards they would not develop fantastic and untruthful ideas concerning each other. At the moment of Sally's arrival Lieutenant Fleury was despondent. It was true he had managed to escape from the Germans and could congratulate himself that he was not a prisoner and might hope within a reasonable length of time to return to his own regiment. Nevertheless what an extraordinarily stupid adventure he had stumbled into in his sub-conscious effort to seek the neighborhood of his former home! He had come out of the experience a thousand times better than he had any right to hope, yet had he not involved an American girl in what must have been an extremely disagreeable and ungrateful task? At this moment of her entrance into the invalid's room Sally Ashton did not appear to have been seriously affected by her experience. Her hour of working in the garden in the warm late winter sun had given her cheeks the color they frequently lacked, or else it was her embarrassment at meeting the young officer. Sally's hair was also curling in the delicious and irresponsible fashion it often assumed, breaking into small rings on her forehead and at the back of her neck in the fashion of which she at least pretended to disapprove. "Miss Patricia said you wished to speak to me. I am glad you are so much better," she began in a reserved and ceremonious fashion as if she and the lieutenant had met on but one previous occasion before today. In truth it seemed impossible to Sally that the French officer whom she was facing at present had been the ill and disheveled boy she had found in hiding at the château and nursed back to comparative health. In announcing that Sally did not desire to see the young French officer again, Miss Patricia had been correct. Sally considered that she had made a grave and foolish mistake and preferred, as most of us do, that her mistake be ignored and forgotten. Yet Lieutenant Fleury had no idea either of ignoring or forgetting Sally's effort in his behalf. Immediately in reply to her knock he had risen. His serious expression had now changed to one of boyish gratitude and good humor. "Yes, I did wish to speak to you; you are kind to have come," he returned, although in reality surprised by Sally's extremely youthful appearance. He had only a confused memory of her face bending above him during his delirium. They had enjoyed but one conversation when he was entirely himself. On that occasion he had supposed his rescuer a young woman of some years and dignity, and Sally at present looked like a school girl. Indeed, she was a school girl when at home in her own part of the world if one can count college and school as one and the same thing. After coming in from the garden this morning she had hastily changed her everyday Camp Fire dress for a white flannel of which she was especially fond, and without observing that the skirt had shrunk until it was extremely short. "I wished to tell you once again how more than grateful I am to you for your great kindness," the officer continued, smiling in spite of his serious state of mind at the unexpectedness of Sally's appearance. Looking at her now, it was hard to believe that she had ever assumed the arduous burden of nursing a wounded soldier under more than trying conditions. Yet if Sally had not been immature, she would have never have shouldered such a responsibility! She was smiling now and dimpling in an irresistible fashion. "Will you make me a promise?" she demanded. "It is the one thing I ask of you. If you are really under the impression that I was good to you when I was merely risking your life, then promise never to refer to what I did for you as long as you live and never mention the story to anybody who could have the faintest chance of knowing me. You see," Sally continued, her manner becoming more confidential, "I realize now that from every point of view I was foolish. It is kind of you to have turned out to be some one whom Miss Patricia and all of us are able to know, for you might have been a most impossible person." The young French officer laughed. As he recalled their last meeting and this one his benefactress struck him as a person who had the gift of provoking laughter. "I think this a good deal to require of me," he returned. "I will do what you ask only on condition that you-----" "That I promise to allow you to do a favor for me some day?" Sally completed the unfinished sentence. "I suppose that is what you were about to say, wasn't it? Of course you can do whatever kindness you like if you have the chance. But it does not seem probable. After you go away from the farm I can't imagine any reason why we should ever see each other again. Besides, you would do whatever you could for me whether I gave you permission or not." Here Sally smiled a second time. For an instant the French officer stared, nonplussed. But he was not the first person whom Sally had puzzled. She was so matter of fact and so sure of herself one could not tell whether she was extremely simple or correspondingly subtle. Since her companion regarded her as a child, he could have but one impression. When finally he held out his hand, Sally hesitated an instant before placing her own inside his. His exhibition of French courtesy and gratitude at their last meeting had been slightly embarrassing. But this time the lieutenant only held her hand gravely. "You are right, Miss Ashton, whatever was possible to show my gratitude to you I should do, with or without your permission. If I am spared when the war is over I may even create the opportunity which you seem to doubt my ever having. When the war began I had a sister who was, I think perhaps only a few years older than you. If you can ever make up your mind to regard me as she would have done, it would mean a great real to me." Sally was beginning to feel bored. She thought her companion was very conventional and a little stupid. She had not the faintest desire to adopt an unknown young man as a brother. Sally knew herself sufficiently well to realize that the sisterly attitude would make but little appeal to her as long as she lived. And she hoped that her interview with the rescued officer might be entertaining. Life was dull now at the farm with Mrs. Burton away and her own occupation, which had been exciting even if fatiguing, withdrawn. "What happened to your sister?" Sally inquired politely, although intending to make her escape as soon as possible should their conversation continue on such sentimental lines. "She was killed in the retreat when the Germans conquered this part of France at the outbreak of the war. I had gone to the front to join my regiment, so Yvonne and my mother were alone except for my little brother and a few women servants. Our château was destroyed." The French officer paused because Sally was looking at him with a curious expression as if an idea which she may have had in her mind for some time was now slowly crystalizing into a fact. "Your sister's name was Yvonne Fleury and your château was not far from here, was it not?" Sally demanded. The young officer nodded. He did not care to discuss his past history with Sally or with any one else in the world. There was nothing to be gained by recalling the inevitable tragedies of the war. Sally did not appear seriously distressed. Unless she happened to be an actual witness to suffering it did not touch her deeply. Besides, at the present time she was smiling oddly, as if she were pleased and displeased at the same time. "I don't think that you need adopt me as your sister," she remarked. Until this moment they had both continued standing. Now Sally made a little motion toward the invalid's chair which Miss Patricia had removed from their sitting-room to bestow upon her patient. "Suppose we both sit down," she suggested, taking the only other chair at the same instant. "There is something else I wish to talk to you about if you feel you are strong enough to hear. It may prove to be good news. I suppose it seems a strange coincidence, although some people would call it an act of Providence, but I am sure I don't understand such things. It is just barely possible your sister Yvonne Fleury was not killed. When we were crossing to France from the United States we met a girl on shipboard named Yvonne Fleury, whose home, the Château Yvonne, had been destroyed in the early part of the war. As she believed her brother had been killed at the front, she had gone to New York City, where she had been living with some friends for several years. She told the entire family tragedy to our chaperon, Mrs. Burton, who afterwards told the story to us, hoping we might be especially kind to Yvonne because of her unhappiness. The other girls have been, but Yvonne and I do not like each other and she has been very disagreeable to me. Still, if she turns out to be your sister, it does not matter. Under the circumstances I suppose I ought to say nothing against her. "I have been thinking of this for some time, ever since you told me your name, but of course there may be nothing in it. I only thought if you might like to meet this Yvonne Fleury--you see she came here to the farm and is living with us--I will speak first to Aunt Patricia and together you can decide." In reality Sally was not so unsympathetic or so childish as at present her words and manner suggested. During her long speech she had been watching the young officer narrowly. She had arrived at her present conclusion by putting certain facts together in a practical and commonsense fashion. There was more than a possibility that she might be wrong, so there was no reason for working oneself up into a state of hysteria or of heroics. Moreover, Sally had been entirely frank. She understood that the French officer would be overjoyed if Yvonne should prove to be his sister, but Sally herself would have felt no enthusiasm over the same discovery. As a matter of fact, she had no particular interest in Yvonne's opportunity for happiness through her aid. She was worried, however, because her former patient suddenly appeared so white and shaken by her words, when only a few moments before he had looked so remarkably well. Sally moved slowly backwards toward the door. "I'll go and find Aunt Patricia; perhaps I should have spoken to her first of my idea. Then after you have talked with her if you would like me to find Yvonne and ask her to come to you----" With these words, having managed to reach the half closed door, Sally disappeared. CHAPTER XVIII THE EXPECTED HAPPENS Miss Patricia Lord was on her way to the French village only a few miles from their farm house. Unless the call were urgent, rarely did Miss Patricia bestow her activities outside the environments of the farm, which of course included the house, garden, barns, fields, really a sufficient large sphere of activity even for her. It is true she had been an extremely practical benefactress to the entire neighborhood, yet her gifts had been made largely through other persons; Mrs. Burton or one of the Camp Fire girls reporting a special need among their neighbors, as promptly as possible Miss Patricia had seen that need supplied. So, as she took her walk on this summer afternoon, had she liked she might have given a good deal of credit to herself for the change in the appearance of the countryside which the past two months had wrought. A number of the peasants' huts near the road had been either entirely or partly rebuilt. But more important than the actual physical shelter, Miss Patricia's tractor had plowed its way over many acres which otherwise must have remained unproductive until, as far as the eye could see, the fields were now being made ready for planting. Even if German guns were thundering along the battle line, nevertheless behind that line the French peasants toiled on with their patience and their eternal industry. Today Miss Patricia was thinking of life's contrasts, of the peaceful scenes through which she was passing which only a few years before had been an altar of the world's carnage and which might soon be so sacrificed again. For it would seem as if the last gigantic struggle of the present war were now about to take place. Surely humanity would never pass through this universal Calvary again! Not yet had Mrs. Burton returned from her journey into southern France! A few days before, a letter stating that, having accomplished a portion of their mission, she, Mrs. Bishop and Monsieur Duval were preparing to start on their homeward way, had arrived for Miss Patricia, although the letter had been delayed for a week. A more important witness of their mission had been the actual return to the French village of a number of the refugees in whose welfare Mrs. Burton had been especially interested. Among them was the French girl, Elise. At this moment Miss Patricia was intending to pay a call to offer her congratulations to Elise and her grandmother and also to learn if Elise had seen Mrs. Burton or heard any definite information concerning her. The visit was not one to which she looked forward with pleasure, but was due to the fact that Mrs. Burton had asked it of her as a favor. Miss Patricia's use of the French tongue was so impossible that all conversation between her and her French neighbors was an agony. Moreover, her unconsciously fierce manner seemed always to disconcert the courteous peasants. Nevertheless, the old men and women and children whom she met on the road into the village and later upon the village streets bowed to her with more than ordinary friendliness. If they could not comprehend her words or her manner, the value of her kindness they could understand. A child ran out of one of the houses and unexpectedly presented Miss Patricia with a little battered image of St. Joseph, and although St. Joseph is one of the patron saints of marriage, Miss Patricia accepted her gift with warm appreciation. An hour later, when she received the first intimation of what had occurred, Miss Patricia was standing in the little yard in front of their hut with Grand'mère and Elise. There was no restraint about Grand'mère's conversation now that her granddaughter was restored to her; indeed, she was pouring forth such a flood of rapid speech that Miss Patricia had the sensation of drowning in a sea of words of which she could understand about one in fifty. Nevertheless, it was pleasant to glance now and then toward Elise, who was as charmingly pretty as her neighbors and friends had described her. From her weeks of enforced imprisonment and something nearly approaching starvation, the young French girl was thin and haggard. Yet as nothing more terrible had happened, she was too rejoiced over her return not to show delight and gratitude in every expression of her vivid face. Moreover, after being allowed to cross the borderland from Germany into France, she really had a meeting of a few moments with Mrs. Burton, who had given her the money and the information necessary for her homecoming. At the moment when one of Elise's friends ran into the yard from an unexpected direction, Miss Patricia's first sensation was that of relief. At least she could enjoy a short respite from her position of exclusive audience to Grand'mère. The woman appeared so excited and so full of some story she undoubtedly had come to tell, that immediately she became the center of attention. Moreover, a dozen other persons soon followed her until in a few seconds the little yard was crowded with gesticulating figures. Miss Patricia was about to withdraw when a single word arrested her attention. The word was of course pronounced in French fashion, yet in the past few weeks Aunt Patricia had learned to recognize its peculiar French intonation. The word was Mrs. Burton's name. Through guessing, through intuition and also through the united efforts of her new friends, soon after Miss Patricia learned as much of the woman's tale as it was desirable for her to hear at the present time. This story had spread through the village. A French ambulance bearing the sign of the _croix de rouge_ had just driven through the town en route to the farm house on the Aisne, the present home of the Camp Fire girls. Returning from her work in southern France, Mrs. Burton had been injured and rather than be cared for in a hospital had begged to be brought directly to the farm. As a matter of fact, Miss Patricia arrived at the farm house exactly two minutes before the Red Cross ambulance drew up before the front door. How she managed this one could only discover from Miss Patricia. The village owned a single motor car used in transporting supplies and Miss Patricia saw that it traveled faster on this occasion than ever before in its history. Besides, Mrs. Burton, who was so swathed in bandages one could scarcely recognize her, the ambulance contained Monsieur Duval, the French senator, Mrs. Bishop and a Red Cross nurse. Ignoring them all, Aunt Patricia lifted Mrs. Burton in her arms and carried her upstairs to her room, placing her upon the bed. An hour later, when the farm house had grown strangely quiet and everybody had been sent outdoors except the nurse and a doctor who had been hastily summoned, Aunt Patricia stalked down the steps into the drawing-room. Here she found Monsieur Duval and Mrs. Bishop waiting to explain the situation to her. They had been motoring toward home and several miles back of the French line, when without any reason for such a catastrophe, a shell had dropped from a German aeroplane and exploded near their car. Aside from Mrs. Burton, no member of the party had been hurt, but a piece of the shell had imbedded itself inside her chest and was supposed to be too near her lungs for an operation. "Do you mean that Polly Burton has a chance to live without an operation?" Miss Patricia demanded in grim tones when her two companions had finished their unsatisfying explanation of what had taken place. Mrs. Bishop shook her head. "I am afraid not; that is why we took the risk of bringing her home to you when she wished so much to come." "Is there a chance for her to recover through an operation?" Miss Patricia next asked without a perceptible change either in her expression or manner. This time, as Mrs. Bishop appeared unable to speak, Monsieur Duval answered instead. "There is one in a hundred, but we dared not accept the responsibility without first coming to you." "Then telegraph at once for the best surgeon in Paris who can be spared and also for Captain Richard Burton. I will give you his address. In the meantime, if you can find hospitality elsewhere than at our farm I shall be grateful. We shall have but little opportunity to make visitors comfortable for the next few days." With this Miss Patricia withdrew. CHAPTER XIX THE FIELD OF HONOR Some little time afterwards, late on a March afternoon, the yard in front of the farm house on the Aisne, chosen by the Camp Fire girls for their temporary home in France, was occupied by a number of persons. They had separated into groups and were either walking about the place or else were seated in informal attitudes. On the wooden steps leading directly down from the house two girls moved aside to allow a woman and a man to pass them. The woman was Miss Patricia, who appeared taller and more painfully gaunt than ever, and moreover, was laying down the law upon some subject in her usual didatic fashion. Yet the man whose arm was slipped through hers was regarding her with devoted and amused affection. According to Captain Richard Burton and in the opinion of a number of other persons, Miss Patricia's good sense and devotion in the past few weeks had saved his wife's life. Miss Patricia was discussing with him the question of increasing the number of cows upon the farm until a dairy could be run upon really scientific principles. She desired a dairy sufficiently large to supply milk to the nearby hospitals as well as to the babies in the villages. Up to the present time she had been largely interested in preserving the health of the young children who came within her sphere of effort. But realizing that milk at present was one of the greatest needs in France for the proper feeding of the wounded soldiers and of the convalescents, Miss Patricia was arranging for the shipment of a herd of a hundred cows from the United States. As a matter of fact, she was supposed to be asking Captain Burton's advice upon the subject, though Miss Patricia's method of asking advice was merely to announce what she intended doing. After watching the two older persons disappear toward the barn, which had been restored until it presented a very comfortable aspect, Peggy Webster glanced up from her knitting to look earnestly at her companion. "How long do you intend remaining in France to continue with the reconstruction work, Vera?" she inquired. Vera Lagerloff was sewing upon a dress for one of the children in the neighborhood, since few of them had clothing enough to keep them warm and comfortable in spite of all that was being done for them in the reclamation districts by an increasing force of American women and girls. Vera's eyes followed the direction Miss Patricia's tall figure had just taken. "I intend to stay on indefinitely until the war is over and afterwards if I feel I can be of more use here than anywhere else. A few days ago Miss Patricia told me that she would be very glad to pay my expenses, as she believed I was 'a laborer worthy of my hire.' What an extraordinary woman she is and how much she seems to get out of life, if not for herself, then certainly for other people! I shall never forget our first meeting and the way in which she then took hold of the situation. I think none of us will forget her recent devotion to Mrs. Burton. Any one of us would have been willing to do what she did, only no one would have had the courage or the intelligence." Peggy nodded. "I have written mother pretty much the same thing you have just said. Certainly no one of our family can ever pay our debt to Aunt Patricia. Not that I should dare make the attempt!" Peggy added, smiling and looking a little anxiously at the sock she was about to finish. "But I wonder if I am envious of you, Vera, I mean of your planning to remain over here so long? Mother and father have written they would like me to come home as soon as I feel I am not especially needed and Tante has entirely recovered. They wish her to return as well, but I am by no means sure she will. There are moments of course when I am homesick and feel it my duty to be with my own people, now that Billy is gone and Dan has at last been permitted to volunteer. Then on the other hand, I naturally want to be in France while Ralph is here fighting. Have I told you that after Ralph's visit to us at the farm my family has consented to our engagement. We have promised not to consider marrying until the war is over. I am not speaking of this to any of the other Camp Fire girls, Vera, only to you and Bettina. But I shall always think of you, even if the future should separate us for a long time, as if you were almost my sister. I suppose if Billy had lived you would have been my sister." In response Vera shook her head with its heavy mass of dark hair. "I don't know, Peggy. I am not at all sure. I don't believe Billy's friendship and mine were like that. Perhaps when he grew older he would have wished to marry a prettier and more romantic girl, but always he would have come back to me for criticism and praise. Yet I should never have wished to marry any one else and now I shall never marry any one." As there is no real answer to a speech of this character, Peggy Webster made no reply. What Vera's future held in store for her was, according to an ancient pagan expression, "in the lap of the gods." But Peggy wrinkled her brows at this moment, making a little motion with her hand to attract Vera's attention to the figure of a girl who was standing alone about a dozen yards beyond them. "Sally looks pretty, does she not, with her dark hair and white dress? But of course nothing would induce her to confess that there is any especial reason why she wishes to look particularly attractive this afternoon. She is a funny child," Peggy concluded with the superior manner of an engaged person. This afternoon the Camp Fire girls were enjoying a half holiday and the unusual celebration of afternoon tea in honor of Mrs. Burton's recovery and also the arrival of the two guests whom they were now waiting out of doors to greet. Almost immediately after the reunion of Yvonne Fleury and her brother they left the farm together, returning to the neighborhood of their own château. Mrs. Burton's dangerous condition had made them feel it wiser to add no more responsibility to the household. They also desired to look up the old friends whom they might be able to find still living near their former home. Until this afternoon neither one of them had returned to the farm house even for a brief visit, although of course many letters had been exchanged between Yvonne and the other girls. Now Mary Gilchrist had motored over to the nearest railroad station to meet them and Yvonne and her brother, Lieutenant Fleury, were expected at any moment. Ten minutes later, when the motor containing the two guests finally arrived, Sally Ashton was the only one of the group of friends who did not go forward to welcome the newcomers. She did not believe that she particularly liked either of them and there would be time enough to do her duty later. As a matter of fact, Sally was about to slip around the side of the house toward the kitchen to assist in the preparation of their simple tea when Lieutenant Fleury followed her and as he called her by name she felt obliged to stop and speak to him. He looked extremely well as if he had entirely recovered from his illness and was better looking than Sally would have dreamed possible. "You do not seem enthusiastic about seeing me again?" Lieutenant Fleury began, smiling at Sally. "I am very glad to find you so well," Sally announced as she shook hands. It was difficult to confuse Sally. She had a great deal of poise of her own kind and a little superior air of detachment which was oddly amusing. "Yes, I am very well, thanks to you. Still I insist upon knowing why you are not pleased to see me? I remember you snubbed me for suggesting that we might develop a sisterly and brotherly affection for each other, but now I have discovered Yvonne, won't you be friends? It is hard upon me if you refuse to consent because my burden of gratitude to you must then be all the heavier. I am going back to join my regiment in a few days. Today I also came to warn Miss Lord and Captain Burton that there will be danger later this spring if you insist upon remaining here at your farm house. I cannot speak plainly, but I have reason to believe the German drive will not be long delayed. The Allied line will hold; they shall never break through, yet it might be wiser if you were out of the range of any possible danger." Without discussion of the question and disregarding the delightful possibility of tea, Sally and Lieutenant Fleury were walking side by side away from the farm house yard and toward the old château. "You are very kind, Lieutenant Fleury," Sally answered, speaking more gravely and with less childishness than one might have imagined, "but I do not believe we will consent to leave our farm house and to give up our work unless the war comes almost to our very door. Even then you know food might be useful to the soldiers and I am an extremely good cook." Sally's seriousness had disappeared and she was more her accustomed self. "Yet you have not answered my question or promised to be my friend," Lieutenant Fleury argued, looking at his companion with an amused frown. Undoubtedly it was difficult to understand any human being who could be such a complete child at one moment and so wise the next; but perhaps Sally embodied the Biblical idea that true wisdom is only found among childish spirits. As a matter of fact, Sally answered simply, "Why, of course I am your friend, Lieutenant Fleury. Now when I am beginning to understand more of what soldiers must endure, I feel as if I were a friend to every man in our allied armies, although they probably are not aware of the honor," and again Sally dimpled in irresistible fashion. Moreover, with this general acceptance of his friendship, Lieutenant Fleury was obliged to appear content, since Sally would give him no more satisfactory reply. A few weeks later the long-heralded German drive burst with renewed fury along a long line in France. How the group of American Camp Fire girls met the unexpected dangers and demands upon their courage and resources will be the subject of the next Camp Fire book. 
31499	----	THE CAMPFIRE GIRLS SERIES A CAMPFIRE GIRL'S FIRST COUNCIL FIRE A CAMPFIRE GIRL'S CHUM A CAMPFIRE GIRL IN SUMMER CAMP A CAMPFIRE GIRL'S ADVENTURE A CAMPFIRE GIRL'S TEST OF FRIENDSHIP A CAMPFIRE GIRL'S HAPPINESS [Illustration: They had hearty appetites for the camp breakfast.] A CAMPFIRE GIRL'S HAPPINESS By JANE L. STEWART [Illustration] CAMPFIRE GIRLS SERIES VOLUME VI THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY AKRON, OHIO--NEW YORK Made in U.S.A. COPYRIGHT, MCMXIV BY THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING CO. THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS AT THE SEASHORE CHAPTER I FROM THE ASHES The sun rose over Plum Beach to shine down on a scene of confusion and wreckage that might have caused girls less determined and courageous than those who belonged to the Manasquan Camp Fire of the Camp Fire Girls of America to feel that there was only one thing to do--pack up and move away. But, though the camp itself was in ruins, there were no signs of discouragement among the girls themselves. Merry laughter vied with the sound of the waves, and the confusion among the girls was more apparent than real. "Have you got everything sorted, Margery--the things that are completely ruined and those that are worth saving?" asked Eleanor Mercer, the Guardian of the Camp Fire. "Yes, and there's more here that we can save and still use than anyone would have dreamed just after we got the fire put out," replied Margery Burton, one of the older girls, who was a Fire-Maker. In the Camp Fire there are three ranks--the Wood-Gatherers, to which all girls belong when they join; the Fire-Makers, next in order, and, finally, the Torch-Bearers, of which Manasquan Camp Fire had none. These rank next to the Guardian in a Camp Fire, and, as a rule, there is only one in each Camp Fire. She is a sort of assistant to the Guardian, and, as the name of the rank implies, she is supposed to hand on the light of what the Camp Fire has given her, by becoming a Guardian of a new Camp Fire as soon as she is qualified. "What's next?" cried Bessie King, who had been working with some of the other girls in sorting out the things which could be used, despite the damage done by the fire that had almost wiped out the camp during the night. "Why, we'll start a fire of our own!" said Eleanor. "There's no sort of use in keeping any of this rubbish, and the best way to get rid of it is just to burn it. All hands to work now, piling it up and seeing that there is a good draught underneath, so that it will burn up. We can get rid of ashes easily, but half-burned things are a nuisance." "Where are we going to sleep to-night?" asked Dolly Ransom, ruefully surveying the places where the tents had stood. Only two remained, which were used for sleeping quarters by some of the girls. "I'm more bothered about what we're going to eat," said Eleanor, with a laugh. "Do you realize that we've been so excited that we haven't had any breakfast? I should think you'd be starved, Dolly. You've had a busier morning than the rest of us, even." "I _am_ hungry, when I'm reminded of it," said Dolly, with, a comical gesture. "What ever are we going to do, Miss Eleanor?" "I'm just teasing you, Dolly," said Eleanor. "Mr. Salters came over from Green Cove in his boat, when he saw the fire, to see if he couldn't help in some way, and he's gone in to Bay City. He'll be out pretty soon with a load of provisions, and as many other things as he can stuff into the _Sally S_." "Then we're really going to stay here?" said Bessie King. "We certainly are!" said Eleanor, her eyes flashing. "I don't see why we should let a little thing like this fire drive us away! We are going to stay here, and, what's more, we're going to have just as good a time as we planned to have when we came here--if not a better one!" "Good!" cried half a dozen of the girls together. Soon all the rubbish was collected, and a fire had been built. And, while Margery Burton applied a light to it, the girls formed a circle about it, and danced around, singing the while the most popular of Camp Fire songs, Wo-he-lo. "That's like turning all the unpleasant things that have happened to us, isn't it?" said Eleanor. "We just toss them into the flames, and they're gone! What's left is clean and good and useful, and we will make all the better use of it for having lost what is burning now." "Isn't it strange, Miss Eleanor," said Bessie King, "that this should have happened to us so soon after the fire that burned up the Pratt's farm?" "Yes, it is," replied Eleanor. "And there's a lesson in it for us, just as there was for them in their fire. We didn't expect to find them in such trouble when we started to walk there, but we were able to help them, and to show them that there was a way of rising from the ruin of their home, and being happier and more prosperous than they had been before." "We're going to do that, too," said Dolly, with spirit. "I felt terrible when I first saw the place in the light, after the fire was all out, but it looks different already." "Mr. Salters will be here soon," said Eleanor. "And now there's nothing more to do until he comes. We'll have a fine meal--and if you're half as hungry as I am you'll be glad of that--and we'll spend the afternoon in getting the place to rights. But just now the best thing for all of us to do is to rest." "I'll be glad to do that," said Dolly Ransom, as she linked her arm with Bessie's and drew her away. "I am pretty tired." "I should think you would be, Dolly. I haven't had a chance to thank you yet for what you did for me." "Oh, nonsense, Bessie!" said Dolly, flushing. "You'd have done it for me, wouldn't you? I'm only just as glad as I can be that I was able to do anything to get you away from Mr. Holmes--you and Zara." "Zara's gone to pieces completely, Dolly. She was terribly frightened--more than I was, I think, and yet I don't see how that can be, because I was as frightened as I think anyone could have been." "I never saw them get hold of you at all, Bessie. How did it happen?" "Well, that's pretty hard to say, Dolly. You know, after we found out that that yacht was here just to watch us, I was nervous, and so were you." "I think we had reason to be nervous, don't you?" "I should say so! Well, anyhow, as soon as I saw that the tents were on fire, I was sure that the men on the yacht had had something to do with it. But, of course, there wasn't anything to do but try as hard as I could to help put out the fire, and it was so exciting that I didn't think about any other danger until I saw a man from the boat that had come ashore pick Zara up and start to carry her out to it." "They pretended to be helping us with the fire, and they really did help, Bessie. I guess we wouldn't have saved any of the tents at all if it hadn't been for them." "Oh, I saw what they were doing! When I saw the man pick Zara up, though, I knew right away what their plan was. And I was just going to scream when another man got hold of me, and he kept me from shouting, and carried me off to the yacht in the boat. Zara had fainted, and they kept us down below in a cabin and said they were going to take us along the coast until we came to the coast of the state Zara and I were in when we met you girls first." "We guessed that, Bessie. That was one of the things we were all worrying about when we came here--that they might try to carry you two off that way. I don't see how it can be that you're all right as long as you're in this state, and in danger as soon as you go back to the one you came from." "Well, you see, Zara and I really did run away, I suppose. Zara's father is in prison, so they said she had to have a guardian, and I left the Hoovers. So that old Farmer Weeks--you know about him, don't you?--is our guardian in that state, and he's got an order from the judge near Hedgeville putting us in his care until we are twenty-one." "But that order's no good in this state?" "No, because here Miss Mercer is our guardian. But if they can get us into that other state, no matter how, they can hold us." "Oh, I see! And, of course, Miss Eleanor understood right away. When we told the men who had helped us with the fire that you were missing, they said they were afraid you must have been caught in the fire, but Miss Eleanor said she was sure you were on the yacht. And they just laughed." "I heard that big man, Jeff, talking to her when she went aboard the yacht." "Yes. They wouldn't let her look for you, and he threatened to put her off if she didn't come ashore. You heard that, didn't you?" "Oh, yes! Zara and I could hear everything she said when she was in the cabin on the yacht. But we couldn't let her know where we were." "Well, just as soon as she could get to a telephone, Miss Eleanor called up Bay City, and asked them to send policemen or some sort of officers who could search the yacht. But we were terribly afraid that they would sail away before those men could get here, and then, you see, we couldn't have done a thing. There wouldn't have been any way of catching them." "And they'd have done it, too, if it hadn't been for you, Dolly! I don't see how you ever thought of it, and how you were brave enough to do what you did when you did think of it." "Oh, pshaw, Bessie--it was easy! I knew enough about yachts to understand that if their screw was twisted up with rope it wouldn't turn, and that would keep them there for a little while, anyhow. And they never seemed to think of that possibility at all. So I swam out there, and, of course, I could dive and stay down for a few seconds at a time. It was easier, because I had something to hold on to." "It was mighty clever, and mighty plucky of you, too, Dolly." "There was only one thing I regretted, Bessie. I wish I'd been able to hear what they said when they found out they couldn't get away!" "I wish you'd been there, too, Dolly," said Bessie, laughing. "They were perfectly furious, and everyone on board blamed everyone else. It took them quite a while to find out what was the matter, and then even after they found out, it meant a long delay before they could clear the screw and get moving." "I never was so glad of anything in my life, Bessie, as when we saw the men from Bay City coming while that yacht was still here! We kept watching it all the time, of course, and we saw them send the sailor over to dive down and find out what was wrong. Then we could see him going down and coming up, time after time, and it seemed as if he would get it done in time." "It must have been exciting, Dolly." "I guess it was just as exciting for you, wasn't it? But it would have been dreadful if, after having held them so long, it hadn't been quite long enough." "Well, it _was_ long enough, Dolly, thanks to you! I hate to think of where I would be now if you hadn't managed it so cleverly." "What will they do to those men on the yacht, do you suppose?" "I don't know. Miss Eleanor wants to prove that it was Mr. Holmes who got them to do it, I think. But that won't be decided until her cousin, Mr. Jamieson, the lawyer, comes. He'll know what we'd better do, and I'm sure Miss Eleanor will leave it to him to decide." "I tell you one thing, Bessie. This sort of persecution of you and Zara has got to be stopped. I really do believe they've gone too far this time. Of course, if they had got you away, they'd have been all right, because in that other state where you two came from what they did was all right. But they got caught at it. I certainly do hope that Mr. Jamieson will be able to find some way to stop them." "I'm glad we're going to stay here, aren't you, Dolly? Do you know, I really feel that we'll be safer here now than if we went somewhere else? They've tried their best to get at us here, and they couldn't manage it. Perhaps now they'll think that we'll be on our guard too much, and leave us alone." "I hope so, Bessie. But look here, there were two girls on guard last night, and what good did it do us?" "You don't think they were asleep, do you, Dolly?" "No, I'm sure they weren't. But they just didn't have a chance to do anything. What happened was this. Margery and Mary were sitting back to back, so that one could watch the yacht and the other the path that leads up to the spring on top of the bluff, where those two men we had seen were sitting." "That was a good idea, Dolly." "First rate, but those people were too clever. They didn't row ashore in a boat--not here, at least. And no one came down the path, until later, anyhow. The first thing that made Margery think there was anything wrong was when she smelt smoke and then, a second later, the big living tent was all ablaze." "It might have been an accident, Dolly, I suppose--" "Oh, yes, it might have been, but it wasn't! They were here too soon, and it fitted in too well with their plans. Miss Eleanor thinks she knows how they started the fire." "But how could they have done that, if there were none of them here on the beach, Dolly?" "She says that if they were on the bluff, above the tents, they could very easily have thrown down bombs that would smoulder, and soon set the canvas on fire. And there was a high wind last night, and it wouldn't have taken long, once a spark had touched the canvas, for everything to blaze up. They couldn't have picked a much better night." "I don't suppose that can be proved, though, Dolly." "I'm afraid not. That's what Miss Eleanor says, too. She says you can often be so sure of a thing yourself that it seems that it must have happened, without being able to prove it to someone else. That's where they are so clever, and that's what makes them so dangerous. They can hide their tracks splendidly." "I don't see why men who can do such things couldn't keep straight, and really make more money honestly than they can by being crooked." "It does seem strange, doesn't it, Bessie? Oh, look, there's the _Sally S._ with our breakfast--and there's another boat coming in. I wonder if Mr. Jamieson can be here already?" In a moment his voice proved that it _was_ possible, and a few minutes later, while the girls were helping Captain Salters to unload the stores he had brought with him, Eleanor was greeting her attorney from Bay City. CHAPTER II A NEW ALLY "I guess you haven't met Billy Trenwith properly yet, Eleanor," said Charlie Jamieson, smiling. "Maybe not," said Eleanor, returning the smile, "but I regard him as a friend already, Charlie. He was splendid this morning. If he hadn't understood so quickly, and acted at once, the way he did, I don't know what would have happened." "I'm afraid I didn't really understand at all, Miss Mercer," said Trenwith, a good looking young fellow, with light brown hair and grey blue eyes, that, although mild and pleasant enough now, had been as cold as steel when Bessie had seen him on the yacht. "But I could understand readily enough that you were in trouble, and I knew that Charlie's cousin wouldn't appeal to me unless there was a good reason. So I didn't feel that I was taking many chances in doing what you wished." "I'm afraid you took more chances than you know about, Billy," said Charlie, gravely. "You're in politics, aren't you? And you have ambitions for more of a job than you've got now?" "Oh, yes, I'm in politics, after a fashion," admitted Trenwith. "But I guess I could manage to keep alive if I never got another political office. I had a bit of a practice before I became district attorney, and I think I could build it up again." "Well, I hope this isn't going to make any difference, Billy. But it's only fair for you to know the sort of game you're running into. I don't want to feel that you're going ahead to help us without understanding the situation just as it is." "You talk as if this might be a pretty complicated bit of business, Charlie. Suppose you loosen up and tell me about it. Then I may be able to figure better on how I can help you." "That's just what I'm going to do, old man. I want you to meet two of cousin's protegees here--Bessie King and Zara, the mysterious. If we knew more about Zara and her affairs this wouldn't be such a Chinese puzzle. But here goes! Ask me all the questions you like. And you girls--if I go wrong, stop me. "In the first place, Miss Mercer here took a party of her Camp Fire Girls, these same ones that you can see there so busy about getting breakfast, over the state line, and they went to a camp on a lake a little way from a village called Hedgeville." "I know the place," nodded Trenwith. "Never been there, but I know where it is." "Well, one morning they discovered these two--Bessie and Zara. And they'd had a strange experience. They were running away!" "Bad business, as a rule," commented Trenwith. "But I suppose there was a good reason?" "You bet there was, old chap! Bessie had lived for a good many years with an old farmer called Hoover and his wife. They had a son, too, a worthless young scamp named Jake, lazy and ready for any sort of mischief that turned up!" "Is she related to them in any way, Charlie?" "Not a bit of it! When she was a little bit of a kid her parents left her there as a boarder, and they were supposed to send money to pay for her keep until they came back to get her. For a while they did, but then the money stopped coming." "But they kept her on, just the same?" "Yes, as a sort of unpaid servant. She did all the work she could manage, and she didn't have a very good time. Zara, here, has a father. How long ago did Zara and her father come to Hedgeville, Bessie?" "They'd been there about two years when we--we had to run away, Mr. Jamieson. They came from some foreign country, you know." "Yes. And the people around Hedgeville couldn't make much out about them, so they decided, of course, being unable to understand them, that there must be something wrong about Zara's dad. No real reason at all, except that he only spoke a little English, and liked to keep his business to himself." Trenwith laughed. "I know," he said. "I see a lot of that sort of thing." "Well, the day before the two of them ran away--or the day before they found the girls, rather--there'd been a fine shindy at the Hoovers. Zara went over to see Bessie, and Jake Hoover locked her in a tool shed. Then he managed, without meaning to do it, to set the tool shed afire, and said he was going to say that Bessie had done it." "Fine young pup, he must be!" "Yes--worth knowing! Anyhow, Bessie had only too good reason to know that his mother would believe him and take his word, no matter what she and Zara said. So, being scared, she just ran. I don't blame her! I'd have done the same thing myself. You and I both know that knowing he's innocent doesn't keep a man who is unjustly accused from being afraid." "No," said Trenwith, thoughtfully. "I've had to learn that it doesn't pay to think a man's guilty because he's scared and confused. It's an old theory that innocence shows in a prisoner's eyes, and it's very pretty--only it isn't true." "Well, even so, they might not have run away if it hadn't happened that that was the day Zara's father was arrested. Apparently with an old miser and money lender called Weeks as the moving spirit, a charge of counterfeiting was cooked up against him, and they took him off to my town to jail." "But it's in another state!" "United States case, you see. My town's the centre of the Federal district. Zara and Bessie happened to get on to this, and when they crept up to Zara's house to find out if it was true, they overheard enough to show them that it was--and, what was more, that old Weeks meant to get himself appointed Zara's guardian, and take her home with him." "Oh, that was his game, eh?" "Yes, and if you'd ever seen him, you wouldn't blame Zara for being ready to run away before she went with him. He's the meanest old codger you ever saw. But he had a big pull in that region, because he held mortgages on about all the farms, and he could do about as he liked." "Well, I don't see why they didn't have a perfect right to run away," said Trenwith, "legally and morally. They didn't owe anything in the way of gratitude to any of these people." "That's just what I said!" declared Eleanor, vehemently. "I looked into the story they told me, and I found out it was perfectly true. So we helped them, and took them into this state." "Yes. And old Weeks chased them, and got Zara away from them once. Bessie tricked him and got her back," said Jamieson. "And then the old rip got a court order making him Zara's guardian, but he tried to serve it across the state line, and got dished for his trouble. So it looked as if they'd shaken him pretty well." "I should say so! Do you mean that he kept it up after that?" "He certainly did! And he got pretty powerful help too. Here's where the part of it that ought to interest you really begins. Miss Mercer took the two girls home with her, and almost at once, in the middle of the night, Zara was spirited away. At first we thought she'd been kidnapped but later it turned out that she'd been deceived, and gone with them willingly." "This is beginning to sound pretty exciting, Charlie." "I got interested in the case, Billy, and I tried to do what I could for Zara's father. He didn't trust me much, and I had a dickens of a time persuading him to talk. And then, just as I was about on the point of succeeding, he shut up like a clam, fired me as his lawyer, and hired Isaac Brack!" "That little shyster? Good Heavens!" "Right! Well, she--Zara, I mean--seemed to have vanished into thin air. We couldn't get any trace of her at all, until Bessie here dug up a wild idea that it was in Morton Holmes's car she'd been taken off." "Holmes, the big dry goods merchant?" said Trenwith, with a laugh. "How in the world did she ever get such a wild idea as that? He wouldn't be mixed up in anything shady!" "Just what we told her," said Charlie, unsmilingly, "but she insisted she was right. And, a little while later, after Miss Mercer had taken the girls to her father's farm, Holmes came along, tricked her into getting in his car with another girl, and ran them over the state line. He met Weeks and this Jake Hoover--but Bessie was too smart for them, and got back over the state line safely. And the same day, putting two and two together, I found Zara, held a prisoner in an old house that Holmes had bought!" "Good Lord!" said Trenwith, blankly. "So Holmes had been in it from the start?" "I don't know how long he's been mixed up in it, but he was in it then, with both feet. He was hand in glove with old Weeks, and for some reason he was mighty anxious to get both the girls across the state line and into old Weeks's care as guardian appointed by one of their courts over there." "But why, Charlie--why?" "I wish I knew. I've been cudgelling my brains for weeks to get the answer to that question, Billy. It's kept me awake nights, and I'm no nearer to it now than I was at the beginning. But hold on, you haven't heard it all yet, by a good deal!" "What? Do you mean they weren't content with that?" "Not so that you could notice it, they weren't! The girls went to Long Lake, up in the woods, and while they were there, a gypsy tried to carry them off. He mixed them up a bit, and, partly by good luck, and partly by Bessie's good nerve and pluck, he was caught and landed in jail at Hamilton, the county seat up there." "Was Holmes mixed up in that?" "Yes. He'd been fool enough to write a letter to the gypsy, and sign his own name to it. He hired lawyers to defend the gypsy, too, but that letter smashed his case, and the gypsy went to jail. They were afraid of Holmes, though, at Hamilton and we couldn't touch him. He's got a whole lot of money and power, too, especially in politics. So he can get away with things that would land a smaller man in jail in a jiffy." "His money and pull won't do him any good down here," said Trenwith, his eyes snapping. "Have you any reason to think he was mixed up in this outrage here this morning and last night, Charlie?" "Every reason to think so, Billy, but mighty little proof to back up what I think. There's the rub. Still--well, we'll see what we see later. I'll give you some of the reasons." "You'd better," said Trenwith, grimly. "I think it's pretty nearly time for me to take a hand in this." He shot a look at Eleanor that Bessie did not fail to notice. Evidently her charms had already made an impression on him. "Yesterday, when Miss Mercer brought the girls down to Bay City from Windsor," Jamieson went on, "the train was to stop for a minute at Canton, which, though they had none of them thought of it, is in Weeks's state. And Bessie happened to discover that Jake Hoover was spying on them. She stayed behind the others at Windsor, discovered that he was telegraphing the news to Holmes, and guessed the plot." "Good for her!" exclaimed Trenwith. "So she got a message through to Miss Mercer on the train, and, being warned, Zara was able to elude the people who searched the train for her at Canton. Bessie went on a later train that didn't stop at Canton at all, so they were all right." "That looks like pretty good evidence," said Trenwith, frowning. "He knew they were coming here and he'd made one attempt to get hold of them on the way." "Yes, and there's more. When this yacht turned up here last night, Miss Mercer and the girls were nervous. And Bessie and her chum Dolly Ransom happened to overhear two men who were put at the top of that bluff to watch the camp. They talked about the 'boss' and how he meant to get those girls and had been 'stung once too often.' But they didn't mention Holmes by name." "Too bad. Still, that fire was too timely to have been accidental. I think maybe we can convict them of starting it. Then if these fellows think they're in danger of going to prison, we might offer them a chance of liberty if they confess and implicate Holmes, do you see?" "It would be a good bargain, Billy." "That's what I think. I'd let the tool escape any time to get hold of the man who was using him. They and the yacht are held safely at Bay City, in any case, and we have plenty of time to decide what's best to be done there." "If I know Holmes, he'll show you his hand pretty soon, Bill. I believe he thinks that every man has his price, and he probably has an idea that he can get you on his side if he works it right and offers you enough." "He's got several more thinks coming on that," said Trenwith, angrily. "What a hound he must be! We've got to get to the bottom of this business, Charlie. That's all there is to it!" "Won't Jake Hoover help, Charlie?" suggested Eleanor. "He told Bessie he would go in to see you." "He did come, but I was called away, and meant to talk to him again this morning, Nell. Then of course I had to come down here when I got this news from you and so I didn't have a chance. But I may get something out of him yet." "We've decided, Mr. Trenwith," Eleanor explained, "that the reason Jake is doing just what they want is that he's afraid of them--that they know of some wrong thing he has done, and have been threatening to expose him if he doesn't obey them." "Well, if they're scaring him," said Charlie, "the thing for us to do is to scare him worse than they can. He'll stick to the side he's most afraid of." "Let's get him down here," said Trenwith. "Then we can not only handle him better, but we can keep an eye on him. I'm with you in this, Charlie, for anything I can do." "Good man!" said Charlie. "Then you're not afraid of Holmes? He's pretty powerful, you know." Trenwith looked at Eleanor. And when he saw the smile she gave him, and her look of liking and of confidence, he laughed. "I guess I can look after myself," he said. "No, I'm not afraid of him, old man! We'll fight this out together." CHAPTER III AN UNEXPECTED REUNION "I like that Mr. Trenwith, Bessie," said Dolly, when the meal was over and she and Bessie were working together. They usually managed to arrange their work so that they could be together at it. "So do I, Dolly. He doesn't seem to be a bit afraid of Mr. Holmes, and I do believe he will help Mr. Jamieson an awful lot." "I guess he'll need help, all right," said Dolly, gravely. "The more I think about that fire, the more scared I get. Why, how did those wretches know that some of us wouldn't be hurt?" "I guess they didn't, Dolly." "Then they simply didn't care, that's all. And isn't that dreadful, Bessie? The idea of doing such a thing!" "I wish we knew why they did it, or why Mr. Holmes wants them to do such things. It's easy enough to see why _they_ did it--they wanted the money he had promised to pay if they got Zara and me away from here." "You remember what I told you. Mr. Holmes expects to make a lot of money out of you two, in some fashion. I know you laughed at me when I said that before, and said he had so much money already that that couldn't be the reason. But there simply can't be any other, Bessie; that's all there is to it." Bessie sighed wearily. "I wish it was all over," she said. "Sometimes I'm sorry they haven't caught me and taken me back." "Why, Bessie, that's an awful thing for you to say! Don't you want to be with us?" "Of course I do, Dolly! I've never been so happy in my whole life as I have been since that morning when I saw you girls for the first time. But I hate to think of the trouble my staying makes, and when I think that maybe there's danger for the rest of you, as there was last night--" "Don't you worry about that, Bessie! I guess we can stand it if you can. That's what friends are for--to share your troubles. You mustn't get to feeling that way--it's silly." "Well, it doesn't make much difference, Dolly. I don't seem to be able to help it. But I wish it was all over. And do you know what worries me most of all?" "No. What?" "Why, what that nasty lawyer, Isaac Brack, said to me one time. Do you remember my telling you? That unless I went with him, and did what he and his friends wanted, I'd never find out about my father and my mother." "I don't believe it, Bessie! I don't believe he knows anything at all about them, and I don't believe, either, that that's the only way you'll ever hear anything about them." "But it might be true!" "Oh, come on, Bessie, cheer up! You're going to be all right. And I'll bet that when you do find out about your parents, and why they left you with Maw Hoover so long, you'll be glad you had to wait so long, because it will make you so happy when you do know." Just then Eleanor's voice called the girls together. "All hands to work rebuilding the camp," she said. "We want to have the new tents set up, and everything ready for the night. I'd like those people to know, if they come snooping around here again, that it takes more than a fire to put the Camp Fire Girls out of business!" "My, but you're a slave driver, Nell," said Charlie Jamieson, jovially. He winked in the direction of Trenwith. "I'm sorry for your husband when you get married. You'll keep him busy, all right!" Hearing the remark, Trenwith grinned, while Eleanor flushed. His look said pretty plainly that he wouldn't waste any sympathy on the man lucky enough to marry Eleanor Mercer, and Dolly, catching the look, drew Bessie aside. Her observation in such matters was amazingly keen. "Did you see that?" she whispered, excitedly. "Why, Bessie, I do believe he's fallen in love with her already!" "Well, I should think he would!" said Bessie, surprisingly. "I wouldn't think much of any man who didn't! She's the nicest girl I ever saw or dreamed of seeing." "Oh, she's all of that," agreed Dolly, loyally. "You can't tell me anything nice about Miss Eleanor that I haven't found out for myself long ago. But Mr. Jamieson isn't in love with her--and he's known her much longer than Mr. Trenwith has." "That hasn't got anything at all to do with it," declared Bessie. "People don't have to know one another a long time to fall in love--though sometimes they don't always know about it themselves right away. And, besides, I think she and Mr. Jamieson are just like brother and sister. They're only cousins, of course, but they've sort of grown up together, and they know one another awfully well." "You may know more about things like that than I do," agreed Dolly, dubiously. "But I know this much, anyhow. If I were a man, I'd certainly be in love with Miss Eleanor, if I knew her at all." She stopped for a moment to look at Eleanor. "Better not let her catch us whispering about her," she went on. "She wouldn't like it a little bit." "It isn't a nice thing to do anyhow, Dolly. You're perfectly right. I do think Mr. Trenwith's a nice man. Maybe he's good enough for her. But I think I'll always like Mr. Jamieson better, because he's been so nice to us from the very start, when he knew that we couldn't pay him, the way people usually do lawyers who work so hard for them." "He certainly is a nice man, Bessie. But then so is Mr. Trenwith." "Look out, Dolly!" cautioned Bessie, with a low laugh. "You'll be getting jealous and losing your temper first thing you know." "Oh, I guess not. Talking about losing one's temper, I wonder if Gladys Cooper is still mad at us?" "Oh, I hope not! That was sort of funny, wasn't it, as well as unpleasant? Why do you suppose she was so angry, and got the other girls in their camp at Lake Dean to hating us so much when we first went there?" "Oh, she couldn't help it, Bessie, I guess. It's the way she's been brought up. Her people have lots of money, and they've let her think that just because of that she is better than girls whose parents are poor." "Well, the rest of them certainly changed their minds about us, didn't they?" "Yes, and it was a fine thing! I guess they realized that we were better than they thought, when Gladys and Marcia Bates got lost in the woods that time, and you and I happened to find them, and get them home safely." "I think they were mighty nice girls, Dolly--much nicer than you would ever have thought they could be from the way they acted when we first met them, and they ordered us off their ground, just as if we were going to hurt it. When they found out that they'd been in the wrong, and hadn't behaved nicely, they said they were sorry, and admitted that they hadn't been nice. And I think that's a pretty hard thing for anyone to do." "Oh, it is, Bessie. I know, because I've found out so often that I'd been mean to people who were ever so much nicer than I. But there's one thing about it--it makes you feel sort of good all over when you have owned up that way. I wish Gladys Cooper had acted like the rest of them. But she was still mad." "Oh, I think you'll find she's all right when you see her again, Dolly. I guess she's just as nice as the rest of them, really." "That's one reason I'm sorry she acted that way. Because she's as nice as any girl you ever saw when she wants to be. I was awfully mad at her when it happened, but now, somehow, I've got over feeling that way about her, altogether, and I just want to be good friends with her again." "You lose your temper pretty quickly, Dolly, but you get over being angry just as quickly as you get mad, don't you?" "I seem to, Bessie. And I guess that's helping me not to get angry at people so much, anyhow. I'm always sorry when I do get into one of my rages, and if I'm going to be sorry, it's easier not to get mad in the first place." While they talked, Bessie and Dolly were not idle, by any means. There was plenty of work for everyone to do, for the fire had made a pretty clean sweep, after all, and to put the whole camp in good shape, so that they could sleep there that night, was something of a task. Trenwith and Jamieson, laughing a good deal, and enjoying themselves immensely, insisted on doing the heavy work of setting up the ridge poles, and laying down the floors of the new tents, but when it came to stretching the canvas over the framework, they were not in it with the girls. "You men mean well, but I never saw anything so clumsy in my life!" declared Eleanor, laughingly. "It's a wonder to me how you ever come home alive when you go out camping by yourselves." "Oh, we manage somehow," boasted Charlie Jamieson. "That's just about what you do do! You manage--somehow! And, yet, when this Camp Fire movement started, all the men I knew sat around and jeered, and said that girls were just jealous of the good times the Boy Scouts had, and predicted that unless we took men along to look after us, we'd be in all sorts of trouble the first time we ever undertook to spend a night in camp!" Charlie shook his head at Trenwith in mock alarm. "Getting pretty independent, aren't they?" he said to his friend. "You mark my words, Billy, the old-fashioned women don't exist any more!" "And it's a good thing if they don't!" Eleanor flashed back at him. "They do, though, only you men don't know the real thing when you see it. You have an idea that a woman ought to be helpless and clinging. Maybe that was all right in the old days, when there were always plenty of men to look after a woman. But how about the way things are now? Women have to go into shops and offices and factories to earn a living, don't they, just the way men do?" "They do--more's the pity!" said Trenwith. Eleanor looked at him as if she understood just what he meant. "Maybe it isn't so much of a pity, though," she said. "I tell you one thing--a girl isn't going to make any the worse wife for being self-reliant, and knowing how to take care of herself a little bit. And that's what we want to make of our Camp Fire Girls--girls who can help themselves if there's need for it, and who don't need to have a man wasting a lot of time doing things for them that he ought to be spending in serious work--things that she can do just as well for herself." She stood before them as she spoke, a splendid figure of youth, and health and strength. And, as she spoke, she plunged her hand into a capacious pocket in her skirt. "There!" she said, "that's one of the things that has kept women helpless. It wasn't fashionable to have pockets, so men got one great advantage just in their clothes. Camp Fire Girls have pockets!" "You say that as if it was some sort of a motto," said Charlie, laughing, but impressed. "It is!" she replied. "Camp Fire Girls have pockets! That's one of the things you'll see in any Camp Fire book you read--any of the books that the National Council issues, I mean." "I surrender! I'm converted--absolutely!" said Jamieson, with a laugh. "I'll admit right now that no lot of men or boys I know could have put this camp up in this shape in such a time. Why, hullo--what's that? Looks as if you were going to have neighbors, Nell." His exclamation drew all eyes to the other end of the cove, and the surprise was general when a string of wagons was seen coming down a road that led to the beach from the bluff at that point. "Looks like a camping party, all right," said Trenwith. "Wonder who they can be?" Eleanor looked annoyed. She remembered only too well and too vividly the disturbance that had followed the coming of the yacht, and she wondered if this new invasion of the peace of Plum Beach might not likewise be the forerunner of something unpleasant. "They've got tents," she said, peering curiously at the wagons. "See--they're stopping there, and beginning to unload." "They're doing themselves very well, whoever they are," said Trenwith. "That's a pretty luxurious looking camp outfit. And they're having their work done for them by men who know the business, too." "Yes, and they're not making a much better job of it than these girls did," said Charlie. "Great Scott! Look at those cases of canned goods! They've got enough stuff there to feed a regiment." "Oh, I'm sorry they're coming!" said Eleanor, "whoever they are! I don't want to seem nasty, but we were ever so happy last summer when we were here quite alone." "These people won't bother you, Nell," said Jamieson. "You don't suppose this could be another trick of Mr. Holmes's, do you, Charlie!" "Hardly--so soon," he said, frowning. "He didn't leave us in peace very long after we got here, you know. We only arrived yesterday--and see what happened to us last night!" "Well, we might stroll over and have a look," suggested Trenwith. "I guess there aren't any private property rights on this beach. We'll just look them over." "All right," said Eleanor. "Want to come, Dolly and Bessie? I see you've finished your share of the work before the others." So the five of them walked over. "Who's going to camp here?" Trenwith asked one of the workmen. "I don't know, sir. We just got orders to set up the tents. That's all we know about it." The three girls exchanged glances. That sounded as if it might indeed be Mr. Holmes who was coming. But before any more questions could be asked, there was a sudden peal of girlish laughter from above and a wild rush down from the bluff. "Dolly Ransom! Isn't this a surprise? And didn't we tell you we had a surprise for you?" "Why, Marcia Bates!" cried Dolly and Bessie, in one breath, as the newcomer reached them. "I didn't know you were going to leave Lake Dean so soon." "Well, we did! And we're all here--Gladys Cooper, and all the Halsted Camp Girls!" CHAPTER IV ONE FRIEND LESS In a moment the rest of the Halsted girls had reached the beach and were gathered about Bessie and Dolly. There was a lot of laughter and excitement, but it was plain that the girls who had once so utterly despised the members of the Camp Fire were now heartily and enthusiastically glad to see them. And suddenly Eleanor gave a glad cry. "Why, Mary Turner!" she said. "Whatever are you doing here? I thought you were going to Europe!" "I was, until this cousin of mine"--she playfully tapped Marcia on the shoulder--"made me change my plans. I'll have you to understand that you're not the only girl who can be a Camp Fire Guardian, Eleanor Mercer!" "Well," gasped Eleanor, "of all things! Do you mean that you've organized a new Camp Fire?" "We certainly have--the Halsted Camp Fire, if you please! We're not really all in yet, but we've got permission now from the National Council, and the girls are to get their rings to-night at our first ceremonial camp fire. Won't you girls come over and help us?" "I should say we would!" said Eleanor. "Why, this is fine, Mary! Tell me how it happened, won't you?" "It's all your fault--you must know that. The girls have told me all about the horrid way they acted at Lake Dean, but really, you can't blame them so much, can you, Nell? It's the way they're brought up--and, well, you went to the school, too, just as I did!" "I know what you mean," said Eleanor. "It's a fine school, but--" "That's it exactly--that _but_. The school has got into bad ways, and these girls were in a fair way to be snobs. Well, Marcia and some of the others got to thinking things over, and they decided that if the Camp Fire had done so much for Dolly Ransom and a lot of your girls, it would be a good thing for them, too." "They're perfectly right, Mary. Oh, I'm ever so glad!" "So they came to me, and asked me if I wouldn't be their Guardian. I didn't want to at first--and then I was afraid I wouldn't be any good. But I promised to talk to Mrs. Chester, and get her to suggest someone who would do, and--" "You needn't tell me the rest," laughed Eleanor. "I know just what happened. Mrs. Chester just talked to you in that sweet, gentle way of hers, and the first thing you knew you felt about as small as a pint of peanuts, and as if refusing to do the work would be about as mean as stealing sheep. Now, didn't you?" Mary laughed a little ruefully. "You're just right! That's exactly how it happened," she said. "She told me that no one would be able to do as much with these girls as I could, and then, when she had me feeling properly ashamed of myself, she turned right around and began to make me see how much fun I would have out of it myself. So I talked to Miss Halsted, and made her go to see Mrs. Chester--and here we are!" Suddenly Eleanor collapsed weakly against one of the empty packing boxes that littered the place, and began to laugh. "Oh, my dear," she exclaimed, "if you only knew the awful things we were thinking about you before we knew who you were!" "Why? Do you mean to say that you're snobbish, too, and didn't want neighbors you didn't know? Like my girls at Lake Dean?" "No, but we thought you might be kidnappers, or murderers, or fire-bugs, like our last neighbors!" "Eleanor! Are you crazy--and if you're not, what on earth are you talking about?" "I'm not as crazy as I seem to be, Mary. It's only fair to tell you now that this beach may be a pretty troubled spot while we're here. We seem to attract trouble just as a magnet attracts iron." "I think you _are_ crazy, Nell. If you're not, won't you explain what you mean?" "Look at our camp over there, Mary. It's pretty solid and complete, isn't it?" "I only hope ours looks half as well." "Well, this morning at sunrise there were just two tents standing. Everything else had been burnt. And I was doing my best to get the police or someone from Bay City to rescue two of my girls who were prisoners on a yacht out there in the cove!" Mary Turner appealed whimsically to Charlie Jamieson. "Does she mean it, Charlie?" she begged. "Or is she just trying to string me?" "I'm afraid she means it, and I happen to know it's all true, Mary," said Charlie, enjoying her bewilderment. "But it's a long story. Perhaps you'd better let it keep until you have put things to rights." "We'll help in doing that," said Eleanor. "Dolly, run over and get the other girls, won't you? Then we'll all turn in and lend a hand, and it will all be done in no time at all." "Indeed you won't!" said Marcia. "We're going to do everything ourselves, just to show that we can." "There isn't much to do," said Mary Turner, with a laugh. "So you needn't act as if that were something to be proud of, Marcia. You see, I thought it was better to take things easily at the start, Eleanor. They wanted to come here with all the tents and things and set up the camp by themselves, but I decided it was better to have the harder work done by men who knew their business." "You were quite right, too," agreed Eleanor. "That's the way I arranged things for our own camp the day we came. To-day we did do the work ourselves, but there was a reason for the girls were so excited and nervous about the fire that I thought it was better to give them a chance to work off their excitement that way." "I'm dying to hear all about the fire and what has happened here," said Mary. "But I suppose we'd better get everything put to rights first." And, though the girls of the new Camp Fire insisted on doing all the actual work themselves, they were glad enough to take the advice of the Manasquan girls in innumerable small matters. Comfort, and even safety from illness, in camp life, depends upon the observance of many seemingly trifling rules. Gladys Cooper, who, more than any of her companions at Camp Halsted, had tried to make things unpleasant for the Manasquan girls at Lake Dean, had not been with the first section of the new Camp Fire to reach the beach. Dolly had inquired about her rather anxiously, for Gladys had not taken part in the general reconciliation between the two parties of girls. "Gladys?" Marcia said. "Oh, yes, she's coming. She's back in the wagon that's bringing our suit cases. We appointed her a sort of rear guard. It wouldn't do to lose those things, you know." "I was afraid--I sort of thought she might not want to come here if she knew we were here, Marcia. You know--" "Yes, I _do_ know, Dolly. She behaved worse than any of us, and she wasn't ready to admit it when you girls left Lake Dean. But she's come to her senses since then, I'm sure. The rest of us made her do that." Bessie King looked a little dubious. "I hope you didn't bother her about it, Marcia," she said. "You know we haven't anything against her. We were sorry she didn't like us, and understand that we only wanted to be friends, but we certainly didn't feel angry." "If she was bothered, as you call it, Bessie, it served her good and right," said Marcia, crisply. "We've had about enough of Gladys and her superior ways. She isn't any better or cleverer or prettier than anyone else, and it's time she stopped giving herself airs." "You don't understand," said Bessie, with a smile. "She's one of you, and if you don't like the way she acts, you've got a perfect right to let her know it, and make her just as uncomfortable as you like." "We did," said Marcia. "I guess she's had a lesson that will teach her it doesn't pay to be a snob." "Yes, but don't you think that's something a person has to learn for herself, without anyone to teach her, Marcia? I mean, there's only one reason why she could be nice to us, and that's because she likes us. And you can't make her like us by punishing her for not liking us. You'll only make her hate us more than ever." "She'll behave herself, anyhow, Bessie. And that's more than she did before." "That's true enough. But really, it would be better, if she didn't like us, for her to show it frankly than to go around with a grudge against us she's afraid to show. Don't you see that she'll blame us for making trouble between you girls and her? She'll think that we've set her own friends against her. Really, Marcia, I think all the trouble would be ended sooner, in the long run, if you just let her alone until she changed her mind. She'll do it, sooner or later." "I guess Bessie's right, Marcia," said Dolly, thoughtfully. "I don't see why Gladys acts this way, but I do think that the only thing that will make her act differently will be for her to feel differently, and nothing you can do will do that." "Well, it's too late now, anyhow," said Marcia. "I see what you mean, and I suppose you really are right. But it's done. You'll be nice to her, won't you? She's promised to be pleasant when she sees you--to talk to you, and all that. I don't know how well she'll manage, but I guess she'll do her best." "There's no reason why we shouldn't be nice to her," said Bessie. "She isn't hurting us. I only hope that something will happen so that we can be good friends." "She really is a nice girl," said Marcia, "and I'm awfully fond of her when she isn't in one of her tantrums. But she is certainly hard to get along with when everything isn't going just to suit her little whims." "Here she comes now," said Dolly. "I'm going to meet her." "Well, you certainly did give us a surprise, Gladys," cried Dolly. "You sinner, why didn't you tell us what you were going to do?" "Oh, hello, Dolly!" said Gladys, coolly. "I didn't see much of you at Lake Dean, you know. You were too busy with your--new friends." "Oh, come off, Gladys!" said Dolly, irritated despite her determination to go more than half way in re-establishing friendly relations with Gladys. "Why can't you be sensible? We've got more to forgive than you have, and we're willing to be friends. Aren't you going to behave decently?" "I don't think I know just what you mean, Dolly," said Gladys, stiffly. "As long as the other girls have decided to be friendly with your--friends, I am not going to make myself unpleasant. But you can hardly expect me to like people just because you do. I must say that I get along better with girls of my own class." "I ought to be mad at you, Gladys," said Dolly, with a peal of laughter. "But you're too funny! What do you mean by girls of your own class? Girls whose parents have as much money as yours? Mine haven't. So I suppose I'm not in your class." "Nonsense, Dolly!" said Gladys, angrily. "You know perfectly well I don't mean anything of the sort. I--I can't explain just what I mean by my own class--but you know it just as well as I do." "I think I know it better, Gladys," said Dolly, gravely. "Now don't get angry, because I'm not saying this to be mean. If you had to go about with girls of your own class you couldn't stand them for a week! Because they'd be snobbish and mean. They'd be thinking all the time about how much nicer their clothes were than yours, or the other way around. They wouldn't have a good word for anyone--they'd just be trying to think about the mean things they could say!" "Why, Dolly! What do you mean?" "I mean that that's your class--the sort you are. Our girls, in the Manasquan Camp Fire, and most of the Halsted girls, are in a class a whole lot better than yours, Gladys. They spend their time trying to be nice, and to make other people happy. There isn't any reason why you shouldn't improve, and get into their class, but you're not in it now." "I never heard of such a thing, Dolly! Do you mean to tell me that you and I aren't in a better class socially than these girls you're camping with?" "I'm not talking about society--and you haven't any business to be. You don't know anything about it. But if people are divided into real classes, the two big classes are nice people and people who aren't nice. And each of those classes is divided up again into a lot of other classes. I hope I'm in as good a class as Bessie King and Margery Burton, but I'm pretty sure I'm not. And I know you're not." "There's no use talking to you, Dolly," said Gladys, furiously. "I thought you'd had time to get over all that nonsense, but I see you're worse than ever. I'm perfectly willing to be friends with you, and I've forgiven you for throwing those mice at us at Lake Dean, but I certainly don't see why I should be friendly with all those common girls in your camp." "They're not common--and don't you dare to say they are! And you certainly can't be my friend if you're going to talk about them that way." "All right!" snapped Gladys. "I guess I can get along without your friendship if you can get along without mine!" "I didn't mean to," she said, disgustedly, to Bessie and Marcia, "but I'm afraid I've simply made her madder than ever. And there's no telling what she'll do now!" "Oh, I guess there's nothing to worry about," said Marcia, cheerfully enough. "We can keep her in order all right, and if she doesn't behave herself decently I guess you'll find that Miss Turner will send her home in a hurry." "Oh, I hope not," said Bessie. "That wouldn't really do any good, would it? We want to be friends with her--not to have any more trouble." "I wish I'd kept out of it," said Dolly, dolefully. "I think I can keep my temper, and then I go off and make things worse than ever! I ought to know enough not to interfere. I'm like the elephant that killed a little mother bird by accident, and he was so sorry that he sat on its nest to hatch the eggs!" "Maybe it's a good thing," said Marcia, laughing at the picture of the elephant. "After all, isn't it a good deal as Bessie said? If there's bad feeling, it's better to have it open and aboveboard. We all know where we are now, anyhow. And I certainly hope that something will turn up to change her mind." CHAPTER V THE COUNCIL FIRE "I hope it will, Bessie," said Dolly. "But you know what a nasty temper I've got. If she keeps on talking the way she has, I don't know what I'll say." "Well, you might as well say what you like, Dolly. I believe she wants a good quarrel with someone--and it might as well be you." "You mean you think she likes me to get angry?" "Of course she does! There wouldn't be any fun in it for her if you didn't. Can't you see that?" Dolly looked very thoughtful. "Then I won't give her the satisfaction of getting angry!" she declared, finally. "Of course you're right, Bessie. If we didn't pay any attention at all to her it wouldn't do her a bit of good to get angry, would it?" "I wondered how long it would take you to see that, Dolly." They were walking back to their own tents as they spoke. Once arrived there, neither said anything about the spirit Gladys had shown. They both felt that it would be as well to let the other girls think that Gladys shared the friendly feelings of the other Halsted girls. And since Bessie and Dolly happened to be the only ones who knew that Gladys had been the prime mover in the trouble that had been made at Lake Dean, it was easy enough to conceal the true facts. "She can't do anything by herself," said Dolly. "Up at Lake Dean nothing would have happened unless the rest of those girls had taken her part against us." "I'm going to try to forget about her altogether, Dolly," said Bessie. "I'm not a bit angry at her, but if she won't be friends, she won't and that's all there is to it. And I don't see why I should worry about her when there are so many nice girls who _do_ want to be friendly. Why, what are you laughing at?" "I'm just thinking of how mad Gladys would be if she really understood! She's made herself think that she is doing a great favor to people when she makes friends of them--and, if she only knew it, she would have a hard time having us for friends now." * * * * * Charlie Jamieson and Billy Trenwith accepted Eleanor's pressing invitation to stay for the evening meal, but Trenwith seemed to feel that they were wasting time that might be better spent. "Not wasting it exactly," he said, however, when Eleanor laughingly accused him of feeling so. "But I do sort of think that Charlie and I ought to keep after this man Holmes. He seems to be a tough customer, and I'll bet he's busy, all right." "The only point, Billy," said Charlie, "is that, no matter how busy we were, there's mighty little we could do. We don't know enough, you see. But maybe when I get up to the city, I'll find out more. I'll go over the facts with you in Bay City to-night, and then I'll go up to town and see what I can do with Jake Hoover and Zara's father." "Well, let's do something, for Heaven's sake!" said Trenwith. "I hate to think that all you girls out here are in danger as a result of this man's villainy. If he does anything rotten, I can see that he's punished but that might not do you much good." "I tell you what would do some good, and that's to let Holmes know that you will punish him, if he exposes himself to punishment," said Charlie Jamieson. "That's the chief reason he's so bold. He thinks he's above the law--that he can do anything, and escape the consequences." "Well, of course," said Trenwith, "it may enlighten him a bit when he finds that those rascals we caught to-day will have to stand trial, just as if they were friendless criminals. If what you say about him is so, he'll be after me to-morrow, trying to call me off. And I guess he'll find that he's up against the law for once." "Did you get that telephone fixed up, Nell?" asked Charlie. "You're a whole lot safer with a telephone right here on the beach. Being half a mile from the nearest place where you can ever call for help is bad business." Eleanor pointed to a row of poles, on which a wire was strung, leading into the main living tent. "There it is," she said, gaily. "I don't see how you got them to do it so fast, though." "Billy's a sort of political boss round here, as well as district attorney," laughed Jamieson. "When he says a thing's to be done, and done in a hurry, he usually has his way." Eleanor looked curiously at Trenwith, and Charlie, catching the glance, winked broadly at Dolly Ransom. It was perfectly plain that the young District Attorney interested Eleanor a good deal. His quiet efficiency appealed to her. She liked men who did things, and Trenwith was essentially of that type. He didn't talk much about his plans; he let results speak for him. And, at the same time, when there was a question of something to be done, what he did say showed a quiet confidence, which, while not a bit boastful, proved that he was as sure of himself as are most competent men. Also, his admiration for Eleanor was plain and undisguised. Charlie Jamieson, who was almost like a brother in his relations with Eleanor, was hugely amused by this. Somehow cousins who are so intimate with a girl that they take a brother's place, never do seem able to understand that she may have the same attraction for other men that the sisters and the cousins of the other men have for them. The idea that their friends may fall in love with the girls they regard in such a perfectly matter-of-fact way strikes them, when it reaches them at all, as a huge joke. All the girls were sorry to see the two men who had helped them so much go away after dinner, but of course their departure was necessary. Just now, after the exciting events of the previous night, there seemed a reasonable chance of a little peace, but the price of freedom from the annoyance caused by Holmes was constant vigilance, and there was work for both the men to do. Moreover, the sight of the cheerful fire from the other camp, and the thought of the great camp fire they were presently to enjoy in common consoled them. "The Halsted girls are going to build the fire," said Eleanor. "It's their first ceremonial camp fire, so I told Miss Turner they were welcome to do it. They're all Wood-Gatherers, you see. So we'll have to light the fire for them, anyhow. See, they're at work already, bringing in the wood. Margery, suppose you go over and make sure that they're building the fire properly, with plenty of room for a good draught underneath." "Who's going to take them in, and give them their rings, Miss Eleanor?" asked Dolly. "You, or Miss Turner?" "Why, Miss Turner wants me to do it, Dolly, because I'm older in the Camp Fire than she is. She's given me the rings. I think it's quite exciting, really, taking so many new girls in all at once." "Come on," cried Margery Burton, then. "They're all ready and they want us to form the procession now, and go over there." "You are to light the fire, Margery. Are you all ready?" "Yes, indeed, Miss Eleanor. Shall I go ahead, and start the flame?" "Yes, do!" Then while Margery disappeared, Eleanor, at the head of the girls, started moving in the stately Indian measure toward the dark pile of wood that represented the fire that was so soon to blaze up. As they walked they sang in low tones, so that the melody rose and mingled with the waves and the sighing of the wind. Just as the first spark answered Margery's efforts with her fire-making sticks, they reached the fire, and sat down in a great circle, with a good deal of space between each pair of girls. Eleanor took her place in the centre, facing Margery, who now stood up, lifting a torch that she had lighted above her head. As she touched the tinder beneath the fire Eleanor raised her hand, and, as the flames began to crackle, she lowered it, and at once the girls began the song of Wo-he-lo: Wo-he-lo means love. Wo-he-lo, wo-he-lo, wo-he-lo. We love love, for love is the heart of life. It is light and joy and sweetness, Comradeship and all dear kinship. Love is the joy of service so deep That self is forgotten. Wo-he-lo means love. Outside the circle now other and unseen voices joined them in the chorus: Wo-he-lo for aye, Wo-he-lo for aye, Wo-he-lo, wo-he-lo, wo-he-lo for aye! Then for a moment utter silence, so that the murmur of the waves seemed amazingly loud. Then, their voices hushed, half the Manasquan girls chanted: Wo-he-lo for work! And the others, their voices rising gradually, answered with: Wo-he-lo for health! And without a break in the rhythm, all the girls joined in the final Wo-he-lo, wo-he-lo, wo-he-lo for love! Then Margery, her torch still raised above her head, while she swung it slowly in time to the music of her song, sang alone: O Fire! Long years ago when our fathers fought with great animals you were their great protection. When they fought the cold of the cruel winter you saved them. When they needed food you changed the flesh of beasts into savory meat for them. During all the ages your mysterious flame has been a symbol to them for Spirit, So, to-night, we light our fire in grateful remembrance of the Great Spirit who gave you to us. Then Margery took her place in the circle, and Eleanor called the roll, giving each girl the name she had chosen as her fire name. Then Mary Turner, in her new ceremonial robe, fringed with beads, slipped into the circle of the firelight, bright and vivid now. "Oh, Wanaka," she said, calling Eleanor by her ceremonial name, "I bring to-night these newcomers to the Camp Fire, to tell you their Desire, and to receive from you their rings." One by one the girls of the Halsted Camp Fire stepped forward, and each repeated her Desire to be a Wood-Gatherer, and was received by Eleanor, who explained to each some new point of the Law of the Fire, so that all might learn. And to each, separately, as she slipped the silver ring of the Camp Fire on her finger, she repeated the beautiful exhortation: Firmly held by the sinews which bind them, As fagots are brought from the forest So cleave to these others, your sisters, Whenever, wherever you find them. Be strong as the fagots are sturdy; Be pure in your deepest desire; Be true to the truth that is in you; And--follow the law of the Fire! One by one as they received their rings, the newcomers slipped into seats about the fire, each one finding a place between two of the Manasquan girls. Marcia Bates, flushed with pleasure, took a seat between Bessie and Dolly. "Oh, how beautiful it all is!" she said. "I don't see how any of us could ever have laughed at the Camp Fire! But, of course, we didn't know, about all this, or we never would have laughed as we did." "I love the part about 'So cleave to these others, your sisters,'" said Dolly. "It's so fine to feel that wherever you go, you'll find friends wherever there's a Camp Fire--that you can show your ring, and be sure that there'll be someone who knows the same thing you know, and believes in the same sort of things!" "Yes, that's lovely, Dolly. Of course, we've all read about this, but you have to do it to know how beautiful it is. I'm so glad you girls were here for this first Council Fire of ours. You know how everything should be done, and that seems to make it so much better." "It would have pleased you just as much, and been just as lovely if you'd done it all by yourselves, Marcia. It's the words, and the ceremony that are so beautiful--not the way we do it. Every Camp Fire has its own way of doing things. For instance, some Camp Fires sing the Ode to Fire all together, but we have Margery do it alone because she has such a lovely voice." "I think it was splendid. I never had any idea she could sing so well." "Her voice is lovely, but it sounds particularly soft and true out in the open air this way, and without a piano to accompany her. Mine doesn't--I'm all right to sing in a crowd, but when I try to sing by myself, it's just a sort of screech. There isn't any beauty to my tones at all, and I know it and don't try to sing alone." "Aren't they all in now?" asked Bessie. There had been a break in the steady appearance of new candidates before Eleanor. But, even as she spoke, another figure glided into the light. "No. There's Gladys Cooper," said Marcia, with a little start. "I wonder if she sees what there is to the Camp Fire now," said Dolly, speculatively. "What is your desire?" asked Eleanor. "I desire to become a Camp Fire Girl and to obey the law of the Camp Fire," said Gladys, in a mechanical, sing-song voice, entirely different from the serious tones of those who had preceded her. "She's laughing to herself," said Marcia, indignantly. "Just listen! She's repeating the Desire as if it were a bit of doggerel." They heard her saying: "Seek beauty, Give service, Pursue knowledge, Hold on to health, Glorify work, Be happy. This law of the Camp Fire I will strive to follow." "Give service," repeated Eleanor slowly. "You have heard what I said to the other girls, Gladys. I want you to understand this point of the law. It is the most important of all, perhaps. It means that you must be friendly to your sisters of the Camp Fire; that you must love them, and put them above yourself." "I must do all that for my chums--the girls in our Camp Fire, you mean, I suppose?" said Gladys. "I don't care anything about these other girls. And, Miss Mercer, all that you're going to say in a minute--'So cleave to these others, your sisters'--that doesn't mean the girls in any old Camp Fire, does it?" Startled, Eleanor was silent for a moment. Mary Turner looked at Gladys indignantly. "It means every girl in every Camp Fire," said Eleanor, finally. "And more than that, you must serve others, in or out of the Camp Fire." "Oh, that's nonsense!" said Gladys. "I couldn't do that." "Then you are not fit to receive your ring," said Eleanor. CHAPTER VI AN UNHAPPY ENDING There was a gasp of astonishment and dismay from the girls. Somehow all seemed to feel as if Eleanor's reproach were directed at them instead of at the pale and angry Gladys, who stood, scarcely able to believe her ears, looking at the Guardian. There had been no anger in Eleanor's voice--only sorrow and distress. "Why, what do you mean, Miss Mercer?" Gladys gasped. "Exactly what I say, Gladys," said Eleanor, in the same level voice. "You are not fit to be one of us unless you mean sincerely and earnestly to keep the Law of the Fire. We are a sisterhood; no girl who is not only willing, but eager, to become our sister, may join us." Slowly the meaning of her rejection seemed to sink into the mind of Gladys. "Do you mean that you're not going to let me join?" she asked in a shrill, high-pitched voice that showed she was on the verge of giving way to an outbreak of hysterical anger. "For your own sake it is better that you should not join now, Gladys. Listen to me. I do not blame you greatly for this. I would rather have you act this way than be a hypocrite, pretending to believe in our law when you do not." "Oh, I hate you! I hate the Camp Fire! I wouldn't join for anything in the world, after this!" "There will be time to settle that when we are ready to let you join, Gladys," said Eleanor, a little sternness creeping into her voice, as if she were growing angry for the first time. "To join the Camp Fire is a privilege. Remember this--no girl does the Camp Fire a favor by joining it. The Camp Fire does not need any one girl, no matter how clever, or how pretty, or how able she may be, as much as that girl needs the Camp Fire. The Camp Fire, as a whole, is a much greater, finer thing than any single member." Sobs of anger were choking Gladys when she tried to answer. She could not form intelligible words. Eleanor glanced at Mary Turner, and the Guardian of the new Camp Fire, on the hint, put her arm about Gladys. "I think you'd better go back to the camp now, dear," she said, very gently. "You and I will have a talk presently, when you feel better, and perhaps you will see that you are wrong." All the life and spirit seemed to have left the girls as Gladys, her head bowed, the sound of her sobs still plainly to be heard, left the circle of the firelight and made her lonely way over the beach toward the tents of her own camp. For a few moments silence reigned. Then Eleanor spoke, coolly and steadily, although Mary Turner, who was close to her, knew what an effort her seeming calm represented. "We have had a hard thing to do to-night," she said. "I know that none of you will add to what Gladys has made herself suffer. She is in the wrong, but I think that very few of us will have any difficulty in remembering many times when we have been wrong, and have been sure that we were right. Gladys thinks now that we are all against her--that we wanted to humiliate her. We must make her understand that she is wrong. Remember, Wo-he-lo means love." She paused for a moment. "Wo-he-lo means love," she repeated. "And not love for those whom we cannot help loving. The love that is worth while is that we give to those who repel us, who do not want our love. It is easy to love those who love us. But in time we can make Gladys love us by showing that we want to love her and do what we can to make her happy. And now, since I think none of us feel like staying here, we will sing our good-night song and disperse." And the soft voices rose like a benediction, mingling in the lovely strains of that most beautiful of all the Camp Fire songs. Silently, and without the usual glad talk that followed the ending of a Council Fire, the circle broke up, and the girls, in twos and threes, spread over the beach. "Walk over with me, won't you?" Marcia Bates begged Dolly and Bessie. "Oh, I'm so ashamed! I never thought Gladys would act like that!" "It isn't your fault, Marcia," said Dolly. "Don't be silly about it. And, do you know, I'm not angry a bit! Just at first I thought I was going to be furious. But--well, somehow I can't help admiring Gladys! I like her better than I ever did before, I really do believe!" "Oh, I do!" said Bessie, her eyes glowing. "Wasn't she splendid? Of course, she's all wrong, but she had to be plucky to stand up there like that, when she knew everyone was against her!" "But she had no right to insult all you girls, Bessie." "I don't believe she meant to insult us a bit," said Dolly. "I don't think she thought much about us. It's just that she has always been brought up to feel a certain way about things, and she couldn't change all at once. A whole lot of girls, while they believed just what she did, and hated the whole idea just as much, would never have dared to say so, when they knew no one agreed with them." "Yes, it's just as Miss Eleanor said," said Bessie, "She's not a hypocrite, no matter what her other faults are. She's not afraid to say just what she thinks--and that's pretty fine, after all." "I wish she could hear you," said Marcia, indignantly. "Oh, it's splendid of you, but I can't feel that way, and there's no use pretending. I suppose the real reason I'm so angry is that I'm really very fond of Gladys, and I hate to see her acting this way. She's making a perfect fool of herself, I think." "But just think of how splendid it will be when she sees she is wrong, Marcia," said Bessie. "Because you want to remember if she's plucky enough to hold out against all her friends this way she will be plucky enough to own up when she sees the truth, too." "Yes, and she'll be a convert worth making, too," said Dolly. "There's just one thing I'm thinking of, Marcia. Will she stay here? Don't you suppose she'll go home right away? I know I would. I wouldn't want to stay around this beach after what happened at the Council Fire to-night." They never heard Marcia's answer to that question, for in the darkness, Gladys herself, shaking with anger, rose and confronted them. "You bet I'm going to stay!" she declared, furiously. "And I'll get even with you, Dolly Ransom, and your nasty old Miss Mercer, and the whole crew of you! Maybe you've been able to set all my friends against me--I'm glad of it!" "No one is set against you, Gladys," said Marcia, gently. "Maybe you don't call it that, Marcia Bates, but I've got my own opinion of a lot of girls who call themselves my friends and side against me the way you've done!" "Why, Gladys, I haven't done a thing--" "That's just it, you sneak! Why, do you suppose I'd have let them treat you as I was treated to-night? If it had happened to you and I'd joined before, I'd have got up and thrown their nasty old ring back at them! I don't want their old ring! I've got much prettier ones of my own--gold, and set with sapphires and diamonds!" "I'm very glad you're going to stay, Gladys!" said Dolly. "I'm sorry I've been cross when I spoke to you lately two or three times, and I hope you'll forgive me. And I think you'll see soon that we're not at all what you think we are in the Camp Fire." "Oh, you needn't talk that way to me, Dolly Ransom! You can pretend all you like to be a saint, but I've known you too long to swallow all that! You've done just as many mean things as anyone else! And now you stand around and act as if you were ashamed to know me. Just you wait! I'll get even with you, and all the rest of your new friends, if it's the last thing I ever do!" Bessie's hand reached out for Dolly's. She knew her chum well enough to understand that if Dolly controlled her temper now it would only be by the exercise of the grimmest determination. Sure enough, Dolly's hand was trembling, and Bessie could almost feel the hot anger that was swelling up in her. But Dolly mastered herself nobly. "You can't make me angry now, Gladys," said Dolly, finally. "You're perfectly right; I've done things that are meaner than anything you did at Lake Dean. And I'm just as sorry for them now as you will be when you understand better." "Well, you needn't preach to me!" said Gladys, fiercely. "And you can give up expecting me to run away. I'm not a coward, whatever else I may be! And I'd never be able to hold up my head if I thought a lot of common girls had frightened me into running away from this place. I'm going to stay here, and I'm going to have a good time, and you'd better look out for yourselves--that's all I can say! Maybe I know more about you than you think." And then she turned on her heel and left them. "Whew!" said Marcia. "I don't see how you kept your temper, Dolly. If she'd said half as much to me as she did to you, I never could have stood it, I can tell you! Whatever did she mean by what she said just then about knowing more than we thought?" "I don't know," said Dolly, rather anxiously. "But look here, Marcia, I might as well tell you now. There's likely to be a good deal of excitement here." "Yes," said Bessie, rather bitterly. "And it's all my fault--mine and Zara's, that is." "I don't see what you can mean," said Marcia, mystified. "Well, it's quite a long story, but I really think you'd better know all about it, Marcia," said Dolly. And so, with occasional help from Bessie herself, when Dolly forgot something, or when Bessie's ideas disagreed with hers, Dolly poured the story of the adventures of Bessie and Zara since their flight from Hedgeville into Marcia's ears. "Why, I never heard of such a thing!" Marcia exclaimed, when the story was told. "So that fire last night wasn't an accident at all?" "We're quite sure it wasn't, Marcia. And don't you think it looks as if we were right?" "It certainly does, and I think it's dreadful, Dolly--just dreadful. Oh, Bessie, I am so sorry for you!" She threw her arms about Bessie impulsively and kissed her, while Dolly, delighted, looked on. "Doesn't it make you love her more than ever?" she said. "And Bessie is so foolish about it sometimes. She seems to think that girls won't want to have anything to do with her, because she hasn't had a home and parents like the rest of us--or like most of us." "That _is_ awfully silly, Bessie," said Marcia. "As if it was your fault! People are going to like you for what you are, and for the way you behave--not on account of things that you really haven't a thing to do with. Sensible people, I mean. Of course, if they're like Gladys--but then most people aren't, I think." "Of course they're not!" said Dolly, stoutly. "And, besides, I'm just sure that Bessie is going to find out about her father and mother some day. I don't believe Mr. Holmes would be taking all the trouble he has about her unless there were something very surprising about her history that we don't know anything about. Do you, Marcia?" "Of course not! He's got something up his sleeve. Probably she is heiress to a fortune, or something like that, and he wants to get hold of it. He's a very rich man, isn't he, Dolly?" "Yes. You know he's the owner of a great big department store at home. And Bessie says that it can't be any question of money that makes him so anxious to get hold of her and of Zara, because he has so much already." "H'm! I guess people who have money like to make more, Dolly. I've heard my father talk about that. He says they're never content, and that's one reason why so many men work themselves to death, simply because they haven't got sense enough to stop and rest when they have enough money to live comfortably for the rest of their lives." "That's another thing I've told her. And she says that can't be the reason, but just the same she never suggests a better one to take its place." "Look here," said Marcia, thoughtfully. "If Mr. Holmes is spending so much money, doesn't it cost a whole lot to stop him from doing what he's trying to do, whatever that is? I'm just thinking--my father has ever so much, you know, and I know if I told him, he'd be glad to spend whatever was needed--" Bessie finished unhappily. "Oh, that's one thing that is worrying me terribly!" she cried, "I just know that Miss Eleanor and Mr. Jamieson must have spent a terrible lot on my affairs already, and I don't see how I'm ever going to pay them back! And if I ever mention it, Miss Eleanor gets almost angry, and says I mustn't talk about it at all, even think of it." "Why, of course you mustn't. It would be awful to think that those horrid people were able to get hold of you and make you unhappy just because they had money and you didn't, Bessie." And Dolly echoed her exclamation. Naturally enough, Marcia, whose parents were among the richest people in the state, thought little of money, and Dolly, who had always had plenty, even though her family was by no means as rich as Marcia's, felt the same way about the matter. Neither of them valued money particularly; but Bessie, because she had lived ever since she could remember in a family where the pinch of actual poverty was always felt, had a much truer appreciation of the value of money. She did not want to possess money, but she had a good deal of native pride, and it worried her constantly to think that her good friends were spending money that she could see no prospect, however remote, of repaying. "I wish there was some way to keep me from having to take all the money they spend on me," she said, wistfully. "As soon as we get back to the city, I'm going to find some work to do, so that I can support myself." She half expected Marcia to assail that idea, for it seemed to her that, nice as she was, she belonged, like Gladys Cooper, to the class that looked down on work and workers. But to her surprise, Marcia gave a cry of admiration. "It's splendid for you to feel that way, Bessie!" she said. "But, just the same, I believe you'll have to wait until things are more settled. It would be so much easier for Mr. Holmes to get hold of you if you were working, you know." "She's going to come and stay with me just as long as she wants to," said Dolly. "And, anyhow, I really believe things are going to be settled for her. Perhaps I've heard something, too!" CHAPTER VII THE CHALLENGE When Bessie and Dolly returned to their own camp they found Eleanor Mercer waiting for them, and as soon as she was alone with them, she did something that, for her, was very rare. She asked them about their talk with Marcia Bates. "You know that as a rule I don't interfere," she said. "Unless there is something that makes it positively necessary for me to intrude myself, I leave you to yourselves." "Why, we would have told you all about it, anyhow, Miss Eleanor," said Dolly, surprised. "Yes, but even so, I want you to know that I'm sorry to feel that I should ask you to tell me. As a rule, I would rather let you girls work all these things out by yourselves, even if I see very plainly that you are making mistakes. I think you can sometimes learn more by doing a thing wrong, provided that you are following your own ideas, than by doing it right when you are simply doing what someone else tells you." "I see what you mean, Miss Eleanor," said Bessie. "But this time we really haven't done anything, We saw Gladys, too, and--" She went on to tell of their talk with Marcia and of the unpleasant episode created by Gladys when she had overheard them talking. "I think you've done very well indeed," said Eleanor, with a sigh of relief, when she had heard the story. "I was so afraid that you would lose your temper, Dolly. Not that I could really have blamed you if you had, but, oh, it's so much better that you didn't. So Gladys has decided to stay, has she!" "Yes," said Dolly. "But Marcia seemed to think Miss Turner might make her go home." "She won't," said Eleanor. "She was thinking of it, but I have had a talk with her, and we both decided that that wouldn't do much good. It might save us some trouble, but it wouldn't do Gladys any good, and, after all, she's the one we've got to consider." Dolly didn't say anything, but it was plain from her look that she did not understand. "What I mean is," Eleanor went on, "that there's a chance here for us to make a real convert--one who will count. It's easy enough to make girls understand our Camp Fire idea when they want to like it, and feel sure that they're going to. The hard cases are the girls like Gladys, who have a prejudice against the Camp Fire without really knowing anything at all about it. And if the Camp Fire idea is the fine, strong, splendid thing we all believe, why, this is a good time to prove it. If it is, Gladys won't be able to hold out against it." "That's what I've thought from the first, Miss Eleanor," said Bessie. "And I'm sure she will like us better presently." "Well, if she is willing to stay, she is to stay," said Eleanor. "And she is to be allowed to do everything the other girls do, except, of course, she can't actually take part in a Council Fire until she's a member. We don't want her to feel that she is being punished, and Miss Turner is going to try to make her girls treat her just as if nothing had happened. That's what I want our Manasquan girls to do, too." "They will, then, if I've got anything to say," declared Dolly, vehemently. "And I guess I've got more reason to be down on her than any of the others except Bessie. So if I'm willing to be nice to her, I certainly don't see why the others should hesitate." "Remember this, Dolly. You're willing to be nice to her now, but she may make it pretty hard. You're going to have a stiff test of your self-control and your temper for the next few days. When people are in the wrong and know it, but aren't ready to admit it and be sorry, they usually go out of their way to be nasty to those they have injured--" "Oh, I don't care what she says or does now," said Dolly. "If I could talk to her to-night without getting angry, I think I'm safe. I never came so near to losing my temper without really doing it in my whole life before." "Well, that's fine, Dolly. Keep it up. Remember this is pretty hard for poor Miss Turner. Here she is, just starting in as a Camp Fire Guardian, and at the very beginning she has this trouble! But if she does make Gladys come around, it will be a great victory for her, and I want you and all of our girls to do everything you can to help." Then with a hearty good-night she turned away, and it was plain that she was greatly relieved by what Bessie and Dolly had told her. "Well, I don't know what you're going to do, Bessie," said Dolly, "but I'm going to turn in and sleep! I'm just beginning to realize how tired I am." "I'm tired, too. We've really had enough to make us pretty tired, haven't we?" And this time they were able to sleep through the whole night without interruption. The peace and calm of Plum Beach were disturbed by nothing more noisy than gentle waves, and the whole camp awoke in the morning vastly refreshed. The sun shone down gloriously, and the cloudless sky proclaimed that it was to be a day fit for any form of sport. A gentle breeze blew in from the sea, dying away to nothing sometimes, and the water inside the sand bar was so smooth and inviting that half a dozen of the girls, with Dolly at their head, scampered in for a plunge before breakfast. "They're swimming over at the other camp, too," cried Dolly. "See? Oh, I bet we'll have some good times with them. We ought to be able to have all sorts of fun in the water." "Aren't there any boats here beside that old flat bottom skiff?" asked Bessie. "Aren't there? Just wait till you see! If we hadn't had all that excitement yesterday Captain Salters would have brought the _Eleanor_ over. He will to-day, too, and then you'll see." "What will I see, Dolly? Remember I haven't been here before, like you." "Oh, she's the dandiest little boat, Bessie--a little sloop, and as fast as a steamboat, if she's handled right." "Now we'll never hear the end of her," said Margery Burton, with a comical gesture of despair. "You've touched the button, Bessie, and Dolly will keep on telling us about the _Eleanor_, and how fast she is, until someone sits on her!" "You're jealous, Margery," laughed Dolly, in high good humor. "Margery's pretty clever, Bessie, and when it comes to cooking--my!" She smacked her lips loudly, as if to express her sense of how well Margery could cook. "But she can't sail a boat!" "Here's Captain Salters now--and he's towing the _Eleanor_, all right, Dolly," cried one of the other girls. "Oh, I'm so glad!" cried Dolly. "Bessie, you've never been in a sail boat, have you? I'll have to show you how everything is done, and then well have some bully fine times together. You'll love it, I know." "She won't if she's inclined to be seasick," said Margery. "The trouble with Dolly is that she can never have enough of a good thing. The higher the wind, the happier Dolly is. She'll keep on until the boat heels away over, and until you think you're going over the next minute--and she calls that having a good time!" "Well, I never heard you begging me to quit, Margery Burton!" said Dolly. "You're an old fraud--that's what you are! You pretend you are terribly frightened, and all the time you're enjoying it just as much as I am. I wish there was some way we could have a race. That's where the real fun comes in with a sail boat." "You could get all the racing you want over at Bay City, Dolly. The yacht club there has races every week, I think." "But Miss Eleanor would never let me sail in one of those races, Margery. I guess she's right, too. I may be pretty good for a girl, but I'm afraid I wouldn't have a chance with those men." Margery pretended to faint. "Listen to that, will you?" she exclaimed. "Here's Dolly actually saying that someone might be able to do something better than she could! I'll believe in almost anything after that!" "Well, you can laugh all you like," said Dolly, with spirit. "But if we should have a race, I'll be captain, and I know some people who won't get a chance to be even on the crew. They'll feel pretty sorry they were so fresh, I guess, when they have to stay ashore cooking dinner while I and my crew are out in the sloop!" Then from the beach came the primitive call to breakfast--made by the simple process of pounding very hard on the bottom of a frying pan with a big tin spoon. That ended the talk about Dolly's qualifications as a yacht captain, and there was a wild rush to the beach, and to the tents, since those who had been in for an early swim could not sit down to breakfast in their wet bathing suits. But no one took any great length of time to dress, since here the utmost simplicity ruled in clothes. "Well, what's the programme for to-day, girls?" asked Eleanor, after the meal was over. "Each for herself!" cried half a dozen voices. And a broken chorus rose in agreement. "I want to fish!" cried one. "A long walk for me!" cried another. "I'd like to make up a party to go over to Bay City and buy things. We haven't been near a store for weeks!" suggested another. "All right," said Eleanor. "Everyone can do exactly what she likes between the time we finish clearing up after lunch and dinner. I think we'll have the same rule we did at Long Lake--four girls attend to the camp work each day, while the other eight do as they like. You can draw lots or arrange it among yourselves, I don't care." "Yes, that's a fine arrangement," said Dolly. "It's a little harder for the four who work than it would be if we all pitched in, but no one really has to work any harder, for all that." "It's even in the long run," said Eleanor. "And it gives some of you a chance to do things that call for a whole afternoon. All agreed to that, are you?" It was Eleanor's habit, whenever possible, to submit such minor details of camp life to a vote of the girls. Her authority, of course, was complete. If she gave an order, it had to be obeyed, and she had the right, if she decided it was best, to send any or all of the girls home. But--and many guardians find it a good plan--she preferred to give the girls a good deal of latitude and real independence. One result was that, whenever she did give a positive order, it was obeyed unquestioningly. The girls knew by experience that usually she was content to suggest things, and even agree to methods that she herself would not have chosen, and, as they were not accustomed to receiving positive orders on all sorts of subjects, they understood without being told that there was a good reason for those that were issued. Another result, of course, and the most important, was that the girls, growing used to governing themselves, grew more self-reliant, and better fitted to cope with emergencies. The girls were still washing the breakfast dishes when Marcia Bates walked along the beach and was greeted with a merry hail by Dolly and the others. "I'm here as an ambassador or something like that," she announced. "That little sloop out there is yours, isn't she?" "Well, we'll have ours here as soon as it's towed over from Bay City. And we want to challenge you to a regular yacht race. I asked Miss Turner if we might, and she said yes." "I think that would be fine sport," said Eleanor. "Dolly Ransom is skipper of our sloop. Suppose you talk it over with her." "I think it would be fine, Marcia!" said Dolly, with shining eyes. "I was just wishing for a race this morning. When shall we have it?" "Why not this afternoon?" asked Marcia. "We could race out to the lighthouse on the rock out there and back. That's not very far, but it's far enough to make a good race, I should think." "Splendid!" said Dolly. "What sort of a boat is yours?" "Just the same as yours, I think. We can see when they come, and if one is bigger than the other, we can arrange about a handicap. Miss Turner said she thought she ought to be in one boat, and Miss Mercer in the other." "Yes, I think so, too. And I'll be skipper of our boat, and have Bessie King and Margery Burton for a crew. Who is your skipper?" "Gladys Cooper," answered Marcia, after a slight pause. "Bully for her! Just you tell her I'm going to beat her so badly she won't even know she's in a race." Marcia laughed. "All right," she said. "I'll let you know when we're ready." "Now, then, Bessie," said Dolly, "just you come out with me to the sloop in that skiff, and I'll show you just what you'll have to do. It won't be hard--you'll only have to obey orders. But you'd better know the names of the ropes, so that you'll understand my orders when I give them." So for an hour Bessie, delighted with the appearance of the trim little sloop, took lessons from Dolly in the art of handling small sailing craft. "You'll get along all right," said Dolly, as they pulled back to the beach. "Don't get excited. That's the only thing to remember. We'll wear our bathing suits, of course, so that if we get spilled into the water, there'll be no harm done." "We've got a good chance of being spilled, too," said Margery. "I know how Dolly likes to sail a boat. So if you don't want a ducking, you'd better make her take someone else in your place." "I wouldn't miss it for anything," said Bessie, happily. "I've never even seen a yacht race. I bet it must be lots of fun." "It won't be rough, anyhow," said Eleanor, after they had landed. She looked out to sea. "It's pretty hazy out there, Dolly. Think there'll be enough wind?" "Oh, yes," said Dolly. "Plenty! It won't be stiff, of course, and we won't make good time, but that doesn't make any difference. It's as good for them as for us--and the other way round." CHAPTER VIII THE RACE The sloop that was to represent the Halsted Camp Fire in the race arrived in the cove late in the morning, and from the shore there seemed to be no difference in size between the two little craft. They were different, and one might prove swifter than the other, for no two boats of that sort were ever exactly alike. But so far as could be judged, the race was likely to be a test rather of how the boats were sailed than of their speed, boat for boat. "I think you can sail on even terms, Dolly," said Eleanor. "I don't believe there'll be any need for either of you to give away any time to the other." "I'm glad of that, Miss Eleanor," said Dolly. "It seems much nicer when you're exactly even at the start." "Here's Miss Turner now," said Bessie. "I guess they must be about ready to start. I hope I'll do the right thing when you tell me, Dolly, but I'm dreadfully afraid I won't." "Don't worry about it, and you'll be much more likely to get along well," said Margery Burton, calmly. "And remember that this race isn't the most important thing in the world, even if Dolly thinks it is." "Oh, it's all right for you to talk that way now," said Dolly. "But wait till we're racing, Bessie, You'll find she's just as much worked up about it then as I am--and probably more so." "Well, all ready, Nell?" asked Mary Turner, coming up to them then. "Gladys seems to think she's about ready to start, so I thought I'd walk over and arrange about the details." "I think the best way to fix up the start will be for the two sloops to reach the opening in the bar together," said Eleanor. "They can start there and finish there, you see, and that will save the need of having someone to take the time. We really haven't anyone who can do that properly. If we're close together at the start you and I can call to one another and agree upon the moment when the race has actually begun." "All right," said Miss Turner. "I'd thought of that myself." She lowered her voice. "I didn't like to oppose this race, Nell," she said, speaking so that only Eleanor could hear her, "but I'm not at all sure that it's going to be a good thing." "Why not? I thought it would be good sport." "It ought to be, but I don't know how good a sportsman Gladys is. If she wins, it will probably make her feel a lot better. But if she loses--!" "I hadn't thought of that side of it," said Eleanor. "But--oh, well, even so, I think it will probably be a good thing. Gladys has got a lot of hard lessons to learn, and if this is one of them, the sooner she learns it, the better. You and I will be along to see fair play. That will keep her from having anything to say if she does lose, you see." "We're in for it, anyhow, so I didn't mean to have you worry about it. I think anything that I might have done to stop the race would have done more harm than the race itself can possibly do, in any case." "I'm quite sure of that, Mary. Well, we'll get aboard our yacht and you'd better do the same. They're probably waiting impatiently for you." The flat-bottomed skiff that Bessie had despised proved handy for carrying the _Eleanor's_ crew out to her. While the others climbed aboard, Dolly, who insisted upon attending to everything herself when she possibly could, arranged a floating anchor that would keep the boat in place against their return, and a few moments later the _Eleanor's_ snowy sails rose, flapping idly in the faint breeze. "Get up that anchor!" directed Dolly. "Bessie, you help Margery. She'll show you what to do." Then a shiver shook the little craft, the wind filled the sails, and in a few moments they were creeping slowly toward the opening in the bar. Seated at the helm, Dolly looked over toward the other camp and saw that the other yacht was also under way. "What do they call their boat?" she asked. "The _Defiance_," said Eleanor. Dolly laughed at the answer. "I bet I know who named her!" she said, merrily. "If that isn't just like Gladys Cooper! Well, I want a good race, and I can have just as much fun if we're beaten, as long as I can feel that I haven't made any mistakes in sailing the _Eleanor_. But--well, I guess I would like to beat Gladys. I bet she's awfully sure of winning!" "She's had more experience in sailing boats like these than you have, Dolly," said Eleanor. "She's welcome to it," said Dolly. "I shan't make any excuses if I lose. I'll be ready to admit that she's better than I am." The two boats converged together upon the opening in the bar, and soon those on one could see everything aboard the other. Gladys Cooper, like Dolly, sat at the helm, steering her boat, and a look of grim determination was in her eyes and on her unsmiling face. "She certainly does want to win," said Margery. "She's taking this too seriously--score one for Dolly." "You think she'd do better if she weren't so worked up, Margery?" "Of course she would! There are just two ways to take a race or a sporting contest of any sort--as a game or as a bit of serious work. If you do the very best you can and forget about winning, you'll win a good deal oftener than you lose, if your best is any good at all. It's that way in football. I've heard boys say that when they have played against certain teams, they've known right after the start that they were going to win, because the other team's players would lose their tempers the first time anything went wrong." "We seem to be on even terms now," said Eleanor, and, cupping her hands, she hailed Mary Turner. "All right? We might as well call this a start." "All right," said Mary. "Shall I give the word!" "Go ahead!" said Eleanor. Instantly Dolly, with a quick look at her sails, which were hanging limp again, since she had altered the course a trifle, became all attention. "One--two--three--go!" called Miss Turner, clapping her hands at the word "go." And instantly Dolly shifted her helm once more, so that the wind filled the sails, and the _Eleanor_ shot for the opening in the bar. Quick as she had been, however, she was no quicker than Gladys, and the _Defiance_ and the _Eleanor_ passed through the bar and out into the open sea together. Here there was more motion, since the short, choppy waves outside the bar were never wholly still, no matter how calm the sea might seem to be. But Bessie, who had been rather nervous as to the effect of this motion, which she had been warned to dread, found it by no means unpleasant. For a few moments Dolly's orders flew sharply. Although the wind was very light, there was enough of it to give fair speed, and the sails had to be trimmed to get the utmost possible out of it while it lasted. Both boats tacked to starboard, sailing along a slanting line that seemed likely to carry them far to one side of the lighthouse that was their destination, and Bessie wondered at this. "We're not sailing straight for the lighthouse," she said. "Isn't that supposed to be where we turn? Don't we have to sail around it?" "Yes, but we can't go straight there, because the wind isn't right," explained Dolly. "We'll keep on this way for a spell; then we'll come about and tack to port, and then to starboard again. In that way we can beat the wind, you see, and make it work for us, even if it doesn't want to." Half way to the lighthouse there was less than a hundred feet between the boats. The _Defiance_ seemed to be a little ahead, but the advantage, if she really had one at all, was not enough to have any real effect on the race. "Going out isn't going to give either of us much chance to gain, I guess," said Dolly. "The real race will be when we're going back, with what wind there is behind us." But soon it seemed that Dolly had made a rash prediction, for when she came about and started to beat up to port, the _Defiance_ held to her course. "Well, she can do that if she wants to," said Dolly. "Just the same, I think she's going too far." "It looks to me as if she were pretty sure of what she's doing, though, Dolly," said Margery, anxiously. "Don't you think you tacked a little too soon?" "If I thought that I wouldn't have done it, Margery," said Dolly. "Don't bother me with silly questions now; I've got to figure on tacking again so as to make that turn with the least possible waste of time." "Don't talk to the 'man' at the wheel," advised Eleanor, with a laugh. "She's irritable." A good many of the nautical terms used so freely by the others might have been so much Greek for all Bessie could understand of them, but the race itself had awakened her interest and now held it as scarcely anything she had ever done had been able to do. She kept her eyes fixed on the other boat, and at last she gave a cry. "Look! They're going to turn now." "Score one for Gladys, Margery," said Dolly, quietly. "She's certainly stolen a march on me. Do you see that? She's going to make her turn on the next tack, and I believe she'll gain nearly five minutes on us. That was clever, and it was good work." "Never mind, Dolly," said Margery. "You've still got a chance to catch her going home before the wind. I know how fast the _Eleanor_ is at that sort of work. If the _Defiance_ is any better, she ought to be racing for some real cups." "Oh, don't try to cheer me up! I made an awful mess of that, Margery, and I know it. Gladys had more nerve than I, that's all. She deserves the lead she's got. It isn't a question of the boats, at all. The _Defiance_ is being sailed better than the _Eleanor_." "Margery's right, though, Dolly," said Eleanor. "The race isn't over yet. You haven't given up hope, have you?" "Given up?" cried Dolly, scornfully, through set teeth. "Just you watch, that's all! I'm going to get home ahead if I have to swamp us all." "That's more like her," Margery whispered to Bessie. And now even Bessie could see that the _Defiance_ had gained a big advantage. Before her eyes, not so well trained as those of the others to weigh every consideration in such a contest, had not seen what was really happening. But it was plain enough now. Even while the _Defiance_ was holding on for the lighthouse, on a straight course, the _Eleanor_ had to come about and start beating up toward it, and the _Defiance_ made the turn, and, with spinnaker set, was skimming gaily for home a full five minutes before the _Eleanor_ circled lighthouse. In fact, the _Defiance_, homeward bound, passed them, and Mary Turner laughed gaily as she hailed Eleanor. "This is pretty bad," she called. "Better luck next time, Nell!" Marcia Bates waved her hand gaily to them, but Gladys Cooper, her eyes straight ahead, her hand on the tiller, paid no attention to them. There was no mistaking the look of triumph on her face, however. She was sure she was going to win, and she was glorying in her victory already. "I'll make her smile on the other side of her face yet," said Dolly, viciously. "She might have waved her hand, at least. If we're good enough to race with, we're good enough for her to be decently polite to us, I should think." "Easy, Dolly!" said Margery. "It won't help any for you to lose your temper, you know. Remember you've still got to sail your boat." The _Defiance_ was far ahead when, at last, after a wait that seemed to those on board interminable, the _Eleanor_ rounded the lighthouse in her turn. "Lively now!" commanded Dolly. "Shake out the spinnaker! We're going to need all the sail we've got. There isn't enough wind now to make a flag stand out properly." "And they got the best of it, too," lamented Margery. "You see, Bessie, the good wind there was when they started back carried them well along. We won't get that, and we'll keep falling further and further behind, because they've probably still got more wind than we have. It'll die out here before it does where they are." Dolly stood up now, and cast her eyes behind her on the horizon, and all about. And suddenly, without warning, she put the helm over, and the _Eleanor_ stood off to port, heading, as it seemed, far from the opening in the bar that was the finishing, line. "Dolly, are you crazy?" exclaimed Margery. "This is a straight run before the wind!" "Suppose there isn't any wind?" asked Dolly. The strained, anxious look had left her eyes, and she seemed calm now, almost elated. "Margery, you're a fine cook, but you've got a lot to learn yet about sailing a boat!" Bessie was completely mystified, and a look at Margery showed her that she, too, although silenced, was far from being satisfied. But now Margery suddenly looked off on the surface of the water, and gave a glad cry. "Oh, fine, Dolly!" she exclaimed. "I see what you're up to--and I bet Gladys thinks you're perfectly insane, too!" "She'll soon know I'm not," said Dolly, grimly. "I only hope she doesn't know enough to do the same thing. I don't see how she can miss, though, unless she can't see in time." Still Bessie was mystified, and she did not like to ask for an explanation, especially since she felt certain that one would be forthcoming anyhow in a few moments. And, sure enough, it was. For suddenly she felt a breath of wind, and, at the same instant Dolly brought the _Eleanor_ up before the wind again, and for the first time Bessie understood what the little sloop's real speed was. "You see, Bessie," said Margery, "Dolly knew that the wind was dying. It's a puffy, uncertain sort of wind, and very often, on a day like this, there'll be plenty of breeze in one spot, and none at all in another." "Oh, so we came over here to find this breeze!" said Bessie. "Yes. It was the only chance. If we had stayed on the other course we might have found enough breeze to carry us home, but we would have gone at a snail's pace, just as we were doing, and there was no chance at all to catch Gladys and the _Defiance_ that way." "We haven't caught them yet, you know," said Dolly. "But we're catching them," said Bessie, exultingly. "Even I can see that. Look! They're just crawling along." "Still, even at the rate they're going, ten minutes more will bring them to the finish," said Margery, anxiously. "Do you think she can make it, Dolly?" "I don't know," said Dolly. "I've done all I can, anyhow. There isn't a thing to do now but hold her steady and trust to this shift of the wind to last long enough to carry us home." Now the _Eleanor_ was catching the _Defiance_ fast, and nearing her more and more rapidly. It was a strange and mysterious thing to Bessie to see that of two yachts so close together--there was less than a quarter of a mile between them now--one could have her sails filled with a good breeze while the other seemed to have none at all. But it was so. The _Defiance_ was barely moving; she seemed as far from the finish now as she had been when Margery spoke. "They're stuck--they're becalmed," said Margery, finally, when five minutes of steady gazing hadn't shown the slightest apparent advance by the _Defiance_. "Oh, Dolly, we're going to beat them!" "I guess we are," said Dolly, with a sigh of satisfaction. "It was about the most hopeless looking race I ever saw twenty minutes ago, but you never can tell." And now every minute seemed to make the issue more and more certain. Sometimes a little puff of wind would strike the _Defiance_, fill her sails, and push her a little nearer her goal, but the hopes that those puffs must have raised in Dolly's rival and her crew were false, for each died away before the _Defiance_ really got moving again. And at last, passing within a hundred yards, so that they could see poor Gladys, her eyes filled with tears, the _Eleanor_ slipped by the _Defiance_ and took the lead. And then, by some strange irony of fate, the wind came to the _Defiance_--but it came too late. For the _Eleanor_, slipping through the water as if some invisible force had been dragging her, passed through the opening and into the still waters of the cove fully two hundred feet in the lead. "That certainly was your victory, Dolly," said Eleanor. "If you hadn't found that wind, we'd still be floundering around somewhere near the lighthouse." "I do feel sorry for Gladys, though," said Dolly. "It must have been hard--when she was so sure that she had won." CHAPTER IX THE SPY "That was bad luck. You really deserved to win that race, Gladys," Dolly called out, as the _Defiance_ came within hailing distance of the _Eleanor_ again. Gladys looked at her old friend but said not a word. It was very plain that the loss of the race, which she had considered already won, was a severe blow to her, and she was not yet able, even had she been willing, to say anything. "That's very nice of you, Dolly," called Mary Turner. "But it isn't so at all. You sailed your boat very cleverly. We didn't think of going off after the wind until it was too late. I think it was mighty plucky of you to keep on when we had such a big lead. Congratulations!" "Oh, what's the use of talking like that?" cried Gladys, furiously. "It was a trick--that was all it was! If we had had a real wind all the way, we'd have beaten you by half a mile!" "I know it, Gladys. It was a trick," said Dolly, cheerfully. "That's just what I said. We'll have another race, won't we? And we'll pick out a day when the wind is good and strong, so that it will be just the same for both boats." "Oh, you'd find some other trick to help you win," said Gladys, sulkily. "Don't act like that--it's easy enough for you to be pleasant. They'll all be laughing at me now for not being able to win when I had such a lead." "I'm ashamed of you, Gladys," said Mary Turner, blushing scarlet. "Dolly, please don't think that any of the rest of us feel as Gladys does. If I'd known she was such a poor loser, I wouldn't have let her race with you at all. And there won't be another race, Gladys doesn't deserve another chance." "Gladys is quite right," said Dolly, soberly. "It's very easy to be nice and generous when you've won; it's much harder to be fair when you've lost. And it was a trick, after all." "No, it wasn't, Dolly," said Eleanor, seriously. "It was perfectly fair. It was good strategy, but it wasn't tricky at all. Gladys knew just as much about the wind as you did. If she had done as you did in time, instead of waiting until after she'd seen you do it, she would have won the race." "We're going to have trouble with that Gladys Cooper yet," said Margery. "She's spoiled, and she's got a nasty disposition to start with, anyhow. You'd better look out, Dolly, She'll do anything she can to get even." "I think this race was one of the things she thought would help her to get even," said Bessie. "She was awfully sure she was going to be able to beat you, Dolly." "I almost wish she had," said Dolly. "I don't mean that I would have done anything to let her win, of course, because there wouldn't be any fun about that. But what's an old race, anyhow!" "That's the right spirit, Dolly," said Eleanor. "It's the game that counts, not the result. We ought to play to win, of course, but we ought to play fair first of all. And I think that means not doing anything at all that would spoil the other side's chances." "Oh, that's all right," said Margery, "but I'm glad we won." "I'm glad," said Dolly. "And I'm sorry, too. That sounds silly, doesn't it, but it's what I mean. Maybe if Gladys had won, we could have patched things up. And now there'll be more trouble than ever." While they talked they were furling the _Eleanor's_ sails, and soon they were ready to go ashore. Dolly had brought them up cleverly beside the skiff, and, once the anchor was dropped and everything on board the swift little sloop had been made snug for the night, they dropped over into the skiff and rowed to the beach. There the other girls, who had been greatly excited during the race, and were overjoyed by the result, greeted them with the Wo-he-lo song. Zara, especially, seemed delighted. "I felt so bad that I cried when I thought you were going to be beaten," she said. "Oh, Bessie, I'm glad you won! And I bet it was because you were on board." Bessie laughed. "You'd better not let Dolly hear you say that," she said. "I didn't have a thing to do with it, Zara. It was all Dolly's cleverness that won that race." "I'm awfully glad you're back, Bessie. I've had the strangest feeling this afternoon--as if someone were watching me." Bessie grew grave at once. Although she never shared them, she had grown chary of laughing at Zara's premonitions and feelings. They had been justified too often by what happened after she spoke of them. "What do you mean, dear!" she asked. "I don't see how anyone could be around without being seen. It's very open." "I don't know, but I've had the feeling, I'm sure of that. It's just as if someone had known exactly what I was doing, as long as I was out here on the beach. But when I went into the tent, it stopped. That made me feel that I must be right." "Well, maybe you're mistaken, Zara. You know we've had so many strange things happen to us lately that it would be funny if it hadn't made you nervous. You're probably imagining this." Though Bessie tried thus to disarm Zara's suspicions, she was by no means easy in her own mind. She felt that it would be a good thing to induce Zara to forget her presentiment, or feeling, or whatever it was, if she could. But, just the same, she determined to be on her guard, and she spoke to Dolly. "She's a queer case, that Zara," said Dolly, with a little shiver. "If any other girl I knew said anything like that, I'd just laugh at her. But Zara's different, somehow. She seems sort of mysterious. Perhaps it's just because she's a foreigner--I don't know." "I spoke to you so that we could be on the lookout, Dolly. And I guess we'd better not say anything to anyone else. I think a lot of the girls would laugh at Zara if they knew that she had such ideas." Bessie and Dolly managed to find occasion to cover most of the beach before supper, and they went up to the spring at the top of the bluff that overlooked the beach. The water had been piped down, and there was no longer any need of carrying pails up there to get water, but it was still a pleasant little walk, for the view from the top of the path was delightful. And Bessie and Dolly remembered, moreover, that it was there that the men who had watched the camp on the night of the fire had hidden themselves. But this time they found no one there. Supper was a merry meal. The race of the afternoon was, of course, the principal topic of conversation, and in addition there were adventures to be told by those who had missed it and gone into Bay City to shop. But Bessie, watching Zara, noticed toward the end of the meal that her strange little friend, who happened to be sitting near the entrance of the tent in which they ate, was nervous and kept looking behind her out into the darkness as if she saw something. And so, with a whispered explanation to Dolly, she rose and crept very silently toward the door. As she passed Zara, she let her hand fall reassuringly on her shoulder, and then, gathering herself, sprang out into the night. And, so completely surprised by her sudden appearance that he could not get out of the way, there was Jake Hoover! Jake Hoover, who was supposed to be in the city, telling his story to Charlie Jamieson! Jake Hoover, who, after having done all sorts of dirty work for Holmes and his fellow-conspirators, had told Bessie that he was sorry and was going to change sides! "Jake!" said Bessie, sternly. "You miserable sneak! What are you doing here!" No wonder poor Zara had had that feeling of being watched. Jake's work for Holmes right along had been mostly that of the spy, and here he was once more engaged in it. Bessie was furious at her discovery. Big and strong as Jake was, he was whimpering now, and Bessie seized him and shook him by the shoulders. "Tell me what you're doing here right away!" commanded Bessie. Gone were the days when she had feared him--the well-remembered days of her bondage on the Hoover farm, when his word had always been enough to secure her punishment at the hands of his mother, who had never been able to see the evil nature of her boy. "I ain't doin' no harm--honest I ain't, Bessie," he whined. "I--jest wanted--I jest wanted to see you and Miss Mercer--honest, that's why I'm here!" "That's a likely story, isn't it?" said Bessie, scornfully. "If that was so, why did you come sneaking around like this? Why didn't you come right out and ask for us? You didn't think we were going to eat you, did you?" "I--I didn't want them to know I was doin' it, Bess," he said. "I'm scared, Bessie--I'm afraid of what they'd do to me, if they found out I was takin' your side agin' them." Despite herself, Bessie felt a certain pity for the coward coming over her. She released his shoulder, and stood looking at him with infinite scorn in her eyes. "And to think I was ever afraid of you!" she said, aloud. "That's right, Bess," he said, pleadingly. "I wouldn't hurt you--you know that, don't you? I used to like to tease you and worry you a bit, but I never meant any real harm. I was always good to you, mostly, wasn't I?" "Dolly!" called Bessie, sharply. She didn't know just what to do, and she felt that, having Jake here, he should be held. It had been plain that Charlie Jamieson had considered what he had to tell valuable. "Hello! Did you call me, Bessie?" said Dolly, coming out of the tent. "Oh!" The exclamation was wrung out of her as she saw and recognized Jake. "So he's spying around here now, is he?" she said. "I told you he was a bad lot when you let him go at Windsor, didn't I? I knew he'd be up to his old tricks again just as soon as he got half a chance." "Never mind that, Dolly. Tell Miss Eleanor he's here, will you, and ask her to come out! I think she'd better see him, now that he's here." "That's right--and, say, tell her to hurry, will you?" begged Jake. "I can't stay here--I'm afraid they'll catch me." Dolly went into the tent again, and in a moment Eleanor Mercer came out. She had never seen Jake before, but she knew all about him for Bessie and Zara had told her enough of his history for her to be more intimate with his life than his own parents. "Good evening, Jake," she said, as she saw him. "So you decided to talk to us instead of to Mr. Jamieson? Well, I'm glad you're here, I'll have to keep you waiting a minute, but I shan't be long. Stay right there till I come back." "Yes, ma'am," whined Jake. "But do hurry, please, ma'am! I'm afraid of what they'll do to me if they find I'm here." Eleanor was gone only a few minutes, and when she returned she was smiling, as if at some joke that she shared with no one. "I'm sure you haven't had any supper, Jake," she said. "The girls have finished. See, they're coming out now. Come inside, and I'll see that you get a good meal. You'll be able to talk better when you've eaten." Jake hesitated, plainly struggling between his hunger and his fear. But hunger won, and he went into the tent, followed by Bessie and Dolly, who, although the service was reluctant on Dolly's part, at least, saw to it that he had plenty to eat. "Just forget your troubles and pitch into that food, Jake," said Eleanor, kindly. "You'll be able to talk much better on a full stomach, you know." And whenever Jake seemed inclined to stop eating, and to break out with new evidences of his alarm, they forced more food on him. At last, however, he was so full that he could eat no more, and he rose nervously. "I've got to be going now," he said. "Honest, I'm afraid to stay here any longer--" "Oh, but you came here to tell us something, you know," said Eleanor. "Surely you're not going away without doing that, are you?" "I did think you'd keep your word, Jake," said Bessie, reproachfully. "I can't! I've got to go, I tell you!" Jake broke out. His fright was not assumed; it was plain that he was terrified. "If they was after you, I guess you'd know--here, I'm going--" "Not so fast, young man!" said a stern voice in the door of the tent, and Jake almost collapsed as Bill Trenwith, a policeman in uniform at his back, came in. "There you are, Jones, there's your man. Arrest him on a charge of having no means of support--that will hold him for the present. We can decide later on what we want to send him to prison for. He's done enough to get him twenty years." Jake gave a shriek of terror and fell to the ground, grovelling at the lawyer's feet. "Oh, don't arrest me!" he begged. "I'll tell you everything I know. Don't arrest me!" "It's the only way to hold you," said Trenwith. "You've got to learn to be more afraid of us than of Holmes." CHAPTER X JAKE HOOVER'S CAPTURE "You're a fine lot," declared Jake, something about Trenwith's manner seeming to steady him so that he could talk intelligibly. "You tell me I won't get into any trouble if I come here, and then I find it's a trap!" "No one told you anything of the sort, my lad," said Trenwith, sharply. "You promised to go to Mr. Jamieson and tell him what you knew. No one made you any promises at all, except that you were told you wouldn't have any reason to regret doing it." Jake looked at Eleanor balefully. "She's too sharp, that's what she is," he complained bitterly. "I might ha' known she was playing a trick on me--gettin' me to stay here and eat a fine supper. I suppose she went and sent word to you while I was doing it." "Of course I did, Jake," said Eleanor quietly. "I telephoned to Mr. Trenwith even before you had your supper because I knew that if I didn't do something to keep you here with us, you'd run away again. But I did it as much for your sake as for Bessie's." "Yes, you did--not!" said Jake. "Why shouldn't you let me go now, then, if that is so?" "Listen to me, my buck," said Trenwith, sternly. "You're not going to do yourself any good by getting fresh to this lady, I can tell you that. You're pretty well scared, aren't you? You told her that you were afraid of what Holmes would do to you?" But Jake, alarmed by Trenwith's mention of the name of the man he feared, shut his lips obstinately, and wouldn't say a word in answer. Trenwith smiled cheerfully. "Oh, you needn't talk now, unless you want to," he said. "I know all you could tell me about that, anyhow. You've been up to some mischief, and they've kept on telling you that if you didn't behave yourself they'd give you away." Jake's hangdog look showed that to be true, although he still maintained his obstinate silence. "Well, I happen to be charged with enforcing the law around here, and it's my duty to see that criminals are brought to justice. I don't know just what you've done, but I'll find out, and I'll see that you are turned over to the proper authorities--unless you can do something that will make it worth while to let you off. So, you see, you've got just as much reason to be afraid of us as of the gang you've been training with. "They won't be able to help you now, either, even if they should want to--and I don't believe they want to, when it comes to that. I've always found that crooks will desert their best friends if it seems to them that they'll get something out of doing it. So if you're trusting to them to get you out of this scrape, you're making a big mistake." "You'd better listen to what Mr. Trenwith says, Jake," said Eleanor. "You think I've led you into a trap here. Well, I have, in a way. You'll have to go to jail for a little while, anyhow. But you're safer there than you would be if you were free. We're all willing to be your friends, for your father's sake. If we can, we'll get you out of this trouble you are in. But you will have to help us. Think it over." "What's the use?" said Jake, sullenly. "I ain't got nothin' to tell you, because I don't know nothin'. An' if I did--" "You'd better take him along, Jones," said Trenwith to the policeman. "It's quite evident that we'll get nothing out of him to-night. And I don't see any use wasting time on him while he's in this frame of mind." And so Jake, whining and protesting, was taken away. As soon as he was out of sight and hearing Trenwith's manner changed. "By George," he said, excitedly, "that's a good piece of work! There's something mighty interesting coming off here pretty soon. I'm not at liberty to tell you what it is yet, but I had a long talk on the telephone with Charlie just before you called me, Eleanor, and there are going to be ructions!" "Oh, I suppose we mustn't ask you to tell us, if you've promised not to do it," said Eleanor, "but I do wish we knew!" She didn't seem to notice that he had called her by her first name--a privilege that was not accorded, as a rule, to those who had no more of an acquaintance with her than Billy Trenwith. But he had done it so naturally, and with so little thought, that she could hardly have resented it, anyway. But Dolly noticed it, and nudged Bessie mischievously. "Then you really think we're going to find something out from Jake, Mr. Trenwith?" asked Dolly. "We'll find a way to make him talk, never fear," said Trenwith. "The boy's a natural born coward. He'll do anything to save his own skin if he finds he's in real trouble and that the others of his gang can't help him. I don't think he's naturally bad or vicious--I think he's just weak. He was spoiled by his mother, wasn't he? He acts the way a good many boys do who have been treated that way. He's not got enough strength of character to keep him from taking the easiest path. If a thing seems safe, he's willing to do it to avoid trouble." "You know there's just one thing that occurs to me," said Eleanor, looking worried. "Jake may have come here with some vague idea of telling us what he knew. But suppose he has seen Holmes or some of the others since Bessie got him to promise to go to Charlie Jamieson in the city?" "I hoped you wouldn't think of that," said Trenwith, gravely. "I thought of it, too. You mean he might have been here just as a spy, with no idea of showing himself at all?" "The way he acted makes it look as if that was just why he was here, too," said Dolly. "He was sneaking around, and he certainly didn't seem very pleased when Bessie found him." "He did his best to squirm away," said Bessie. "If Zara hadn't been so nervous while we were eating supper I would never have thought of going after him, either. But she seems to be able to see things and hear things, in some queer fashion, when no one else can." "That's a good thing for the rest of us," said Trenwith with a smile. "She's a useful person to have around at a time like this. I'm going to have a couple of my men--detectives--stay around here to-night to keep an eye on things. It's likely, of course, that there's nothing to be afraid of, but just the same, we don't want to take any chances." "I'm glad you've done that," said Eleanor. "I don't think I'm the ordinary type of timid woman, but I must confess that all these things worry me, and I'll feel a lot safer if I know that we are not entirely at the mercy of any trick they try to play on us to-night. They seem to be getting bolder, all the time." "Well, after all you know, that's one of the most hopeful things about the whole business. It means that they're getting desperate--that their time is getting short. They feel that if they don't succeed soon they never will, because it will be too late. All we've got to do is to stand them off a little longer, and the whole business will be settled and done with. "I've got to get back to Bay City to-night. If anything happens, don't hesitate to call me up, no matter what time it is. If I'm out at any time you do have to call me, I'll leave word where I'm going, so that if you tell them at my house who you are, they'll find me. Good-night!" Neither Dolly nor Bessie slept well that night. Jake's appearance had been disturbing; it seemed to both of them much more likely that his coming heralded some new attempt by Holmes, rather than a desire on his part to confess. But the night passed without anything to rouse them, and in the morning their fears seemed rather foolish, as fears are apt to do when they are examined in the sunlight of a new day. "I don't see what they can do, after all," said Dolly. "There aren't any woods around here as there were at Long Lake. We're all in sight of the camp and of one another all the time, and they certainly won't be able to work that trick of setting the tents on fire again." "I guess you're right," said Bessie. "It seems different this morning, somehow. I was worried enough last night but I feel a whole lot better now. I'm glad it's such a beautiful day. The weather makes a lot of difference in the way you feel. It always does with me, I know." "I'm going out in the sloop after breakfast," said Dolly. "That is, if Miss Eleanor says it's all right. There's a lot more wind than there was yesterday, and we can have some good fun." "Can I go, too?" asked Bessie. "You were quite right when you told me I'd love the seashore, Dolly. Do you remember how I said I was sorry we were leaving the mountains?" "Oh, I knew it would fascinate you, just as it does me. So you've given up your love for the mountains?" "Not a bit of it! I love them as much as ever, but I've found out that the seashore has attractive things about it, too. And I think sailing, the way we did yesterday, is about the nicest of all." "Then you just wait until we get out there to-day, with a real breeze, and a good sea running. That's going to be something you've never even dreamed of." They had hearty appetites for breakfast in spite of their restless and disturbed sleep, for the bracing effects of their swim, taken before the meal, more than made up for the lack of proper rest. And after breakfast Dolly asked permission to go out in the sloop, since one of the very few rules of the Camp Fire, and one strictly enforced, had to do with water sports. None of the girls were ever allowed to go in swimming unless the Guardian was present, and the same rules applied to boating and sailing--with the added restriction that no girl who did not know how to swim well enough to pass certain tests was allowed to go in a boat at all. Moreover, bathing suits had always to be worn when in a boat. "Indeed you may," said Eleanor, when Dolly asked her question. "And will you take me with you! I'd like to be out on that sea to-day. It looks glorious." "We'll love to have you along," said Dolly. "How soon may we start?" "It's eight o'clock," said Eleanor, looking at her watch. "We can start at ten. That will allow plenty of time after eating. Of course, we don't intend to go in the water, but you never can tell--it's squally to-day, and we might be upset. And that's one thing I don't believe in taking chances with. A cramp will make the best swimmer in the world perfectly helpless in the water, and about every case of cramps I ever heard of came from going in the water too soon after a meal." When they were aboard the _Eleanor_ and scooting through the opening in the bar, Bessie found that the conditions were indeed very different from those of the previous afternoon. The wind had changed and become much heavier, and as the _Eleanor_ went along, she dipped her bow continually, so that the spray rose and drenched all on board. But there was something splendidly exciting and invigorating about it, and she loved every new sensation that came to her. "Here's the _Defiance_ coming out," said Eleanor, after they had been enjoying the sport for half an hour. "Gladys must like this sort of a breeze, too." "She does, but she's never had as much of it as I have," said Dolly. "I hope she understands it well enough not to make any mistakes. A boat like this takes a good deal of handling in a heavy breeze, and it seems to me that she's carrying a good deal of sail." "She seems to be getting along all right, though," said Eleanor, after watching the _Defiance_ for a few minutes. "Why, Dolly, I wonder what she's doing now." The maneuvres of the _Defiance_ seemed strange enough to prompt Eleanor's question, for, no matter how Dolly tacked, the _Defiance_ followed her, drawing nearer all the time. Since Dolly had no sort of definite purpose in mind, it was plain that Gladys was simply following her. And soon the reason was apparent. "She's trying to race; she wants to show that she can beat us to-day when there's plenty of wind," said Dolly. "If she wanted to race, why didn't she say so?" "Well, give her her way, Dolly," said Eleanor. "Keep straight on now for a little while and see if she can beat you. We're just about on even terms now." And on even terms they stayed. Sometimes one, sometimes the other seemed to gain a little advantage, but it was plain that the boats, as well as the skippers, were very evenly matched. Since there was no agreement to race, Dolly had the choice of courses, and in a spirit of mischief she came about frequently. And every time she changed her course Gladys followed suit. Although the boats were often within easy hailing distance, Gladys avoided Dolly's eyes, and nothing was said by those on either sloop. They were satisfied with the fun of this impromptu racing. But at last, when they were perhaps a mile from the opening in the bar, and very close together, Eleanor, looking at her watch, saw that it was nearly time for lunch. "You'd better turn for home now, Dolly," she said. "Suppose I give Gladys a hail and suggest a race to the bar?" "All right," agreed Dolly. "Gladys!" Eleanor sent her clear voice across the water, and Gladys answered with a wave of her hands. She seemed in better humor than she had been the day before. "We're going in now. Want to race to the bar?" "All right!" called Gladys, in answer and came about smartly. She had been quick, but Dolly was just as quick, and they were on the most even terms imaginable as the race began. But Dolly and the _Eleanor_ had one advantage that Gladys was not slow to recognize. The _Eleanor_ had the inside course. In a close finish that would be very likely to spell the difference between victory and defeat, since, to reach the opening, Gladys would either have to get far enough ahead to cross the _Eleanor's_ bows or else to cross behind her, which would entail so much loss of time that Dolly would be certain to bring her craft home a winner. But since the previous racing had shown the _Defiance_ to be just a trifle swifter before the wind, that advantage seemed to be one that Gladys could easily overcome. Now that she was racing, however, Dolly changed her tactics. Fresh as the wind was, she shook out a reef in her mainsail, and as they neared the bar the _Eleanor_ actually carried more canvas than Gladys dared to keep on the _Defiance_, Being less used to heavy going than Dolly, she was not so sure of the strength of her sticks, and reckless though she was, she was too wise to be willing to take a chance of being dismasted. And so the advantage that Gladys had to gain to be able to cross the _Eleanor's_ bows seemed to be impossible for her to attain. The _Eleanor_ did not go ahead, but she held her own, and she had the right of way. "You're going to beat her again, and fair and square this time," said Eleanor, excitedly. "She won't be able to say a word to this!" "Look!" said Dolly, suddenly. "She's going to cross me--and she's got no right to do it!" She shouted loudly. "Gladys! Gladys! I'll run you down! Don't do that! I've got the right of way!" But Gladys kept on with a mocking laugh. Furious at the trick, Dolly put her helm hard over, and the _Eleanor_ came up in the wind. "That's a mean trick, if you like!" cried Dolly, indignantly. "In a regular race, if she did a thing like that, the other boat would run her down, and would win on a foul. But she knew very well I'd give up the position rather than cause an accident!" The check to the _Eleanor_ was only for a moment, but it was enough to throw her off her course and make it certain that the _Defiance_ would reach the bar first. "Never mind, Dolly. You did the right thing," said Eleanor, quietly. "I think she's quite welcome to the race, if she cares enough about winning it to play a trick like that!" Bessie was up in the bow, looking intently at the _Defiance_. And now as Gladys came up to get the straight course again, something went wrong. By some mistaken handling of her helm she had lost her proper direction, and to her amazement Bessie saw the boom come over sharply. She saw it, too, strike Gladys on the head--and the next moment the _Defiance_ gybed helplessly, while Gladys was swept overboard. Bessie did not hesitate a moment. She had seen that blow struck by the boom, and with a cry of warning she plunged overboard as they swept by the helpless _Defiance_, and with powerful strokes made for the place where Gladys had gone overboard. Gladys had gone straight down, but Bessie had marked the spot, and she dived as she reached it, and met her coming up. She clutched her in a moment, and was on the surface almost at once, holding Gladys, and looking for Dolly and the _Eleanor_. Dolly would return for her at once, she knew, if she had seen Gladys go over. But, to her amazement the sloop was heading for the bar, sailing away from her fast! Dolly had not seen her and, for a moment, Bessie was badly scared. CHAPTER XI THE RESCUE In a moment, however, she realized that she could not be left alone for long. Her absence from the _Eleanor_ would be noticed, even if no one had seen her leap overboard; and, moreover, the strange behavior of the _Defiance_ was sure to attract Dolly's attention, for, without Gladys to direct her, the _Defiance_ was in a bad way. She had heeled over sharply, and seemed now to be sailing in circles, following the errant impulses of the wind, which caught first one sail, then another. Although she was quite near the _Defiance_, Bessie looked for no help from her. To swim toward her, with Gladys as a burden, seemed hopeless. The boat was not staying in one position. And moreover, Marcia Bates and the other girl on board of her seemed almost entirely ignorant of what to do. They would have quite enough, on their hands in trying to get her headed for the opening in the bar. And suddenly a new danger was added to the others. For Gladys, it seemed, was recovering her senses--or, rather, she was no longer unconscious. To her horror, Bessie found, as Gladys opened her eyes, that she was delirious. That, of course, was the effect of the blow on her head from the boom, but its effect, no matter what the cause, was what worried Bessie. "Keep still! Don't move, Gladys!" warned Bessie, as she saw the other girl's eyes open. But Gladys either would not or could not obey that good advice. She struggled furiously by way of answer, and for a long minute Bessie was too busy keeping afloat to be able to look for the coming of the help that was so badly needed. There seemed to be no purpose to the struggles of Gladys, but they were none the less desperate because of that. Her eyes had the wide, fixed stare that, had Bessie known it, is so invariably seen in those who are in mortal fear of drowning. And she clung to Bessie with a strength that no one could have imagined her capable of displaying. And at last, though she hated to do it, Bessie managed to get her hands free, and, clenching her fists, she drove them repeatedly into the other's face so that Gladys was forced to let go and put her hands before her face to cover herself from the vicious blows. At once Bessie seized the opportunity. She flung herself away, knowing that even though she did not try to help herself, but being conscious, Gladys would not sink at once, and got behind her, so that she could grasp her by the shoulders and be safe from the deadly clutch of her arms. Free from the terrible danger that is the risk assumed by all who rescue drowning persons, that of being dragged down by the victim, Bessie was able to raise her head and look for the _Eleanor_. And now she gave a wild cry as she saw the sloop bearing down upon her. Eleanor Mercer was in the bow, a coil of rope in her hands, and a moment later she flung it skillfully, so that Bessie caught it. At once Bessie made a noose and slipped the rope over Gladys's shoulders. Then she let go, and, turning on her back, rested while Gladys was dragged toward the sloop. Bessie herself was almost exhausted by her struggle. She felt that, had her very life depended upon doing it, she could not have swam the few yards that separated her from the sloop. But there was no need for her to do it. Steering with the utmost skill, Dolly soon brought the _Eleanor_ alongside of Bessie as she lay floating in the water, and a moment later she was being helped aboard. "Lie down and rest," commanded Eleanor. "Don't try to talk yet." And Bessie was glad enough to obey. She lay down beside Gladys, who seemed to have fainted again, and Eleanor threw a rug over her. "Now we must get them ashore as quickly as we can, Dolly," said Eleanor. "Bessie's just tired out, but I don't like the looks of Gladys at all." "The boom hit her," said Bessie, weakly. "It hit her on the head. That's how she was knocked overboard. She didn't know what she was doing when she struggled so in the water." "What a lucky thing you saw what happened!" said Dolly. "I was so intent on the race that I never looked at all, and I didn't even know you'd gone over until I called to you and you didn't answer." "Oh, I knew you'd come back, Dolly. I just wondered, when Gladys was struggling so, if you'd be in time." This time Dolly didn't stop at the anchorage of the sloop, but ran her right up on the beach. That meant some trouble in getting her off when they came to that, but it was no time to hesitate because of trifles. Once they were ashore, the other girls, who had, of course, seen nothing of the accident that had so nearly had a tragic ending, rushed up to help, and in a few moments Gladys was being carried to the big living tent. There her wet clothes were taken off, she was rubbed with alcohol, and wrapped in hot blankets. And as Eleanor and Margery Burton stood over her, she opened her eyes, looked at them in astonishment, and wanted to know where she was. "Oh, thank Heaven!" cried Eleanor. "She's come to her senses, I do believe! Gladys, do you feel all right?" "I--I--think so," said Gladys, faintly, putting her hand to her head. "I've got an awful headache. What happened? I seem to remember being hit on the head--" "Your boom struck you as it swung over, and knocked you into the water, Gladys," said Eleanor. "You couldn't swim, and you don't remember anything after that, do you? It dazed you for a time, so that you didn't know what you were doing. But you're all right now, though I've telephoned for a doctor, and he'd better have a look at you when he comes, just to make sure you're all right." "But--how did I get here?" "Bessie King saw you go overboard and jumped after you. Of course, the girls on your boat were pretty helpless--she was going all around in circles after you left the tiller free, so they couldn't do anything." Gladys closed her eyes for a moment. "I'd like to talk to her later--when I feel better," she said. "I think I'll try to go to sleep now, if I may. The pain in my head is dreadful." "Yes, that's the best thing you can do," said Eleanor warmly. "You'll feel ever so much better, I know, when you wake up. Someone will be here with you all the time, so that if you wake up and want anything, you'll only need to ask for it." But Gladys was asleep before Eleanor had finished speaking. Nature was taking charge of the case and prescribing the greatest of all her remedies, sleep. Eleanor turned away, with relief showing plainly in her eyes. "I think she'll be all right now," she said. "If that blow were going to have any serious effects, I don't believe she'd be in her senses now." "I think it's a good thing it happened, in a way," said Dolly, when they were outside of the tent. "Did you notice how she spoke about Bessie, Miss Eleanor?" "Yes. I see what you mean, Dolly. Of course, I'm sorry she had to have such an experience, but maybe you're right, after all. I'm quite sure that her feelings toward Bessie will be changed after this--she'd have to be a dreadful sort of girl if she could keep on cherishing her dislike and resentment. And I'm sure she's not." "Hello! Why aren't you in bed, sleeping off that ducking?" asked Dolly suddenly. For Bessie, in dry clothes, and looking as if she had had nothing more exciting than an ordinary plunge into the sea to fill her day, was coming toward them from her own tent. "Oh, I feel fine!" said Bessie. "The only trouble with me was that I was scared--just plain scared! If I'd known that everything was going to be all right, I could have turned and swam ashore after you started towing Gladys in. Is she all right? I'm more bothered about her than about myself." "I think she's going to feel a lot better when she wakes up," said Eleanor. "I think I'm enough of a doctor to be able to tell when there's anything seriously wrong. But I'm not taking any chances--I've sent for a doctor." "How about the other boat? Did they get in all right?" asked Dolly, "I forgot all about them, I was so worked up about Bessie and Gladys." "They had a tough time, but they managed it," said Margery Burton. "Here's Miss Turner now. I suppose she's worried about Gladys." Worried she certainly was, but Eleanor was able to reassure her, and soon the doctor, arriving from Green Cove, pronounced Gladys to be in no danger. "She'll have that headache when she wakes up," he said; "but it will be a lot better, and by to-morrow morning it will be gone altogether. Don't give her much to eat; some chicken broth ought to be enough. She's evidently got a good constitution. If she had fractured her skull she wouldn't have been conscious yet, nor for a good many days." But the accident had one unforeseen consequence, that was rather amusing than otherwise to Dolly, at first, at least. For, before the doctor was ready to go, the sound of an automobile engine was heard up on the bluff, and a minute later Billy Trenwith came racing down the path. At the sight of Eleanor he paused, looking a little sheepish. "I heard that Doctor Black was coming here--I was afraid something might have happened to you," he stammered. "Why, whatever made you think that?" said Eleanor, honestly puzzled. Then she turned, surprised again by a burst of hysterical laughter from Dolly, who, staring at Trenwith's red face, was entirely unable to contain her mirth. Under Eleanor's steady gaze she managed to control herself, but then she went off again helplessly as Doctor Black winked at her very deliberately. Scandalized and rather indignant as the point of the joke began to reach her, Eleanor was dismayed to see that Bessie, the grave, was also having a hard time to keep from laughing outright. So she blushed, which was the last thing in the world she wanted to do, and then made some excuse for a hasty flight. "Well, you people have so many things happen to you all the time," said Trenwith, indignantly, "that I don't see why it wasn't perfectly natural for me to come out to see what was wrong now!" "Oh, don't apologize to me, Mr. Trenwith!" said Dolly, mischievously. "And--can you keep a secret?" He looked at her, not knowing whether he ought to laugh or frown, and Dolly went up to him, put her hands on his shoulders, and raised herself so that she could whisper in his ear. "She isn't half as angry as she pretends," she said. Then Eleanor came back, and Dolly made herself scarce. She had a positive genius for knowing just how far she could go safely in her teasing. "I had to come out here, anyhow," said Trenwith, to Eleanor. "Look here. I got this message from Charlie Jamieson." Eleanor took it. "I don't see why you let Charlie order you around so," she said, severely. "Haven't you any business of your own to attend to? He hasn't any right to expect you to waste all your time trying to keep us out of trouble." "Oh, it isn't wasted," he said, indignantly. "We're supposed to help our friends--and we're friends, aren't we?" "Of course we are," said Eleanor, relenting. He brightened at once. "Well," he said, impulsively, "you see Charlie says he doesn't want me to let you and those two girls--Bessie and Zara--out of my sight until he comes. Couldn't you all come out for a sail with me in my motor launch? We could have supper on board and it would be lots of fun, I think." Eleanor looked doubtful. "I don't know about leaving the camp," she said. "I ought to be here to keep an eye on things." "Oh, you can go perfectly well, Miss Eleanor," said Margery Burton. "It will do Bessie and Dolly a lot of good if you take them--they've had a pretty exciting day. And we can ask all the Halsted girls over to supper, and Miss Turner will be with them. She can take your place as Guardian for a few hours, can't she?" "If she will come. Why, yes, that would make it all right," said Eleanor. Somehow she found that she wasn't half as strong-minded and self-reliant when this very masterful young man was around. "You might go over and see, Margery, if you will." "Splendid!" said Trenwith. "We'll have a perfectly bully time, I know. You keep at it too hard, Miss Mercer--really you do!" "We won't go very far, will we?" said Eleanor, yielding to the lure of a sail at sunset. "Oh, no, just a few miles down the coast. There's a lot of pretty scenery you ought to see--and I've got a man who helps me to run my boat who's a perfect wizard at cooking, We've got a sort of imitation kitchen on board, but he does things in it that would make the chef of a big hotel envious. He's one of the few things I boast about." Margery soon returned with word that the Halsted girls would accept the supper invitation, and that Mary Turner would be delighted to come. Margery's eyes were twinkling, and it was plain that Mary Turner had said something else that was not to be repeated. "All right! That's great!" said Trenwith, happily. "I'll run back to Green Cove in my car, and come around here again in the launch. It was to follow me there. I'll be back soon." Indeed, in half an hour he was back, and Eleanor with Zara, Bessie and Dolly, were taken out to the _Columbia_ in two trips of the little dinghy which served as her tender. The _Columbia_ was a big, roomy, motor launch, without a deck, but containing a little cabin, and a comfortable lounging space aft, which was covered with an awning. "What a delightful boat!" said Eleanor, as she settled herself comfortably amid the cushions Trenwith had provided for her. "I should think you could have an awfully good time on her." "I've used her a lot," said Trenwith. "There's room in the cabin for two fellows to sleep, if they don't mind being crowded, and of course in warm weather one can sleep out here. I've used her quite a lot to go duck hunting, and for little cruises when I've been all tired out. Charlie Jamieson has been with me several times." "I've heard him talk about the good times he's had on her. It was stupid of me to have forgotten." "She's not very fast or very fashionable, but she is good fun. I'd rather have a steady, slow engine that you can depend on than one of those racing motors that's always getting out of order." "All ready to start, sir, Mr. Trenwith," said Bates, his 'crew,' then, and Trenwith took the wheel. "All right," he said. "Let her go, Bates! You can steer from the wheel in the bow after we get started, right down the coast. We'll lie to off Humber Island and eat supper." "Right, sir!" said Bates. "I've got a good supper for to-night, too." "Being right out on the water this way makes me hungry," said Eleanor. "That's good news, Bates." CHAPTER XII THE TRAITOR The _Columbia_ slowly and steadily made her way down the coast, keeping within a mile or so of the shore. Speed was certainly not her long suit, but she rode the choppy sea more easily than most boats so small would have done, and, since she was not intended for speed, the usual traffic din of the motor was absent. Altogether, she seemed an ideal pleasure boat. As they went along, Trenwith pointed out the various places of interest along the shore. "Down this way we get to a part where a lot of rich men have built summer homes," he said. "You see there's a good beach, and they can buy enough land to have it to themselves. It's pretty lonely, in a way, because they're a good long way from the railroad, but they don't seem to mind that." "I suppose not. They've got money enough to keep all the automobiles and yachts they want, so they wouldn't use the railroad anyhow. I never would if I could get around any other way." As they went on, the coast changed considerably from the familiar character it had at Plum Beach. Cliffs took the place of the bluff, and while the beach was still fine and level, there were rocky stretches at more and more frequent intervals. "What's the nearest town in this direction?" asked Eleanor. "Rock Haven," said Trenwith. "That's more of a place than Bay City, because it's quite a seaport. Up at Bay City, you see, we don't amount to much except in the summer time. But Rock Haven is a big place, and most of the people who live there are there all the year round instead of only for three months or so in the summer. You haven't any idea of what a dull old place Bay City is in winter." "If it's so dull, I shouldn't think you'd stay there." "Oh, it was a good place for me to get a start, you know. I've been able to get along in politics, and I've done better there than I would have in the city, I suppose. And it's all right for a bachelor, anyhow. He can always get away. If I were married--well, it would be very different then." "I should think you'd like it much better in the city, though, even if you are a bachelor. Why don't you come there this winter?" "Perhaps--I'd like--do you want me to come?" He leaned forward, as if her answer were the most important thing in the world, and, seeing Dolly's mischievous glance at Bessie, Eleanor blushed slightly. "I think it would be better for you to be in the city," she said, with dignity. "Well, I'll tell you a secret then--I'm really bursting with a whole lot of others that I mustn't tell. Charlie's been at me for months to come and be his partner, and I've promised to think it over." "I think that would be splendid." "Well, I'm glad to hear you say so, because it really depends on you whether I shall come or not." "Hush!" she said, blushing again, and speaking in so low a tone that only he could hear her. "You mustn't talk like that here--and now. It--it isn't right." She looked helplessly at Dolly, and Trenwith, understanding, looked as if she had said something that delighted him. Perhaps she had--perhaps she had even meant to do so. "I'll attend to getting supper ready now, sir, Mr. Trenwith, if you'll take the wheel," said Bates, just then. "All right," said Trenwith, nodding. "Now make a good job of it, Bates. I've been praising you up to the skies." Bates grinned widely, and disappeared. No apologies were needed when they came to eat the supper which had been so well heralded. A table was set up in the after part of the boat, and the awning was drawn back so that the stars shone down on them. The _Columbia's_ engine was stopped, and she lay under the lee of Humber Island, a long, wooded islet that sheltered them from the strong breeze, making the sea as smooth as a mill pond. On shore twinkling lights began to appear, and, some distance away, a glare of lights in the sky betrayed the location of Rock Haven. "Oh, this is lovely!" said Eleanor. "I'm so glad you brought us here, Mr. Trenwith! But tell me, doesn't anyone live on this island? It's so beautiful that I should think someone would surely have built a summer home there long ago." "I believe there are people there," said Trenwith. "But they are on the other side." "I'm sorry we have to go home, but I suppose we really must be starting," said Eleanor, after supper. "It's such a heavenly night that it seems to me it would be perfect just to stay here." "Wouldn't it? But you're right--we must be starting back. We'll go on and come around the other side of this island. You should see it from all points of view. Scenically, it's our show place for this whole stretch of coast." And so as soon as Bates had finished clearing off the table he went back to his engine, and the _Columbia_ slipped along smoothly in the shadow of the island. But a few minutes later, as they were gliding along on the seaward side, where the water was far rougher, there was a sudden jar, and the next moment the engine stopped. "Why, what's the matter!" asked Eleanor, surprised. "Nothing much, probably," said Trenwith "Bates will have it fixed in a few minutes. The best engine in the world is apt to get balky at times--and I must say that mine has chosen a very good time to misbehave." Eleanor chose to ignore the meaning he so plainly implied, but she was perfectly content with the explanation, and sat there dreamily, expecting to hear the reassuring whir of the motor at any moment. But the minutes dragged themselves out, and the only sound that came from the engine was the tapping of the tools Bates was using. Trenwith frowned. "This is very strange," he said. "We've never been delayed as long as this since I've had Bates. He usually keeps the motor in perfect running order. I'll just step forward and see what's wrong." He returned in a few moments, his face grave. "Bates has some highly technical explanation of what is wrong," he said, seriously. "It seems that he needs some tools he hasn't got, in order to grind the valves. I'm afraid we'll have to get ashore somehow--he seems to be sure that he can find what he is looking for there." Eleanor looked rather dismayed. "It's going to make us terribly late in getting ashore, isn't it?" she asked. "I'm afraid the others will be worried about us." "No. Bates says that as soon as he gets the tools he wants he will have things fixed up, and he's quite certain that he can get them on the island. He says anyone who has a motor boat will be able to help him out--and they certainly couldn't live here without one." "But how on earth are you going to get ashore if the engine won't work?" asked Dolly. "It seems to me that we're stuck out here." "Oh, you leave that to us!" said Trenwith, cheerfully. "I'm sorry this has happened, but please believe me when I say that it isn't a bit serious." They soon saw the _Columbia_ was to be rescued from her predicament. She was fairly near the shore, and now Bates dropped an anchor, and she remained still, swinging slowly on the chain. "He'll row ashore, you see, hunt up the people, and tell them what he wants," said Trenwith. "Hurry up, Bates! Remember, we've promised to get these young ladies home in good time." "Right, sir," said Bates, as he lowered the dinghy and dropped into her. "Won't take me long when I find the people on shore--and about five minutes will fix that engine when I get back here again." He rowed off into the darkness, making for a point of light that showed on shore, and they settled back to wait as patiently as they could for his return. "Suppose Charlie turns up at the camp while we're gone, and wants you for something important?" asked Eleanor. "Oh, I'm afraid we did wrong in coming!" "Not a bit of it! Old Charlie will understand. And I know his plans pretty well, so there isn't any danger of this causing any trouble." It seemed to take longer for Bates to find help than he had expected. At any rate, the greater part of half an hour slipped away before they heard the sound of oars coming toward them. "Why, there are two men rowing!" said Dolly, curiously. "And that dinghy only has room for one man with oars." "Probably they decided to send someone out with him to lend him a hand," said Trenwith. "People around these parts are pretty nice to you if you have a breakdown, and I guess it's partly because they never know when they're going to have one themselves." "Well, that ought to make it easier to make the repairs that are needed," said Eleanor, somewhat relieved. "I really am getting worried about what they'll think at the beach. I'm afraid they'll be sure that something has happened to us." "Good evening, Miss Mercer," said a mocking voice behind her, and she turned with a start to see Holmes! "You're late," said Holmes, reproachfully. "I expected you an hour earlier. But then better late than, never! Ah, I see both of them are with you! Silas Weeks will be very glad to see you two, I have no doubt!" He spoke then to Bessie and Zara, who, terrified by his sodden appearance, were staring at him. "Mr. Trenwith!" said Eleanor, sharply. "You know who this man is, do you not? And what our feelings are concerning him? Are you going to let him stay here?" "He has no choice, Miss Mercer. Better not ask him too many questions about how you happened to break down right off my island; he would have a hard time convincing you with any story he told. Eh, Trenwith?" "Shut up!" growled Trenwith. "What does all this nonsense mean? Get off my boat!" "Oh, are you trying to make them believe you didn't know about this? I beg your pardon, Trenwith, I really do! Of course, Miss Mercer, he knows as well as I do that I am within my rights. You are now in a state where certain court orders applying to Bessie King and her little friend Zara ate valid--and, knowing that these two girls, who have run away from the courts of this state, are here, I have taken steps to see that they are taken into court. I am a law abiding citizen--I do not like to see the law insulted." Eleanor was dazed by the suddenness of the blow. To her it seemed an accident; she could not believe that Trenwith could be guilty of such treachery as Holmes was charging. But in a moment her faith in him was shattered. "I'd like to help out your pose, Trenwith," Holmes said to him. "But I need you, so you'll have to come off your perch. You'll have to come ashore with the others, in case you should change your mind. I only want two of these girls, but the others will have to come, too, of course, because if they got away they might make trouble. You shall be perfectly comfortable, Miss Mercer, however." The look in Trenwith's eyes, and the sheepish, hangdog expression of his whole face made Eleanor gasp. So he had betrayed them! After all, despite his fine talk, he had been tempted by the money that Holmes seemed prepared to spend so lavishly! And he had led Bessie and Zara right into a trap--a merciless trap, as she knew, from which escape would be most difficult, if not utterly impossible. And in a moment the lingering remnants of her faith were shattered. For Holmes called out, in a loud tone, at Bates: "Bates!" he cried. "Come aboard and start that engine! Then you can take your tub right up to the landing pier in front of the house." "Yes, yes!" said Bates. He sprang aboard, and a moment later the engine, perfectly restored, was started, although nothing had been done to it since Bates went ashore, and, the anchor lifted, the _Columbia_ began her brief voyage to the pier. There had been no accident at all! The breakdown had been a deception, pure and simple, intended to give Bates a chance to go ashore and warn Holmes that his prey was within his reach. "Oh, how I despise you!" said Eleanor to Trenwith. "Go away, please, so that I won't have to look at you!" "Eleanor, listen!" he said, in a low whisper, pleadingly. "I can explain--" "If you think I'm such a fool as to believe anything you tell me now," she said, furiously, "you are very much mistaken!" He saw that to argue with her was hopeless, and went forward gloomily. In a few minutes they were ashore. Resistance, as Eleanor saw, was hopeless; the only thing to do was to act sensibly, and hope for a chance to escape. "I have had three rooms arranged for you," said Holmes, when they reached a great rambling house. "They're on the second floor. I think you girls will be comfortable and you would rather, I am sure, have the girls with you. You are in no danger." CHAPTER XIII A LUCKY MEETING Half a dozen men had come out to the _Columbia_ with Holmes and Bates, and now, while Holmes himself disappeared for a minute, beckoning to Trenwith to go with him, the other men watched Eleanor and the three girls. They drew off to a little distance, but they kept their eyes on them. "They don't look as if they could run very fast," said Dolly, hopefully. "Don't you think we might be able to make a break and get away?" "Where to, Dolly? This is an island, remember, and we don't know anything about it at all. We wouldn't know where to run, if we did have luck enough to get a good start--and we wouldn't get very far." "I suppose that's so," said Dolly, her face falling. "Oh, what a horrid shame! Just when everything seemed so nice and peaceful!" "There's one thing," said Eleanor, her face set and stern. "They can't hold me forever--or, at least, I don't suppose they can. And someone is going to be sorry for this or my name's not Eleanor Mercer!" "I don't understand it yet," said Bessie, who, although the capture meant more to her than it did to any of the others, had not given way to her emotions, and seemed as cool and calm as if she had been safely back on Plum Beach. "It's only too easy to understand," said Eleanor, bitterly. "Charlie was deceived in his friend, Mr. Trenwith. He's just as easy to bribe as Jake Hoover. That's all. He cares more for money and success than he does for his reputation as an honorable man. I'm disappointed in him--but I suppose I ought not to be surprised." "Well, I _am_ surprised," said Dolly, defiantly. "And I'm sure, somehow, that he's all right. I think he was just as badly fooled as the rest of us. Mr. Holmes probably wants us to think as badly of him as possible, so that, if he should try to help us, we wouldn't trust him." "I wish I could believe that, Dolly. But the evidence against him is too strong, I'm afraid. Hush, we mustn't talk. Here is Mr. Holmes coming back. I don't want him to think that we're afraid--it would please him too much." With Mr. Holmes, as he came toward them, was a woman in servant's garb, middle aged, and sour in her appearance. "This woman will attend to you, Miss Mercer," he said. "She will do whatever you tell her--unless it should happen to conflict with the orders she has from me. But she won't talk to you about me, or about this place because she knows that if she does I will find out about it, and she will have reason to regret it." "I'm very much pleased by one thing, Mr. Holmes," said Eleanor. "You've shown yourself in your true colors at last. I suppose you understand that when I get back to the city I shall see to it that everyone knows the truth about you. I don't think you will find yourself welcome in the homes of any decent people after I tell what I know." "I'm sorry, Miss Mercer," he said. "Of course you must do what you think best. But it really won't do any good. I could do things a great deal worse than this, and still, with the money I happen to have, people would keep on fawning on me, and pestering me with their attentions and their invitations as much as ever." "Perhaps you're right, but I intend to find out. May I ask how long you intend to keep me here as a prisoner?" "You are my guest, Miss Mercer, not my prisoner. Please don't act as if I were as great a villain as that. Losing your temper will not improve matters in any way, you know--really it won't. As for your question, I think Bessie and Zara will be in the quite competent care of their old friend Silas Weeks by noon to-morrow and then there will be no further reason for keeping you here." "Then, unless you are remarkably quick in getting out of the country, Mr. Holmes, you ought to be under arrest for kidnapping by to-morrow night." Holmes laughed. "Oh, do let's be friends!" he said. "You and your friends have really given me a lot of trouble. But do I bear you any malice? Not I! If you hadn't taken care of those misguided girls after they ran away from Hedgeville, none of this would have come about." "I suppose you think you have some excuse for acting in this fashion?" "I certainly have, Miss Mercer. The very best. After all, why shouldn't I tell you! It's too late for you to do me any harm now--I have won the game." "But there will be a return match. Don't forget that! My father is as rich as you are, Mr. Holmes, and when he hears of the way I have been treated, he will spend his last cent, if necessary, to get his revenge on you." "Dear me, I hope he won't do anything so foolish, Miss Mercer! It would be a dreadful waste of money--and he wouldn't get it, in any case. However, I don't want you to be needlessly worried. Zara will soon be safe with her father. She won't have to stay very long with the estimable Farmer Weeks. You know, I really don't blame her for disliking him." Zara gave a little cry of joy. "Will I see my father? Is he well?" she cried. "Quite well--but very obstinate," said Holmes. "That's your fault, too, Miss Mercer. I'm sorry to say that lately he has seemed to be inclined to listen to your cousin, Mr. Jamieson. He is willing, you see, to deal with whoever happens to be in charge of his daughter. He knows our friend Silas very well--too well, I think. And so, when he knows that Zara is being looked after by him, I think he will be glad to meet my terms, and so secure his freedom." "You brute!" said Eleanor, hotly. "What are your terms?" "Ah, that would be telling! You will have to wait to discover that. You see, Silas Weeks wasn't quite as stupid as the rest of the people at Hedgeville, and when he couldn't find out what old Slavin was doing there, he came to me--because he thought I probably could." "Slavin!" said Eleanor, in an amazed tone. "Is that your father's name, Zara? Why didn't you tell us?" "He told me not to," said Zara, nervously. "Zara's father had one bad fault; he wasn't at all ready to trust people," Holmes went on, easily. "He didn't even trust me as he should have done, and he's been positively insulting to Weeks. It's made a lot of trouble for him." He looked at his watch, then turned to the servant. "Go upstairs and make the rooms comfortable for Miss Mercer at once," he said. "It's getting late." Then he turned to the men who had accompanied him to the _Columbia_. "It's all right, boys," he said. "You needn't wait." "These people keep their ears entirely too wide open," he explained to Eleanor. "I have to be rather careful with them, though they probably wouldn't understand much if they did hear. Well, that is about all I've got to tell you, anyhow. You see, you needn't worry about your friend Zara. As to Bessie--Well, that's different." He looked at Bessie malevolently. "I don't think I care to tell you anything more about her," he said. "Weeks will look after her all right--as well as she deserves to be looked after." Bessie seemed to be nervous as he looked at her, and edged away from him. "If you think you can keep Bessie in the care of that man Weeks," said Eleanor, "you are going to find yourself decidedly mistaken. He won't treat her properly, and if he doesn't, the courts won't compel her to stay there. I know enough law for that, and I tell you now, that, even though you may have some sort of law on your side just now, because you have played this trick, you won't be able to count on the law much longer. It will be as powerful against you, properly used, as it has been for you, improperly used." "Oh!" Holmes laughed, unpleasantly. There was no mirth in the laugh, only mockery and contempt. "Really, Miss Mercer--why, where has that little baggage gone to?" He stared wildly about the room, and Eleanor, startled, looked about her also. Bessie had disappeared; vanished into thin air. In a rage, Holmes darted here and there about the great hall of the house in which they had been standing. But, though he looked behind curtains and all the larger pieces of furniture, and made a great fuss, he found no sign of her. For a moment he was completely baffled, and almost beside himself with rage. "I always thought villains were clever," said Dolly, as he stood still. Her voice was scornful. "Why, even a girl like Bessie can fool you! She's done it plenty of times before now--you didn't think you could keep her from doing it this time, too, did you?" "What do you mean!" stormed Holmes, moving toward her, his hand raised as if he meant to strike her. But if he thought he could frighten Dolly he was much mistaken. She faced him calmly. "You can't make me tell you anything, even if you do hit me," she said. "And you won't find Bessie, either, unless she wants you to. I saw her go--but I'm not going to tell you how she managed it." "Oh, I'm not going to hit her," yelled Holmes. "What good would that do?" He sprang to a bell, and pushed it violently. In a moment two or three of the men he had dismissed, thus giving Bessie her chance to escape, answered his summons, and he ordered them to start in search of her at once. "Find her, and you'll be rewarded," he shouted. "But if you don't, I'll make you pay for it!" Eleanor had never seen a man in such a furious rage. It was plain that his plan, successful as it seemed to be, was still in danger of being upset, and the knowledge gave Eleanor new hope. It had seemed to her that, with Trenwith turned traitor, there was not one chance in a million to foil Holmes this time. But now everything was changed. He stayed with them only long enough to give them into the keeping of the servant, who came down the stairs just as he finished giving his orders to the men for the pursuit of Bessie. "If any of them get out, I'll know it's your fault," he said to her. "And you know what I can do to you. You wouldn't like to go to jail for a few years, I guess. You will, if anyone else gets away from this house to-night." Then he followed the men he had sent out in search of Bessie. And all the time Bessie herself had heard every word, and seen every action of the scene that followed the discovery of her escape. While Holmes was talking to Eleanor she had seized the chance to slip over to a heavily curtained window, which, she guessed, must open right on the ground. She took the chance of it being open, and fortune favored her. Concealed by the curtain, she was able to slip out, and then, instead of running as fast and as far as she could, as nine people out of ten would have done, she stayed where she was. She reasoned that there, so close to the house, was the last place where search would be made. And she was right. She saw Holmes dash from the room; she saw Eleanor and the other girls being led upstairs. And then she not only heard, but saw the pursuit of her that was begun. Men with lanterns searched the grounds; they looked behind every bush. But, though a single glance, almost, would have revealed her had anything like a careful search of the flower beds close to the house been made, no one came near her hiding-place. Between her and the open garden was only a flimsy screen of rose bushes, but it proved enough. She stayed there, scarcely daring to breathe, while the men searched the grounds and the beach. And she was still there, more than an hour later, when they returned, tired and discouraged, to report the failure of their search to Holmes, who was back in the room from which she had escaped. "Fury!" cried Holmes. "She must be on the island! There's no way that she can have got away! Well, watch the boats! That will have to do for to-night. She can't get away without a boat--and they are all in the boat-house. If she wanders down to the other end, to the fort, we can catch her in the morning. They won't believe any story she can tell them, if she should happen to get there. And I don't want to disturb them to-night--I'd rather wait until morning, when they will be over with the papers. I haven't any real right to hold them to-night, except the right of force." Bessie thrilled at the information those few words gave her. She remembered now that there was a fort, manned by United States soldiers, on Humber Island. It was one of the chain of forts that guarded the approaches to Rock Haven. And Bessie had an idea that she would be able to find someone at the fort to believe her story, wild and improbable as she knew it must sound. The great problem now was to get out of the grounds unseen. And that problem, of course, her cleverness in hiding so close to the house had made much easier to solve. No one would suspect now that she was there; if she waited until the house was quiet, and the men who were to watch the boats had gone to their post, she should be able to steal out of the garden and in the direction of the fort. To be on the safe side, she waited nearly an hour longer. Then, as quietly as she could, she began her solitary walk. Fortune, and her own ability to move quietly, favored her. In five minutes she was out of the grounds, and in woods where, though the walking was difficult, and she stumbled more than once, she at least felt safe from the danger of pursuit. Soon the woods began to thin; then they grew thicker again. But, after she had been walking, as she guessed, for more than an hour, it grew lighter and she saw ahead of her the outlines of dark buildings--Fort Humber, she was sure. And a minute later the sharp hail of a sentry halted her, and at the same time made her sure that she had not lost her way. "Who goes there?" called the sentry. "I've lost my way," said Bessie, trusting to her voice to make him understand that she was not to be driven away. "Is this the fort? I'd like to see some officer, if you please." "Wait there! I'll pass the word," said the sentry. And in a few minutes a young lieutenant came toward her. "Bless my soul!" he said, "What are you doing here, young lady! Come with me--you can explain inside." And, once inside the fort, the first person she saw was Charlie Jamieson! CHAPTER XIV AT THE FORT "Bessie King!" he exclaimed amazed. "What on earth, are you doing here? And where is Trenwith?" "I don't know," said Bessie. She felt safe and for a moment she was on the verge of collapsing completely. But then she remembered that not her own fate alone, but that of the others whom she loved and who had been so good to her depended upon her. And, in a few quick words, she told the story of the accident to the _Columbia_, with the treachery of Billy Trenwith and the subsequent appearance of Holmes and his men. "There you are, gentlemen!" said Jamieson, turning to the little group of men in uniform, who, tremendously interested, had listened intently to all that Bessie had said. "You laughed at me--you insisted that the sort of thing I told you about wasn't possible--that it simply couldn't happen in this country, and in this time. What do you think now?" "I guess it's one on us," said one of the officers, with a reluctant laugh. "But, really, Jamieson, you can't blame us much, can you? It's pretty incredible, even now." "I'm bothered about Trenwith, though," said Charlie. "Something has gone wrong." "Miss Mercer is perfectly sure that he is in league with Mr. Holmes," said Bessie. "Do you think that's so, Mr. Jamieson?" "I hope not," said Charlie, soberly. "I've found out one thing lately though, Bessie;--that when there is money involved, you can never tell what is going to happen." "Did you know we were here--how did you fold out?" "No questions just now! It's time something was being done. Tell me, can you take me to this house, and show me how to get in!" "Yes, I think I can find my way back through the woods." "No need of that," said one of the officers. "There's a road that leads right to that place. What's Holmes doing there, anyhow? It isn't his place. It belongs to some people who bought it a little while ago." "Yes, a Mr. and Mrs. Richards," said Charlie. "But from what Bessie here says, he seems to be doing about as he likes with it. Well, I don't want to waste any more time. Do you suppose I can see Colonel Hart!" "You can unless your eyesight is failing," said the Colonel, appearing in the doorway. He had heard the question, and came forward smiling, his hand outstretched. "How are you, Jamieson? What can I do for you?" "A great deal, if you will, Colonel," said Charlie. "I'd like to speak to you privately for a minute, if I may--" "Shabby business--that's what I call it," said one of the young officers. "He knows we're wild to know what's going on, and there he goes off with the old man to tell him about it where we can't hear." Then one of them happened to think that Bessie might be in need of refreshment after her exciting experiences, and they waited on her as if she had been a princess. By the time she had been able to convince them that she wanted nothing more, Jamieson and the Colonel returned. "All right, my boy," the colonel was saying. "I'll attend to it, and do as you wish. Maybe it isn't strictly according to the regulations, but I don't believe anyone will ever file charges against me. Depend upon me. You're starting now!" "Yes," said Jamieson. "Come along, Bessie. We're going back to the house." "I'm ready," said Bessie, simply. "You're not afraid?" "Not as long as you're there. I don't believe Mr. Holmes can do anything while you're around." "Well, I hope he can't, Bessie. But when they had managed to get away as you did to-night, a whole lot of girls wouldn't be in a hurry to run into the same danger again." "I wouldn't be very happy about getting away myself unless Zara escaped, too, Mr. Jamieson. And I'm afraid of Mr. Holmes--I don't know what he might do if he were angry enough. I wouldn't be sure that Dolly and Miss Eleanor were safe with him." "Well, they are, Bessie. Of course, what I'm planning may go wrong, but I feel pretty confident that we are going to give Mr. Holmes the surprise of his life this night." They walked on steadily through the darkness, the going of course being much easier than Bessie had found it in her flight, since she now had a good road under her feet instead of the stumpy wood path, full of twisted roots and unexpected bumps. And at last a light showed through the trees to one side of the road, and Bessie stopped. "That's the place, I'm pretty sure," she said. "I can tell for certain, if we turn in, but I'm sure I didn't pass another house." So they went in, and a minute's examination enabled Bessie to recognize the grounds. She had had plenty of time to study them earlier in the night, when she had crouched behind the rose bushes, expecting to be discovered and dragged out every time one of the searchers passed near her. "I wish I knew about Trenwith," said Charlie, anxiously. "That is one part of this night's work that puzzles me. I don't understand it at all, and it worries me." "He went off with Mr. Holmes after we got inside the house," said Bessie. "But I didn't see him again after that. He wasn't with Mr. Holmes in the big hall again, after I had got away. I'm sure of that." "What are you going to do now?" asked Bessie. "I'm not certain. I'd like very much to know where the other girls are. We ought to be all together." "Perhaps I can find out," said Bessie. "You stay here, and I'll slip along toward the house. If Dolly's awake, I can find out where she is." "All right. But if you see anyone else, or if anyone interferes with you, call me right away." Bessie promised that she would, and then she slipped away, and a moment later found herself in front of the house. "I'll try this side last," she said to herself. "I don't believe they'd put them in front--more likely they'd put them on the east side, because that only looks out over the garden, and there'd be less chance of their seeing anyone who was coming." So, moving stealthily and as silently as a cat, she went around to that side of the house, and a moment later the strange, mournful call of a whip-poor-will sounded in the still night air. It was repeated two or three times, but there was no answer. Then Bessie changed her calling slightly. At first she had imitated the bird perfectly. But this time there was a false note in the call--just the slightest degree off the true pitch of the bird's note. Most people would not have known the difference, but to a trained ear that slight imperfection would be enough to reveal the fact that it was a human throat that was responsible, and not a bird's. And the trick served its turn, for there was an instant answer. A window was opened above Bessie, very gently, and she saw Dolly's head peering down over the ivy that grew up the wall. "Wait there!" she whispered. "Get dressed, all three of you! Mr. Jamieson is here--not far away. I'm going to tell him where you are." She marked the location of the window carefully, and then, sure that she would remember it when she returned, went back to Jamieson. "Did you locate them? Good work!" he said. "All right. Go back now and tell them to make a rope of their sheets--good and strong. I saw where you were standing, and, if they lower that, I don't think we will have any trouble getting up to their window. I want to be inside that house--and I don't want Holmes to know I'm there until I'm ready." He chuckled. "He thinks I'm back in the city. I want him to have a real surprise when he finally does see me." Bessie slipped back then and told Dolly what to do, and in a few minutes the rope of sheets came down, rustling against the ivy. Bessie made the signal she had agreed on with Jamieson at once--a repetition of the bird's call, and he joined her. Then he picked her up and started her climbing up the wall, with the aid of tie rope and the ivy. For a girl as used to climbing trees as Bessie, it was a task of no great difficulty, and in a minute she was safely inside the room, and had turned to watch Jamieson following her. His greater weight made his task more difficult, and twice those above had all they could do to repress screams of terror, for the ivy gave way, and he seemed certain to fall. But he was a trained athlete, and a skillful climber as well, and, difficult as the ascent proved to be for him, he managed it, and clambered over the sill of the window and into the room, breathless, but smiling and triumphant. "Oh, I'm so glad you're here, Charlie!" said Eleanor. "There is someone we can trust, after all, isn't there?" "Oh, sure!" he said. "Don't you take on, Nell, and don't ask a lot of questions now. It'll be daylight pretty soon--and, believe me, when the light comes, there's going to be considerable excitement around these parts." "But why did you bring Bessie back here? How did she find you?" He raised his hand with a warning gesture, and smiled. "Remember, Nell, no questions!" he said. "All we can do just now is to wait." Wait they did--and in silence, save for an occasional whisper. "That man Holmes has a woman guarding us," whispered Eleanor. "She is just outside the door in the hall--sleeping there. The idea is to keep us from leaving these rooms. Evidently they never thought of our going by the window. We did think of it, but we couldn't see any use in it, because we felt we wouldn't know where to go on this island, even if we got outside the grounds!" "That's what he counted on, I guess," answered Charlie. "I'm glad you stayed. Cheer up, Nell! You're going to have a package of assorted surprises before you're very much older!" To the five of them, practically imprisoned, it seemed as if daylight would never come. But at last a faint brightness showed through the window, and gradually the objects in the room became more distinct. And, with the coming of the light, there came also sounds of life in the house. The voices of men sounded from the garden, and Charlie smiled. "They'll begin wondering about that rope and footprints under this window pretty soon," he said. "And I guess none of them will be exactly anxious to tell Holmes, either." He was right, for in a few moments excited voices echoed from below, and then there was an argument. "Well, he's got to be told," said one man. "It's your job, Bill." "Suppose you do it yourself." Apparently, they finally agreed to go together. And five minutes later there was a commotion outside the door. "Here's where I take cover!" whispered Charlie, with a grin. And, just before the door was opened, and Holmes burst in, his face livid with anger, the lawyer hid himself behind a closet door. Holmes started at the sight of the four girls standing there, fully dressed, his jaw dropping. "So you're all here?" he said, an expression of relief gradually succeeding his consternation. "Found you couldn't get away, eh, Bessie? Why didn't you come to the front door instead of climbing in that way? We'd have let you in all right." He laughed, harshly. "Well, I've had about all the trouble you're going to give me," he said. "Silas Weeks will be here to take care of you pretty soon, my girl, and now that he's got you in the state where you belong, I guess you won't get away again very soon." "What state do you think this island is in!" asked Charlie Jamieson, appearing suddenly from his hiding-place. Holmes staggered back. For a moment he seemed speechless. Then he found his tongue. "What are you doing here? How did you get into my house?" he snarled. "I'll have you arrested as a burglar." "Ah, no, you won't," said Charlie, pleasantly. "But I'm going to have you arrested--for kidnapping. Answer my question--do you think this is in the state where the courts have put Bessie in charge of Silas Weeks?" "Certainly it is," said Holmes, blustering. "You ought to keep up with the news better, Mr. Holmes. The United States Government has bought this island for military purposes. It's a Federal reservation now, and the writ of the state courts has no value whatever. Even the land this house stands on belongs to the government now--it was taken by condemnation proceedings." Eleanor gave a glad cry at the good news. At last she understood the trap into which Holmes had fallen. "Look outside--look through the window!" said Jamieson. Holmes rushed to the window, and his teeth showed in a snarl at what he saw. "You can't get away, you see," said Jamieson. "There isn't any sentiment about those soldiers. They'd shoot you if you tried to run through them. I'd advise you to take things easily. There'll be a United States marshal to take you in charge pretty soon. He's on his way from Rock Haven now. He'll probably come on the same boat that brings Silas Weeks--and some other people you are not expecting." Holmes slumped into a chair. Defeat was written in his features. But he pulled himself together presently. "You've got the upper hand right now," he said. "But what good does it do you? I'm the only one who knows the truth, and the reason for all this. They won't do anything to me--they can't prove any kidnapping charge. The boat was disabled--I entertained these girls over night when they were stranded here." "We'll see about that," said Jamieson, quietly. "And I may know more than you think I've been finding out a few things since the talk I had with Jake Hoover in Bay City yesterday. Did you know that he was arrested the day before yesterday at Plum Beach?" Evidently Holmes had not known it. The news was a fresh shock to him. But he was determined not to admit defeat. "Much good he'll do you!" he said. "He doesn't know anything--even if he thinks he does." CHAPTER XV THE MYSTERY SOLVED There was a knock at the door, and, in answer to Jamieson's call to come in, one of the young officers Bessie had seen at the fort entered. He smiled cheerfully at Bessie, saluted the other girls, and grinned at Jamieson. "We've herded all the people we found around the place down in the boat-house," he said. "They were too scared to do anything. Is this your man Holmes?" "You guessed right the very first time, Lieutenant," said Charlie. "Any sign of that boat from Rock Haven?" "She's just coming in," said the officer. "She ought to land her passengers at the pier in about ten minutes." "Then it's time to go down to meet her," said Charlie. "Come on, girls, and you too, Holmes. You'll be needed down there. And I guess you'll find it worth your while to come, too." Holmes, protesting, had no alternative, and in sullen silence he was one of the little group that now made its way toward the pier. She was just being tied up as they arrived, and Silas Weeks, his face full of malign triumph at the sight of Bessie and Zara, was the first to step ashore. "Got yer, have I?" he said. He turned to a lanky, angular man who was at his side. "There y'are, constable," he said. "There's yer parties--them two girls there! Arrest them, will yer?" "Not here, I won't," said the constable. "You didn't tell me it was to come off here. This is government land--I ain't got no authority here." "You keep your mouth shut and your eyes and ears open, Weeks," said Jamieson, before the angry old farmer could say anything. Then he stepped forward to greet a man and woman who had followed Weeks down the gangplank. "I'm glad you're here, Mrs. Richards, and you too, Mr. Richards," he said. "I'm going to be able to keep my promise." Holmes was staring at Mrs. Richards and her husband in astonishment. "You here, Elizabeth?" he exclaimed. "And Henry, too? I didn't know you were coming!" "We decided to come quite unexpectedly, Morton," said the lady, quietly. She was a woman of perhaps forty-two or three, tall and distinguished in her appearance. But, like her husband, her face showed traces of privations and hardship. Behind them came a stiff, soldierly looking man, in a blue suit, and him Jamieson greeted with a smile and handshake. "There's your man, marshal," he said, pointing to Holmes. "I guess he won't make any resistance." And, while Mr. and Mrs. Richards stared in astonishment, and Weeks turned purple, the marshal laid his hand on the merchant's shoulder, and put him under arrest. Holmes was trapped at last. "What does this mean?" Mrs. Richards asked, indignantly. "What are you doing to my brother, Mr. Jamieson?" "That's quite a long story, Mrs. Richards," he answered, easily. "And, strange as it may seem, I'll have to answer it by asking you and your husband some questions that may seem very personal. But I've made good with you so far, and I can assure you that you will have no cause to regret answering me." Mrs. Richards bowed. "In the first place, you and your husband have been away from this part of the country for quite a long time, haven't you?" "Yes. For a number of years." "And you have not always been as well off, financially, as you are now?" "That is quite true. My husband, shortly after our marriage, failed in business, owing--owing to conditions he couldn't control." "Isn't it true, Mrs. Richards, that those conditions were the result of his marriage to you? Didn't your father, a very rich man, resent your marriage so deeply that he tried to ruin your husband in order to force you to leave him?" There were tears in the woman's eyes as she nodded her head in answer. "Thank you. I know this is very painful--but I must really do all this. You refused to leave your husband, however, and when he decided to go to Alaska, you went with him? "And there he made a lucky strike, some four or five years ago, that made him far richer than he had ever dreamed of becoming?" "That is quite true." "But, although you were rich, you did not come home? You spent a good deal of time in the Far North, and when you went out for a rest, you came no further east than Seattle or San Francisco?" "There was no reason for us to come here. All our friends had turned against us in our misfortunes, and our only child was dead. So it was only a few months ago that we came home." "That is very tragic. Thank you, Mrs. Richards. One moment--I have another question to ask." He stepped toward the gangplank. "I will be back in a moment," he said. He went on board the boat, and while all those on the dock, puzzled and mystified by his questions, waited, he disappeared. When he returned he was not alone. A woman was with him, and, at the sight of her Bessie gave a cry of astonishment. "Now, Mrs. Richards," said Charlie. "Have you ever seen this woman before?" "I think I have," she said, in a strange, puzzled tone. "But--she has changed so--" "Her name is Mrs. Hoover, Mrs. Richards. Does that help you to remember?" "Oh!" Mrs. Richards sobbed and burst into tears. "Mrs. Hoover!" she said, brokenly. "To think that I could forget you! Tell me--" "One moment," said Charlie, interrupting. His own voice was not very steady, and Eleanor, a look of dawning understanding in her eyes, was staring at him, greatly moved. "It was with Mrs. Hoover that you left your child when you went west under an assumed name, was it not? It was she who told you that she had died?" "Oh, I lied to you--I lied to you!" wailed Maw Hoover, breaking down suddenly, and throwing herself at the feet of Mrs. Richards. "She wasn't dead. It was that wicked Mr. Holmes and Farmer Weeks who made me say she was." "What?" thundered Richards. "She isn't dead? Where is she?" "Bessie!" said Charlie, calling to her sharply. "Here is your daughter, Mrs. Richards, and a daughter to be proud of!" And the next moment Bessie, Bessie King, the waif no longer, but Bessie Richards, was in her mother's arms! "So Mr. Holmes was Bessie's uncle!" said Eleanor, amazed. "But why did he act so?" "I can explain that," said Charlie, sternly. "It was he who set his father so strongly against his sister's marriage to Mr. Richards. He expected that he would inherit, as a result, her share of his father's estate, as well as his own. But his plans miscarried. Mrs. Richards and her husband had disappeared before her father's death, and, when he softened and was inclined to relent, he could not find them. But he knew they had a daughter, and he left to her his daughter's share of his fortune--over a million dollars. There was no trace of the child, however, and so there was a provision in the will that if she did not come forward to claim the money on her eighteenth birthday it should go to her uncle--to Holmes." "I always said it was money that was making him act that way!" cried Dolly Ransom. "Yes," said Jamieson. "He had squandered much of his own money--he wanted to make sure of getting Bessie's fortune for himself. So when he learned through Silas Weeks where the child was, he paid Mrs. Hoover to tell her parents she was dead, and then, after she had run away, he and Weeks did all they could to get her back to a place where there was no chance of anyone finding out who she was. They nearly succeeded--but I have been able to block their plans. And one reason is that they were greedy and they couldn't let Zara Slavin and her father alone. He is a great inventor and they profited by his ignorance of American customs." "I only found out her name last night," said Eleanor. "I wondered if he could be the Slavin who invented the new wireless telephone--" "They got him into jail on a trumped-up charge," said Charlie. "And then they tried to keep Zara away from people who might learn the truth from her, and offer to supply the money he needed. In a little while they would have robbed him of all the profits of his invention." "I'll finance it myself," said Richards, "and he can keep all of the profit." Bessie's father and mother were far too glad to get her back to want to punish Ma Hoover, who was sincerely repentant. They could hardly find words enough to thank Eleanor and Dolly for their friendship, and to Charlie Jamieson their gratitude was unbounded. But suddenly, even while the talk was at its height, there was a diversion. Billy Trenwith, his clothes torn, his hands chafed and bleeding, appeared on the dock. "Good Heavens, Billy, I'd forgotten all about you!" said Charlie. "Where have you been?" "How can you speak to him as a friend after the way he betrayed us?" asked Eleanor, indignantly, and Billy winced. But Charlie laughed happily. "He didn't betray you," said he. "I cooked up this whole thing, just to catch Holmes red-handed, and he walked right into the trap. I told Billy not to tell you, because I wanted you to act so that Holmes wouldn't know it was a trick." "He didn't trust me, though," said Billy, ruefully. "As soon as he had the girls, he tied me up and chucked me into his cellar so that I couldn't change my mind, he said. That's why I didn't meet you at the fort." Eleanor, shamefaced and miserable, looked at him. Then, with tears in her eyes, she held out her hand to him. "Can you ever forgive me?" she asked. "You bet I can!" he shouted. "Why, you were meant to think just what you did! There's nothing to forgive!" "I ought to have known you couldn't do a mean, treacherous thing," she said. "All's well that ends well," said Charlie, gaily. "Now as to your brother, Mrs. Richards? I don't suppose you want him arrested?" "No--oh, no!" said she, looking at Holmes contemptuously. "Then, if you'll withdraw the charge of kidnapping, Eleanor, he can go." And the next moment Holmes, free but disgraced, slunk away, and out of the lives of those he had so cruelly wronged. * * * * * Sunset of that day found them all back at Plum Beach, where the Camp Fire Girls, who had been almost frantic at their long absence, greeted them with delight. The story of Bessie's restoration to her parents, and of the good fortune that was soon to be Zara's, seemed to delight the other girls as much as if they themselves were the lucky ones, and Gladys Cooper, completely restored to health, was the first to kiss Bessie and wish her joy. And after dinner Eleanor, blushing, rose to make a little speech. "You know, girls," she said, "Margery Burton is to be a Torch-Bearer as soon as we get back to the city. And you are going to need a new Guardian soon. She will be chosen--and she will make a better one than I have been, I think." There was a chorus of astonished cries. "But why are you going to stop being Guardian, Miss Eleanor?" asked Margery. "Because--because--" "I'll tell you why," said Billy Trenwith, leaping up and standing beside her. "It's because she's going to be married to me!" There was a moment of astonished silence. And then, from every girl there burst out, without signal, the words of the Camp Fire song: "Wo-he-lo--wo-he-lo--wo he-lo--Wo-he-lo for Love!" 
36485	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustration. See 36485-h.htm or 36485-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/36485/36485-h/36485-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/36485/36485-h.zip) THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS ON THE OPEN ROAD Or, Glorify Work by HILDEGARD G. FREY Author of The Camp Fire Girls Series A. L. Burt Company Publishers New York * * * * * * THE Camp Fire Girls Series By HILDEGARD G. FREY The Camp Fire Girls in the Maine Woods or, The Winnebago's Go Camping The Camp Fire Girls at School or, The Wohelo Weavers The Camp Fire Girls at Onoway House or, The Magic Garden The Camp Fire Girls Go Motoring or, Along the Road That Leads the Way The Camp Fire Girls Larks and Pranks or, The House of the Open Door The Camp Fire Girls on Ellen's Isle or, the Trail of the Seven Cedars The Camp Fire Girls on the Open Road or, Glorify Work The Camp Fire Girls Do Their Bit or, Over The Top With the Winnebago's Copyright, 1918 By A. L. BURT COMPANY * * * * * * KATHERINE TO THE WINNEBAGOS Oct. 1, 19--. Dear First-And-Onlys: When I got to the post-office to-day and found there was no letter from you, my heart sank right through the bottom of my number seven boots and buried itself in the mud under the doorsill. All day long I had had a feeling that there would be a letter, and that hope kept me up nobly through the trying ordeal of attempting to teach spelling and geography and arithmetic to a roomful of children of assorted ages who seem as determined not to learn as I am determined to teach them. It sustained and soothed me through the exciting process of "settling" Absalom Butts, the fourteen-year-old bully of the class, with whom I have a preliminary skirmish every day in the week before recitations can begin; and through the equally trying business of listening to his dull-witted sister, Clarissa, spell "example" forty ways but the right way, and then dissolve into inevitable tears. When school was out I was as limp as a rag, and so thankful it was Friday night that I could have kissed the calendar. I fairly "sic"ed Sandhelo along the road to the post-office, expecting to revel in the bale of news from my belovéds that was awaiting me, but when I got there and the post box was bare the last button burst off the mantle of my philosophy and left me naked to the cold winds of disappointment. A whole orphan asylum with the mumps on both sides would have been gay and chipper compared to me when I turned Sandhelo's head homeward and started on the six-mile drive. It had been raining for more than a week, a steady, warmish, sickening drizzle, that had taken all the curl out of my spirits and left them hanging in dejected, stringy wisps. I couldn't help feeling how well the weather matched my state of mind as I drove homeward. The whole landscape was one gray blur, and the tall weeds that bordered the road on both sides wept unconsolably on each other's shoulders, their tears mingling in a stream down their stems. I could almost hear them sob. The muddy yellow road wound endlessly past empty, barren fields, and seemed to hold out no promise of ever arriving anywhere in particular. All my life I have hated that aimlessly winding road, just as I have always hated those empty, barren fields. They have always seemed so shiftless, so utterly unambitious. I can't help thinking that this corner of Arkansas was made out of the scraps that were left after everything else was finished. How father ever came to take up land here when he had the whole state to choose from is one of the seven things we will never know till the coming of the Cocqcigrues. It's as flat as a pancake, and, for the most part, treeless. The few trees there are seem to be ashamed to be caught growing in such a place, and make themselves as small as possible. The land is stony and barren and sterile, neither very good for farming or grazing. The only certain thing about the rainfall is that it is certain to come at the wrong time, and upset all your plans. "Principal rivers, there are none; principal mountains--I'm the only one," as Alice-in-Wonderland used to say. But father has always been the kind of man that gets the worst of every bargain. Now, you unvaryingly cheerful Winnebagos, go ahead and sniff contemptuously when you breathe the damp vapors rising from this epistle, and hear the pitiful moans issuing therefrom. "For shame, Katherine!" I can hear you saying, in superior tones, "to get low in your mind so soon! Why, you haven't come to the first turn in the Open Road, and you've gone lame already. Where is the Torch that you started out with so gaily flaring? Quenched completely by the first shower! Katherine Adams, you big baby, straighten up your face this minute and stop blubbering!" But oh, you round pegs in your nice smooth, round holes, you have never been a stranger in a familiar land! You have never known what it was to be out of tune with everything around you. Oh, why wasn't I built to admire vast stretches of nothing, content to dwell among untrodden ways and be a Maid whom there were none to praise and very few to love, and all that Wordsworth business? Why do crickets and grasshoppers and owls make me feel as though I'd lost my last friend, instead of impressing me with the sociability of Nature? Why don't I rejoice that I've got the whole road to myself, instead of wishing that it were jammed with automobiles and trolley cars, and swarming with people? Why did Fate set me down on a backwoods farm when my only desire in life is to dwell in a house by the side of the road where the circus parade of life is continually passing? Why am I not like the other people in this section, with whom ignorance is bliss, grammar an unknown quantity, and culture a thing to be sneered at? Although I can't see them, I know that somewhere to the north, just beyond the horizon, the mountains lift their great frowning heads, and ever since I can remember I have looked upon them as a fence which shut me out from the big bustling world, and over which I would climb some day. Just as Napoleon said, "Beyond the Alps lies Italy," so I thought, "Beyond the Ozarks lies my world." I don't believe I had my nose out of a book for half an hour at a time in those early days. I went without new clothes to buy them, and got up early and worked late to get my chores done so that I might have more time to read. When I was twelve years old I had learned all that the teacher in a little school at the cross roads could teach me, and then I went to the high school in the little town of Spencer, six miles away, traveling the distance twice every day. When there was a horse available I rode, if not, I walked. But whether riding or walking, I always had a book in my hand, and read as I went along. It often happened that, being deep in the fortunes of my story book friends, I did not notice when old Major ambled off the road in quest of a nibble of clover, and would sometimes come to with a start to find myself lying in the ditch. The neighbors thought my actions scandalous and pitied my father and mother because they had such a good-for-nothing daughter. All this time my father was getting poorer and poorer. He changed from farming to cotton raising and then made a failure of that, and finally, in despair, he turned to raising horses, not beautiful race horses like you read about in stories, but wiry little cow ponies that the cattlemen use. For some unaccountable reason he had good luck in this line for three years in succession, and a year or so after I had finished this little one-horse high school there was enough money for me to climb over my Ozark fence and go and play in the land of my dreams. One wonderful year, that surpassed in reality anything I had ever pictured in imagination, and then the sky fell, and here I am, inside the fence once more. Not that I am sorry I came back, no sirree! Father was so pleased and touched to think I gave up my college course and came home that he chirked up right away and started in from the beginning once more to pay the mortgage off the land and the stock, and mother is feeling well enough to be up almost all day now; but to-day I just couldn't help shedding a few perfectly good tears over what I might be doing instead of what I am. A flock of wild geese, headed south, flew above my head in a dark triangle, and honked derisively at me as they passed. "Not even a goose would stop off in this dismal country!" I exclaimed aloud. Then, simply wild for sympathy from someone, I slid off Sandhelo's back and stood there, ankle deep in the yellow mud, and put my arms around his neck. "Oh, Sandhelo," I croaked dismally, "you're all I have left of my wonderful year up north. You love me, don't you?" But Sandhelo looked unfeelingly over my shoulder at the rain splashing down into the road and yawned elaborately right in my face. There are times when Sandhelo shows no more feeling than Eeny-Meeny. Seeing there was no sympathy to be had from him, I climbed on his back again and rode grimly home, trying to resign myself to a life of school teaching at the cross roads, ending in an early death from boredom. Father was nowhere about when I rode into the stableyard, and the door into the stable was shut. I slid it back, with Sandhelo nosing at my arm all the while. "Oh, you're affectionate enough now that you want your dinner," I couldn't help saying a little spitefully. Then my heart melted toward him, and, with my arm around his neck, we walked in together. Inside of Sandhelo's stall I ran into something and jumped as if I had been shot. In the dusk I could make out the figure of a man sitting on the floor and leaning against the wall. "Is that you, Father?" I asked, while Sandhelo blinked in astonishment at this invasion of his premises. There was no answer from the man on the floor. Why I wasn't more excited I don't know, but I calmly took the lantern down from the hook and lit it and held it in front of me. The light showed the man in Sandhelo's stall to be sound asleep, with his hand leaned back against the wooden partition. He had a black beard and his face was all streaked with mud and dirt, and there was mud even in his matted hair. He had no hat on. His clothes were all covered with mud and one sleeve of his coat was torn partly out. Sandhelo put down his nose and sniffed inquiringly at the stranger's feet. Without ceremony I thrust the lantern right into the man's face. "Who are you and what are you doing here?" I said, loudly and firmly. The man stirred and opened his eyes, and then sat up suddenly, blinking at the light. "Who are you?" I repeated sternly. The man stared at me stupidly for an instant; then he passed his hand over his forehead and stumbled to his feet. "Who am I?" he repeated wildly; then his face screwed up into a frightful grimace and with a groan he crumpled up on the floor. Leaving Sandhelo still standing there gazing at him in mild astonishment, I ran out calling for father. Father came presently and took a long look at the man in the stall, and then, without asking any questions, he got a wet cloth and laid it on his head. That washed some of the mud off and showed a big bruise on his forehead over his left eye. Father called the man that helps with the horses. "Help me carry this man into the house," he said shortly. "But Father," I said, "you surely aren't going to carry that man into the house? All dirty like that!" Father gave me one look and I said no more. Together father and Jim Wiggin lifted the stranger from the floor and started toward the house with him, while I capered around in my excitement and finally ran on ahead to tell mother. They carried him into the kitchen and laid him down on the old lounge and tried to bring him around with smelling salts and things. But he just kept on talking and muttering to himself, and never opened his eyes. And that's what he's still doing, while I'm off in my room writing this. It was five o'clock when we brought him in, and now it's after ten and he hasn't come to his senses yet. There isn't a thing in his pockets to show who he is or where he came from. I feel so strange since I found that man there. I'm not a bit low in my mind any more, like I was this afternoon. I have a curious feeling as if I had passed a turn in the road and come upon something new and wonderful. Forget the lengthy moan I indulged in at the beginning of this letter, will you, and think of me as gay and chipper as ever. Yours in Wohelo, Katherine. KATHERINE TO THE WINNEBAGOS Oct. 15, 19--. Darling Winnies: And to think, after all that fuss I made about not getting a letter from you that day, I didn't have time to open it for three whole days after it finally arrived! You remember where I left off the last time, with the strange man I had found in Sandhelo's stable out of his head on the kitchen lounge? Well, he kept on like that, lying with his eyes shut and occasionally saying a word or two that didn't make sense, all that night and all the next day. Then on Sunday he developed a high fever and began to rave. He shouted at the top of his voice until he was hoarse; always about somebody pursuing him and whom he was trying to run away from. Then he began to jump up and try to run outdoors, until we had to bar the door. It took all father and Jim Wiggin and I could do to keep him on the lounge. We had a pretty exciting time of it, I can tell you. Of course, all the uproar upset mother and she had another spell with her heart and took to her bed, and by Tuesday night things got so strenuous that I had to dismiss school for the rest of the week and keep all my ten fingers in the domestic pie. I don't know who rejoiced more over the unexpected lapse from lessons, the scholars or myself. I never saw a group of children who were so constitutionally opposed to learning as the twenty-two stony-faced specimens of "hoomanity" that I had to deal with in that little shanty of a school. They'd rather be ignorant than educated any day. I just can't make them do the homework I give them. Every day it's the same story. They haven't done their examples and they haven't learned their spelling; they haven't studied their geography. The only way I can get them to study their lessons is to keep them in after school and stand over them while they do it. Their only motto seems to be, "Pa and ma didn't have no education and they got along, so why should we bother?" The families from which these children come are what is known in this section as "Hard-uppers," people who are and have always been "hard up." Nearly everybody around here is a Hard-upper. If they weren't they wouldn't be here. The land is so poor that nobody will pay any price for it, so it has drifted into the hands of shiftless people who couldn't get along anywhere, and they work it in a backward, inefficient sort of way and make such a bare living that you couldn't call it a living at all. They live in little houses that aren't much more than cabins--some of them have only one or two rooms in them--and haven't one of the comforts that you girls think you absolutely couldn't live without. They have no books, no pictures, no magazines. It's no wonder the children are stony-faced when I try to shower blessings upon them in the form of spelling and grammar; they know they won't have a mite of use for them if they do learn them, so why take the trouble? "What a dreadful set of people!" I can hear you say disdainfully. "How can you stand it among such poor trash?" O my Belovéds, I have a sad admission to make. I am a Hard-upper myself! My father, while he is the dearest daddy in the world, never had a scrap of business ability; that's how he came to live in this made-out-of-the-scraps-after-every-thing-else-was-made corner of Arkansas. He never had any education either, though it wasn't because he didn't want it. He doesn't care a rap for reading; all he cares for is horses. We live in a shack, too, though it has four rooms and is much better than most around here. We never had any books or magazines, either, except the ones for which I sacrificed everything else I wanted to buy. But I wanted to learn,--oh, how I wanted to learn!--and that's where I differed altogether from the rest of the Hard-uppers. They're still wagging their heads about the way I used to walk along the road reading. The very first week I taught school this year I was taking Absalom Butts (mentioned in my former epistle) to task for speaking saucily to me, and thinking to impress him with the dignity of my position I said, "Do you know whom you're talking to?" And he answered back impudently, "Yer Bill Adamses good-for-nothing daughter, that's who you are!" You see what I'm up against? Those children hear their parents make such remarks about me and they haven't the slightest respect for me. Did you know that I only got this job of teaching because nobody else would take it? Absalom Butts' father, who is about the only man around here who isn't a Hard-upper, and is the most influential man in the community because he can talk the loudest, held out against me to the very end, declaring I hadn't enough sense to come in out of the rain. As he is president of the school board in this township--the whole thing is a farce, but the members are tremendously impressed with their own dignity--it pretty nearly ended up in your little Katherine not getting any school to teach this winter, but when one applicant after another came and saw and turned up her nose, it became a question of me or no schoolmarm, so they gave me the place, but with much misgiving. I had become very much discouraged over the whole business, for I really needed the money, and began to consider myself a regular idiot, but father said I needn't worry very much about being considered a good-for-nothing by Elijah Butts; his whole grudge against me rose from the fact that he had wanted to marry my mother when she was young and had never forgiven father for beating him to it. That cheered me up considerably, and I determined to swallow no slights from the family of Butts. Since then it's been nip and tuck between us. Young Absalom is a big, overgrown gawk of fourteen with no brain for anything but mischief. His chief aim in life just now is to think up something to annoy me. I ignore him as much as possible so as not to give him the satisfaction of knowing he can annoy me, but about every three days we have a regular pitched battle, and it keeps me worn out. His sister Clarissa hasn't enough brain for mischief, but her constant flow of tears is nearly as bad as his impudence. Taken all in all, you can guess that I didn't shed any tears about having to close the school that Tuesday to help take care of the sick man. Anything, even sitting on a delirious stranger, was a relief from the constant warfare of teaching school. It was in the midst of this mess that your letter came, and lay three whole days before I had time to open it. On Saturday the sick man stopped raving and struggling and lay perfectly motionless. Jim Wiggin looked at his white, sunken face, and remarked oracularly, "He's a goner." Even father shook his head and asked me to ride Sandhelo over to Spencer and fetch the doctor again. I went, feeling queer and shaky. Nobody had ever died in our house and the thought gave me a chill. I wished he had never come, because the business had upset mother so. Besides that, the man himself bothered me. Who was he, wandering around like that among strangers and dying in the house of a man he had never seen? How could we notify his family--if he had a family? I couldn't help thinking how dreadful it would be if my father were to be taken sick away from home like that, and we never knowing what had become of him. I was quite low in my mind again by the time I had come back with the doctor. But while I had been away a change came over the sick man. He still lay like dead with his eyes closed, but he seemed to be breathing differently. The doctor said he was asleep; the fever had left him. He wasn't going to die under a strange roof after all. When he wakened he was conscious, but the doctor wouldn't let us ask him any questions. He slept nearly all day Sunday and on Monday I went back to school. When I came home Monday night I had the surprise of my young life. When I looked over at the lounge to see how the sick man was to-day I saw, not a man, but a boy lying there. A white-faced boy with a sensitive, beautiful mouth, wan cheeks and great black eyes that seemed to be the biggest part of his face. My books clattered to the floor in my astonishment. Father came in just then and laughed at my amazed face. "Quite a different-looking bird, isn't he?" he said. "The doctor was in again to-day and shaved him. It does make quite a difference, now, doesn't it?" he finished. Difference! I should say it did! I had thought all the while that he was a man, because he wore a beard; it had never occurred to me that the hair had grown out on his face from neglect, and not because he wanted it there. "I suppose I must have looked frightful," said the boy in a weak voice, but with a smile of amusement in his eyes. Those were the first words I had heard him speak to anyone, and that was the first time he had had his eyes wide open and looked directly at me. For the life of me I couldn't stop staring at him. I couldn't get over how beautiful he was. He had been so repulsive before, with his hair all matted and his face discolored by bruises; now his hair was clipped short and was very soft and black and shiny. One small transparent hand lay on top of the blanket. He didn't look a day over eighteen. He lay there half smiling at me and suddenly for no reason at all I felt large and awkward and sloppy. Involuntarily my hand flew to the back of my belt to see if I was coming to pieces, and I stole a stealthy glance at my feet to see if the shoes I had on were mates. I was glad when he closed his eyes and I could slip out of the room unnoticed. I suppose mother wondered why I was so long getting supper ready that night. But the truth of the matter is I spent fifteen minutes hunting through my bureau drawers for that list of rules of neatness that Gladys made out for me last summer, and which I had never thought of once since coming home. I unearthed them at last and applied them carefully to my toilet before reappearing in the kitchen. My hair was very trying; it _would_ hang down in my eyes until at last in desperation I tucked it under a cap. As a rule I loathe caps. Just as soon as this letter reaches you, Gladys, will you send me that recipe for hand lotion you told me you used? My hands are a fright, all red and rough. Don't wait until the letters from the other girls are ready, but send the recipe right on by return mail. After supper that night we talked to the man on the couch. At first he seemed very unwilling to tell anything about himself. We finally got from him that his name was Justice Sherman; that he was from Texas, where he had been working on a sheep ranch; that he had left there and gone up into Oklahoma and had worked at various places; that he had gradually worked his way into Arkansas; that he had fallen in with bad men who had attacked and robbed him and left him lying senseless in the road with his head cut open; that he had wandered around several days in the rain half out of his head, trying to get someone to take him in, but he looked so frightful that everyone turned him out and set the dogs on him, until finally he had stumbled over a stone and broken his ankle and dragged himself into our stable and crept into Sandhelo's stall. That's what had made him crumple up on the floor the day I found him when he tried to get up. He had fainted from the pain. We asked him if he wouldn't like us to write to his family or his friends and he answered wearily that he had no family and no friends in particular that he would care to notify. Then he closed his eyes and one corner of his mouth drew up as if with pain. Poor fellow, I suppose that ankle did hurt horribly. Now, you best and dearest of Winnebagos, let the dear Round Robin letter come chirping along just as soon as you can, and I'll promise not to let it lie three days this time before I read it. Lovingly your Katherine. GLADYS TO KATHERINE Brownell College, Oct. 18, 19--. Darling Katherine: Well, we're settled at last, though it did seem at first as though we were going to spend all our college life wandering around with our belongings in our arms. We came a day late and found the room we had arranged for occupied by someone else. Through a mistake it had been assigned to us after it had been once assigned to these other two, so we had to relinquish our claim. The freshman dormitory was full to the eaves and we realized that there wasn't going to be any place for us. We made our roomless plight known and to make up for it we were told there was a vacant double in the sophomore dormitory that we might take provided no sophomores wanted it. We hadn't expected such an honor and sped like the wind after our belongings. The sophomore dormitory is right across from the freshman one; they are called Paradise and Purgatory, respectively. It sounded awfully funny to us at first to hear the girls asking each other where they were and to hear them answer, "I'm in Paradise," or, "I'm in Purgatory." We were overcome with joy when we discovered that Migwan roomed in Paradise. Our room was way up on the third floor and hers was down on second, but to be under the same roof with her was such a comfort that all our troubles seemed over for good. We just had our things pretty well straightened out and Hinpoha was nailing her shoebag to the closet door when the sky fell and we were informed that a couple of sophomores wanted our room, and, as there was now a vacancy in the freshman dormitory, would we kindly move? So we were thrown out of Paradise and landed in Purgatory after all, and, for the second time that day, we trailed across the campus with our arms full of personal property, strewing table covers and laundry bags in our wake. We didn't have time to straighten out before exams began and for two days we lived like shipwrecked sailors with the goods that had been saved from the wreck piled on the floor and when we wanted anything we had to rummage for half an hour before we found it. Even after we had survived exams we were half afraid to begin settling for fear we would be ordered to move once more. We couldn't quite believe that we were anchored at last. The first week went around very fast; we were so busy getting our classes straightened out and learning our way through the different buildings that we didn't have time to feel homesick. But by Saturday the first strangeness had worn off; we had stopped wandering into senior class rooms and professors' committee meetings, but still we hadn't had time to get very well acquainted. Saturday afternoon was perfect weather and most everybody in the house had gone off for a walk, but we had stayed at home to finish putting our room to rights. When everything was finally in place we sat down on the bed and looked at each other. Hinpoha's eyes suddenly filled with tears. "I want the other Winnebagos!" she declared. "I can't live without them. I want Sahwah and Nakwisi and Medmangi, and I want Katherine! Oh-h-h-h, I want Katherine! How will we ever get along without her here?" And we both sat there and wanted you so hard that it seemed as if the heavens must open up and drop you down on the bed beside us. Katherine, do you know that you have ruined our whole lives? Why, O why did you come to us only to go away again? You got us so in the habit of looking to you to tell us what to do next that now we aren't able to start a thing for ourselves. We knew that if you had been there with us that first week you would have had the whole house in an uproar and something wonderful would have been happening every minute. But for the life of us we couldn't think of a single thing to do for ourselves. We were still sitting there steeped in gloom when Migwan came in to see how we were getting on. She had some delicious milk chocolate with her and that cheered Hinpoha up quite a bit. It's going to be a heavenly comfort to have Migwan just ahead of us in college. She knows all the ropes and the teachers and the gossip about the upper classmen and tells us things that keep us from making the ridiculous mistakes so many of the freshmen make all the time. "But just think how _I_ felt here, all alone, last year," said Migwan. "Perhaps I didn't miss you girls, though! You were still altogether and had Nyoda, but here there wasn't a soul who had ever heard of the Winnebagos. Now it seems like old times again. Think of it, three whole Winnebagos living together almost under the same roof! Didn't we say that night when we had our last Council Fire with Nyoda that although we couldn't be together any more, we were still Winnebagos and were loyal friends and true, and that wherever two Winnebagos should meet, whether it was in the street, or on mid-ocean, or in a far country, right then and there would take place a Winnebago meeting? Why, we're having a Winnebago meeting this very minute!" "Let's keep on having meetings, as often as we can, just us three," said Hinpoha, "and talk over old times and have 'Counts.' We can call ourselves The Last of the Winnebagos, like the Last of the Mohicans, and our password will be 'Remember!' That means, 'Remember the old days!'" Migwan smiled a little mysteriously, but she agreed that it was a fine idea. We three sat down on the floor in a Wohelo triangle and repeated our Desire and promised to seek beauty in everything that came along, and to give service to all the other girls in college whenever we had the chance, and to pursue knowledge for all we were worth now that there was so much of it on every side of us, and to be trustworthy and obey all the rules to the smallest detail and never cheat at exams, and to glorify work until everybody noticed how well we did everything, and hold on to health by not sitting up late studying and eating horrible messes, and to be happy all the time and try to like every girl in college. "Let's clasp hands on it," said Hinpoha, and we did, and then stood up and sang "Wohelo for Aye" until the window rattled. (It's awfully loose and rattles at the slightest pretext.) We had just gotten to the last "Wohelo for Love" when all of a sudden a face appeared at the window. We were all so surprised we stopped short and the last syllable of "Wohelo" was chopped off as if somebody had taken a knife. Our room is on the third floor, and for anyone to look in at the window they would have to be suspended in the air. So when that head appeared without any warning we all stood petrified and stared open-mouthed. It was a girl's head with very black hair and very red lips. At first the face just looked at us; then when it saw our amazement it grinned from ear to ear in the widest grin I ever saw. "Did I scare you?" said the face in a voice so rich and deep that we jumped again. "No, I'm not Hamlet, thy father's ghost, I'm Agony, thy next door neighbor. I heard you singing 'Wohelo for Aye' and I just looked in to see if I could believe my ears." We all ran to the window and then we saw how easily the thing had been done. Our window is right up against the corner of our room and the window in the other room is right next to it, so that all the apparition had to do was lean out of her window and look into ours, which was open from the bottom. "Come on over!" we urged hospitably. The apparition withdrew from the window and appeared a moment later in the doorway, leading a second apparition. "I brought my better half along," said the deep, rich voice again, as the two girls came into the room. They looked so much alike that we knew at a glance they were sisters. The one who had looked in at the window did the introducing. "We're the Wing twins," she said, as if she took it for granted that we had heard about them already. "_She's_ Oh-Pshaw and I'm Agony." "Oh-Pshaw and Agony?" we repeated wonderingly, whereupon the twins burst out laughing. "Oh, those are not our real names," said Agony, "but we've been called that so long that it seems as if they were. Her name's Alta and mine's Agnes. I've been nicknamed Agony ever since I can remember, and Alta got the habit of saying 'Oh-Pshaw!' at everything until the girls at the boarding school where we went always called her that and the name stuck. You pronounce it this way, '_Oh_-Pshaw,' with the accent on the 'Oh.'" We were friends all in a minute. How in the world could you be stiff and formal with two girls whose names were Agony and _Oh_-Pshaw? "We heard you singing 'Wohelo for Aye,'" Agony explained, "and it made us so homesick we almost went up in smoke. We belonged to the corkingest group back home. It nearly killed us off to go away and leave them." Here _Oh_-Pshaw broke in and took up the tale. "When we heard that song coming from next door Agony squealed, 'Camp Fire Girls!' and began to dance a jig. She wouldn't wait until I got my hair done so we could come over and call; she just stretched her neck until it reached into your window. Oh, I'm so glad you're next door to us I could just pass away!" And _Oh_-Pshaw caught Agony around the neck and they both lost their balance on the foot of the bed and rolled over on the pillows. "I'm sorry you have such dandy nicknames," said Migwan. "If you didn't have them we could call you First Apparition and Second Apparition, like Macbeth, you know. But the ones you have are far superior to anything we could think up now." Then we told them about the Winnebagos and about you and Sahwah and the rest of them, and how we had formed THE LAST OF THE WINNEBAGOS and meant to have meetings right along. Of course, we asked them to come and "Remember" their lost group with us, and they were perfectly wild about it. "Let's have our first meeting right now," proposed Agony, "and go on a long hike. It's a scrumptious day." We flew to get our hats and Hinpoha was in such a hurry that she knocked over the Japanese screen that stands gracefully across one corner of our room and that brought to light the pile of things that we just naturally couldn't fit into the room anywhere and had chucked behind the screen until we decided how to get rid of them. There was Hinpoha's desk lamp, the one with the light green shade with bunches of purple grapes on it--a perfect beauty, only there was no room for it after we'd decided to use mine with the two lamps in it; and an extra rug and a book rack and a Rookwood bowl and quantities of pictures. You see, we'd both brought along enough stuff to furnish a room twice the size of ours. "Whatever will we do with those things?" sighed Hinpoha in despair. "Can't you give them to somebody?" suggested Migwan. "That lamp and that vase are perfect beauties. I'd covet them myself if I didn't have more now than I know what to do with." "The very thing!" said Hinpoha. "Here we promised not a half hour ago to 'Give Service' all the time, and yet we didn't think of sharing our possessions. To whom shall we give them?" "To Sally Prindle," said Agony and Oh-Pshaw in one breath. "Who's Sally Prindle?" asked Hinpoha and I, also in chorus. "She lives down at the other end of the hall in Purgatory," said Agony, "in that tiny little box of a room at the head of the stairs. She's working her way through college and waits on table for her board and does some of the upstairs work for her room, and she's awfully poor. She hasn't a thing in her room but the bare furniture--not a rug or a picture. She'd probably be crazy to get them." "Let's give them to her right away," said Hinpoha, beginning to gather things up in her arms. Hinpoha is just like a whirlwind when she gets enthusiastic about anything. "But how shall we give them to her?" I asked. "We don't know her, and she might feel offended if she thought we had noticed how bare her room was and pitied her. How shall we manage it, Migwan?" "Don't act as if you pitied her at all," replied Migwan. "Simply knock at her door and tell her you've got your room all furnished and there are some things left over and you're going up and down the corridor trying to find out if anybody has room to take care of them for you until the end of the year. Of course she has room to take them, so it will be very simple." "Oh, Migwan, what would we do without you?" cried Hinpoha, and nearly dropped the Rookwood bowl trying to hug her with her arms full. "You always know the right thing to do and say." Agony and Oh-Pshaw stopped into their room on the way up and came out with a leather pillow and an ivory clock to add to the collection. Their room wasn't too full, but they wanted to do something for Sally, too. We had to knock on Sally's door twice before she opened it and we were beginning to be afraid she wasn't at home. When she did come to the door she didn't ask us in; but just stood looking at us and our armful of things as if to ask what we wanted. She was a tall, stoop-shouldered girl with spectacles and a wrinkle running up and down on her forehead between her eyes. The room was just as bare as Agony had described; it looked like a cell. "We're making a tour of Purgatory trying to dispose of our surplus furniture," I said, trying to be offhand, "Have you any room to spare?" "No, I haven't," answered Sally with a snap. "You're the third bunch to-day that's tried to decorate my room for me. When I want any donations I'll ask for them." And she shut the door right in our faces. We backed away in such a hurry that Agony dropped the clock and it went rolling and bumping down the stairway. "Of all things!" said Agony. "I wish poor people wouldn't be so disagreeable about it. I'm sure I'd be tickled to death to use anybody's surplus to make up what I lacked. Well, we've tried to 'Give Service' anyway, and if it didn't work it wasn't our fault. I think there ought to be a law about 'Taking Service' as well as Giving. Now let's hurry up and go for our hike before the sun goes down." We went out and had the most glorious tramp over the hills and found a tiny little village that looks the same as it must have a hundred years ago, and then we came back and had hot chocolate in a darling little shop that was just jammed with students. Agony and Oh-Pshaw know just quantities of girls, and introduced us to dozens, and we went back to Purgatory too happy to think. "I told you so," said Migwan, as she came into the room with us for a minute to get a book. "What did you tell us?" asked Hinpoha. "I meant about us three trying to have meetings just by ourselves and trying to do exactly what we did when we were Winnebagos. It won't work. You'll keep on making new friends all the time that you'll love just as much as the old ones. Don't forget the old Winnebagos, but don't mourn because the old days have come to an end. There's more fun coming to you than you've ever had before in your lives, so be on the lookout for it every minute. 'Remember!'" Oh, Katherine, we just love college, and the only fly in the ointment is that you aren't here! Your loving Gladys. P. S. Medmangi writes that she has passed her exams and entered the Medical School. Sahwah is going to Business College and having the time of her life with shorthand. P.P.S. Hinpoha is dying of curiosity to hear more about the sick man. Please answer by return mail. KATHERINE TO THE WINNEBAGOS Nov. 1, 19--. Dearest Winnies: Well, Justice Sherman may be a sheep herder and a son of the pasture, but I hae me doots. I know a hawk from a handsaw if I was born and bred in the backwoods. I know it isn't polite to doubt people's word, and he seemed to be telling an absolutely straight story when he told how he beat his way across from Texas, but for all that there's some mystery about him. His manners betrayed him the first time he ever sat down to the table with us. Even though he limped badly and was still awfully wobbly, he stood behind my mother's chair and shoved it in for her and then hobbled over and did the same for me. You can see it, can't you? The table set in the kitchen--for our humble cot does not boast of a dining room--father and Jim Wiggin collarless and in their shirtsleeves, and the stranded sheep herder waiting upon mother and me as if we were queens. For no reason at all I suddenly became abashed. I felt my face flaming to the roots of my hair, and absentmindedly began to eat my soup with a fork, whereat Jim Wiggin set up a great thundering haw! haw! Jim had been a sheep herder before he came to take care of father's horses, and it struck me forcibly just then that there was a wide difference between him and the stranger within our gates. I said something to father about it that night when we were out in the stable together giving Sandhelo his nightly dole. Father rubbed his nose with the back of his hand, a sign that a thing is of no concern to him. "Don't you get to worryin' about the stranger's affairs," he advised mildly. "If he's got something he doesn't want to tell, you ain't got no business tryin' to find it out. Tend to your own affairs, I say, and leave others' alone. There ain't nobody goin' to be pestered with embarrassing questions while they're under my roof." So I promised not to ask any questions. Just about the time the stranger's foot was well enough to walk on, Jim Wiggin stepped on a rusty nail and laid himself up. Justice Sherman was a godsend just then because men were so hard to get, and father hired him to help with the horses until Jim was about again. Father begged me again at this time not to ask him anything about his past. "Just as soon as he thinks we're gettin' curious he'll up and leave," he said, "and that would put us in a bad way. Help is so scarce now I don't know where I _would_ get an extra man. Seems almost as though the hand of Providence had sent him to us." It was perfectly true. Since so many men had gone into the army it was next thing to impossible to get any help on the farms except good-for-nothing negroes that weren't worth their salt. It seemed, indeed, an act of Providence to cast an able man at our door just at this juncture. So I promised again not to bother the man with questions. Indeed, it bade fair to be an easy matter not to ask him any questions. Beyond a few polite words at meals he never said anything at all, and as he had moved his sleeping quarters to a small cabin away from the house I saw very little of him, and I suppose we never would have gotten any better acquainted if your letter hadn't come that Friday. Friday is the worst day of the week for me, because after five days of constant set-to-ing with Absalom Butts my philosophy is at its lowest ebb. This week was the worst because I had a visitation from the school board to see how I was getting on, and, of course, none of the pupils knew a thing and most of them acted as if the very devil of mischief had gotten into them. Elijah Butts gave me a solemn warning that I would have to keep better order if I wanted to stay in the school, and Absalom, who had been hanging around listening, made an impudent grimace at me and laughed in a taunting manner. If I hadn't needed the money so badly I would have thrown up the job right there. Then, on top of that, came your letter describing the supergorgeousness of your college rooms, and when I thought of the room I had planned to have at college this winter, adjoining yours, my heart turned to water within me and melancholy marked me for its own. I wept large and pearly tears which Niagara-ed over the end of my nose and sizzled on the hot stove, as I stood in the kitchen stirring a pudding for supper. Get the effect, do you? Me standing there with the spoon in one hand and your letter in the other, doing the Niobe act, quite oblivious to the fact that I was not the only person in the county. I was just in the act of swallowing a small rapid which had gotten side-tracked from the main channel and gone whirlpooling down my Sunday throat, when a voice behind me said, "Did you get bad news in your letter?" I jumped so I dropped the letter right into the pudding. I made a savage dab at my eyes with the corner of my apron and wheeled around furiously. There stood the Justice Sherman person looking at me with his solemn black eyes. I was ready to die with shame at being caught. "No, I didn't," I exploded, mopping my face vehemently with my apron, and thereby capping the climax. For while I had been reading your letter and absently stirring the pudding it had slopped over and run down the front of my apron, and, of course, I had to use just that part to wipe my face with. The pudding was huckleberry, and what it did to my features is beyond description. I caught one glimpse of myself in the mirror over the sink and then I sank down into a chair and just yelled. Justice Sherman doubled up against the door frame in a regular spasm of mirth, although he tried not to make much noise about it. Finally he bolted out of the door and came back with a basin of water from the pump, which he set down beside me. "Here," he said, "remove the marks of bloody carnage, before you scare the wolf from the door." So I scrubbed, wishing all the while that he would go away, and still furious for having made such a spectacle of myself. But he stayed around, and when I resembled a human being once more (if I ever could be said to resemble one), he came over and handed me the letter, which he had fished out of the pudding. "Here's the fatal missive," he said, "or would you rather leave it in the pudding?" "Throw it into the fire," I commanded. "That's the right way," he said approvingly. "I always burn bad news myself." "It wasn't bad news," I insisted. "Then why the tears?" he inquired curiously. "Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean----" He was smiling, but somehow I had a feeling that he was trying to cheer me up and not making fun of me. I was so low in my mind that afternoon that anyone who acted in the least degree sympathetic was destined to fall a victim. Before I knew it I had told him of my shipwrecked hopes and how your letter had opened the flood gates of disappointment and nearly put out the kitchen fire. "College--you!" I heard him exclaim under his breath. He stared at me solemnly for a moment and then he exclaimed, "O tempora, O mores! What's to hinder?" "What's to hinder?" I repeated blankly. "Yes," he said, "having the room anyway." "What do you mean?" I asked. "Why," he explained, "you have a room of your own, haven't you? Why don't you fix it up just the way you had planned to have your room in college? Then you can go there and study and make believe you're in college." I stared at him open-mouthed. "Make-believe has never been my long suit," I said. "Come on," he urged. "I'll help you fix it up. If you have any more tears prepare to shed them now into the paint pot and dissolve the paint." Before I knew what had happened we had laid forcible hands on the bare little cell I had indifferently been inhabiting all these years and transformed it into the study of my dreams. We cut a window in the side that faces in the direction of the mountains and made a corking window seat out of a packing case, on which I piled cushions stuffed with thistle down. We papered the whole place with light yellow paper, tacked up my last year's school pennants and put up a book shelf. This last proved to be a delusion and a snare, because one end of it came down in the middle of the night not long afterward and all the books came tobogganing on top of me in bed. As a finishing touch, I brought out the snowshoes and painted paddle that were a relic of my Golden Age, and which I had never had the heart to unpack since I came home. When finished the effect was quite epic, though I suppose it would make Hinpoha's artistic eye water. Of course, it will never make up for not going to college, but it helped some, and in working at it I got very well acquainted with Justice Sherman all of a sudden. We had long talks about everything under the sun, and he continually bubbled over with funny sayings. He confided to me that he had never been so surprised in all his life as when I told him I wanted to go to college. You see, he had thought we were like the other poor whites in the neighborhood, and I was like the other girls he had seen. He didn't take any interest in me until I bowled him over with the statement that I had already passed my college entrance exams. All this time I never hinted that I suspected he was not the simple sheep herder he pretended to be. I had given father my word and, of course, had to keep it. But one afternoon the Fates had their fingers crossed, and Pandora like, I got my foot in it. I had driven Justice over to Spencer in the rattledy old cart with Sandhelo. On the way we talked of many things, and I came home surer than ever that he was no sheep herder. Once when the conversation lagged and in the silence Sandhelo's heels seemed to be beating out a tune as they clicked along, I remarked ruminatingly, "There's a line in Virgil that is supposed to imitate the sound of galloping horses." "_Quadrupedante putrem sonitu quatit angula campam,_" quoted Justice promptly. So he was on quoting terms with Virgil! But I remembered my promise and made no remarks. A little later I was telling about the winter hike we had taken on snowshoes last year. "You ought to see the sport they have on snowshoes in Switzerland," he began with kindling eyes. Then he broke off suddenly and changed the subject. So Texas sheep herders learn their trade in Switzerland! But again I yanked on the curb rein of my curiosity. I apparently took no notice of his remark, for just then a negro stepped suddenly from behind the bushes along the road and startled Sandhelo so that he promptly became temperamental and sat up on his haunches to get a better look at the apparition, and the mess he made of the harness furnished us plenty of theme for conversation for the next ten minutes. "Lord, what an ape," remarked Justice, gazing after the departing form of the negro shambling along the road, "he looks like the things you see in nightmares." Accustomed as I was to seeing low-down niggers, this one struck me as being the worst specimen nature had ever produced. He had the features of a baboon, and the flapping rags of the grotesque garments he wore made him look like a wild creature. "Do you have many such intellectual-looking gentlemen around here?" asked Justice, twisting his neck around for a final look at the fellow. "I'd hate to meet that professor at the dark of the moon." "Oh, they're really not as bad as they look," I replied. "They look like apes, but they're quite harmless. They're shiftless to the last degree, but not violent. They're too lazy to do any mischief." "Just the same, I'd rather not get into an argument with that particular brother, if it's all the same to you," answered Justice. "He looks like mischief to me." "He _doesn't_ look like a prize entry in a beauty contest," I admitted. With all that talk about the negro Justice's remark about Switzerland went unheeded, but I didn't forget it just the same. I thought about it all the rest of the afternoon and it was as plain as the nose on your face that there was some mystery about Justice Sherman. A sheep herder who spouted Virgil at a touch, quoted continually from the classics, had refined manners and had traveled abroad, couldn't hide his light under a bushel very well. Another thing; he wasn't a Texan as he had led us to believe. He talked with the crisp, clear accent of the North, and the fuss he made about the negro in the road that afternoon betrayed the fact that he was no southerner. Nobody around here pays any attention to niggers, no matter how tattered they are. We're used to them, but northerners always make a fuss. The question bubbled up and down in my mind, keeping time to the bubbling of the soup on the stove; why was this educated and refined young man working for thirty dollars a month as a handy man around horses on a third-rate stock farm in this God-forsaken part of the country? Then a suspicion flashed into my mind and at the dreadful thought I stopped stirring with the upraised spoon frozen in mid-air. Then I gathered my wits together and started resolutely for the table. I had promised father I would never ask Justice Sherman anything about his past, but here was something that swept aside all personal obligations and promises. I found him with father in the stable working over a sick colt. I marched straight up to him and began without any preamble. "See here, Justice Sherman," I said, "are you hiding yourself to avoid military service? Are you a slacker?" Justice Sherman straightened up and looked at me with flashing eyes. "No, I'm not!" he shouted in a voice quite unlike his. I never saw anyone in such a rage. His face was as red as a beet and his hair actually stood on end. "I registered for the service," he went on hotly, "and wasn't called in the draft. I tried to enlist and they wouldn't take me. I was under weight and had a weak throat. If anyone thinks I'm a slacker, I'll----" Here he choked and had a violent coughing spell. I stared at him, dazed. I never thought he could get so angry. He looked at me with hostile, indignant eyes. Then he straightened up stiffly and walked out of the stable. "I won't stay here any longer," he exploded, still at the boiling point. "I won't be insulted." "I apologize," I said humbly. "I spoke in haste. Won't you please consider it unsaid?" No, he wouldn't consider it unsaid. He wouldn't listen to father's pathetic plea not to leave him without a helper. We suspected him of being a slacker and that finished it. He would leave immediately. Down the road he marched as fast as he could go without ever turning his head. A worm in the dust was much too exalted to describe the way I felt. With the best of intentions I had precipitated a calamity, taking away father's best helper at a critical time, to say nothing of my losing him as a companion. I was too disgusted with myself to live and chopped wood to relieve my feelings. After supper I hitched up Sandhelo and drove to Spencer to post a letter. I am not in the least sentimental--you know that--but all along the road I kept seeing things that reminded me of Justice Sherman and the fun we had had together. Now that he was gone the days ahead of me seemed suddenly very empty, and desolation laid a firm hand on my ankle. Also, I had an uncomfortable recollection that it was right along here we had met the horrid negro, and I became filled with fear that I would meet him again. The fear grew, and turned into absolute panic when I approached that same clump of bushes and in the dusk saw a figure rise from behind them and lurch toward the road. I pulled Sandhelo up sharply, thinking to turn around and flee in the opposite direction, but Sandhelo refused to be turned. When I pulled him up he sat back and mixed up the harness so he got the bit into his teeth, and then he jumped up and went straight on forward, with a squeal of mischief. When we were opposite the figure in the road Sandhelo stopped short and poked his nose forward just the way he used to do when Justice Sherman came into his stall. "Hello," said a voice in the darkness, and then I saw that the figure in the road was Justice Sherman. His bad ankle had given out on him and he had been sitting there on the ground waiting for some vehicle to come along and give him a lift to Spencer. "Get in," I said briefly, helping him up, and he got in beside me without a word. We drove to Spencer in silence and he made no move to get out when we got there. I mailed my letter and then turned and drove homeward. About half way home he spoke up and apologized for being so hasty, and wondered if father would take him back again. I reassured him heartily and we were on the old footing of intimacy by the time we reached home. We found father standing in front of the house talking to a negro whom we recognized as the one we had met in the road that afternoon. Father greeted Justice Sherman with joy and relief. "You pretty nearly came back too late," he said. "Here I was just hiring a man to take your place." Then he turned to the negro and said, "It's all off, Solomon. I don't need you. My own man has come back. You go along and get a job somewhere else." The negro shuffled off and I fancied that he looked rather resentful at being sent away. "Father," I said, when the creature was out of earshot, "you surely weren't going to hire that ape to work here?" "Why not?" answered father. "I have to have a man to help with the horses, and this fellow came up to the door and asked for work, so I promised him a job." "But he's such a terrible looking thing," I said. Father only laughed and dismissed the subject with a wave of his hands. "I wasn't hiring him for his looks," he answered. "He said he could handle horses and that was enough for me." So Justice Sherman came back to us and the subject of military service was never broached again. About a week after his return, and when Jim Wiggin was able to be about again, Justice Sherman walked into the kitchen with a mincing air quite unlike his ordinary free stride. He had been to Spencer for the mail. "Tread softly when you see me," he advised. "I'm a perfessor, I am." I looked up inquiringly from the potato I was paring. "Behold in me," he went on, "the entire faculty of the Spencer High School. I am instructor in Latin, Greek, mathematics, science, history, English and dramatics; also civics and economics." "You don't mean really?" I asked. "Really and truly, for sartain sure," he repeated. "The last faculty got drafted and left the school in a bad way. I heard about it down at the post-office this afternoon and went over and applied for the job. The hardened warriors that compose the school board fell for me to a man. I recited one line of Latin and they applauded to the echo; I recited a line of gibberish and told them it was Greek, and they wept with delight at the purity of my accent. Then they cautiously inquired if I was qualified to teach any other branches and I told them that I also included in my repertoire cooking, dressmaking and millinery. This last remark was intended to be facetious, but those solemn old birds took it seriously and forthwith broke into loud hosannas. I was somewhat mystified at the outbreak until I gathered from bits of conversation that the extravagant township of Spencer had intended to hire two high school teachers this year, as the last incumbent's accomplishments had been rather brief and fleeting, but what was the use, as one pious old hairpin by the name of Butts delicately put it, what was the use of paying two teachers when one feller could do the hull thing himself? Then he shook me feelingly by the hand and said he knowed I was a bargain the minute he laid eyes on me. O Tempora, O Mores! Papers were brought and shoved into my yielding hands, the writ duly executed, and I passed out of the door a fully fledged 'perfessor' with a six-months' contract. Smile on me, please, I'm a bargain!" And he danced a hornpipe in the middle of the floor until the dishes rattled in the cupboard. I stared at him speechless. He teach high school? And the things he mentioned as being able to teach! History, French, mathematics, physics, literature, philosophy, Latin, Greek! Quite a well-rounded sheep herder, this! The mystery about him deepened. It was clear now that he was a college graduate. Again I revised my estimate as to his age, and decided he must be about twenty-three or four. Why would he be willing to teach a farce of a high school like the one in Spencer? Then in the midst of my puzzling it came over me that I did not want him to leave us, and that I would miss him terribly. Of course, he would go to live in Spencer. "Are you going to board with any of the school board?" I asked jealously, that being what the last "faculty" had done. "Board with the Board?" he repeated. "Neat expression, that. Not that I know of. I haven't been requested to vacate my present quarters yet, or do I understand that you are even now serving notice?" A thrill of joy shot through me. Maybe he would still live in the little cabin on our farm. "I thought of course you would rather live near the school," I said. "It's six miles from here. Why don't you?" "'I would dwell with thee, merry grasshopper,'" he quoted. "That is, if I am kindly permitted to do so." And so we settled it. He is to ride with Sandhelo in the cart every day as far as my school, then drive on to Spencer, and stop for me on the way home. What fun it is going to be! Yours, _summa cum felicitate_, Katherine. P. S. Sandhelo sends three large and loving hee-haws. SAHWAH TO KATHERINE Nov. 10, 19--. Darling K: This big old town is like the Deserted Village since you and the other Winnies went away. For the first few weeks it was simply ghastly; there wasn't a tree or a telephone pole that didn't remind me of the good times we used to have. Do you realize that I am the sole survivor of our once large and lusty crew? Migwan and Hinpoha and Gladys are at Brownell; Veronica is in New York; Nakwisi has gone to California with her aunt; Medmangi is in town, but she is locked up in a nasty old hospital learning to be a doctor in double quick time so she can go abroad with the Red Cross. Nothing is nice the way it used to be. I like to go to Business College, of course, and there are lots of pleasant girls there, but they aren't my Winnies. I get invited to things, and I go and enjoy myself after a fashion, but the tang is gone. It's like ice cream with the cream left out. I went to the House of the Open Door one Saturday afternoon and poked around a bit, but I didn't stay very long; the loneliness seemed to grab hold of me with a bony hand. Everything was just the way we had left it the night of our last Ceremonial Meeting--do you realize that we never went out after that? There was the candle grease on the floor where Hinpoha's emotion had overcome her and made her hand wobble so she spilled the melted wax all out of her candlestick. There were the scattered bones of our Indian pottery dish that you knocked off the shelf making the gestures to your "Wotes for Wimmen" speech. There was the Indian bed all sagged down on one side where we had all sat on Nyoda at once. It all brought back last year so plainly that it seemed as if you must everyone come bouncing out of the corners presently. But you didn't come, and by and by I went down the ladder to the Sandwiches' Lodge. That was just as bad as our nook upstairs. The gym apparatus was there, just as it used to be, with the mat on the floor where they used to roll Slim, and beside it the wreck of a chair that Slim had sat down on too suddenly. Poor Slim! He tried to enlist in every branch of the service, but, of course, they wouldn't take him; he was too fat. He starved himself and drank vinegar and water for a week and then went the rounds again, hoping he had lost enough to make him eligible, and was horribly cut up when he found he had gained instead. He was quite inconsolable for a while and went off to college with the firm determination to trim himself down somehow. Captain has gone to Yale, so he can be a Yale graduate like his father and go along with him to the class reunions. Munson McKee has enlisted in the navy and the Bottomless Pitt in the Ambulance Corps. The rest of the Sandwiches have gone away to school, too. The boards creaked mournfully under my feet as I moved around, and it seemed to me that the old building was just as lonesome for you as I was. "You ought to be proud," I said aloud to the walls, "that you ever sheltered the Sandwich Club, because now you are going to be honored above all other barns," and I hung in the window the Service Flag with the two stars that I had brought with me. It looked very splendid; but it suddenly made the place seem strange and unfamiliar. Here was something that did not belong to the old days. It is so hard to realize that the boys who used to wrestle around here have gone to war. I went out and closed the door, but outside I lingered a minute to look sadly up at the little window in the end where the candle always used to burn on Ceremonial nights. "Good-bye, House of the Open Door," I said, "we've had lots of good times in you and nobody can ever take them away from us. We've got to stop playing now for awhile and Glorify Work. We're going to do our bit, and you must do yours, too, by standing up proudly through all winds and weather and showing your service flag. Some day we'll all come back to you, or else the Winnebago spirit will come back in somebody else, and you must be ready." I said good-bye to the House of the Open Door with the hand sign of fire and a military salute, and went away feeling a heavy sense of responsibility, because in all this big lonely city I was the only one left to uphold the honor of the Winnebagos. And hoop-la! I did it, too, all by myself. The week after I had paid the visit to the House of the Open Door someone called me on the telephone and wanted to know if this was Miss Sarah Brewster who belonged to the Winnebago Camp Fire Girls, and when I said yes it was the voice informed me that she was Mrs. Lewis, the new Chief Guardian for the city, and President of the Guardians' Association. She went on to say that she wanted to plan a patriotic parade for all the Camp Fire Girls in the city to take part in, and as part of the ceremony to present a large flag to the city. She knew what she wanted all right, but she wasn't sure that she could carry it out, and as she had seen the Winnebagos the time they took part in the Fourth of July pageant, she wanted to know if we would take hold and help her manage the thing. I started to tell her that the Winnebagos weren't here and couldn't help her; then I reflected that I, at least, was left and it was up to me to do what you all would have done if you had been here. So I said yes, I'd be glad to take hold and help make the parade a success. And, believe me, it was! Can you guess how many girls marched? _Twenty-three hundred!_ Glory! I didn't know there were so many girls in the whole world! The line stretched back until you couldn't see the end, and still they kept on coming. And who do you suppose led the parade? Why, _I_ did, of all people! And on a _horse_! Carrying the Stars and Stripes on a long staff that fitted into a contrivance on the saddle to hold it firm. Right in front of me marched the Second Regiment Band, and my horse pawed the ground in time to the music until I nearly burst with excitement. After me came the twenty girls, all Torch Bearers, who carried the big flag we were going to present to the city, and behind them came the floats and figures of the pageant. I must tell you about some of these, and a few of them you'll recognize, because they are our old stunts trimmed up to suit the occasion. GIVE SERVICE was the most impressive, because it is the most important just now. It was in twelve parts, showing all the different ways in which Camp Fire Girls could serve the nation in the great crisis. There was the Red Cross Float, showing the girls making surgical dressings and knitting socks and sweaters. Another showed them making clothes for themselves and for other members of the family to cut down the hiring of extra help; and similar floats carried out the same idea in regard to cooking, washing and ironing. Yes ma'am! Washing and ironing! You don't need to turn up your nose. One float was equipped with a complete modern household laundry and the girls on it had their sleeves rolled up to their elbows and were doing up fine waists and dresses in great shape, besides operating electric washing machines and mangles. One float was just packed full of good things which the girls had cooked without sugar, eggs or white flour, and with fruits and vegetables which they had canned and preserved themselves, while the fertile garden in which said fruits and vegetables had grown came trundling on behind, the girls armed with spades, hoes and rakes. I consumed two sleepless nights and several strenuous afternoons accomplishing that garden on wheels and I want you to know it was a work of art. The plants were all artificial, but they looked most lifelike, indeed. Besides those things we had groups of girls taking care of children so their mothers could go out and work; and teaching foreign girls how to take care of their own small brothers and sisters, so they'll grow up strong and healthy. There really seemed to be no end to our usefulness. Behind the wheeled portion of the parade came hundreds of girls on foot, carrying pennants that stretched clear across the street, with clever slogans on them like this: DON'T FORGET US, UNCLE SAMMY, WE'RE ALWAYS ON THE JOB * * * * * * YOU'RE HERE BECAUSE WE'RE HERE * * * * * * AND THIS IS ONLY THE BEGINNING! * * * * * * WE ARE PROUD TO LABOR FOR OUR COUNTRY And the people! Oh, my stars! They lined the streets for thirty blocks, packed in solid from the store fronts to the curb. And the way they cheered! It made shivers of ecstasy chase up and down my spine, while the tears came to my eyes and a big lump formed in my throat. If you've never heard thousands of people cheering at you, you can't imagine how it feels. One time when the procession halted at a cross street I saw a fat old man, who I'm sure was a dignified banker, balancing himself on a fireplug so he could see better, and waving his hat like crazy. He finally got so enthusiastic that he fell off the fireplug and landed on his hands and knees in the gutter, where some Boy Scouts picked him up and dusted him off, still feebly waving his hat. Our line of march eventually brought us out at Lincoln Square, where the presentation of the flag was to take place. We stood in the shadow of the Lincoln Memorial monument, and who do you suppose presented the flag? Me again. In the name of all the Camp Fire Girls of the city, I ceremoniously presented it to the Mayor, who accepted it with a flowery speech that beat mine all hollow. Besides presenting the flag I was to help raise it. The pole was there already; it had seen many flag raisings in its long career and many flags had flapped themselves to shreds on its top. The thing I had to do was fasten our flag to the ropes and pull her up. In this I was to be assisted by a soldier brother of one of the girls who was home on furlough. He was to be standing there at the pole waiting for us, but when the time came he wasn't there. Where he was I hadn't the slightest idea; nor did I have any time to spend wondering. Mrs. Lewis had set her heart on having a man in soldier's uniform help raise the flag; it added so much to the spirit of the occasion. Just at this moment I saw a man in army uniform standing in the crowd at the foot of the monument, very close to me. Without a moment's hesitation I beckoned him imperatively to me. He came and I thrust the rope into his hands, whispering directions as to what he was to do. It all went without a hitch and the crowd never knew that he wasn't the soldier we had planned to have right from the start. We pulled evenly together and the flag slowly unfolded over our heads and went fluttering to the top, while the band crashed out the "Star Spangled Banner." It was glorious! If I had been thrilled through before, I was shaken to my very foundations now. I felt queer and dizzy, and felt myself making funny little gaspy noises in my throat. There was a great cheer from the crowd and the ceremonies were over. The parade marched on to the Armory, where we were to listen to an address by Major Blanchard of the --th Engineers. The girls had all filed in and found seats when Mrs. Lewis, who was to introduce Major Blanchard, came over to me where I was standing near the stage and said in a tragic tone, "Major Blanchard couldn't come; I've had a telegram. What on earth are we going to do? He was going to tell stories about camp life; the girls will be _so_ disappointed not to hear him." I rubbed my forehead, unable to think of anything that would meet the emergency. An ordinary speaker wouldn't fill the bill at all, I knew, when the girls all had their appetites whetted for a Major. "We might ask the band to give a concert, and all of us sing patriotic songs," I ventured finally. "I don't see anything else to do," said Mrs. Lewis, "but I'm _so_ disappointed not to have the Major here. The girls are all crazy to hear about the camp." Just then I caught sight of a uniform outside of the open entrance way. "Wait a minute," I said, "there's the soldier who helped us raise the flag, standing outside the door. Maybe he'll come in and talk to the girls in place of the Major." I hurried out and buttonholed the soldier. He declined at first, but I wouldn't take no for an answer. I literally pulled him in and chased him up the aisle to the stage. "But I can't make a speech," he said in an agonized whisper, as we reached the steps of the stage, trying to pull back. "Don't try to," I answered cheerfully. "Speeches are horrid bores, anyway. Just tell them exactly what you do in camp; that's what they're crazy to hear about." Mrs. Lewis didn't tell the audience that the speaker was one I had kidnapped in a moment of desperation. She introduced him as a friend of the Major's, who had come to speak in his place. The applause when she introduced him was just as hearty as if he had been the Major himself. The fact that he was a soldier was enough for the girls. And he brought down the house! He wasn't an educated man, but he was very witty, and had the gift of telling things so they seemed real. He told little intimate details of camp life from the standpoint of the private as the Major never could have told them. He had us alternately laughing and crying over the little comedies and tragedies of barracks life. He imitated the voices and gestures of his comrades and mimicked the officers until you could see them as plainly as if they stood on the stage. He talked for an hour instead of the half hour the Major was scheduled to speak and when he stopped the air was full of clamorings for more. Private Kittredge had made more of a hit than Major Blanchard could have done. I never saw a person look so astonished or so pleased as he did at the ovation which followed his speech. He stood there a moment, looking down at the audience with a wistful smile, then he got fiery red and almost ran off the stage. "I don't know whether to be glad or sorry the Major's not coming," whispered Mrs. Lewis to me under cover of the applause. "The Major's a very fine speaker, but he wouldn't have made such a _human_ speech. You certainly have a knack of picking out able people, Miss Brewster! You chose just the right girls for each part in the pageant." I didn't acknowledge this compliment as I should have, because I was wondering why our soldier man had looked that way when we applauded him. He would have slipped out of the side door when he came off the stage, but I stopped him and made him wait for the rest of the program. A national fraternity was holding a convention in town that week and members from all the great colleges were in attendance. As it happened, our Major is a member of that fraternity, and, as a mark of esteem for the Camp Fire Girls, he asked the fraternity glee club to sing for us at the close of our patriotic demonstration. The singers came frolicking in from some banquet they had been attending, in a very frisky mood, and sang one funny song after another until our sides ached from laughing. I stole a glance now and then at Private Kittredge, beside me, but he never noticed. He was drinking in the antics of those carefree college boys with envious, wistful eyes. At the end of their concert the singers turned and faced the great flag that hung down at the back of the stage and sang an old college song that we had heard sung before, but which had suddenly taken on a new, deep meaning. With their very souls in their voices they sang it: "Red is for Harvard in that grand old flag, Columbia can have her white and blue; And dear old Yale will never fail To stand by her color true; Penn and Cornell amid the shot and shell Were fighting for that torn and tattered rag, And our college cheer will be 'My Country, 'tis of Thee,' And Old Glory will be our college flag!" The effect was electrical. Everybody cheered until they were hoarse. I looked at Private Kittredge. His head was buried in his hands and the tears were trickling out between his fingers. I was too much embarrassed to say anything, and I just sat looking at him until, all of a sudden, he sat up, and reaching out his hand he caught hold of mine and squeezed it until it hurt. "I'm going back," he said brokenly. "Going back?" I repeated, bewildered. "Where?" "Back to camp," he replied. Then he began to speak in a low, husky voice. "I want to tell you something," he said. "I'm not what you think I am. I'm a deserter. That is, I would have been by tomorrow. My leave expires to-night. I wasn't going back. I didn't want to go into the army. I didn't want to fight for the country. I hated the United States. It had never given me a square deal. My father was killed in a factory when I was a baby and my mother never got a cent out of it. She wasn't strong and she worked herself to death trying to support herself and me. I grew up in an orphan asylum where everybody was down on me and made me do all the unpleasant jobs, and at twelve I was adrift in the world. I sold papers in the streets and managed to make a living, but one night I went out with a crowd of boys and some of the older ones knocked a man down and stole his money and the police caught the whole bunch and we were sent to the Reformatory. After that I had a hard time trying to make an honest living because people don't like to hire anyone that's been in the Reformatory. I never had any fun the way other boys did. I had to live in cheap boarding places because I didn't earn much and nobody that was decent seemed to care to associate with me. I was sick of living that way and wanted to go away to South America where no one would know about the Reformatory, and make a clean start. Then I was drafted. I hated army life, too. All the other fellows got mail and boxes from home and had a big fuss made over them and I didn't have a soul to write to me or send me things. I was given a good deal of kitchen duty to do and everybody looks down on that. I kept getting sorer and sorer all the time and at last I decided to desert. I got a three-days' leave and made up my mind that I wouldn't go back. I was just hanging around the street killing time this afternoon when I saw a crowd and stopped to see what the excitement was about. Then all of a sudden you looked at me and motioned me to come over and help you raise the flag. It was the first time I had ever touched the Stars and Stripes. When the folds fell around my shoulders before she went sailing up, something wakened in me that I had never felt before. I couldn't believe it was I, standing there raising the flag with all those people cheering. It intoxicated me and carried me along with the parade when it went to the armory. Then again, like the hand of fate, you came out and pulled me in and made me speak to the girls. I had never spoken before anyone in my life. I had never 'been in' anything. It made another man of me. All of a sudden I found I did love my country after all. I _did_ have something to fight for. I _did_ belong somewhere. It _did_ thrill me to see Old Glory fluttering out in the wind. That was my country's flag, _my_ flag. I was willing to die for it. I'm going back to camp to-night," he finished simply. I gripped his hands silently, too moved to speak. All the while we were talking there the crowd had been busy getting their things together and going out and nobody paid any attention to us sitting there in the shadow under the gallery. Now, however, I was aware of somebody approaching directly, and along came the Mayor, gracious and smiling, to shake hands with the speaker of the afternoon. "Those were rattling good stories you told," he said in his hearty way. "I say, won't you be a guest at a little dinner the frat brothers are giving this evening, and tell them to the boys? That's the kind of stuff everybody's interested in." And off went the man who had never had a chance, arm in arm with the Mayor, to be guest of honor at a dinner in the finest hotel in the city! Jiminy! Do you see what the Winnebagos have gone and done? They've saved a man from being a deserter! I've promised to write to him and get the rest of the girls to write and send him things, and I'll bet that he'll be loyal to the flag to the last gasp. Now aren't you glad you're a Winnebago? Your loving old pal, Sahwah. KATHERINE TO THE WINNEBAGOS Nov. 15, 19--. Dearest Winnebagos: You don't happen to know of anyone that would like to employ a good country schoolma'am for the rest of the term, do you? I'm fired; that is, I'll wager all my earthly possessions that I will be at the next session of the Board. The prophet hath spoken truly; and you can't make a silk-purse-carrying schoolmarm out of Katherine Adams. This morning I woke up with a glouch, which is a combination of a gloom and a grouch, and worse than either. It didn't improve it to have to go to school on such a crisp, cool, ten-mile-walk day and listen to Clarissa Butts stammer out a paragraph in the reader about vegetation around extinct volcanoes, and all the while trying to keep my eye on the rest of the pupils, who were not listening, but throwing spitballs at each other. The worst of it was I didn't blame them a bit for not listening. Why on earth can't they put something interesting into school readers? Even I, with my insatiable thirst for information, gagged on vegetation around extinct volcanoes. Clarissa's paragraph drew to a halting close and finally stopped with a rising inflection, regardless of my oft-repeated instructions how to behave in the presence of a period, and I had to go through the daily process of correction, which ended as usual with Clarissa in tears and me wondering why I was born. The next little girl took up the tale in a droning sing-song that was almost as bad as Clarissa's halting delivery, and fed the Glouch until he was twice his original size. The climax came when Absalom Butts, by some feat of legerdemain, pulled the bottom out of his desk and his books suddenly fell to the floor with a crash that shattered the nerves of the entire class. Absalom and some of the other boys snickered out loud; the girls looked at me with anxious expectancy. I sat up very straight. "Class attention!" I commanded, rapping with my ruler. "Close books and put them away," I ordered next. Books and papers made a fluttering disappearance, through which the long-drawn sniffs of Clarissa Butts were plainly audible. "Get your hats and form in line for dismissal," was the next order that fell on their startled ears. "She's going to send us home," came to my hearing in a sibilant whisper. Clarissa's sniffs became gurgling sobs as she took her place in the apprehensive line. "Forward march, and halt outside the door!" I drove them out like sheep before me and then I came out and banged the door shut with a vicious slam. Passing between the two files I divided the ranks into sheep and goats, left and right. "Class attention!" I called again. "Do you all see that dark spot over there?" said I, pointing to the dim line of trees that marked the beginning of the woods, some seven miles distant. "Yes, Miss Adams," came the wondering reply. "Well," I continued, "the left half of the line will take the road around Spencer way, and the right half will take the road around the other way, and the half that gets there last will have to give a show to amuse the winners. We're going to have a hike, and a picnic. You all have your lunch baskets, haven't you?" For a minute they stood dazed, looking at me as if they thought I had lost my senses. Clarissa stopped short in the middle of a sob to gape open-mouthed. Come to think of it, I don't believe she ever did finish that sob. I repeated my directions, and taking the youngest girl by the hand I started one half of the line down the road, calling over my shoulder to the other line that they might as well make up their stunts on the way, because they were going to get beaten. But after all it was our side that got there last, because we were mostly girls and I had to carry the littlest ones over some of the rough places. I sent the boys to gather wood and built up a big fire, and then I proceeded to initiate the crowd into some of the mysteries of camp cookery. I daubed a chicken with clay and baked it with the feathers on, like we used to do last summer on Ellen's Isle, and it would have been splendid if it hadn't been for one small oversight. I forgot to split the chicken open and take the insides out before I put the clay on. After dinner it was up to me to produce a show in obedience to my own mandate. None of the rest on my side could help me out, because not one of the blessed chicks had ever done a "stunt" in their lives. The only "prop" I had was a bright red tie, so I proceeded to do the stunt about the goat that ate the two red shirts right off the line--you remember the way Sahwah used to bring the house down with it? Well, I had just got to the part where "he heard the whistle; was in great pain----" and, accompanying the action to the music, was down on all fours giving a lifelike imitation of a goat tied to a railroad track, while the delighted boys and girls were doubled up in all stages of mirth, when I heard a sound that resembled the last gasp of a dying elephant. I jumped to my feet and whirled around, and there in the offing were anchored--anchored is the only expression that fits because they were literally rooted to the spot--the entire school board of Spencer township, plus two strange men plus Justice Sherman. The board members and the strangers stood with their jaws dropped down on their chests and their eyes popping out of their heads; Justice had his handkerchief over his mouth and was shaking from head to foot like a sapling in a high wind. I gave a gasp of dismay which resulted in further developments, for I had the whole red tie stuffed into my mouth with which to flag the train when the time came, and the minute I opened my mouth it billowed out in the breeze. That was the finishing touch. I might have explained away the quadruped attitude as a gymnastic pose, but it takes considerable of an artist to explain away a mouthful of red tie in a schoolmarm. Besides that, I was mud from head to foot, having slid about ten feet for the home plate in a baseball game we had before dinner, so that I presented a front elevation in natural clay effect, broken here and there with elderberries in bas-relief, which had adhered when the can was accidentally spilled over me. Being acutely conscious of all these facts in every corner of my anatomy did not add to my ease of manner, but I said as nonchalantly as I could, "How do you do, Mr. Butts? How do you do, gentlemen?" Then I added rather lamely, "Pleasant day, is it not?" Mr. Butts exploded into the same sort of snort as had interrupted me in time to prevent the goat from flagging the train. "Miss Adams," he said severely, when he had recovered his breath sufficiently to speak, "what does this mean? Why ain't you teaching school to-day? Here comes these here two fellers----" and he jerked his thumb in the direction of the two strangers--"from the new school board over to Sabot Junction, to visit our school, and I takes them over to the schoolhouse and finds it empty and no sign of you or the class. Fine doin's, them! These fellers had their trip for nothin' and they were pretty mad about it I can tell you, and so I thinks I'll drive them over to Kenridge to the schoolhouse there and here on the way I runs into you in the woods, acting like a lunytic. I always said Bill Adams's daughter was plumb crazy and now I'm sure of it." I stood aghast. How was I to explain to an irate school board that neither I nor the children had felt like going to school to-day and had decided to have a picnic instead, and that the "lunytic actin's" was Sahwah's famous stunt, enacted to add to the hilarity of the occasion? I threw an appealing glance at Justice Sherman, and he sobered up enough to speak. "You don't understand, Mr. Butts," he said hastily. "Miss Adams _is_ teaching school to-day. She is teaching the children botany and it is sometimes necessary to go out into the woods and study right from Nature. I heard her say that she was going to take the children out the first fine day." This was outrageous fibbing, but nobly done in a good cause. It was of no avail, however, for Absalom Butts promptly called out importantly, "It ain't either no botany class; it's a picnic. She made us put our books away when we didn't want to and come out here." And he made an impudent grimace at me, accompanied with the usual taunting grin. Right here I had another surprise of my young life. No sooner had the craven Absalom turned state's evidence when there rose from the masses an unexpected champion. As Elijah Butts began to express his opinion of my "carryin's on" in no veiled terms, his daughter Clarissa, developing a hitherto undreamed of amount of spirit, suddenly threw her arms around my waist and stood there stamping her feet with anger. "She ain't a lunatic, she ain't a lunatic," she shrilled above her father's gruff tones, "she's nice and I love her!" After which astounding confession she melted into tears and stood there sobbing and hugging the breath out of me. To my greater astonishment all the other girls immediately followed suit and gathered around me with shielding caresses, turning defiant faces to the upbraiding school board members. The boys made themselves very inconspicuous in the rear, but I caught more than one glowering look cast in the direction of Absalom. Before this demonstration of affection, Mr. Butts paused in astonishment, and, having hesitated, was lost. He felt he was no longer cock of the walk, and in dignified silence led the way to the surrey standing in the road, with the rest of the school board members and the visitors stalking after. I watched them climb in and drive away, and then the reaction set in and I sat down on the ground and laughed until I cried, while the girls, not sure whether I was laughing or crying, alternately giggled convulsively and soothingly bade me "never mind." I sat up finally and shook the hair out of my eyes and then I discovered that Justice Sherman had not departed with the rest of the delegation, but was sitting on the ground not far away, still shaking with laughter and wiping his eyes on a red-bordered napkin that had strayed out of a lunch basket. A sudden suspicion seized me. "Justice," I cried severely, "did you do it?" "Did I do what?" he asked in a startled tone. "Find out I was off on a picnic and bring the Board down to visit me?" Justice threw out his hands in a gesture of denial. "'Thou canst not say I did it, never shake thy gory locks at me,'" he declaimed feelingly. "Where did they come from? They dropped, fair one, like the gentle rain from heaven, upon the place beneath. They came first to my humble dispensary of learning, anxious to show the visiting Solons what a bargain they had captured, and listened feelingly while I conducted a Latin lesson, which impressed them so much they invited me to come along while they gave you the 'once over.' You never saw such an expression in your life as there was on the face of Mr. Butts when he arrived at your place and found it empty. I will remember it to my dying day. "But what on earth _were_ you doing when we found you in the woods?" he finished in a mystified tone. Then I told him about Sahwah's goat that ate the two red shirts right off the line, and again he laughed until he was weak. "Some schoolma'am you, for visiting committees to make notes on!" he exclaimed. "I'm discharged, of course," I remarked, after a moment's silence. "Oh, maybe not," said Justice soothingly, as we reached home, and he turned off to go to his cabin. "I don't care if I am," I cried savagely. "I hate that old Board so I wouldn't work for them another day." And I stalked into the house with my head in the air. But somehow, after I had eaten my supper and begun to write this letter, I began to feel differently. The way the girls stood up for me this afternoon changed my whole attitude toward school teaching. To find out that they actually loved me was the biggest surprise I had ever had in my life. I had hated them so thoroughly along with the school teaching that it had never occurred to me that they did not feel the same way toward me. I suddenly hated myself for my impatience with their stupidity. Of course they were stupid--how could they be otherwise, poor, pitiful, ill-clad, overworked creatures, coming from such homes as they did? I stopped despising them and was filled only with pity for the narrow, colorless lives they led. That afternoon when they had told me, shyly and wistfully, how much they enjoyed my teaching, I was filled with guilty pangs, because I knew just how much _I_ had enjoyed it. That impromptu picnic had quite won their hearts and broken down the barriers between us, and the trouble it had gotten me into crystallized their affection into expression. Now the ice was broken, and I would be able to get more out of them than ever before. The prospect of teaching began to have compensations. Then suddenly I remembered. I would be discharged after the next meeting of the Board. I would have no opportunity of getting better acquainted with my pupils and leading them in the pleasant paths of knowledge. Just when the drink began to taste sweet I had to go and upset the cup! And your Katherine, who had hated teaching the poor whites so fiercely all these months, buried her head on her arms and cried bitterly at the thought of having to give it up! Yours, in tears, Katherine. HINPOHA TO KATHERINE Brownell College, Nov. 25, 19--. Dearest Katherine: At first glance I don't suppose you will recognize this sweet little creature, but you ought to, seeing you are his own mother. It's the Pig you drew with your eyes shut in Glady's PIG BOOK last year. Gladys brought the PIG BOOK along with her and the other day we got it out and found your poor little Piggy with the mournful inscription under him, "Where is My Wandering Pig To-night?" He looked so sad and lonesome we knew he was simply pining away for you. His ink has faded perceptibly and he is just a shadow of his former emphatic self. Migwan looked at it and said, "What charade does it make you think of?" It was just as plain as the nose on your face, and we all shouted at once, "Pork-you-pine!" We couldn't bear to leave him there to die of grief and longing, so we transferred him tenderly to this letter and are sending him to his mumsey by Special Delivery. We hope he will pick up immediately upon arrival. We had Lamb's _Dissertation on Roast Pig_ in Literature the other day and were asked to comment upon it, and Agony wrote that she didn't think much of a dissertation on Pig that was written by a Lamb; she thought Bacon could have handled the subject much better! As ever, your Hinpoha. P. S. Here is Piggy's tail; we found it in a corner of the page after we had him transferred. KATHERINE TO THE WINNEBAGOS Dec. 3, 19--. Dear Winnies: Hurray! I'm not fired. Why, I wasn't I never will be able to figure out, but it's so. A week after the Picnic the Board sat, but not on me. For a while I lived in hourly expectation of forcible eviction, but nothing happened, and I heard from Justice, who stands high in the favor of Elijah Butts and gets inside information about school matters, that nothing was going to be done about it. If Justice had any further details he wouldn't divulge them. Justice is a queer chap. Although he talks nonsense incessantly, you can get very little information out of him. And the way he puts up with all kinds of inconveniences without complaint is wonderful to me. He must be accustomed to far different surroundings, and yet from his attitude you'd think his little cabin out beyond the stables was the one place on earth he'd select for an abode. He never even mentioned the fact that the roof leaked badly until I went out there to fetch him and discovered him on top patching it. Then I went inside to see what else could be improved, and the bare, tumble-down-ness of the place struck me forcibly. Light shone through chinks in the walls, the door sill was warped one way and the door another, and there was no sign of the pane that had once been in the window. It was simply a dilapidated cabin, and made no pretence of being anything else. How he could live in it was more than I could see. No light at night but a kerosene lamp, no furniture except what he himself had made from boards, boxes and logs; no carpet on the rough, rotting floor. Why did he choose to live in this cell when he might have taken rooms with any of the school board members over in Spencer? It was on this occasion that I saw the rough board table under the one window, strewn with pencils, compasses and sheets of paper covered with strange lines and figures. "What's this?" I asked curiously. "Nothing, that amounts to anything," replied Justice, with a queer, dry little laugh. "Once I was fool enough to believe that it did amount to something." He swept the papers together and threw them face downward on the table. "Tell me about it," I said coaxingly, scenting a secret, possibly a clue to his past. Justice stared out of the open door for a few moments, his shoulders slumped into a discouraged curve, his face moody and resentful. Then suddenly he threw back his head and squared his shoulders. "It's nothing," he said shortly. "Only, once I thought I had a brilliant idea, and tried to patent it. Then I found out I wasn't as smart as I thought I was, that's all." "What did you invent?" I asked. "Oh, just an old electrical device--you probably wouldn't understand the workings of it--to be used in connection with wireless apparatus. It was a thing for recording vibrations and by its use a deaf man could receive wireless messages. I worked four years perfecting it and then thought my fortune was made. But nobody would back me on it. They all laughed at the thing. I got so disgusted one day that I threw the thing into the sad sea. Four years' work went up at one splash! That was the end of my career as an inventor." Poor Justice! I sympathized with him so hard that I hardly knew what to say. I knew what that failure must have meant to his proud, sensitive soul. The first failure is always such a blow. It takes considerable experience in failing to be able to do it gracefully. I could see that he didn't want any voluble sympathy from me and that it was such a sore subject that he'd rather not talk about it. I didn't know what to say. Then my eye fell on the sheets on the table. "What are you inventing now?" I asked, to break the silence that was growing awkward. "Just working on bits of things," he replied, "to pass the time away. You can't experiment with wireless now, you know." The confidences Justice had made to me almost drove my errand out of my head. It was rather breathless, this having a new side of him turn up every little while. I returned to my original quest for information. "I came for expert advice," I remarked. Justice looked up inquiringly. "Shoot," he said. "Do you suppose," I inquired in a perplexed tone, "that they'd enjoy it just as much if the costumes have to be imaginary?" Justice's face suddenly became contorted. "They'd probably enjoy wearing, ah--er imaginary costumes if the weather is warm enough," he replied, carefully avoiding my eye. "Justice Sherman!" I exploded, laughing in spite of myself. "You know very well what I mean. I mean can we have a Ceremonial Meeting in blue calico and imagine it's Ceremonial costumes?" Justice scratched his head. "It depends upon how much imagination 'we' have," he remarked. "Now, for instance, I know someone not a hundred miles from here who can imagine herself in her college room when it's only make believe, and can do wonderful work in French and mathematics. She----" "That's enough from you," I interrupted. "The matter is settled. We'll have a Ceremonial Meeting. We'll pretend we've gone traveling and have left our Ceremonial dresses at home. We're a war-time group, anyhow, and ought to do without things." There now! The secret is out! Your poor stick of a Katherine is a real Camp Fire Guardian. I wasn't going to tell you at first, but I'm afraid I will have to come to you for advice very often. I have organized my girls into a group and they are entering upon the time of their young lives. Make the hand sign of fire when you meet us, and greet us with the countersign, for we be of the same kindred. Magic spell of Wohelo! By its power even the poor spirited Hard-uppers have become sisters of the incomparable Winnebagos. Wo-He-Lo for aye! We are the tribe of Wenonah, the Eldest Daughter, and our tepee is the schoolhouse. Of course, as Camp Fire Groups go, we are a very poor sister. We haven't any costumes, any headbands, any honor beads, or any Camp Fire adornments of any kind. I advanced the money to pay the dues, and that was all I could afford. There are so few ways of making money here and most of the families are so poor that I'm afraid we'll never have much to do with. But the girls are so taken up with the idea of Camp Fire that it's a joy to see them. In all their shiftless, drudging lives it had never once occurred to them that there was any fun to be gotten out of work. It's like opening up a new world to them. Do you know, I've discovered why they never did the homework I used to give to them. It's because they never had any time at home. There were always so many chores to do. Their people begrudged them the time that they had to be in school and wouldn't hear of any additional time being taken for lessons afterward. As soon as I heard that I changed the lessons around so they could do all their studying in school. Besides that, I looked some of the schoolbooks in the face and decided that they were hopelessly behind the times, Elijah Butts to the contrary. They were the same books that had been used in this section for twenty-five years. "What is the use," I said aloud to the spider weaving a web across my desk, "of teaching people antiquated geography and cheap, incorrect editions of history when the thing they need most is to learn how to cook and sew and wash and iron so as to make their homes livable? Why should they waste their precious time reading about things that happened a thousand years ago when they might be taking an active part in the stirring history that is being made every day in these times? Blind, stubborn, moth-eaten old fogies!" I exclaimed, shaking my fist in the direction of Spencer, where the Board sat. Right then and there I scrapped the time-honored curriculum and made out a truly Winnebago one. It kept the fundamentals, but in addition it included cooking, sewing, table setting, bed making, camp cookery, singing of popular songs, folk dancing, hiking and stunts. Yes sir, stunts! I teach them stunts as carefully as I teach them spelling and arithmetic. Can you imagine anyone who has never done a stunt in all their lives? We rigged up a cook stove inside the schoolhouse--if you'd ever see it! The stovepipe comes down every day at the most critical moment. Besides that we have a stone oven outside. Every single day is a picnic. As all of us have to bring our lunch we turned the noon hour into a cooking lesson, and two different girls act as hostesses each day. The boys bring the wood and do the rough work and are our guests at dinner. They all behave pretty well except Absalom Butts, who is given to practical jokes. But as the rest of the boys side in with me against him, he gets very little applause for his pains and very little help in his mischief. The noon dinners continue to be the chief attraction at the little school at the cross roads. Hardly anybody is ever absent now. I arranged the new schedule so that while I am teaching the girls the things which are of interest to them alone the boys have something else to do that appeals to them. I give them more advanced arithmetic, and have worked out a system of honor marks for those who do extra problems, with a prize promised at the end of the year. Then I got hold of an old copy of Dan Beard's _New Ideas for Boys_ and have turned them loose on that, letting them make anything they choose, and giving credit marks according to how well they accomplish it. You see what a job I have ahead of me as a Camp Fire Guardian? In order to teach my girls what they must know to win honors, I have had to turn the whole school system inside out, and then, because I couldn't bear to leave the boys out in the cold while the girls are having such a good time, I have to keep thinking up things for them to do, too. It stretches my ingenuity to the breaking point sometimes to get everything in, and keep all sides even. One afternoon each week I have the girls give to Red Cross work. Every Saturday I drive all the way over to Thomasville, where the nearest Red Cross headquarters branch is, for gauze to make surgical dressings, returning the finished ones the next week. Here's where dull-witted Clarissa Butts outshines all the brighter girls. She can make those dressings faster and better than any of us and her face is fairly radiant while she is working on them. I have made her inspector over the rest to see that there are no wrinkles and no loose threads, and she nearly bursts with importance. For once in her life she is head of the class. While they fold bandages I read to them about what is going on in the war and what the Red Cross is doing everywhere, and we have beautiful times. The worst trouble around here is getting up to date things to read. There isn't a library within fifty miles and the only books we have are the few I can manage to buy and those that Justice Sherman has. Would you mind sending out a magazine once in a while after you have finished reading it? We had our first ceremonial meeting last night in blue calico instead of ceremonial gowns, but it didn't make a mite of difference. We felt the magic spell of it just the same and promised with all our hearts to seek beauty and give service and all the other things in the Wood Gatherers' Desire. That is the wonderful thing about Camp Fire. It makes you have exactly the same feelings whether you learn it in a mansion or in a shack, in an exclusive girls' school or in a third-rate country schoolhouse. If Nyoda only could have seen us! Of all people to whom I had expected to pass on the Torch, this group of Arkansas Hard-Uppers would have been the very last to occur to me. Was this what she meant, I wonder? Yours, trying hard to be a Torch Bearer, Katherine. HINPOHA TO KATHERINE Dec. 15, 19--. Darling Katherine: There's no use talking, I can never be the same again. My life is wrecked--ruined--blighted; my heart is broken, my faith in Man shattered, but try as I like I can't forget him. His image is graven on my heart, and there it will be until I die. But for all that, I hate him--hate him--hate him! I don't want to be unpatriotic, but I do hope he gets killed in the very first battle he's in. Then at least _she_ won't have him! But a few short weeks ago I was a mere child, playing at life, a schoolgirl, carefree and heedless, with no other thought in the world beside winning the freshman basketball championship and surviving midyear's; to-day I am a woman, old in experience, having eaten the fruit of the tree of knowledge and found it bitter as gall. And I must bear it all alone, because if I told the girls here they would laugh at me, and some would be spiteful enough to be glad about it. But I have to tell somebody or explode, and I know you will neither laugh nor tell anybody, being a perfect Tombstone on secrets. It's really all Agony and Oh-Pshaw's fault anyway, for being born. Not that that actually had anything to do with it, but if they hadn't been born they wouldn't have had any birthday, and if they hadn't had any birthday they wouldn't have given that box party to the LAST OF THE WINNEBAGOS and I never would have met Captain Bannister. You will readily understand, Katherine, how I burn to serve my country at a time like this. There is nothing I would not do to save her from the clutches of the enemy. It is all very well to say that woman's part in the war is to knit socks and sweaters and fold bandages and conserve the Food Supply, for that is all that the average woman would be capable of doing anyhow, but as for me, I know that my part is to be a much more definite and a far nobler one. Of course, I do all the other things, too, along with the other Winnies and the whole college, for that matter; joined the Patriotic League, go to Red Cross two nights a week and go without sugar and wheat as much as possible. When I wrote and told Nyoda that I hadn't eaten one speck of candy for three months except what was given me and was sending the money I usually spent for it to the Belgians, she said I ought to have the Cross of the Legion of Honor, and that "greater love hath no man than this, that he give up the craving of his stomach for his country." You see, Nyoda understands perfectly what it means to have an awful candy hunger gnawing at your vitals like the vulture at the giant's liver and look the other way when you go past a window full of your favorite bon-bons. But somehow candy doesn't seem so satisfying when you know there are little Belgian and French children suffering from a much worse gnawing than candy hunger, and usually dropping the price of a box of bonbons into the Relief Fund stops the craving almost as much as the bonbons themselves would. But this is only doing what thousands of other girls all over the country are doing and there isn't any individual glory in it. What I long to do is carry the message that saves the army from destruction, or discover the spy at his nefarious work. If only the chance would come for me to do something like that I could die happy. Agony and Oh-Pshaw's birthday celebration was quite an event. We had luncheon first at the Golden Dragon, a wonderful new Chinese restaurant that was recently opened, and had chop suey and chow main and other funny things in a little stall lit up with a gorgeous blue and gold lantern. Of course, after that luncheon and the funny toasts we made to the long life and health of Agony and Oh-Pshaw, we felt pretty frolicsome, and by the time we got settled in our seats at the Opera House we were ready to start something. Our seats were in the first row of the balcony, center aisle, and very prominent. I had my knitting along as usual, intending to do a few rows between the acts. I always knit in public places; it sets a good example to other people. Besides, my new knitting bag is too sweet for anything. I had just got started knitting in the intermission between the first and second acts when the orchestra began to play "Over There," and Agony got an inspiration. "Let's all stand up," she whispered, "and see how many people will bite and stand up, too." So, stifling our giggles, we sprang promptly to our feet and stood stiffly at attention. In less than a minute more than half of the audience, not knowing why they should stand up for that piece, but blindly following our lead, gathered up their hats, wraps and programs in their arms and dutifully stood up. Then as soon as they were standing we sat down and laughed at the poor dupes, who sat down in a hurry when they saw us, looking terribly foolish. I haven't seen anything so funny in a long time. "Stop laughing," said Gladys, giving me a poke with her elbow. "You're shaking the seat so I'm getting seasick." But I couldn't stop. "Look out, Hinpoha, there goes your knitting," said Migwan. "Catch it, somebody!" But it was too late. When we stood up I had laid the sock and the ball of yarn on the broad, low rail in front of us, and now the ball had rolled over the edge and dropped down into the audience below, right into the lap of a young man who was sitting on the end seat. He looked up in great surprise and everybody laughed. They just _roared_! There I stood, leaning over the balcony, hanging on to the sock for dear life and trying to keep it from raveling, and there he stood down below holding onto the ball, and plainly puzzled what to do with it. "Throw down the sock, silly," whispered Agony, reaching over and pulling my sleeve. "Do you think he's going to throw up the ball?" I dropped the sock and the man caught it in his other hand and stood there laughing, as he started to wind up the yards and yards of yarn between the ball and the sock. When he had it wound up he brought it upstairs to me. I went out into the corridor to get it. Then for the first time I got a good look at the man. He was dressed in uniform and wore an officer's cap. He was very tall and slim, with black eyes and hair and a small black mustache. "Here, patriotic little knitting lady," he said, making a deep bow and handing me my knitting. I looked up into his handsome, smiling face, and little needle points began pricking in my spine. His eyes met mine, he smiled, blushed to the roots of his hair and looked away. All in one instant I knew. I had met my fate. This was my Man, my own. I felt faint and light-headed and all I could see was his black eyes shining like stars. His deep, thrilling voice still rang in my ears. With another low bow he turned to leave me. "Captain Bannister, at your service," he said. I went back to my seat with my head swimming. "Patriotic little knitting lady," I found myself whispering under my breath. The girls suddenly seemed awfully young and silly as they sat there giggling at me and at each other. My mind was above all such childish things; it was soaring up in the blue realms of true love. I was glad he was tall and thin. I think fat girls should marry thin men, don't you? And he was dark, too, just the right mate for redheaded me. And he was a Captain in the army! How the other girls would envy me! Some of them had friends who were lieutenants and were quite uppish about it, but none that I knew had a Captain. Then at another thought my heart stood still. Suppose he should be killed? I pictured myself in deep mourning, wearing on my breast the medal he had won for bravery, which with his dying breath he had asked his comrades to send to "my wife!" I couldn't help brushing away a tear then and was quite bewildered when Agony poked me and wanted to know if I wasn't ever going to make a move to go home. The show was over and the people were streaming out. I hadn't seen a bit of the last two acts. Down in the lobby I saw Him again. He was standing by the door talking to another man in uniform. How he stood out among all other men! He was one out of a thousand. My heart beat to suffocation and I couldn't raise my eyes. In a moment more I must pass him. I tried to look straight ahead, but something I couldn't resist drew my head around and I turned and looked straight into his eyes. He tilted back his head and gave me one long, thrilling glance, raised his hand to his cap, then blushed and looked down. Just then Gladys pulled at my sleeve and dragged me over to some girls we knew and we were swept out with the crowd to the sidewalk. I scarcely knew where I was going. My feet walked along between Gladys and Migwan, but my soul was in the clouds, listening to strains of heavenly music, while the others squabbled over ice cream flavors and who should stand treat after the show. Ice cream! Ye gods! Who could eat ice cream with their soul seething in love? From that hour when I had looked into Captain Bannister's eyes and read the truth in them, I was a changed being. I listened in silence to the idle chatter of the girls around me as we walked to and from classes. Their souls were wrapped up in their knitting, in their lessons, in their meals. Agony and Oh-Pshaw were trying to learn a new and difficult back dive and they talked of nothing else night and day. They were constantly at me to come and try it, too, but I sat loftily apart, hugging my delicious secret. As it says in the poem we learned in literature class: "What were the garden bowers of Thebes to me?" Like Semele, I scorned the sports of mortals and thought only of my Beloved. I didn't envy her a bit because her Love was Jupiter. What was Jupiter compared to Captain Bannister? Twice I had seen him since that day in the theater--had spoken to him, in fact. He was stationed in the recruiting office and one day I happened to be walking past with old Professor Remie and he knew him and stopped and talked and introduced me. As if we needed any introduction! We chatted of commonplaces, but all the while our eyes told volumes. However, soul cannot speak to soul in a public recruiting station where curious eyes are looking on. I had an errand uptown every day after that. Only once did I see him as I passed the recruiting station, however. Then he was throwing out a Socialist who had tried to stop the recruiting and he didn't see me. But the next day there came a perfectly huge box of chocolates, addressed quaintly to "Miss Bradford, Somewhere in Purgatory." Inside the box was a card which read: "The strand you dropped with careless art Has wound itself around my heart." Underneath was written "Captain Bannister," in a bold, masculine hand. I buried the chocolates in the depths of my shirtwaist box where no profane eye could see them or profane tooth bite into them. I didn't mean to be selfish, but I just couldn't bear to pass _his_ chocolates around to the crowd and hear Agony's delighted squeal as she dove into them, "Come on, girls, have one on Hinpoha's latest crush!" For Agony has absolutely no understanding of affairs of the heart--everything is a "crush" to her. The chocolates were fine and I ate a great many of them, thinking of my Captain all the while, and wondering when I would see him again. "Hinpoha, what on earth is the matter with you?" said Gladys that night. "You didn't eat a bite of supper and you're as pale as a ghost. Have you upset your stomach again?" I drew myself up haughtily. The idea! To call this delicious turmoil in my bosom an upset stomach! I was glad I looked pale. I am usually as red as a beet. It was more in keeping with the way I felt to be pale. "I am not myself," I replied loftily, "but it's not my stomach." "Go to bed, honey," said Gladys, "and I'll bring you a glass of hot water." I curled up in bed with Captain Bannister's card in my hand under the pillow. I was so happy I felt dizzy. Gladys came back with the hot water and made me drink it in spite of my protests, and, strange to say, I felt much calmer after it. Needless to say, I couldn't pin my mind down on my lessons. I did such queer things that people began to notice it. For instance, mild old Professor Remie, the chemistry teacher, handed back my paper one day after he had given us a written lesson on the Atomic Theory, and inquired in a puzzled tone if I had meant just what I wrote. I glanced at it and blushed furiously when I realized that I had written down some lines that had been running through my head all day: "Why do I fearfully cling to thee, Maidenhood? 'Tis but a pearl to be cast in thy waves, O Love!" Then one day the word went around that He was coming to make a speech in the college chapel. How my heart fluttered! I could hardly sit still in the seat when he came out on the platform. It seemed as if everyone could hear what my heart was saying. Soon that deep voice of his was filling the room, thrilling me with unearthly things. Again and again his eyes sought mine, full of joyous recognition, of love and longing. I smiled reassuringly, trying to telegraph the message, "Be patient, all will be well." To myself I was singing, "O Captain, my Captain!" Unknown to himself, I had seen him before he came into chapel. I was stooping down in the shadow of the gymnasium steps, tying my shoestring, when he came along the walk and was met by Dr. Thorn, our President. They stood there and talked a minute and I heard Captain Bannister say that he was going to Washington that afternoon on the five o'clock train and that he was going directly from the college to the station. He carried a small black handbag, which Dr. Thorn offered to relieve him of, but he said no, he didn't want to leave it out of his hand even for a minute, there were valuable papers in it. When he came out on the platform I noticed that he had the bag with him. He set it down on the table while he talked and never got very far away from it. I looked at that bag with deep interest. What was in it? Something terribly important, I knew. I thrilled with pride that my Captain should have such great things to look after, and longed to be of service to him. His speech came to an end all too soon for me, who could have gone on listening for a week, and he went out before the rest of us were dismissed. No chance to speak to me or give me one word of farewell for the brief separation; only one long, lingering look between us that left me shaken to the soul. Now I knew what the Poet meant when he spoke of "the troth of glance and glance." I wandered around by myself after he had gone. I didn't desire to speak to any of the girls or have them speak to me. I just wanted to be by myself. Roaming thus I came to the little rustic summerhouse in the park behind the college buildings, and stopped in to rest a moment. It was a lovely mild day, not a bit like winter, and not too cold to sit in a summerhouse and dream. I didn't sit down, though. For on the bark-covered bench I spied something that brought my heart up into my mouth. It was Captain Bannister's bag. No doubt about it. There was his name on a card tied to the handle. How came it here? They must have shown him around the grounds after his speech and in some way he had put the bag down in here and then gone off and forgotten it. How dreadful he would feel when he found it out! My mind was made up in a minute. Here was a real chance to "Give Service." If I hurried I could get down to the station and catch him before he got on the train. I made sure from the watchman that he had left the college grounds. I looked at my wrist watch. It was quarter to five. Without a moment's hesitation I picked up the bag and ran out to the street. I caught a car right away and sank down in a seat breathless, but easy in my mind, because the station was only a ten minutes' ride in the car. Then, of course, something had to happen. A sand wagon was in the cartrack ahead of us and the motorman jingled his bell so furiously that the driver got excited and pulled the lever that dumped the whole load of sand on the car track. I jumped out of the car and looked wildly up and down the road to see if there was a taxi in sight. There wasn't; nothing but a motor truck from the glue factory. There was something covered with canvas in the back of it, and I knew instinctively that it was a dead horse. Did I hesitate a second? Not I. For the sake of my Captain and my country I would have endured anything. I hailed the driver. "I'll give you a dollar if you'll take me to the station," I panted. The driver laughed out loud. "This is _some_ depoe hack," he said, "but if _you_ can stand it I guess _I_ can." With that he gave me a sidewise glance that was meant to be admiring, I suppose, but I froze him with a look and climbed gravely up beside him. "It is very important that I be there in time for the five o'clock train," I remarked by way of explanation. "You ain't running away from school, are you?" inquired the driver genially. "I am _not_," I replied frigidly, and looked loftily past him for the remainder of the five minutes' ride to the station. I flung the man the dollar and was out of the truck before he had time to say a word, and raced into the long waiting room of the station. I could have shouted with relief when I saw on the blackboard the notice that the five o'clock train for Washington was forty minutes late. I was in time! But where was Captain Bannister? Nowhere in sight. I walked up and down the length of the waiting room several times, growing more nervous every minute. Suppose that he had discovered that he had left the bag behind and gone back after it only to find it gone? The thought made my blood run cold. Would he come down to the train at all without the bag? Would he not go back and search for it, alarming the whole college? And all the while I had it safe with me! What should I do? Should I go back and run the risk of missing him, or stay and see if he came? One thing I could do. I could telephone back to the college and find out if he had returned for it. I had just gotten inside the telephone booth and was ringing up the number when there was a commotion in the upper end of the waiting room and a large party of people entered, men and women and soldiers and young girls, laughing and shrieking and pelting somebody with rice and old shoes. Soon they came past the booth and I caught a glimpse of the bride and groom. The telephone receiver fell out of my hand and my heart stopped beating. For there, in the midst of that crowd, laughing and dodging the showers of rice, and hanging for dear life to the arm of a pretty young girl in a traveling suit, was Captain Bannister, my Captain! I shrank back into the depths of the telephone booth and struggled to swallow the lump in my throat. Bits of talk floated in through the closed door. "Thought you'd do it up quietly this morning and then sneak out this afternoon without anybody finding it out," I heard a voice shout, as a fresh shower of rice flew through the air. "Went out and made a speech this afternoon, too, just as unconcerned as if it wasn't his wedding day," said another voice. "Pretty sly, Captain. They ought to put you in the diplomatic service. You'd be an ornament." I crouched miserably in the telephone booth, trying to collect my scattered thoughts. My Captain was married this morning! How I hated that pretty girl clinging to him and laughing as the showers of rice fell around her! Then all of a sudden my hand touched the bag on the floor. The papers! In the excitement of his wedding day he had forgotten them! Well, even if he had, I hadn't. I would still serve my country if it did nearly kill me to go out there and face Captain Bannister. I shut my eyes and prayed for strength. It would have been so easy to slip out and throw the bag over the bridge into the river, and get Captain Bannister into a bad predicament. But I did not waver in my duty. Opening the door of the booth softly, I crept out. Resolutely I approached the crowd and walked right up to Captain Bannister. "Here are the papers, Captain Bannister," I said in a voice I tried to make coldly sarcastic, as is fitting when talking to a man who has let his wedding make him forget his country's business. Captain Bannister whirled around and faced me with a look of astonishment that changed to annoyance when he saw the bag. He did not offer to take it from my outstretched hand. He could not look into my eyes. He stood there, his face getting redder every minute, while the people stared curiously. At last he pulled himself together and took the bag. "Thank you," he said in a flat voice. A dozen hands pulled the bag away from him. "Let's see the papers, Banny," called several voices. "Are they the plans of your wedding journey or your new home?" He made a desperate effort to regain possession of the bag, but they kept it away from him and opened it. Then such a roar of laughter went up as I have never heard. Everybody was laughing but the bride, and she looked like a thundercloud. Soon the things from the bag were being handed around and I saw what they were. They were a girl's ballet dress, very flimsy and very short and very much bespangled; a pair of light blue silk stockings and a pair of high-heeled dancing slippers. Standing on the edge of the crowd I heard one man explain to another, between snorts of laughter, how Captain Bannister had taken part in a show that the soldiers had given a week before and had worn that ballet dress. His bride-to-be had been at the show, and being a very straight-laced sort of a person had been very much shocked at the men dressed as girls. She didn't know that Captain Bannister had been one of them, and he didn't intend that she should find out. Some of his friends knew this and for a joke they got hold of the handbag in which he had packed his clothes for his wedding journey and hid them away, putting in the ballet dress instead. He found it out on the way out to the college, and conceived the brilliant idea of leaving it there. He figured that a suit like that found in a girls' college would cause no commotion; nothing like what would happen if his bride should find it among his things. But of all things--here the man who was telling all this nearly turned inside out--somebody sees him leave the bag behind and chases after him with it! I fled without ever looking behind. My heart was broken, my life wrecked, my hopes shattered. My Captain, my Man, whose eyes had told me the secret of his love, was pledged to another! If I hadn't known it beyond any doubt, I wouldn't have believed such perfidy possible. And the "valuable papers" he was carrying around were nothing but a girl's dancing dress! For this I had raced to catch the train, for this I had ridden on a truck with a dead horse! No doubt he had lied to Dr. Thorn about the bag, because he was afraid he would find out what really was in it. Righteous anger drowned my heartbroken tears. With head high I wandered down to the swimming pool in the gym and prepared to go in. "Oh, Hinpoha, come and watch me do the new back dive," called Agony. She mounted the diving platform and went off badly, striking the water with the flat of her back and making a splash like a house falling into the water. She righted herself and swam around lazily. "Hinpoha," she said suddenly, popping her head out of the water like a devil fish, "what did you ever do with them all? I expected to get at least one." "What did I do with what?" I asked in bewilderment. "Chocolates, sweet cherub," said Agony, kicking the water into foam with her feet. "I sent you five pounds." "_You_ sent them?" I echoed blankly. "Yes, dearest child, I sent them, and it took the last of my birthday check. Who did you think sent them?" And with a malicious grin she sank down under the surface of the water. So it had been Agony who had sent the chocolates, and not Captain Bannister! I might have known---- Oh, what a fool I had been! "What did you do with them all?" came Agony's teasing voice from the other end of the pool, where she had risen to take the air. "Wouldn't you like to know?" I said mysteriously. Agony looked at me gravely for a minute. "Didn't I hear Gladys putting you to bed that night and going off for hot water?" she murmured dreamily. "Seems to me I have a faint, far off recollection." She made little snorting noises, plainly in imitation of a pig, and sank below the surface again. I was filled with a blind fury at Agony. I wanted to jump on her and choke her. I had been standing on the diving board and on the spur of the moment I went off backwards. I had only one thought in my mind; to reach Agony and duck her as she deserved. There was a great shout as I went off, followed by a round of applause. "What is it?" I asked, coming up and blinking stupidly at the knot of watchers gathered around the pool. "The Hawaiian dive!" they cried. "You did it perfectly. Do it again." Agony came up out of the pool and watched enviously. For four weeks she had been practising that dive and hadn't mastered it yet. I hadn't ever hoped to learn it. And here I had done it the very first time! They made me do it again and again, and clapped until the ceiling echoed as I got the somersault in every time. It was glorious. I forgave Agony for fooling me about the Captain; I even forgave the Captain for the time being. _He_ could go off and get married if he wanted to; _I_ could do the Hawaiian back dive! "How did you ever do it?" asked Agony enviously, as we dressed together, "somersault and all? Do you really think there's any chance of my ever doing it?" "Sure, you'll do it some day," I replied out of the fullness of my wisdom,--"if you get mad enough." Your broken-hearted, Hinpoha. KATHERINE TO THE WINNEBAGOS Dec. 28, 19--. Dearest and Best of Winnies: Oh, you angels without wings, how am I ever going to thank you? How on earth did you manage to do it all? Such a Christmas present! When I saw that array of boxes in the express office at Spencer all addressed to me I said to the agent, "There's some mistake. Those can't possibly be all mine." "You're the only Katherine Adams in these parts, aren't you?" said the agent, eyeing that imposing pile with unconcealed curiosity. I admitted that I was, as far as I knew. "Then they're yours," said the agent, and mine they proved to be. Altogether there was a wagonload. "What on earth?" said father and Justice when I drove up to the house. "Have you gone into the trucking business?" "Christmas presents, Father!" I shouted. "All Christmas presents. I've got the whole of Santa Claus's load. Quick, bring me a hammer and an ax and a jimmy!" Oh, girls, when I saw what was in those first three boxes I just sat down on the floor and wept for joy. Only the Winnebagos could have thought of sending me the House of the Open Door. There were the Indian beds and Hinpoha's bearskin and all the Navajo blankets and the pottery, just as I had seen it last in the Open Door Lodge, big as life and twice as natural. And the note from Sahwah that came along with them was a piece of Sahwah herself. "The things are lonesome," she wrote, "and pining for someone to love them and use them. I am sending them to your new Camp Fire because I know your girls will love them as they deserve to be loved. The ghosts of all the good times we had in the House of the Open Door are hovering around the things, so anyone that gets them can't help falling under the old spell and learning how to squeeze the most fun out of every minute. "The gymnasium apparatus is the Sandwiches' Christmas present. It was Slim's and the Captain's idea to send it out to you for your girls and boys to use. "The House of the Open Door is being turned into Red Cross work rooms for Camp Fire Girls and we need every inch of space for the work tables. Even our beloved Lodge is Giving Service." Gladys Evans, your father is an _angel_! He doesn't need to wait until he gets to heaven for his halo, it's visible a mile off, this minute! To think of sending me a graphophone and a hundred records! I simply can't tell you what that is going to mean to my school. I won't be able to _drive_ the boys and girls away now! And your mother! That lantern machine and the slides showing the Red Cross work and all the other splendid things is worth its weight in gold. Oh, my dears! _Where_ did you ever find time to make those twelve ceremonial dresses? "FROM THE LAST OF THE WINNEBAGOS TO THE FIRST OF THE WENONAHS. LET BIG SISTER WINNIE SEE THAT LITTLE SISSY WEENIE IS PROPERLY CLOTHED." I'll bet anything your friend Agony wrote that. I have a feeling that she and I are kindred spirits. Won't my girls revel in those beads and looms, though? BOOKS! Four whole cases of them! What on earth have you done now? "THE WINNEBAGO LIBRARY PASSED ON BY THOSE WHO KNOW AND LOVE GOOD BOOKS TO THOSE WHO WILL SOON KNOW AND LOVE THEM" How did you do it? Asked a hundred girls to give one book apiece? You don't mean to say that there are a hundred girls interested in us poor backwoods folks out here in Spencer? I can't believe it! Oh, we'll work and work and _work_, to prove ourselves worthy of it all! And oh, all those little personal pretties just for me! Hinpoha, _where_ did you find that darling pen-holder with the parrot's head on the end, and Gladys, who told you that I broke my handglass and was pining for a white ivory one? And even a lump of sugar for Sandhelo and a bow for Piggy's tail! I admire the artist who drew that bow. The last box bore Nyoda's return address. What do you suppose was in it? Her chafing dish! The very one she used to have in her room, that I used to admire so much. Dear Nyoda! She knew I would rather have that than anything else. O my dears, there never _was_ such a Christmas! There never _will_ be such a Christmas! Nobody ever had such friends before. If I live to be a thousand years old I'll never be able to return one-tenth of your kindness. Yours, swimming in ecstasy, Katherine. GLADYS TO KATHERINE March 25, 19--. Dearest Katherine: Listen, my beloved, while I sing you a song of Migwan. She has awakened at last to find herself famous, and the rest of us, by reason of reflected glory, found ourselves looked upon as different from all other animals, and wonderfully popular and run after by five o'clock in the afternoon, like Old Man Kangaroo. And, all precepts upon precepts to the contrary, it wasn't conscientiously applying herself to her task that turned the trick, but deliberate shirking. After all, though, it was mostly a matter of chance, because if it hadn't rained so that night last October, Migwan would have gone to the library as she should have, and the world would have lost a priceless contribution to Indian lore. It happened thusly. One of Migwan's cronies in the sophomore class has a weak throat and a condition in Indian History. On the night I have mentioned she trickled tearfully into Migwan's room and confided that she simply had to have an Indian legend to read in class the following day or be marked zero. She had had all the week in which to look one up in the library, but, according to immemorial custom, she had left it for the last night. Now it was raining pitchforks and she didn't dare go out, because she got a terrible attack of quinsy every time there was an east wind. Migwan, like the angel she is, promptly offered to go over and hunt one up for her. "What kind of an Indian legend?" she inquired. "Oh, any kind," replied Harriet carelessly, "so long as it's _Indian_. We're studying the Soul of the Savage as revealed by legend, or something like that. Slip it under my door when you come back with it. I'm going to bed and coddle my throat. Be sure you don't get one that's too long," she called back over her shoulder, "remember there are twenty in the class to help reveal the Savage Soul." Harriet ambled placidly back to her room and Migwan began hunting through her closet for her raincoat and rubbers. She didn't find them, because she had lent them to somebody the week before and couldn't remember whom she lent them to. She looked out of the window at the torrents coming down and decided that her little rocking chair by the lamp held out more attraction than a trip to the library. But she didn't have the heart to disappoint Harriet by not getting her an Indian legend to read in class the next day, so she sat down and manufactured one, which is as easy as rolling off a log for Migwan. Harriet would never know the difference, and neither would the teacher, off hand, and a made-up legend would save the day for Harriet as well as a genuine one. The chances were she wouldn't be called upon to read it anyway. You never are, you know, when you've broken your neck to be ready. Migwan slipped it under Harriet's door and then forgot all about it. Several weeks later, when the _Monthly Morterboard_ came out, there was Migwan's Indian legend, big as life. It had obviously been used to fill up space and was not credited to the literary talent of the college; but to Joseph Latoka, or "Standing Pine," the Penobscot Indian who had collected the legends of his tribe into a book, which was in the college library and which was our authority on things Indian. Migwan laughed to herself over it, but never gave away the fact that she had written it. She discovered in a roundabout way that the Literary Editor of the _Morterboard_ had been in despair over lack of material when the October number was due, and told her tale of woe to Miss Percival, one of the teachers, and asked her if she had any essays fit to print. Miss Percival replied that she hadn't had a decent essay this semester, but a girl in one of her classes had brought in a rather remarkable Indian legend several days before, which might serve to cast into the breach. The _Morterboard_ editor promptly hunted up Harriet and demanded the legend. Harriet still had it among her goods and chattels, and gave it to her readily, saying that it was one of Joseph Latoka's _Legends of the Penobscot Indians_, which she honestly believed to be the fact. The _Morterboard_ editor took her word for it and used the legend to fill up the chinks in the October issue. * * * * * * It was not long after this that Very Seldom paid his annual visit to Brownell. His name really wasn't Very Seldom; it was Jeremiah Selden, but everybody referred to him as Jerry, and it wasn't long before "Jerry Selden" became "Very Seldom." He used to be Professor of Sociology at Brownell, but he had to give up lecturing because he lost his voice. He was a sad little man with a plaintive droop to his white mustache and only a whisper of a voice. He had lost his whole family in some kind of a railroad accident and always went around with such a homeless air that everybody felt sorry for him. His hobby was Indian History, Indian Legends and Indian Relics. After he gave up teaching sociology he took to writing books, dry old essays and that sort of thing. Nobody ever read them, and he didn't make much out of them, but he kept plodding along, always hoping that he would make a hit the next time. Once every year he came back to Brownell to spend Sunday, to keep alive the memories of his former life, he used to explain sentimentally. Miss Allison, his successor as professor of sociology, and who has him beat forty miles for teaching, always entertained him at tea on the occasion of his visit, and used to ask him stacks of questions, jollying him along and making him believe she was in doubt about a lot of things she knew better than he did. Having his opinion consulted that way made him feel quite cheerful and important, and his visit to Brownell always put new life into him. It happened that one Sunday afternoon Migwan went to Miss Allison's room to ask her about something and ran into Very Seldom paying his annual visit. Miss Allison herself wasn't there. She had been called out of town the night before and had turned over the job of entertaining Very Seldom to her room-mate, Miss Lee. Miss Lee taught mathematics and didn't care a rap about sociology, and still less about Indians. Miss Lee is very fond of Migwan, and invited her to stay to tea. Migwan is forever getting asked to tea by the faculty; it's because she always gets her hair parted so straight in the middle, and never upsets her teacup. Migwan had heard about Very Seldom, and was just as anxious to help cheer him up as anybody, but this time he didn't need any cheering. He was positively radiant. He was talking about his latest book and was nearly bursting with enthusiasm. It seems that all his life he had been having an argument with another Indian History shark as to whether, before the coming of the white man to this continent, the eastern Indians had ever lived on, or visited the western plains. He maintained that they had, while his friend insisted that they hadn't. Just recently he had read, in a magazine published by the Indian Society of North America, a hitherto unpublished legend of Joseph Latoka's, a curious legend of the White Buffalo. To his mind this proved beyond a doubt that the Penobscot Indians had, at some time or other, lived on or visited the Great Plains, and had seen the Buffalo. It was the only Penobscot legend that mentioned the buffalo as an object of worship. He had immediately written a monograph on the subject which was even then in the hands of the publisher. It was a great point to have discovered. Fame would come to him at last. Very Seldom's air of desolation had vanished; his hour of triumph had come. It was at this point that Migwan, the expert tea drinker, suddenly upset her cup all over Miss Allison's cherished Mexican drawnwork lunchcloth. That foolish legend that she had manufactured to save herself a trip to the library in the rain had been taken as authentic and had been copied from the _Morterboard_ into other magazines! At the time she wrote it she was in too much of a hurry to pay attention to any such trifles as the difference between Eastern and Plains Indians. Anyway, she hadn't _said_ anywhere that they were Penobscot Indians, it was Harriet who had said so to the _Morterboard_ editor. Several times during the evening she tried to tell poor Very Seldom that the Legend of the White Buffalo, which proved his point so conclusively, was not a legend at all, but her own composition, but each time the words choked her. The little ex-Professor's satisfaction was so great and his happiness so supreme that she didn't have the heart to blot it out. The secret was hers. Everybody in college believed that legend to have come from the collection of Joseph Latoka. All the evening she debated with herself whether or not she should tell, or let the fake legend go down on record. In the end the professor's happiness won the day and she decided not to mar his almost childish glee in his discovery. "What does it matter, after all?" she thought. "About three-fourths of the things that are written about Indians aren't true. Nobody will read his old monograph anyway, so no harm will be done. If it gives him so much pleasure to think he's discovered something, why spoil it all?" The whole matter seemed so trivial to Migwan that it wasn't worth fussing about. Just what difference did it make to the world, especially at this time, whether the eastern Indians of the United States had ever visited the western plains or not? It seemed about as important as whether the Fourth Emperor of the Ming Dynasty had carrots for dinner or parsnips. So she went home without revealing the origin of the Legend of the White Buffalo. She thought the incident was decently interred, and had forgotten all about it, when--pop! out came Jack-in-the-box once more. Along in March came the celebrated lecturer on Indian costumes, Dr. Burnett. Handbills announcing his lecture were distributed all over town a week before his coming. The public was to be admitted and half the proceeds were to go to the library fund. Migwan picked up one of the handbills and glanced casually at the subject of the lecture. Then her hair nearly turned green. It was "The Legend of the White Buffalo," based on the book of the late Professor Jeremiah Selden! The first fact that struck Migwan was that Very Seldom was dead, which came as a shock of surprise. Poor Very Seldom! He had found a home at last. But before he went he had had his inning and had died happy that he had contributed an important link to the chains of Indian History. Then Migwan realized what a horrible mess she had started by writing that legend and keeping still about it. If anybody ever found out about it now, Dr. Burnett's reputation would be ruined. An hour before the lecture was to begin found Migwan sitting in the parlor of the hotel waiting for Dr. Burnett to come down in answer to the note she sent up with a bellboy. He came presently, a long-haired, Van Dyke-y sort of man, who smiled genially at her and inquired affably what he could do for the charming miss. "If you please," said Migwan breathlessly, "could you give some other lecture just as well?" "Could I give some other lecture just as well?" repeated Dr. Burnett in perplexity. "Yes," Migwan went on desperately, trying to get it over with quickly, "could you? You see, the Legend of the White Buffalo isn't a legend at all." "The Legend of the White Buffalo _isn't_ a legend!" repeated Dr. Burnett again, looking at Migwan as if he thought she was not in her right mind. "Pray, what is it?" "It's--it's a fake," said Migwan. "A fake!" exclaimed Dr. Burnett, in astonishment. "And how do you know it is a fake?" "Because I wrote it myself," said Migwan, trying to break the news as gently as possible, "because it was simply pouring, and Harriet had a sore throat." "You wrote it yourself because it was simply pouring and Harriet had a sore throat?" repeated Dr. Burnett, now acting as if he were sure she was out of her mind. Then Migwan explained. "But, my dear," said Dr. Burnett, "you _couldn't_ have written that legend. No white man could have invented it. It is the very breath and spirit of the Indian. In it the Soul of the Savage stands revealed." "But I _did_," insisted Migwan, and finally succeeded in convincing him that she was telling the truth. Dr. Burnett usually spent from one to three months preparing a new lecture. He prepared one that night in an hour that knocked the shine out of all his previous ones. His speech entitled, "What Chance Has a Man When a Woman Takes a Hand" brought down the house. He told the story of the fake legend, and the audience was alternately laughing at the neat way Migwan had taken everybody in and weeping at the way she wouldn't spoil poor Very Seldom's pleasure. Migwan was the heroine of the hour. The whole college sought her acquaintance forthwith. Of course, they found out all about the Winnebagos, and how Migwan came to know so much about Indian lore, and Hinpoha and I, being Winnebagos, too, came in for our share of the glory. Our humble apartment is filled to overflowing all day long with girls who want to make Migwan's acquaintance and casually drop in on us in the hope of meeting her in our chamber. It is great to be fellow-Winnebago with a celebrity. But I haven't told you all yet. The day after the lecture Dr. Burnett had a solemn conference with that portion of the English Department which was so fortunate to have Migwan in its classes, after which Migwan was called in. She went with a kind of scary feeling because she thought Dr. Burnett might be going to have her arrested for perpetrating the fake, but instead of that she was informed that she showed such budding talent in composition and had such a positive genius for portraying the soul of the Indian that he wanted her to work with him in his research work after she graduated from college. She is to make a grand tour with him among the real Indians on the reservations and get them to tell tales of the old days as they remember them from the legends of their fathers and then she is to write them down to be published in a book. Just imagine it! There is Migwan's future all cut out for her with a cookie cutter, all because she was too lazy to go across the campus in the rain and get a real legend for a sick friend. Isn't life queer? Famously yours, Gladys. P. S. O Katherine, _mon amie_, why aren't you here? But from the tone of your last letters it seems that you have become reconciled to your lonely lot. So the "mysterious him" that came to you from out the Vast is teaching you French and History and reading Literature with you! Katherine Adams, you sly puss, you'll be better educated yet than we! SAHWAH TO KATHERINE April 4, 19--. Dearest K: You don't need to think you're the only one having adventures with your work. Your little old Sahwah is a sure enough grown up young lady now, a real wage-earner, making her little track along the Open Road, and frequently stepping into mud holes and falling flat on her face. I'm "Miss Brewster" now, in a tailored suit and plain shirtwaist, ready to conquer the world with a notebook and typewriter. I finished my course at the business college early in February, and one day while I was in the last stages of completion as a stenographer and nearly ready to have a shipping tag pasted on me in the shape of a graduation certificate, I was summoned into the private office of Mr. Barrett, the head of the school. I had a chill when the office girl brought me the message. There were only two or three things you were ever sent to Mr. Barrett for. One was failure to pay your tuition; another was doing so poorly in your work that you were a disgrace instead of a credit to the school; another was for "skipping school." A number of the girls were in the habit of cutting classes after lunch several days in the week and either going to the matinee or running around town with boys from the school. Many complaints about this had come to Mr. Barrett from the teachers, until he got so that he sent for everyone who skipped and read them a stiff lecture. He is a very stern, austere man, and the whole school stands in dread of him. I went over my list of sins when I was summoned to the office. My tuition was paid up until the end; there was no trouble there. It wouldn't be my lessons either; for, while I was far from being the eighth wonder of the world on the typewriter, I still had managed to stay in the "A" division since the first. But--here my hair began to stand on end--I had "skipped school" the afternoon before. Slim had come home from college to attend the funeral of his grandfather, and had called me up and invited me to go automobiling with him while he was waiting for his train to go back, and you can guess what happened to Duty. I just naturally skipped school and went with him. It was the first and only time I had skipped in my whole career, but I was evidently going to get my trimmings for it. I went into the office with a sinking heart, for up until this time I had managed to keep in Mr. Barrett's good graces, and I did pride myself quite a bit on my unreproved state. But I made up my mind to take it like a good sport--I had danced and now I would pay the piper. Having gone into the office in such a state of mind, I wasn't prepared for the shock when Mr. Barrett looked up from his desk and greeted me with a (for him) extremely amiable smile. "Sit down, Miss Brewster," he said pleasantly, pulling up a chair for me beside his own. I sat down. It was time, for my knees were giving away under me. "Miss Brewster," Mr. Barrett began affably, "I have here"--and he picked up a paper on which he had made some notations--"a call for a stenographer which is a little out of the ordinary line." He paused to let that sink in. "Yes, sir," I murmured respectfully. My heart began to beat freely again. He wasn't going to lecture me about skipping school! "Mrs. Osgood Harper," continued Mr. Barrett crisply, "telephoned me this morning personally, and asked if I had a young lady whom I could send her every day from nine until one to attend to her personal correspondence. She is very particular about the kind of person she wants; it must be someone who is refined and educated, as well as a good stenographer, for a good deal of her work will be social correspondence. She also intimated that the girl must be--er, reasonably good looking." He paused a second time and again I said meekly, "Yes, sir." There didn't seem to be anything else to say. "I have carefully considered all the girls in the finishing class," continued Mr. Barrett, "and you seem to be the only one I could consider for the position. I know Mrs. Harper and know that in some ways she will be hard to work for. But the pay she offers is generous; better than you could do as a beginner in a commercial house, and the hours are excellent, nine to one, leaving your afternoons free. Besides that, there will be the advantage to yourself of coming in contact with such people as the Harpers, and the pleasure of working in such beautiful surroundings. You are a girl who will appreciate such things. You know who the Harpers are, of course?" I had never heard of them, but I was quite willing to be enlightened. The Harpers, it seemed, were in the first boatload of settlers that landed on our town site; they had since accumulated such a fortune that it made Pike's Peak look like an ant hill; and no matter what string Mrs. Harper harped on, people were sure to sit still and listen. Now she desired a personal stenographer of maidenly form, and I, Sahwah the Sunfish, had been measured by the awe-inspiring Mr. Barrett and found fit. My feelings as I came out of the office were far different from those with which I went in. I entered with a guilty droop; I came out with my head in the air. I hadn't dreamed of getting such a position to start with. I had pictured myself as beginning at the bottom in some big office and slowly working to the top. But to begin my career by doing the private work of Mrs. Osgood Harper! It seemed like some fairy tale. I tried to think of something to say to Mr. Barrett to thank him for having recommended me for the position, but the shock had sent my wits skylarking, and the only thing that came into my head was that song that we used to sing: "Out of a city of six million people, why did you pick upon me?" and that, of course, was impossible as a noble sentiment. The next morning I set out on my Joyous Venture. The Osgood Harpers lived on the Heights in a great colonial house set up high on a hill and approached by long, winding walks. It was more than a mile from the street-car, but I enjoyed the walk through those beautiful estates. I couldn't have served a tennis ball in any direction without hitting a millionaire. Mrs. Harper was a stout and tremendously impressive lady about forty years old. She had steely blue eyes that looked right through me until I began to have horrible fears that there was something wrong with my appearance and she would presently say that I would not do at all. But she didn't; all she said was, "So you are Miss Brewster, are you?" and motioned me to sit down at a writing table. She had received me in a cozy little sitting room which opened out of her bedroom, and it seemed that this was to be my office. She started right in to lay out my work for me and I didn't have much time to look around at the beautiful furnishings. The work was far different from anything we had had in school, but very interesting, and I took to it from the start. Mrs. Harper is chairman of countless committees, and secretary of several societies, and there were quantities of notices to send out to committee members, and letters to write to business men soliciting subscriptions to various funds and things like that, all to be written on heavy linen paper of finest quality, bearing the Harper monogram in embossed gold in the upper left-hand corner. I worked away with a will and the morning hours flew. I would have worked right on past one o'clock without knowing it if there hadn't been an interruption. Shortly after noon the door opened and a girl of about seventeen walked in. She was extremely pretty; that is, at first glance she was. She was very fair, with bright pink cheeks and big blue eyes. Her yellow hair was plastered down over her forehead in an exaggerated style, and monstrous pearl earrings dangled from her ears. She had evidently just come in from outdoors, for she wore an all mink coat and held a mink cap in her hand. Without a glance in my direction she began chatting to Mrs. Harper in a thin, nasal, high-pitched voice. I dropped my eyes and went on with my work. In a minute I could feel her staring at me. "Ethel," said Mrs. Harper, as soon as she could get the floor, "this is Miss Brewster, my stenographer. Miss Brewster, my daughter Ethel." I acknowledged the introduction pleasantly; Miss Ethel favored me with another stare, murmured something in an indistinct tone and then immediately turned her back on me and went on talking to her mother. Right then and there my admiration for the "first families" got a setback; I didn't admire Ethel Harper's manners, not a little bit. She had "snob" written all over her features. I could see that she classed me with the servants and as such she didn't trouble herself to be polite to me. "A lot there is to be gained by associating with _her_," I said to myself. "I'll be just as cool and dignified as possible when _she's_ around. She won't get another chance to snub me." But in spite of her I was enthusiastic about the position and could hardly wait until I got there the next day. Mrs. Harper went out shortly after I arrived and I worked alone. Ethel Harper came home from school at noon and went through the room on the way to her mother's, but I rattled away on the typewriter and never looked up. She came out soon and went into her own room, which was on the other side. In about fifteen minutes I heard her call me. "Miss Brewster!" I stopped typing. "What is it?" I asked. "Come here," she called, and her voice sounded impatient. I stepped across the hall into her room. She was standing in front of the mirror putting on a ruffled taffeta dress, which she was struggling to adjust. "Hook me up!" she commanded, without the formality of saying "Please." I had it on the end of my tongue to tell her that I was a stenographer, not a lady's maid, but I remembered "Give Service" in time, and hooked her up without a word. She never even said "Thank you!" She just sat down at her dressing table and began pencilling her eyebrows. Evidently it must have been the maid's day out, for she called me in again later to pin her collar. "Have I got too much color on my face?" she asked languidly, dabbing away at her cheeks with some red stuff out of a box in front of her. Then she put carmine on her lips, a sort of whitewash on her nose and forehead and finished it with some pencilled shadows under her eyes. All I could think of was Eeny-Meeny, the time we gave her that coat of war paint. "What's that?" asked milady while I was fastening her collar, poking her finger at my Torch Bearer's pin. "It's a Camp Fire pin," I replied. "What's Camp Fire?" she demanded idly. I explained briefly what Camp Fire was. "Gee," said Ethel elegantly, "none of that for mine!" And she picked up her eyebrow pencil again and did a little more frescoing. I went back to my work in disgust. I was so disappointed in Ethel Harper. I had expected that the daughter of such a fine family would be a real lady in every sense of the word--cultured, genuine, thoroughbred; and she had turned out to be nothing but a cheap imitation--slangy, ill-bred, snobbish, overdressed and made up like an actress. Beyond her pretty, baby doll face there was nothing to her. There wasn't an ounce of brains in her poor flat head. And yet, she was tremendously popular in her own snobbish set, as I could gather from conversations around me, and by the invitations she was constantly receiving to festivities. Although she was not formally out in society, I knew that she went out to dances with men very often, when her mother thought that she was spending the night with girl friends. I found that out from telephone conversations Ethel carried on when her mother was out of the way. It was plain to be seen that Ethel had only one ambition in the world, and that was to have a good time, regardless of how she got it. It wasn't any of my business, of course, but I couldn't help wondering what Mrs. Harper would do if she knew about some of Ethel's little excursions. Mrs. Harper had a flinty sort of nature and you only had to look into those cold eyes of hers to know that it would go hard with anyone who had displeased her. One morning I had a good chance to see her when she was roused. A Cloisonné locket belonging to Mrs. Harper had disappeared from her jewel box and she had accused her maid, Clarice, of taking it. Clarice, frightened out of her wits, was tearfully protesting her innocence, but Mrs. Harper towered over her like a fury, threatening to hand her over to the police. Ethel, sitting in a rocking chair polishing her finger nails, listened indifferently. I felt embarrassed to witness this painful scene and stood irresolute, unable to decide whether to go out or stay, when Mrs. Harper turned to me and said, "Make out a check for Clarice's wages for the month and deduct twenty-five dollars from it, the value of the locket she stole. Then insert an advertisement in the papers for a new maid." Clarice, with a fresh burst of grief, declared again that she knew nothing about the locket, and begged not to be sent away with a black character, because she had a paralyzed sister to support, but Mrs. Harper was unmoved. Out went Clarice, bag and baggage, crying as she went and still declaring her innocence. "These maids will steal you blind, if you give them a chance," said Mrs. Harper, still bristling with anger. "I never did like Clarice," remarked Ethel with a yawn. The next day Mrs. Harper went out during the morning and Ethel called me to help her pack her visiting bag. She was going to spend the week-end with a girl friend. No new maid had come to take Clarice's place as yet, so Ethel took advantage of my not having much work to do for her mother that morning to press me into service. "I can't find my wrist watch," she said as I came in. "I don't know whether I put it in the bag or not, and I haven't time to look. Will you look through the bag while I finish dressing?" I pawed carefully through the bag, and brought to light, not the wrist watch, but the Cloisonné locket, which Mrs. Harper had accused Clarice of taking. "Why, Ethel," I said delightedly, "here is your mother's locket! Clarice didn't steal it after all. It was down in your bag." "I know it was," said Ethel coolly. "I put it there." "_You_ put it there?" I echoed. "Did you find it, then?" Ethel laughed disagreeably. "I had it all the while," she said. "I'm going to a dance to-night that mamma doesn't know anything about, and I've set my heart on wearing that locket. Mamma will never let me wear it; it was brought to her from Paris by an old friend that's dead now, and she's afraid I'll lose it. So I just took it out of her jewel box the other day and made her believe Clarice took it." "Ethel!" I exclaimed in horror. "How could you? How could you sit there and hear your mother accuse poor Clarice of taking it?" Ethel shrugged her shoulders. "I never did like Clarice," she said. "She was an impertinent piece. It served her right. Put the locket back in the bag. I've got to start in a minute." But I didn't budge. I stood looking at her until she looked the other way. With all her millions and all her fine connections, I despised Ethel Harper as if she had been a crawling worm. I didn't want to get mixed up in anything that wasn't my business, but I had no intention of letting poor Clarice remain under a cloud. "I'm not going to put it back in the bag," I replied firmly. "I'm going to take it right back to your mother when she comes home. She must know that it isn't stolen so she can make things right with Clarice." "Don't you dare tell mamma," said Ethel furiously. "She'll kill me if she knows I've got it. Give it to me, I say." She tried to snatch it out of my hand, but I kept hold of it. "Give it to me, you impertinent little stenographer, you!" she shrieked. It was getting disgraceful. I tried to save a shred of dignity. I laid the locket on the dresser and faced Ethel steadily. I still had a vivid memory of Clarice's distressed face as she went out that day. "You have done Clarice a wrong," I said firmly, "and it must be righted. I'll give you your choice. Either you take the locket back to your mother or I'll tell her where it is." Ethel changed her tactics and tried to bribe me. "I'll give you a dozen pairs of silk stockings if you don't say anything to mamma about it and let her go on thinking it's stolen, so I can wear it whenever I please," she offered. I longed to choke her. "Don't you try to bribe me, Ethel Harper," I said severely. "I've got a code of honor, even if I am a poor stenographer, which is more than you have, with all your millions." "Some more of your Campfire stuff," she said sneeringly. "You bet it is 'Campfire stuff,'" I replied hotly. "You see that little pin? One of things it says is 'Be trustworthy.' If I let Clarice be unjustly accused I wouldn't be worthy of that pin. Remember! Either you tell your mother or I do." And I started for the door. Ethel changed her tune again and began to cry. "Everybody is so horrid to me," she sobbed. "Mamma will never let me go anywhere I want to go or wear what I want to wear, and the servants won't do what I tell them. Even my mother's stenographer bosses me around! I wish I was dead!" But I was firm in my championship of Clarice. "You'll have to tell," I repeated. "I see your mother coming in now." Ethel began to look frightened. "I'll not tell her I took it, she'd kill me," she whined. "I'll tell her I just found it and she can take back what she said to Clarice." I looked her steadily in the eyes. She flushed and looked down. "I suppose you'll go and tell anyway, you old tattletale," she said savagely. "I'll get even with you for this, see if I don't!" She ran out of the room and I didn't see her again for several days. However, I knew the locket had gone back where it belonged, because Mrs. Harper had me send Clarice a check for twenty-five dollars, with the brief statement that the locket had been found. Right there was where I lost some of my regard for Mrs. Harper. She never apologized to Clarice for accusing her wrongfully; never offered to do anything to make it up to her. She just sent that cold little note and the check. A real thoroughbred would have acknowledged herself to be in the wrong, but Mrs. Harper couldn't bring herself to apologize to a servant. The affair blew over and I never heard Clarice mentioned again. I grew to like my work more and more, as the days went by, and gradually learned to handle quite a bit of it myself. Mrs. Harper was very busy; she did a great deal of Red Cross and other war work, besides keeping up in all her clubs, and she got into the habit of telling me what to say to people and letting me write the letters myself. Early in March she went out of town to a convention and left me with a great many letters to write to various people, telling me to sign her name for her. I took very great pains with all those letters so as to be sure to say the right things to the right people, and I felt satisfied when the week was out that I had done myself credit. Accordingly, it struck me like a thunderbolt when, several days after her return, Mrs. Harper came to me, blazing with anger, and demanded to know what I meant by writing such letters in her absence. Startled, I asked her what she referred to. "You wrote Mr. Samuel Butler that if he didn't hurry and pay up his subscription to the Red Cross Mr. Harper would pay it for him and take it out of his next bill," said Mrs. Harper furiously. "Mr. Butler is insulted and has withdrawn his subscription of ten thousand dollars to the Perkins Settlement House, which I am trying so hard to establish. Whatever possessed you to write such a letter?" "I never wrote a letter like that," I replied with spirit. "I wrote Mr. Butler a very polite, respectful reminder that his pledge was due this month; I never mentioned Mr. Harper or anything about paying it and taking the amount out of any bill." I was completely at sea. "You _did_ write that letter!" declared Mrs. Harper angrily. "How dare you deny it? Mr. Butler showed it to me. It was written on this very stationery, on this typewriter with the green ribbon, and signed with my name in the way you sign it. You wrote it to be funny, I suppose. Well, I can tell you that I can't have anything like that. I won't have any further need for your services." She was so positive I had written it that I began to have an awful feeling that I might have written it in my sleep. You know what strange things I do in my sleep sometimes. But all the while I knew who had done it. Ethel Harper had sworn to get even with me for making her tell her mother about the locket. She had written that letter in place of the one I had written. I remembered that one day while Mrs. Harper was away I had been called downstairs and kept talking for over an hour to one of Mrs. Harper's committee members who had undertaken to distribute some literature and came for instructions. During that time Ethel would have had plenty of chance to read through my mail upstairs. I started to tell Mrs. Harper that I suspected someone else of writing it, intending to lead gently up to the subject of Ethel, but Mrs. Harper scoffed at the idea. "There isn't anyone else in the house who can run the typewriter," she said flatly. This was untrue. Ethel could run it; she had done so several times when I was there. But what was the use of accusing Ethel when her mother wouldn't believe it anyway? I realized the hopelessness of trying to convince Mrs. Harper of something she didn't want to believe. "And further," continued Mrs. Harper, "I have found that you have not been attending strictly to business. Ethel tells me that you often go over to her room when she is there and stand and talk to her instead of giving your time to my work." "Little snake-in-the-grass!" I thought vengefully. I had never gone to her room unless she had called me to do something. I made up my mind I wouldn't stay there another minute. I didn't have to work for such people. I drew myself up stiffly. "If you believe such things, Mrs. Harper," I said icily, "there can be no business relations between us. I shall not even take the trouble to prove the truth about that letter. I shall go immediately." And go I did. I knew Mr. Barrett would be very much put out over the affair, because he seemed to think Mrs. Harper had done his school an honor by hiring one of his pupils, but what was I to do? Stay there and be the scapegoat for all Ethel's sins. Not while I had feet to walk away on. As I went down the steps I met Ethel coming up. She looked at me with a meaning expression and a triumphant smile. She had kept her word and gotten even with me. I felt badly over it, of course, for who can lose a good position and not be cut up about it? I suppose I must have looked pretty doleful for a couple of days, because I met Mrs. Anderson, that friend of Nyoda's, who used to lend us so many "props" for our Winnebago performances, on the street and she asked me right away what was the matter. "You're lonesome for those friends of yours," she went on, without giving me a chance to answer. "I'm lonesome, too," she went on. "My husband has been in Washington all winter. Come out and spend a few days with me. You used to be pretty good company, if I remember rightly." She persuaded me and I went. You remember the Anderson place out on the East Shore, don't you? We were all out there once last year. Perfect duck of a house all made of soft gray shingles and seven acres of garden and woods around it. I tramped all over the place through the March mud, looking for signs of spring, and had a perfectly glorious time. "There's one sign of spring, over there," said Mrs. Anderson, who was with me on one of my tramps. "Where?" I asked, looking around. "Young man's fancy," said Mrs. Anderson with a laugh of tolerant amusement, "lightly turning to thoughts of love. Look up on the barn there." I looked where she pointed, and saw a boy of about eighteen standing on the roof of the barn gazing off into space through a field glass. He had a white flag tied to his right wrist, which he was waving over his head, like the soldiers do when they signal. "Who is he and what is he doing?" I asked. "That's Peter, the boy who helps around the stable," replied Mrs. Anderson. "He's sending messages to his lady love. A certain combination of flourishes means 'I love you,' and another means 'Meet me to-night,' and so on. He told John, my chauffeur, about it, and John told me." "How silly!" said I, with a laugh for poor lovesick Peter. "Who is the object of his affection?" "Some servant girl from the next estate," replied Mrs. Anderson. "They carry on their affair through field glasses and with signals. They think they are having a thrilling romance." "Disgusting!" said I. "How could any girl make such a fool of herself where everybody can see her!" Mrs. Anderson laughed indulgently, but I could feel her scorn underneath it. "Some girls will sell every scrap of dignity they have for what they consider a good time, my dear," she said, laying her hand on my arm in a motherly way. We left Romeo on the barn flourishing out his messages in the late March sunshine and wandered over to the next estate. There was a new litter of prize bull pups over there and Mrs. Anderson had promised that I should see them before I went home. A creek divided the two estates, which we crossed on a little foot bridge. The path led along beside the creek for a while until the little stream widened out into a beautiful pond, big enough for boating. A pier had been built at one side of the pond, running out into the water. Someone was standing out on the end of the pier, and as we came up we saw that we had discovered the other half of the romance. A girl, with a field glass held to her eyes and a white flag tied around her right wrist, was signalling in the direction of the Anderson barn, the roof of which was visible in the distance, beyond Mrs. Anderson's apple orchard. Something about the girl was familiar, even in the distance, and as we came near I recognized the mink coat that I had seen many times lately. There was no doubt about it. The girl on the end of the pier was Ethel Harper. I stood still, too much disgusted to speak. Ethel Harper, the daughter of one of the "first" families, with the best social position in the city, her mother prominent in all great uplift movements, carrying on a vulgar flirtation with Mrs. Anderson's stable boy! So this was the great romance she had been hinting about at various times! Randall--that was the name of the girl she was intimate with; this was the Randall place. She had been coming here so often for the sake of the boy next door. Did she know he was an ignorant servant? I doubted it. Anything in men's clothes set her silly head awhirl. I wished her haughty mother could have seen her then. Mrs. Anderson suddenly laughed out loud and at that Ethel turned around and saw us. She gave a great start as she recognized me, took a step backward and fell off the end of the pier into the pond, disappearing with a shriek into the deep water. I slipped out of my coat, threw off my shoes and went in after her. The water was so icy I could hardly swim at first. When I did get hold of her it was a battle royal to get her back to the pier. She was so weighted down by the fur coat and she struggled so fiercely that several times I thought we were both going down. Mrs. Anderson threw us a plank and with its help I finally got her to the pier. "Now run for your life!" I ordered, my own teeth chattering in my head. "Drop that wet coat and I'll race you to the house." She didn't move nearly fast enough to avoid a chill and I took hold of her hand and pulled her along. Up in a cosy bedroom in the Randall's house we sat up, some hours later, wrapped in blankets, and looked at each other gravely. Mrs. Anderson had been in and talked with Ethel like a big sister about the cheapness of carrying on flirtations with strange boys. Ethel had seen her little affair in its true light, robbed of all romance, and shame had taken hold of her. Mrs. Anderson explained how the gallant Romeo had seen his Juliet fall into the pond and had fled basely in the other direction for fear he would be blamed, making no effort to rescue her, and she might have been drowned if I hadn't fished her out. Ethel had been frightened out of her wits when she fell into the water; she was still suffering from the shock. She flushed hotly as she caught my glance, and cast down her eyes. "Thank you, Miss Brewster, for saving my life," she said rather shame-facedly. Then she went on in a low tone, "I want to tell you something. I wrote that letter to Mr. Butler,--the one that made mamma so angry." "I know," I answered gravely. "You knew, and you jumped into the water after me anyway?" she said in a tone of unbelief. "Why, you might have let me drown as easy as not." "O no, I mightn't," I answered. "That isn't the way a Camp Fire Girl gets even." Ethel was silent a long while. Then she said, "Will you come back to our house after I have told mother the whole thing? She misses you a lot, says she never had anyone do her work so well as you did it, and she has been in a terrible temper ever since you left." "I don't know," I answered slowly. I had been very deeply hurt and my foolish pride was still on its hind legs. "Will you please come?" pleaded Ethel, slipping out of her chair and putting her arms around me. "We can have such good times after your work hours. Please, for my sake, I want you. You're the most wonderful girl I've ever met!" Old Mr. Pride and I had a final round and we came out with me sitting on his head. "I'll come back," I said, slipping my arm around Ethel. So you see, Katherine, adventure isn't dead, not by any means, even if you do have to take it along with your bread and butter. Loads of love from your stenographic friend, Sadie Shorthander, once upon a time your Sahwah. KATHERINE TO THE WINNEBAGOS April 8, 19--. Dearest Winnies: Daggers and dirks! Did I say it was dull out here? Deluded mortal! For the past week it's been so strenuous that I have seriously considered moving to Bedlam for a rest. If I'm not gray by the time I'm thirty it'll be because I'm bald. As Mistress of Ceremonies your humble servant is a rather watery success. You know from sad experience my fatal fondness for trying new and startling experiments and also my genius for leaving the most important things undone. Remember the time I was Lemonade Committee when we climbed Windy Hill and I carefully provided water and sugar and spoons and glasses, and no lemons? And the time I hid the unwashed dishes in the oven at Aunt Anna's and then went home with Gladys and forgot all about them, and Aunt Anna nearly had spasms because she thought her silverware had been stolen? And the time we went to Ellen's Isle and I mislaid the vital portion of my traveling suit half an hour before the train started and had to go in a borrowed suit that didn't fit? Every time little Katherine was given something to do she either forgot to do it altogether, or else did it in such a way as to make herself ridiculous. The memory of all those things rose up and oppressed me after I had undertaken to stage a Patriotic Pageant for the township of Spencer. I was so afraid I would do something that would turn it into a farce that I began to have nightmares the minute I sank to weary slumber. It was a daring idea, this patriotic pageant. Since history began there had never been a pageant, patriotic or otherwise, in this section. Most of the folks had never seen a circus, or a show, or a parade; so there was nobody to give me any help except Justice. I myself would never have thought of tackling it, but no sooner had my Camp Fire Girls gotten absorbed in Red Cross work, and been thrilled by reading accounts of what Camp Fire Girls were doing in other sections, than they begged me to get up a pageant. I had my misgivings, but, being a Winnebago, I couldn't back out. A pageant it should be, if it cost my head. (It pretty nearly did, but not in the way I had feared.) Justice Sherman hailed the plan with delight. "Go to it," he encouraged. "I'm with you to the bitter end. I've never done it before but I'll never begin any younger. "'There is a tide in the affairs of schoolma'ams, That, taken at the flood, leads on to Pageants.' "Lead on MacDuff! Trot out the order of events." At Justice's suggestion I summed up all the possibilities. "There isn't much to work with," I said thoughtfully, having counted up all my assets on the fingers of one hand. "Just ten Camp Fire Girls, about as many boys, one trick mule, and--you." "So glad I know, right at the outset, just where I come in," said Justice politely, "after the mule." "Sandhelo's got his red, white and blue pompom that the girls sent him for Christmas," I went on, ignoring Justice's gibe. "We could make red, white and blue harness for him, too." "If only he doesn't get temperamental!" said Justice fervently. "The girls could wear their Red Cross caps and aprons in one part of it," I continued, "and flags draped on them when they act out 'The Spirit of Columbia.' One of the girls can wear her Ceremonial gown and be the Spirit of Nature that comes to tell the others the secret of the soil that will help them win the war. Oh, ideas are coming to me faster than flies to molasses." "Would you advise me to wear my Ceremonial gown or my Red Cross apron and cap?" asked Justice soberly. "I could braid my hair in two pig-tails--" "Oh, Justice!" I interrupted, "if you only had a soldier's uniform!" Then, as I saw Justice wince and the laughter die out of his eyes, I stopped abruptly and changed the subject. It was an awfully sore point with him that he had been rejected for the army. "We'll have a flag raising, of course, and tableaux," I rushed on. "Would you put the flag on the schoolhouse, or set up a pole in the ground?" "I think on the schoolhouse," said Justice, with a return of interest. "That's where it belongs." Justice and I held more conferences in the next day or so than the King and his Prime Minister. Lessons in the little schoolhouse were abandoned while we drilled and rehearsed for the pageant. Justice and I put together and bought the flag. "Who's going to raise it?" asked Justice, shaking the beautiful bright starry folds out of the package. I considered. "I think the pupil that has the best record in school should raise it," suggested Justice. "I think," I said slowly, "I'll let Absalom Butts raise it." "Absalom Butts!" exclaimed Justice incredulously. "The laziest, meanest, most mischievous boy in school! I wouldn't let him be in the pageant, if I had my way, let alone raise the flag." "Exactly," I said calmly. "You're just like the rest of them. That's the whole trouble with Absalom Butts. He's been used to harsh measures all his life. His father has cuffed him about ever since he can remember. Everybody considers him a bad boy and a terror to snakes and all that and now he acts the part thoroughly. He's so homely that nobody will ever be attracted to him by his looks, and such a poor scholar that he will never make a name for himself at his lessons, and the only way he can make himself prominent is through his pranks. He's too old to be in school with the rest of the children; he should be with boys of his own age. His father makes him stay there because he is too obstinate to admit that he will never get out by the graduation route, and Absalom takes out his spite on the teacher. I can read him like a book. I've tried fighting him to a finish on every point and it hasn't worked. He's still ready to break out at a moment's notice. Now I'm going to change my tactics. I'm going to appoint him, as the oldest pupil, to be my special aid in the pageant, and help work out the details. I'm going to honor him by letting him raise the flag. We'll see how that will change his mind about playing pranks to spoil the pageant." "It won't work," said Justice gloomily. "Absalom Butts is Absalom Butts, the son of Elijah Butts; and a chip off the old block. The old man has a mean, crafty disposition, and he probably was just like Absalom when he was young. Absalom is going to do something to spoil that pageant, I see it in his eye. You watch." "It's worth trying, anyhow," I said determinedly. "It won't work," reiterated Justice. "You can't change human nature." "It worked once," I said, and I told him about the Dalrymple twins, Antha and Anthony, last summer on Ellen's Isle. "So you turned little Cry-baby into a lion of bravery and Sir Boastful into a modest violet!" said Justice, in a tone of incredulity. "Yes, and if you'd ever seen them at the beginning of the summer you wouldn't have held any high hopes of changing human nature, either," I remarked, a little nettled at Justice's tone. Justice started to reply, but was seized with a violent fit of coughing that left him leaning weakly against the door. I looked at him in some alarm. I knew it was throat trouble that had kept him out of the army, but it hadn't seemed to be anything to worry about--just a dry, hacking cough from time to time. Now, standing out there in the brilliant sunshine, he looked very white and haggard. "You're all tired out, you've been working too hard," I said, remembering how he had been putting in time after school hours working in Elijah Butts' cotton storehouse, because it was impossible to get enough men to handle the cotton. Then, by drilling my boys and girls by the hour in military marching and running countless errands for me--poor Justice was in danger of being sacrificed on the altar of my ambition. "I'm a selfish thing!" I said vehemently. "Nonsense!" said Justice, holding up his head and beginning to fold up the flag. "I got choked with dust, that's all." Manlike, he hated to display any sign of physical weakness before a girl. I decided to say no more about it, but I knew he needed rest. "Sit down a minute," I said artfully, sinking down on the doorsill, "and keep me 'mused. I'm tired to death. Tell me all the news in the Metropolis of Spencer." Justice fell into the trap. He sat down beside me and launched into a lively imitation of Elijah Butts convincing the school board that the old school books were better than the new ones some venturous soul had suggested. "If he only knew how you took him off behind his back, he wouldn't confide in you so trustingly," said I. "That's what comes of being a bargain," replied Justice loftily. "Great ones linger in my presence, anxious to breathe the same air. The Board coddles me like a rare bit of old china and proudly exhibits me to visitors. "Oh, by the way," he added, "I hear there's a stranger in town." I looked up with interest. "Fine or superfine?" I asked. "Superfine," replied Justice. "Where from?" I inquired. "Like Shelley's immortal soul," replied Justice solemnly, "she cometh from afar. She cometh to study Rural School Conditions--sent out by some Commission or other. She's likely to visit your school. Thought I'd tell you ahead of time so you'd manage to be on the premises when the delegation arrived. She might object to hunting through the woods for you." Here we were both overcome with laughter at the remembrance of the last "visitation" of the school board. "I can't figure out yet why I wasn't fired," said I, flicking a sociable spider off my lap with the stem of a leaf. "I would have been willing to bet my eyebrows on it that night. What made them change their minds, I wonder?" "Maybe it was because they hated to lose the bargain," answered Justice, half to himself. "Hated to lose what bargain?" I asked innocently. Then suddenly I understood. "Justice Sherman!" I exclaimed, starting up. "Did you threaten to leave if they discharged me?" Justice turned crimson and became reticent. "Well, I don't know as I threatened them exactly," he replied in a soothing drawl. "I don't look very threatening, now, do I?" "Oh, Justice," was all I could say, for at the thought of what he had done for me I was stricken dumb. Verily the power of the Bargain was great in the land! The pageant grew under our hands until it assumed really respectable proportions. The girls and boys were wild about it and drilled tirelessly by the hour. "I wish we had a better parade ground," sighed Justice regretfully, squinting at the small level plot of ground in front of the schoolhouse that was worn bare of grass. "We haven't room to make a really effective showing with our drill. If only the old schoolhouse wasn't in the way we could use the space that's behind it and on both sides of it." It was then that I had one of my old-time, wild inspirations. "Move the schoolhouse back," I said calmly. Justice shouted. "Why not roll up the road and set it down on the other side of field?" he suggested. "I don't see why we couldn't move the schoolhouse back," I repeated. "Why not, if it's in the way? It's no ornament, anyway." Half-amused, half-serious, Justice looked first at me and then at the little one-story shack that went by the name of schoolhouse. "By Jove! we can do it!" he exclaimed suddenly. "It'll be no trick at all. Just get her up on rollers and hitch Sandhelo to the pulley rope and let him wind her up. Just like that. An' zay say ze French have no sense of ze delicasse!" "What will the Board say?" I inquired, half fearfully. "We won't ask the Board," replied Justice calmly. "Move first, ask for orders afterwards, that's the way the great generals win battles. Remember how General Sherman cut the wires between him and Washington when he started out on his famous march to the sea, so that no short-sighted one could wire him to change his plans? Well, we're out to make this pageant a success, and we aren't going to risk it by stopping to ask too much permission. We'll move the schoolhouse first and ask permission afterward. By that time it'll be too late; the pageant is to-morrow." And we did move it. If you had ever seen us! It wasn't such a job as you might think. I suppose the word "schoolhouse" conjures up in your mind the brick and granite pile that is Washington High--imagine moving that out of the way to make room for a military drill! 'Vantage number one for our school. We also have our points of superiority, it seems. The old shack looked vastly better where we finally let it rest. There was a clump of bushes alongside that hid some of its battered boards beautifully. The parade ground seemed about three times as big as it had been before. "That's more like it," said Justice approvingly. "Now we can turn around without stubbing our toes against the schoolhouse." "What will Mr. Butts say?" I asked, beginning to have cold chills. "Just wait until that gets between the wind and his nobility!" chuckled Justice. "Never mind, I'll take all the blame." Nevertheless, when the crisis came, and Elijah Butts came driving up on the afternoon of the great occasion, I was there to face the music alone, Justice being nowhere in sight. Mr. and Mrs. Butts arrived in state, bringing with them a strange lady, who I figured out must be the one Justice had told me about, the one who, like Shelley's immortal soul, had come from afar and was sent by a Commission to study rural school conditions. I glanced wildly about to see if Justice were not hovering protectingly near, but there was no sign of him. However, I knew my duties as hostess. Nonchalantly I strolled over to the road to welcome the newcomers. Elijah Butts had just finished tying his horse and, bristling with importance, had turned to help the Commission Lady out of the rig. "Ah-h, Miss Fairlee," he said in smooth tones, "this is--ah--Miss Adams, our teacher at the Corners school." Then he suddenly jumped half out of his boots and stared over my shoulder as if he had seen a ghost. "Where's that schoolhouse?" he demanded, in a voice which seemed to indicate he thought I had it in my pocket. "It's right over there," I said calmly, pointing toward the bushes. Elijah Butts' eyes followed my fingers in a fascinated way; he could hardly believe his senses. "How did it get there?" he demanded. "We moved it back," I replied casually. "It was in the way of the maneuvers." Elijah Butts sputtered, choked, and was speechless. But Miss Fairlee, the Commission lady, laughed until she had to grip the side of the buggy for support. "It's the funniest thing I ever heard," she gasped. "I've heard of the Mountain coming to Mahomet, but I never heard of the Mountain getting out of the road for Mahomet. Oh, Mr. Butts, I think the West is delightful. You people are _so_ original and forceful!" That took the wind out of Mr. Butts' sails. What could he do after that neat little speech but take the compliment to himself and pass the matter off lightly? The pageant was a wonderful success in spite of my misgivings. I didn't forget to hand the torch to Columbia at the right moment and I didn't forget to bring the brown stockings for little Lizzie Cooper, who was the Spirit of Nature, and I made fire with the bow and drill without any mishap. But one thing was a dreadful disappointment to me. Absalom Butts was not there, and I had no chance to work out my experiment on him. Where he was I couldn't imagine. I had taken Clarissa home with me the night before to help me finish some things and she hadn't seen him since he went home from school; Mr. Butts also said he didn't know. He added, in a voice loud enough for Miss Fairlee to hear, that he would lick the tar out of him for not being in the patriotic pageant. No one knew that I had picked Absalom in my mind to raise the flag. There had been much speculation about who was to have this honor and in order to keep everybody happy I said I would not announce this until the moment came. Then I planned to make a speech and award the honor to Absalom, thus singling him out for something besides punishment for once in his life. I had had him helping me for several days, and given him certain definite things to do on the great occasion and was much disappointed that he didn't come to do them. Justice's warning came back and I had an uneasy feeling that he was in hiding somewhere, plotting mischief. I had a real inspiration, though, in regard to the flag raising. In a flowery speech I called upon Mr. Elijah Butts, the "President of the School Board and the most influential man in Spencer Township," to perform that rite. He swelled up until he almost burst, like the frog in the fable, as he stood there, conscious of Miss Fairlee's eye on him, with his great hairy hand on the pulley rope. Round the corner of the schoolhouse and hidden from view by the bush, I caught Justice Sherman's eye and he applauded silently with his two forefingers, meaning to say that it was a master stroke on my part. Then he dropped his eye decorously and started the singing of the National Anthem. The pageant ended up in a picnic supper eaten on the erstwhile parade ground, and then the people began to go home through the softly falling dusk. Miss Fairlee came to me and complimented me on the success of the pageant and asked to take some notes for future use; and Elijah Butts was quite cordial as he departed. I've discovered something to-day; if you want to win a person's undying affection, single him out as the most important member of the bunch. He'll fall for it every time. You note that I am talking about male persons, now. "Well, the show's over," said Justice, when the last of the audience had departed. "Now the actors can take it easy. Come on, let's get Sandhelo and go for a ride." We climbed into the little cart, still covered with its pageant finery, and drove slowly down the dusty road, discussing the events of the day. "O Justice," said I, "did you ever see anything so touching as the pride some of those poor women took in their boys and girls? They fairly glowed, some of them. And did you see that one poor woman who tried to fix herself up for the occasion? She had nothing to wear but her faded old blue calico dress, but she had pinned a bunch of roses on the front of it to make herself look festive." "We've started something, I think," said Justice thoughtfully. "We've taught the people how to get together and have a good time, and they like it. They'll be doing it again." "I hope so," I replied. Then I added, "I wonder where Absalom was?" "You see, your scheme didn't work after all," said Justice, in an I-told-you-so tone of voice. "Absalom wasn't impressed with the honor of being your right-hand man. He took the occasion to play hookey. It's a wonder he didn't try to play some trick on the rest of us; but I suppose he didn't dare, with his father there. He's afraid to draw a crooked breath when the old man's around." "I'm disappointed," I said pensively, leaning my head back and letting the cool wind blow the hair away from my face. It had been a strenuous day and I was tired out. The strain of being afraid every minute that I would do something ridiculous or had left something undone that was of vital importance had nearly turned my hair grey. Now that it was all over without mishap, the people had enjoyed it and my Camp Fire girls had covered themselves with glory, I relaxed into a delicious tranquillity and gave myself over to enjoyment of the quiet drive in the sweet evening air. "Why so deucedly pensive?" inquired Justice, after we had jogged along for some minutes in silence. "Just thanking whatever gods there be that I didn't make a holy show of myself somehow," I replied lazily. "Isn't this evening peaceful, though? Who would ever think that down around the other side of this sweet smelling earth men are killing each other like flies, and the night is hideous with the din of warfare?" Above us the big white stars twinkled serenely, approvingly; all nature seemed in tune with my placid mood. Justice fell under the spell of it, too, and leaned back in silent enjoyment. What was that sudden glare that shone out against the sky, over to the south? That red, lurid glare that dimmed the glory of the stars and threw buildings and barns into black relief? "The cotton storehouse!" exclaimed Justice in a horrified voice. "Hurry!" For once Sandhelo responded to my urging without argument, and we soon arrived on the scene of the blaze. Elijah Butts' plantation is about three miles from Spencer, and no water but the well and the cistern. "This is going to be a nice mess," said Justice, jumping out of the car and charging into the throng of gaping negroes who stood around watching the spectacle. The family of Butts had not returned from the pageant yet, having taken Miss Fairlee for a drive in the opposite direction. A few neighbors had gathered, but they stood there, gaping like the negroes and not lifting a hand to save the cotton. "Here you, get busy!" shouted Justice, taking command like a general. Under his direction a bucket brigade was formed to check the flames as much as possible and keep the surrounding sheds from taking fire. "Go through the barn and bring out the horses and cows, if there are any there," he called to me. I obeyed, and brought out one poor trembling bossy, the only livestock I found. Then Justice turned the command of the bucket brigade over to me and started in with one or two helpers to remove the cotton from the end of the storehouse that was not yet ablaze. He worked like a Trojan, his face blackened with smoke until it was hard to tell him from the negroes, the remains of his pageant costume hanging about him in tatters. "Somebody started this fire on purpose," he panted as he paused beside me a moment to clear his lungs of smoke. "There's been oil poured on the cotton!" Just at that moment the Butts family returned, driving into the yard at a gallop. Mr. Butts' wrath and excitement knew no bounds and he was hardly able to help effectively; he ran around for all the world like a chicken with its head off. Assistance came swiftly as people began to arrive from far and near, attracted by the blaze, but if it hadn't been for Justice's timely taking hold of the situation not a bit of the cotton would have been saved, and the house, barn and sheds would have gone up, too. Conjectures began to fly thick and fast on all sides as to how the fire had started, and a whisper began going the rounds that soon became an open accusation. One of the negroes that works for Mr. Butts swore he saw Absalom going into the storehouse that afternoon. My heart skipped a beat. He had not been at the celebration. Was this where he had been and what he had done the while? Elijah Butts was stamping up and down in such a fury as I had never seen. "He couldn't get out!" he shouted hoarsely to the group that stood around him. "He's locked in the woodshed, I locked him in there myself, and there isn't even a window he could get out of!" I started at his words. So that was where Absalom had been that afternoon. He hadn't deliberately disappointed me, then. But--Elijah Butts hadn't said that afternoon that he had locked Absalom up at home. He had pretended to be much mystified over the non-appearance of his son. Why had he done so? The answer came in a flash of intuition. Elijah Butts had probably had a set-to with Absalom over some private affair and had locked him up as punishment, but he didn't want Miss Fairlee to know that he had kept him out of the patriotic pageant and so he had denied any knowledge of Absalom's whereabouts. "The old hypocrite!" I said to myself scornfully. "Your woodshed's wide open," said someone from the crowd. "We were in there looking for a bucket. The door was open and there wasn't nobody in it." "He got out!" shouted Elijah Butts in still greater fury. "He got out and set fire to the cotton to spite me! Wait until I catch him! Wait till I get my hands on him!" He stamped up and down, shouting threats against his son, awful to listen to. "I thought he'd drive that boy to turn against him yet," said Justice, drawing me away to a quiet spot, and mopping his black forehead with a damp handkerchief. "I can't say but that it served him right. After all, Absalom is a chip off the old block. That's his idea of getting even. He didn't stop to think that it was the government's loss as well as his father's. Well, it's all over but the shouting; we might as well go home." We drove home in silence. Justice was tuckered out, I could see that, and I began to worry for fear his strenuous efforts would lay him up. I was still too much excited to feel tired. That would come later. All my energy was concentrated into disappointment over Absalom Butts. I couldn't believe that he was really as bad as this. I didn't want to believe he had done it, and yet it seemed all too true. Why had he run away if he hadn't? I shook my head. It was beyond me. Silently we drove into the yard and unhitched Sandhelo. "Good night," said Justice, starting off in the direction of his cabin. "Good night," I replied absently. I did not go right into the house. I was wide awake and knew I could not go to sleep for some time. Instead I sat in the doorway and blinked at the moon, like a touseled-haired owl. It was after midnight and everything was still, even the wind. Out of the corner of my eye I watched Justice wearily plodding along to his sleeping quarters, saw him open the screen door and vanish from sight within. Then, borne clearly on the night air, I heard an exclamation come from his lips, then a frightened cry. I sped down the path like the wind to the little cabin. A lamp flared out in the darkness just as I reached it and by its light I saw Justice bending over something in a corner. "What's the matter?" I called through the screen door. Justice turned around with a start. "Oh, it's you, is it?" he said. "Come in here." I went in. There, crouched in a corner on the floor, was Absalom Butts, his eyes blinking in the sudden light, his face like a scared rabbit's. It was he who had cried out, not Justice. "What's the trouble, Absalom," said I, trying to speak in a natural tone of voice, "can't you find your way home?" "Dassent go home," replied Absalom. "Why not?" "Pa'll kill me." "What for?" "Because I ran away." "So you've run away, have you?" said I. "Why?" "Because pa licked me and locked me in the woodshed and wouldn't let me come to the doin's this afternoon, and I just wouldn't stand it, so I got out and cut." "When did you get out?" I asked, leaning forward a trifle. "This afternoon," replied Absalom. "I thought first I'd come to the doin's anyhow and help you with those things I'd promised, but I was scared to come with pa there, so I went the other way. I walked and walked and walked, till I was tired out and most starved, because I hadn't brought anything along to eat, and I didn't know where I was headed for, anyway, and then I came along here and saw this shack and came in and sat down to rest. I must a fell asleep." "You didn't do it, then?" said I, eagerly. "Do what?" Absalom's tone was plainly bewildered. "Set fire to your father's cotton storehouse." "Whee-e-e-e-e!" Absalom's whistle of astonishment was clearly genuine. "I should say not!" "Do you know who did?" asked Justice, watching him keenly. "_Did_ somebody?" asked Absalom innocently. "I should say they did," said Justice, puzzled in his turn. "Are you sure you don't know anything about it?" Absalom shook his head vigorously. "I don't know anything about it," he said straightforwardly. "I was sure you didn't do it," I said triumphantly. "I had a feeling in my bones." "How does it happen that you weren't at the fire?" asked Justice wonderingly. "You must have seen the glare in the sky. People came for miles around. Didn't you see it?" Absalom shook his head. "I must a slept through it," he said simply, and followed it with such a large sigh of regret for what he had missed that Justice and I both had to smile. "Well, there's one thing about it," said Justice, "and that is, if you _didn't_ set fire to it, you'd better streak it for home about as fast as you can and clear yourself up. Everybody thinks you did it and your running away made it look suspicious. Besides, one of your father's men says he saw you coming out of the storehouse this afternoon. By the way, what _were_ you doing in there?" Absalom met his gaze unwaveringly. "Me? Why, I went in there to get my knife, that I'd left in there yesterday. I couldn't go away without my knife, could I?" He pulled it from his pocket and gazed on it fondly,--an ugly old "toad stabber." "See here, you weren't smoking any cigarettes in there, and dropped a lighted stub, perhaps?" asked Justice. "No," replied Absalom, "I wasn't smokin' to-day. I do sometimes, though," he admitted. "Well, you don't seem to be the villain, after all," said Justice, "and I'm mighty glad to hear it. So will a lot of people be. Things looked pretty bad for you this afternoon, Absalom." "Honest?" asked Absalom. "Do folks really think I set fire to it? What did pa say?" Justice laughed. "What he isn't going to do to you when he catches you won't be worth doing," he said. Absalom began to look apprehensive. "I'm afraid to go back," he said. "What are you afraid of, if you didn't do it?" asked Justice. "Pa wouldn't believe me," said Absalom nervously. "Oh, I guess he'll believe you all right," I said soothingly. "You go with me," begged Absalom, eyeing us both beseechingly. "He'll believe you. He never believes me." "Maybe we had better," said I. "He can stay here with you the rest of the night and we'll drive over the first thing in the morning." The next morning bright and early found us again on the scene of the fire. Early as we were, we found Elijah Butts poking in the ashes of his cotton crop with a wrathful countenance. When he saw us coming he strode to meet us and without a word laid hold of Absalom's collar. His expression was like that of a fox who has caught his goose after many hours of waiting. "I've got you, you rascal," he sputtered, shaking Absalom until his teeth chattered. "Where did you find him?" he demanded of Justice. "In my bunk," replied Justice, laying a hand on Mr. Butts' arm and trying to separate him from his son. "He had been there all evening, and knew nothing about the fire. He didn't do it." "Didn't do it!" shouted Mr. Butts. "Don't tell me he didn't do it. Of course he did it! Who else did?" We weren't prepared to answer. "I'm sure Absalom didn't do it, Mr. Butts," said Justice earnestly. "I'd stake a whole lot on it." "Well, I wouldn't, you can better believe!" answered Mr. Butts. "He did it, and I'm going to take it out of him." He began to march Absalom off toward the house, urging him along with a box on the ear that nearly felled him to the ground. Justice did it so quickly that I never will be able to tell just what it was, but in a minute there stood Elijah Butts rubbing his wrist and wearing the most surprised look I ever saw on the face of a man, and there sat Absalom on the ground half a dozen yards away. "Beat it back to our shack, Absalom," called Justice. "I guess the climate's a little too hot around here for you just yet." Absalom needed no second bidding. He sped down the road away from his paternal mansion as if the whole German army was after him. "When you can treat your son like a human being he'll come back," said Justice to Mr. Butts. "He don't need to come back," said Mr. Butts sourly, but with fury carefully toned down. Justice's use of an uncanny Japanese wrestling trick to wrench Absalom out of his vise-like grasp had created a vast respect in him. He wasn't quite sure what Justice was going to do next, and eyed him warily for a possible attack in the rear. "He don't need to come back," he mumbled stubbornly, "until he either says he did it and takes what's coming to him, or finds out who did do it." Growling to himself he went toward the house and we drove off to overtake Absalom. "Daggers and dirks!" exclaimed Justice. "Old Butts sure is some knotty piece of timber to drive screws into!" It was a rather dejected trio that Sandhelo, frisking in the morning air, carried back to the house. Justice, I could see, was trying to figure out by calculus the probable result of having jiu-jitsu-ed the president of the school board; I was sorry for Absalom and Absalom was sorry for himself. Once I caught him looking at me pleadingly. "_You_ don't think I done it?" he asked anxiously. "Not for a minute!" I answered heartily, smiling into his eyes. He looked down, in a shame-faced way, and then he suddenly put his arm around my neck. "I'm sorry I treated you so horrid," he murmured. Think of it! Absalom, the bully, the one-time bane of my existence, the fly in the ointment, riding down the road with his arm around my neck, and me standing up for him against the world! Don't things turn out queerly, though? Who would ever have thought it possible, six months ago? Absalom and I had quite a few long talks in the days that followed. He confided to me his hatred of lessons and his ambition to raise horses. Father let him help him as much as he liked, and promised him a job on the place any time he wanted it. Absalom seemed utterly transformed. He fooled around the horses day and night and showed a knack of handling them that proved beyond a doubt that he had chosen his profession wisely. I did not insist upon his going to school and was glad I hadn't; for in a day or two came the "visitation" of the Board, bringing Miss Fairlee to see my school. She was absolutely enchanted with the way we conducted things; gasped with astonishment at the graphophone and the lantern slides; exclaimed in wonder at the library; listened approvingly to the reading lesson, which was from one of the current magazines; partook generously of our dinner, cooked and served in the most approved style, and laughed heartily at the stunts we did afterward by way of entertainment. I took a naughty satisfaction in showing off my changed curriculum for her approval and watching the effect it had on the august Board members. None of them knew exactly what I had been doing all this time, and their amazement was immense. Mr. Butts did not come with the board this time, so I was spared the embarrassment of meeting him. Without him the rest of the Board were like sheep that had gotten separated from the bell-wether; they didn't know which direction to head into until Miss Fairlee expressed her unqualified approval of my methods; then they all endorsed it emphatically. "I wish I were a pupil again, so I could have you for a teacher!" said Miss Fairlee when school was out, and I considered that the highest compliment I had ever received. I immediately invited her to attend our Ceremonial Meeting that night and she accepted the invitation eagerly. We held it on the old parade ground in front of the school. In honor of our guest we acted out the pretty Indian legend of Kir-a-wa and the Blackbirds and when we came to the place where we rush out looking for the two crows we found two real ones sitting on the fence, only, instead of attacking us as the ones did in the legend, these two applauded vigorously. They were Justice and Absalom, come with Sandhelo and the cart to take me home, or rather what was left of me after the blackbirds had picked me to pieces. "Another day gone without mishap!" I said, as Justice slid back the stable door and I walked in with my arm around Sandhelo's neck. "Sandhelo will have to have a lump of sugar and an extra soft bed to celebrate. Come on, Sandy, let me tuck you in." But Sandhelo would not enter his stall. He stuck his head in, sniffed the air, and then, with a squeal that always heralds an outbreak of temperament, he rose on his hind legs and began to dance. "Whatever has gotten into him?" I began, tugging at his tail, which was the nearest thing I could get my hand onto, when suddenly a wild shriek rose up from under our very feet and in the dimness of the stall we saw something roll over and crouch in a corner. "Quick, the lantern!" said Justice. But we couldn't find it. Then from the depths of the stall there came a voice, crying in terrified tones, "Don' take me, mister Debble; don' take me, mister Debble, I done it, I done it; I set fiah to 'at ole cotton to get even with old Mister Butts fer settin' de dawgs on me; I done it, I done it; go 'way, Mister Debble, don' take me, I'll tell dem; only don' take me, Mister Debble!" Justice and Absalom and I stood frozen to the spot, listening to this remarkable outcry. Then Justice raised the lantern, which he just spied on the floor, and lighting it held it in the stall. By its flickering rays we saw a negro crouching in the corner, whose rolling eyes and trembling limbs showed him to be beside himself with fright. "Glory!" exclaimed Justice. "It's the same old bird we saw in the road that day, the one I said looked like mischief!" Here Sandhelo, nosing me aside, looked inquisitively over my shoulder and the darky immediately went into another spasm of fright, covering his face with his hands and imploring "Mister Debble" not to take him this time. "Whee-e-e-e-!" said Justice, whistling in his astonishment. "He's the one that fired the cotton and now he thinks Sandhelo is the devil coming after him!" "Mercy, what an awful creature!" said I, shuddering and looking the other way. "If Sandhelo gets a good look at him I'm afraid he'll return the compliment about taking him for His Satanic Nibs." "There's only one way you can keep him from getting you," said Justice to the darky gravely. "That's by going to Mr. Butts and telling him yourself that you did it. Otherwise, it's good-bye, Solomon." Here Sandhelo, as if he understood what was going on, suddenly snapped at the black legs stretched out across his stall. "I'll tell him, I'll tell him!" shuddered Solomon, and with a prolonged howl of terror he fled from the stable and down the road in the direction of the Butts plantation. "He'll tell him all right," chuckled Justice. "He'll face a dozen Elijah Buttses, before he lets the devil get him. Poor Sandhelo! Rather rough on him, though, to have his name used as a terror to evil doers!" Talk about nothing ever happening around here! O you darling Winnebagos, with your ladylike advantages, and your mildly eventful lives, you don't know what real excitement is! Worn out, but happily yours, Katherine. GLADYS TO KATHERINE April 10, 19--. Dearest old K: The Winnebagos have scored again, although it did take us nearly all year to make this particular basket. I know that if you had been here, you old miracle worker, you would have found the way before the first month had passed, but, not having your gift for seeing right through people's starched shirtwaists and straight into their hearts, we had to wait for chance to show us the way. And it turned out the way it usually does for the Winnebagos--we stooped to pick up a common little stone and found a pearl of great price. Of course, now there are lots of people who would like to be the setting for that pearl, but she belongs to the Winnebagos by right of discovery and we mean to keep her for our very own. For, after all, who but the Winnebagos could have discovered Sally Prindle, when up to that very week, day, hour and minute she hadn't even discovered herself? The chances are that she never would have, either, and what a shame it would have been! You remember my telling about Sally Prindle long ago, the time we tried to fix up her room for her and she wouldn't let us? Of course she hurt our feelings, because we hadn't been trying to patronize her and didn't deserve to be snubbed, but we got over it in a day or two and saw her side of it. It probably _was_ annoying to have three separate delegations take notice of your poverty in one day, and there was no telling how tactless the first two had been. At the second meeting of the LAST OF THE WINNEBAGOS, held on and around Oh-Pshaw's bed, we formally decided, with much speechifying by Agony and Oh-Pshaw, that Sally would be the special object of our Give Service Pledge. We would make her feel that we didn't care a rap whether she was poor or not; that it was she herself we cared about. We would ask her to share all our good times and would drop in to see her often, as good neighbors should, and would finally bring her around to the point where she would begin to Seek Beauty for herself, see that her bare room was too ugly for any good use, and gladly share our overflow with us. Oh, we planned great things that night! "Let's go over and call on her right away," suggested Hinpoha, who was fired with enthusiasm at the plan and couldn't wait to begin the program of Give Service. Off we went down the hall, filled with virtuous enthusiasm. Sally was at home because we could see the light shining through the transom. "Wait a minute, don't knock," whispered Agony with a giggle. "I know a lot more Epic way." She pulled a candy kiss from her pocket, scribbled an absurd note on a piece of paper about weary travelers waiting at the gate, tied it to the kiss and threw it through the transom. We heard it strike the floor and heard Sally rise from a creaking chair and pick it up. Giggling, we waited for her to come and let us in. In a minute her footsteps came toward the door and with comradely smiles we stepped forward. The door was opened a very small crack, and out flew the kiss, much faster than it had gone in. It just missed Hinpoha's nose by a hair's breadth and fell on the floor with a spiteful thud. Then the door slammed emphatically. We looked at each other in consternation. "Whee-e-e-e-e-!" said Agony in a long-drawn whistle. "Horrid--old--thing!" said Hinpoha, picking up the kiss from the floor and holding it up for us to see that the note had never been opened. Feeling both foolish and hurt we trailed back home and sadly gave up the idea of Giving Service to Sally Prindle. "Let her alone, she isn't worth worrying about," said Hinpoha, beginning to be just as cross as she had been enthusiastic before. "She hasn't a spark of sociability in her." "There are Hermit Souls----" began Oh-Pshaw, and Agony cut in with "Twinkle, twinkle, little Sal, How we'd like to be your pal, But you hold your nose so high You don't see us passing by." That ended Sally Prindle as far as the LAST OF THE WINNEBAGOS were concerned. But I had an uncomfortable feeling all the time that if Nyoda had been there she would have managed to become friendly with Sally in some way, and that we had failed to "warm the heart" of this "lonely mortal" who "stood without our open portal." Sally haunted me. How any girl could live and not be friendly with the people she saw every day was more than I could understand. She just grubbed away at her lessons, paid no attention to what went on around her, snubbed any girl who tried to make advances and lived a life of lofty detachment. She was a good student and invariably recited correctly when called upon, but beyond that none of the teachers could get a particle of warmth out of her, not even fascinating Miss Allison, who has all her classes worshipping at her feet. Sally worried me for a while; then she moved out of Purgatory and took a room with some private family in town and as I hardly ever saw her any more I forgot her after a time. Life is so _very_ full here, Katherine dear, that you can't bother much about any one person. Of course, the big thought that runs through everything this year, all our work and all our play, is the War and what we can do to help. At the beginning of the year Brownell pledged herself to raise five thousand dollars for the Red Cross by various activities; this was outside of the personal subscription fund. A big Christmas bazaar and several benefit performances brought the total close to four thousand, but the last thousand proved to be a sticker. Various committees were called to discuss ways and means of raising the money, but they never could agree on anything for the whole college to do together, and finally abandoned the quest for a bright idea and decided to let everybody raise money in any way they could think of and put it all together to make up the total. The Board of Trustees offered a silver loving cup to the individual, club, sorority, group or clique of any kind that raised the largest amount inside of a month. The day that was announced there was a hastily called meeting of the LAST OF THE WINNEBAGOS. "We're going to win that loving cup," declared Hinpoha in a tone of finality. "This is our chance to show what we're made of. Up until now we've been doing little easy 'Give Services.' At last we're up against something big. Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their party. The WINNEBAGOS have never fallen down on anything yet that they undertook and they're not going to now. We're going to win that contest. Won't Nyoda be proud of us?" We cheered until the windows rattled and then Migwan brought us to earth with a thud. "How are we going to do it?" she asked soberly. We all fell silent and donned our thinking caps. Minutes passed but nobody sprouted a bright idea. Suggestion after suggestion was made, only to be turned down flat. "We might give a circus," suggested Hinpoha rather doubtfully. "Remember the circus we gave at home last year?" "There have been nine circuses of various kinds already this year," wet-blanketed Agony. "You couldn't hire anybody to attend another." "Masquerade as seeresses and give select parlor readings of people's futures," suggested Oh-Pshaw. "We could charge five dollars for a reading." "Been done already," said Migwan. "Anyway, the faculty have forbidden it. The girls that did it last year scandalized a prominent Trustee's wife by telling her that her daughter was going to elope with an Italian count before the month was out. The daughter had married a minister the week before, only the girls didn't know it, and the Trustee's wife got so excited she sat down on a two-hundred-dollar Satsuma vase and smashed it and tried to sue the seeresses for damages. Then, of course, she found out they were students and the faculty put an end to parlor seeresses." That's the way it went. Not a plan was suggested but what turned out to be old stuff or not practicable. "Oh, for an idea!" groaned Agony, beating her white brow with the palm of her hand. "We might go round with a hand organ," suggested Oh-Pshaw in desperation. "Gladys could be the monkey and pass around a tin cup." "Thanks, I wouldn't think of aspiring to such an honor," I replied modestly. "What we want," said Migwan decidedly, "is a fad--something that will take the college by storm and separate them from their cash. I remember last year some of the seniors started the fad of taking impressions of the palm of your hand on paper smoked with camphor gum and sending them away to have the lines read by some noted palmist, and they made oceans of money at twenty-five cents an impression." We talked possible fads until we were green in the face, but nobody got an inspiration and we finally adjourned with our heads in a whirl. The next day I went into a deserted classroom for a book I had left behind and found Sally Prindle with her head down on one of the desks, crying. By that time I had forgotten how disagreeable she had been to us and hastened over to see what was the matter. "What's the trouble, Sally?" I asked, laying my hand on her shoulder. Sally started up and tried to wipe the tears away hastily. "Nothing," she answered in a flat voice. "There is too something," I said determinedly, and sat down on the desk in front of her. She looked at me sort of defiantly for a minute and then she broke down altogether. Between sobs she told me that she wasn't going to be able to come back to college next year because she hadn't won the big Andrews prize in mathematics she had counted confidently on winning, and she had worked so hard for it that she had neglected her other work, and the first thing she knew she had a condition in Latin. Besides, she was sick and couldn't do the hard work she had been doing outside to pay her board. I never saw anyone so broken up over anything. I wouldn't have expected her to care whether she came back to college or not; I couldn't see what fun she had ever gotten out of it, but I suppose in her own queer way she must have enjoyed it. I tried to comfort her by telling her that the way would probably be found somehow if she took it up with the right people, but Sally wasn't the kind of girl that took comfort easily. Life was terribly serious to her. She felt disgraced because she hadn't won the prize and was sure nobody would want to lend her money to finish her course. I left her at last with my heart aching because of the uneven way things are distributed in this world. Our room was a mess when I got back. Our floor was entertaining the floor below that night and Hinpoha was in the show. She was standing in the middle of the room draping my dresser scarf around her shoulders for a fichu, while Agony was piling her hair high on her head for her and Oh-Pshaw was pinning on a train made of bath towels. "Have you a blue velvet band?" Hinpoha demanded thickly, as I entered, through the pins she was holding in her mouth. "No, I haven't," I replied, retiring to a corner to escape the sweeping strokes of the hair brush in Agony's hand. "Why haven't you?" lamented Hinpoha. "I just _have_ to have one." "What for?" I asked. "To put around my neck, of course," explained Hinpoha impatiently. "It's absolutely necessary to finish off this costume. Go out and scrape one up somewhere, Gladys, there's a dear." I obediently made the rounds, but nowhere did I find the desired blue band. Not even a ribbon of the right shade was forthcoming. "Paint one on," suggested Agony, with an inspiration born of despair. "Then you'll surely have it the right shade." "The paint box is in the bottom dresser drawer," said Hinpoha, warming to the plan at once. "Hurry up, Agony." "Oh, I'll not have time to do it," said Agony, moving toward the door. "I've got just fifteen minutes left to sew the ruffle back on the bottom of my white dress to wear in chapel to-morrow when we sing for the bishop, and it's really more important for the country's cause that I have a white dress to wear to-morrow than that you have a blue band around your neck to-night. My green and purple plaid silk would look chaste and retiring among the spotless white of the choir, now, wouldn't it?" And swinging her hairbrush she went out. Oh-Pshaw had already disappeared. "Here, Gladys," said Hinpoha, holding out the box to me, "mix the turquoise with a little ultramarine." "I'm awfully sorry, 'Poha, but I can't stop," said I. "I've an interview with Miss Allison in five minutes. Get somebody else, dear." "Everybody's rushed to death," grumbled Hinpoha. I went off to keep my appointment and Hinpoha took up her watch for a passer-by whom she could bully into painting a blue band on her neck. Being part of the surprise for the guests she couldn't very well go out and risk being seen; she just had to stay in the room and wait for someone from our floor to come along. For a long while nobody came, and then, when she was about ready to give up, she did hear footsteps coming down the corridor. It was dark by that time and she couldn't see who it was, but she pounced out like a cat on a mouse and dragged the girl into her room. "Paint a blue band on my neck, quick!" she commanded, thrusting out the paint box and switching on the light. Then she saw who it was. It was Sally Prindle. Hinpoha was a little taken aback, but she had about exhausted her patience waiting for someone to come by and help her. "Will you, please?" she pleaded, holding out the paints enticingly. "What is it?" asked Sally dully, looking at Hinpoha in that crazy costume as if she thought she was not in her right mind. Hinpoha explained the urgent and immediate need of a blue band of a certain shade on her neck. "But I never painted anything before," objected Sally. "You'll never learn any younger," said Hinpoha, jubilant that Sally hadn't walked out with her nose in the air. "Here, take the brush, I'll show you what to mix; see, this and this and this." Under Hinpoha's direction Sally painted the blue band and then regarded her handiwork with critical eyes. "Thanks, that's fine," said Hinpoha, holding out her hand for the paints. "It needs something more," said Sally slowly, squinting at Hinpoha's neck. "Do you mind if I use any more paint?" "Go as far as you like," said Hinpoha, surprised into flippancy, "let your conscience be your guide!" Sally made swift dabs at the little color squares, her face all puckered up in a deep frown of concentration. "Now, how do you like it?" she asked anxiously, after a few minutes, leading Hinpoha to the mirror. Hinpoha says she screamed right out when she looked, she was so surprised and delighted. For on the front of the band Sally had painted the most wonderful ornament. It was an enormous ruby, set in a gold frame, the design of which simply took your breath away. How she ever did it with the colors in Hinpoha's box is beyond us. "Oh, wonderful!" raved Hinpoha, hugging Sally in her extravagant way. "I can't wait until the girls see it. Won't I make a sensation, though! Come to the party, won't you please, Sally? We'd love to have you." Sally shook her head and prepared to depart. "I have to go," she said with a return to her old brusque manner. "I have another engagement." But Hinpoha saw the wistful look that came into her face and she knew that Sally's "other engagement" was waiting on table in the boarding house where she lived. Hinpoha's painted jewelry created a sensation all right. Cries of admiration rose on every side, and the fact that the stony-faced Sally Prindle had done it only added to the sensation. Who would ever have suspected that the most inartistic-looking girl in the whole college had such a talent up her sleeve? Two days later there was another excited meeting of the LAST OF THE WINNEBAGOS. "Our fortune's made!" shrieked Agony joyfully, dancing around the room and waving a Japanese umbrella over her head. "Why? How?" we all cried. "The fad! The fad!" shouted Agony. "What fad?" I asked. "Do stop capering, Agony, and put down that umbrella before you break the lamp shade. We've smashed three already this year." "Don't you see," continued Agony, breathless, dropping down on the bed and fanning herself with the handle of the umbrella. "Hinpoha's started a fad with that painted jewelry--blessings on that fool notion of hers of painting a band on her neck, anyway! Half a dozen girls came to classes this morning with bands painted on their necks and ornaments in front that they'd gotten Sally to paint for them. In another day the whole college will be after her to paint ornaments on their necks. Don't you see what I mean? We've got to join forces with Sally, set up in business for the Benefit of the Red Cross--and the cup is ours. Whoop-la! Oh, girls, don't you _see_!" We saw, all right. Inside of two minutes Sally was voted a member of the LAST OF THE WINNEBAGOS and in a few hours business was in full swing. Sally, of course, was the star of the cast, but the rest of us worked just as hard as press agents. We placarded the whole college with posters announcing that Mme. Sallie Prindle, the distinguished painter of jewelry, would create, for the benefit of the Red Cross, any combination of precious stones desired by the paintee--charges twenty-five cents and up. Students were urged to show their patriotism by appearing in classroom adorned with one of the masterpieces of the above-mentioned Prindle. It was a success from the word go. The fad spread like wildfire, and Sally spent all her waking hours that were not actually taken up with recitations painting jewelry on fair necks and arms. Lessons were almost forgotten in the fascinating business of admiring designs and comparing effects, and many were the wails because the wonderful things had to be washed off all too soon. We had offered our room as studio because Sally's was too far away from the center of things, and most of the time it was so crowded with eager customers that we couldn't get in ourselves. Prices rose as business increased, and the candy box we were using for a bank showed signs of collapsing. The next week the juniors gave a dance and they all ordered dog collars for the occasion. Everybody else had to stand aside. Prices for these were to be one dollar and up, according to how elaborate they were. How Sally ever got them all on without fainting in her tracks will always be a mystery. She did a lot of them the night before and then the girls wound their necks with gauze bandages to keep them clean. Miss Allison, who dropped in during the performance, folded up on the bed and laughed until she was weak. "I never saw anything to equal it, never," she declared. "There's never been such a fad in the history of the college." Then she sat up and demanded a dog collar herself. "Why on earth didn't you tell us you could paint jewelry, Sally Prindle?" she asked, as she watched those swift fingers doing their wonderful work. "Of all things, wasting your time specializing in mathematical figures, when all the time you had designs like these in your head!" "I never knew I could do it," said Sally in a funny, bewildered fashion that set the girls all a-laughing. "I never had a paint brush in my hand before. _She_,"--pointing to Hinpoha--"put the things into my hands and ordered me to paint, and I painted. It came to me all of a sudden." Did we get the loving cup? I should say we did! By the end of the month we had raised five hundred and some odd dollars, more than half of the total, and by far the largest amount raised by any group. We were all wrecks by the time it was over, because we had to take turns waiting on table down at Sally's boarding house to hold her job for her while she worked up in our room; besides getting the paint off the girls' necks again. That wasn't always an easy job because sometimes she had to use things beside water colors to get certain effects. But it was well worth our while, for the LAST OF THE WINNEBAGOS have achieved undying fame. Migwan started it with her fake Indian legend and the rest of us surely carried it to a grand finish. The best of the whole business, though, was getting Sally. Do you know why she was so queer and stand-offish to people all this while? She told us in a burst of confidence that night after we had been given the loving cup. O Katherine, it would almost break your heart. It seems she has a brother who forged a note last year and was sent to prison. She considered that money a debt of honor which she must pay back, and so she came away to college, planning to work her way through and become a teacher of mathematics, which was her strong subject. But she had taken her brother's disgrace so to heart that she thought the people in college would consider her an outcast if they found it out, and, rather than go through the misery of having people drop her after they had been friendly with her she made up her mind to make no friends at all, and then she didn't need to worry about their finding it out and cutting her. It broke her all up to turn down our offers of friendship last fall and she left Purgatory because she couldn't bear to see us after that. Think of it, Katherine, what she must have suffered, and nobody to tell it to! And everybody calling her a prune! We all cried over her and assured her a million times we didn't care a rap what her brother had done; we loved her and were proud to have her for a friend. She was a different girl after that. All the stiffness came out of her like magic and she looked like a person who has been let out of prison after being shut up for years. Her great dread all the time had been that somebody would find out about her brother; now that we actually knew it and it didn't make a bit of difference, the big load was off her spirits. From being the most unpopular girl in the class she suddenly became one of the most popular. All her money troubles faded too, because she got work making designs for a big Art Craft jewelry shop that paid her enough so she didn't have to borrow any more money. The nicest part of it all, though, was what Agony did. The night that Sally Prindle told us about her brother Agony wrote to her father, who, I imagine, must be a very influential man, and asked if he could get Sally's brother pardoned. Just how Agony's father went about it we will never know, but not long afterward Sally got a letter from her brother saying that he had been pardoned on the condition that he would enlist in the army, which he had done. Think what that meant to Sally! Instead of being afraid anyone would find out she had a brother she could now speak of him as proudly as the other girls did who had brothers in the army; could take her place with the proudest of them. Oh, Katherine, if we could only see right through people and know just why they do things the way they do, what a wonderful world this would be! Lovingly yours, Gladys. KATHERINE TO THE WINNEBAGOS April 25, 19--. Dearest Winnies: I thought it had all happened, that is, everything that was going to happen for the next ten years, but it seemed that the excitement of the last few weeks was but a beginning, and a very humble beginning at that! We had just gotten over the sensation of the fire and the arrest of the negro, and school was in running order again and life in general had resumed the even tenor of its ways, when, without warning, the sky fell on the house of Adams. They say that coming events cast their shadows before, and that everything works out according to a fixed rule, but this could only have been the exception that proved the rule. Having battered around this wicked world for twenty years I thought I was prepared for all the shocks that human flesh is heir to, and that no matter what happened there was a special rule of etiquette to fit it, but there was nothing in all my experience, nor in the Ten Commandments, nor Hoyle, nor Avogadro's Hypothesis, nor Grimm's Law, that prepared me for what happened next. Saturday was the fateful day. Saturday is the day on which everything happens to me. I was born on Saturday; it was on Saturday I met you and landed headfirst into the Winnebago circus; it was on Saturday I heard the news that I was not to go to college, and, I suppose, in the order of human events, I shall die on Saturday. On this Saturday morning--can it be only yesterday?--I sat in the doorway peacefully knitting and occasionally gazing off into space as my thoughts wandered, flitting from subject to subject like the yellow butterflies that flashed from flower to flower. The sunshine sprayed over the roof and glinted on my amber needles, until it seemed that I was knitting sunshine right into the socks. I was filled with a vast contentment that throbbed in my temples and quivered in my toes; from head to foot I was "in tune with the infinite." That morning father and I had gone over our accounts and our balance was so satisfactory that we figured in another year we could finish paying off the mortgage. When I complimented father on his talent for stock farming, he said simply: "It's all owing to you. You put new life into us again. We never could have done it alone. Besides, I reckon most of the sharp bargaining in horseflesh was done by you. You got more out of people than I ever did. You've kept up the collections, too. You never got cheated once. You're certainly worth your salt as a business manager, child." Imagine it! Calling me his business manager! I wasn't an absolute good-for-nothing, then. All these things went serenely through my mind as I sat there knitting in the sunshine, and laying my plans for summer pleasures. I would take the Wenonahs and go off camping somewhere in the woods for a week or two and give them a taste of real life in the open. The picture of that little camp rose vividly before me, and I planned out the details minutely. We would have to have a tent--somewhere or other I must acquire this necessary article. A humorous thought came to me of moving the schoolhouse out into the woods for a camper's dwelling, and in imagination I saw it bumping along behind us on our journey, with Justice walking along beside it, carrying the chimney in his arms. I laughed aloud at my incongruous fancies, startling a hen that was clucking at my feet so that she fled with a scandalized squawk, stopping a few yards away to look around at me inquiringly, as if trying to figure out what was coming from me next. The hen broke up my fancies and I returned to my knitting with a start to find I had dropped several stitches and had a place in the heel of my sock that looked like the stem end of an apple. I raveled back and painstakingly re-knitted the heel, then I laid my knitting in my lap and gazed dreamily up the road, resting my eyes on the tender greenness of the fields. Sitting thus I saw an automobile coming into view along the road. I watched it idly, glittering in the sunlight. To my surprise it turned into our lane and approached the house. I went down to the drive to meet it; tourists frequently stopped at the houses for water or for directions, and I would save these people the trouble of getting out of the car. The big machine rolled up to the drive and came to a standstill with a soft sliding of brakes. Then a loud, hearty voice called out, "Why here she is now! Katherine Adams, don't you know me? Don't suppose you do, with these infernal glasses on." I looked hard at the man in the long linen dust coat and tourist cap who sat alone in the car; then my eyes nearly popped out of my head. "Why, Judge Dalrymple!" I exclaimed, starting forward with a cry of joy and seizing the outstretched hand. "Where did you come from? Are you touring? How did you ever happen to stop here?" I tumbled the questions out thick and fast. "I didn't 'happen' to stop here," said the Judge in his decisive way. "I've been rolling over these endless roads for three days on purpose to get here. Lord, what a God-forsaken country! And now that I _am_ here at last," he added, "aren't you going to ask me in? Where's your father?" "Excuse me," said I, blushing furiously. "I was so taken by surprise at seeing you that I even forgot my own name, to say nothing of my manners. Come right in." I settled him in the best chair in the house, brought him a glass of water and left him talking to mother in his hearty way while I went out in search of father. Father was painting a shed when I found him, and he came just the way he was, with streaks of paint on his jumper and overalls. If he had had any inkling of what he was being summoned to----! Judge Dalrymple was just as pleased to meet father in his paint-streaked jumper as if he had been a senator in a silk hat, and after the first moment of embarrassment father felt as if the Judge were an old-time friend. Then the Judge began to explain why he had come, and the bomb dropped on the roof of the house of Adams. I couldn't comprehend it at first any more than father could. It sounded like a page out of Grimm's Fairy Tales. But it seemed that he knew all about the company my father had lost his money in last summer, and he and some other men bought it up and set it on its feet again. War orders had suddenly boomed it and it was now solid as a rock. The original stockholders still held their shares and would draw their dividends as soon as they were declared, which Judge Dalrymple prophesied would be soon. Our days of struggling were over. We were "hard-uppers" no longer; we were "well off" at last. I left the Judge and father talking over the details of the business and wandered aimlessly around the dooryard, trying to comprehend the meaning of what had happened to us, and capering as each new thing occurred to me. My narrow horizon had suddenly rolled back and the whole world lay before me. College--travel--study--return to my beloved friends in the east--best doctors for mother--all those things kaleidoscoped before me, leaving me giddy and faint. I seized a hoe and began to demolish an ant hill for sheer exuberance of spirits. "What's the matter, have you had a sunstroke?" asked Justice Sherman, suddenly appearing beside me from somewhere. "Worse than that, it's an earthquake," I replied. "Take a deep breath, Justice Sherman, because you're going to need it in a minute." Then I told him about father's investing his money in the western oil company last summer and apparently losing it, and how the company had unexpectedly come to life again. "Whew!" said Justice, looking dazed for a minute; then he expressed the sincerest joy at our good fortune I have ever heard one mortal express at the prosperity of another. But after his congratulations were all made he stopped short as if he had just thought of something and then he said slowly, "I suppose you'll be going away from here now; moving out west, possibly to San Francisco?" It seemed to me that he looked very sober at the thought. "Not if I know it," I replied decisively. "It'll be the east for me, if I go anywhere, where the Winnebagos have their hunting grounds." "You _are_ going away then?" asked Justice composedly. "I don't know," I replied truthfully. "Nothing is settled yet. Give us time to catch our breath. In the meantime, come in and meet our guest, the new president of the Pacific Refining Company, who came to tell us the good news." Justice assumed an exaggerated air of dignity and formality that upset my composure so I could hardly keep my face straight as I walked into the house. "Oh, Judge," I called blithely, "here is the rest of the happy family. Justice, this is Judge Dalrymple." Then the second bomb dropped. For, at the sight of Justice, Judge Dalrymple sprang out of his chair with a hoarse sound in his throat as if he were choking, and stood staring at him as if he had seen a ghost. Justice looked fit to drop. "Father!" he said weakly. "Justice!" said Judge Dalrymple with dry lips. "How did you get here? Where have you been all this time?" "Out west," replied Justice. "Why didn't you tell us where you were??" asked the Judge, sitting down heavily again. "I merely followed your instructions," replied Justice with dignity. "You told me to get out; that you didn't ever want to hear from me again, and I took you at your word." "I was a fool, a blind fool, and in a great rage when I said that. I didn't mean it," said the Judge, in a choking voice. "But you said it, nevertheless," replied Justice, "and I was hot-headed and went." "What have you been doing all this time?" asked the Judge curiously. "Roughing it," replied Justice, in the tone of one who has great adventures to tell, "until I came here and turned into a professor." A humorous twinkle lit up his eye as he mentioned the word "Professor." In a daze of astonishment father, mother and I watched this unexpected meeting and reconciliation between father and son. In due time we had all the story. Judge Dalrymple had set his heart on having his oldest son, Justice, become a lawyer like himself, and go into his law firm as junior partner. But Justice had no liking for the law. All he wanted to do was tinker with electrical things. It was the only thing in the world he cared for. When he got through college and his father insisted upon his entering the law school he flatly refused. There was a scene and he and his father quarreled bitterly. His father told him he could either go to law school or get out and hoe for himself and he chose the latter. He left home. All the while he had been in college he had been working on an electrical device to enable deaf men to receive wireless messages. He now went to work on this and finished it, and, boylike, thought his fortune was made. But it seemed fortune had turned her back on him. He had no money himself to market the device and he could not succeed in interesting anyone with capital. He spent many weary days, going from one place to another with his invention, only to meet with failure on all sides. He had always had delicate health and the long hours he had spent indoors working on his beloved experiments finally told on him and he developed a throat trouble which made it impossible for him to stay in the north. One day, in a moment of great discouragement, he threw his invention into the New York harbor and sorrowfully gave up his dream of being an inventor. He was down and out but still too proud to write home and ask help from his father. He had a chance to act as chauffeur for a party of ladies who wanted to tour the west and in this manner he made his way to Texas. He worked there on a sheep ranch for a number of months; then, seized with a desire to see the country, he worked his way through the Territory and into Arkansas, and finally into the township of Spencer, where he was attacked by robbers one night on the road, robbed of all his belongings and left lying there with his head cut open. Then it was that he had wandered into our stable, was found, and nursed back to health. Our climate agreed with him so well that he decided to stay for a while, and got the position of teaching in the high school at Spencer, which wasn't very hard work. The long walk or drive in the open, back and forth every day, and his sleeping in the airy shack, gradually worked a cure to his throat, and brought back the health he had lost through overwork and disappointment. Besides--just listen to this, will you--he said that I had given him such an amazing new outlook on life that he wanted to stay as near to me as he could and learn my philosophy. He had been utterly discouraged when he came, had lost his grip on things, and didn't care a hang what became of him, but I had put new life and ambition back into him. Imagine it! My philosophy! He had resolved to have nothing more to do with his father after he had turned him out, and dropped the name of Dalrymple, going by the name of Justice Sherman. His full name was Justice Sherman Dalrymple. Thus ended the mystery of the scholarly sheep herder. The son of _my_ Judge Dalrymple! I couldn't believe it, but it was true beyond a doubt. I _did_ know a hawk from a handsaw, after all. No wonder he had looked so sad sometimes when he thought no one was watching him, with such memories to brood over! No wonder he had acted so queerly when I told him what we had done to Antha and Anthony up on Ellen's Isle. They were his younger brother and sister! Judge Dalrymple was speaking to Sherman again. "So you threw your invention into the New York Harbor, did you?" he said regretfully. "It's too bad, because some one to whom you showed it has been writing and writing to the house about it. I couldn't forward the letter because I had no idea where you were. The Government wants to try out your invention. I never dreamed that those fool experiments you were forever making amounted to anything. I see now you were wiser than I. Come home, boy, and tinker all you like. We'll throw the lawyer business into the discard. Could you build up your thingummyjig again?" At this astonishing news Justice began whooping like a wild Indian. "Could I build it up again?" he shouted. "Just give me a chance. Just watch me!" He seized me around the waist and began jigging with me all over the floor. "Save the pieces," I panted, sinking into a chair and making a vain attempt to smooth back my flying hair. Then I noticed that Judge Dalrymple was looking at me with eyes filled with awe, not to say fear. "Girl, what are you?" he asked in a strange voice. "Are you Fate? Every time I come in touch with you, you work some miracle in my household. First you perform a magic in my two younger children, and then when I attempt to make some slight return for your great service and seek you out, I find that you have also drawn my other child to you from out of the Vast and worked as great a miracle in him. Are you human or superhuman, that you can play with people's destinies like that? Under what star were you born, anyway?" "Weren't any stars at all," I replied, laughing. "The sun was shining!" O my Winnies, what a day this has been! The sun rose exactly as on any other day, without any warning of what was coming, and yet before he set the world had been turned topsy turvy for five people! Isn't life glorious, though? Mercy, but I'm glad I was born! Breathlessly yours, Katherine. KATHERINE TO THE WINNEBAGOS April 27, 19--. Oh, My Winnies: How can I tell it? Father died to-day. Heart failure, brought on by excitement over the fire and the coming of Judge Dalrymple. Think of it! After all these years of hard work and grinding poverty and bitter disappointment, to fall just at the moment when success and prosperity were within reach. Oh, the terrible irony of Life! Your broken-hearted Katherine. KATHERINE TO THE WINNEBAGOS May 9, 19--. Dearest Winnies: Thanks, a thousand times, for all the beautiful, comforting letters you wrote. When did anyone ever have such friends as I? Everyone has been so kind, so sympathetic. The whole countryside turned out to help us. Judge Dalrymple and Justice are still here, straightening up father's affairs. The farm and the stock are to be sold. Mother is sick; father's death was a great shock to her. As soon as she is better she and I are going home with Judge Dalrymple for a visit. We are going to motor back with him and Justice--won't it be glorious? Justice is going back home to live. He and his father have become great pals; it is perfect joy to watch them going about like two boys, arm in arm. You never see one without the other any more. Now that they are together it is possible to see quite a resemblance, but Justice is much handsomer than his father ever could have been. Sandhelo acted just as though he remembered the Judge from last summer; he squealed when he saw him and put his nose into his pocket. We had a council about what should become of Sandhelo and finally decided that he was to be sent home to Judge Dalrymple's to be a pet for Antha and Anthony. Sandhelo nodded solemnly when we told him, as much as to say it was all right with him. I have a queer feeling all the time that that mule is more than half human. He has such an uncanny way of taking people's affairs into his own hands, sometimes. Did he not recognize Justice in the road that night when I would have fled from him, thinking he was the negro, Solomon, and didn't he scare Solomon into confessing that he had set fire to Elijah Butts' cotton storehouse? To-morrow is May 10th, the date that school closes in this district, and I have planned a farewell celebration for the scholars. I am going to give them "for keeps" all the things that came from the House of the Open Door, besides all the splendid things that came for Christmas, to be the property of the Corners schoolhouse from that time on henceforward, to make of it another House of the Open Door. May 10th, Evening. Another amazing day! Do you know, I half believe that I have been transported in a dream back to the land of witches and fairies, and have to keep pinching myself to make sure I'm still myself, Katherine Adams, and not some other girl who has gotten into my shoes by mistake. I have a dreadful fear that I will find my real self sitting in the road somewhere, tumbled off old Major's back as he ambled along, reading in some book of romance the wonderful things that are happening to this new, strange self. And presently it will be time to go home and help with supper, and romance will come to an end with the closing of the book. But I guess I'm real, all right. Before the door stands Judge Dalrymple's car, latest model; its loud, raucous voice containing no hint of elfin horns as it announces the return of Justice and his father from a spin in the country. Beside me on the table is the deed of sale of our property, made out to one Jim Wiggin, and drawn up on very substantial-looking paper; and on my wrist sparkles the beautiful little gold watch which is a very tangible souvenir of this last amazing day. It ticks away companionably, as if to reassure me of its realness. I have named it Thomas Tickle, and we are going to be inseparable friends. You remember I told you I had planned a little last-day-of-school celebration for the scholars? Well!!! As it turned out, it made the Pageant look like five cents' worth of laundry soap by comparison. When I got to school in the morning I found the schoolhouse draped with flags and bunting, inside and outside, and my desk piled a foot high with great red roses. Then the people began to arrive. It seemed the whole county was there. My eyes began to pop out of my head as one after another of the celebrities began to arrive. The School Board from Spencer came _en phalanx_, and in marching order behind them came the high school pupils with Justice at their head. The parents of the pupils were all there in state and it soon became evident that we would have to hold our closing exercises outdoors, as the schoolhouse would not hold one-tenth of the crowd. I was rushing around like a fire engine with the steering gear gone, trying to find things for various mothers to sit on, when I was conscious of a solemn hush, and with a flourish the county school commissioners drove up and with them came Miss Fairlee, the Commission Lady. Then there broke loose a sound of revelry by day. My scholars did the folk dances and gave the little play I taught them; the Camp Fire Girls held a ceremonial meeting and gave demonstrations of poncho rolling, camp cooking, etc., while the boys had an exhibition of the articles they had made from wood, out of the Dan Beard book. Then in a speech, which was more earnest than eloquent, I gave to the school the furnishings from the House of the Open Door, together with the graphophone, the lantern and the slides, to have and to hold, to be the foundation of a new House of the Open Door. There was tumultuous applause, and I sat down, red and perspiring, and my part of the show was over. Thereupon, up rose Absalom Butts, punched in the back as I could see by three or four of the other boys, and, swallowing his fourteen-year-old embarrassment as well as he could, he thrust into my hands a little blue velvet case, mumbling the while, "It's yours. From the school. In token of our--of our----" Here he forgot his speech, looked around wildly, and then burst out: "We're givin' it to you because you showed us such a good time, and we're sorry you're goin' away!" Then he fled to his place and hid his blushes behind Henry Smoot's red head. I opened the case and took out a dear little gold wrist watch. I started to thank them, but choked utterly when I thought of the sacrifices it must have cost some of those people to help buy that watch. But this was no time for tears. The main dish of the feast was being brought in. The chief of the County school commissioners, the guest of honor, rose pompously and made his way to the front after being ceremoniously introduced by Elijah Butts. After much clearing of the throat he began a flowery speech about the fame that had been gained throughout the county by the little schoolhouse at our Corners on account of its Red Cross activities and Patriotic Pageants; how it had been made the social center for the people all around and had helped educate them to better things; how the boys and girls had learned more useful things from me than from anyone else who had ever taught there; and how Miss Fairlee, who had come from the East to study rural school conditions in our section had been quite carried away with my work, and so on, _ad infinitum_. Then, having loaded his cannon very carefully, so to speak, he proceeded to fire it into the crowd with telling effect. The County school commissioners, he announced with a fine air of jocularity, had heard that I was carrying the schoolhouse around with me wherever I went, and as they were afraid it might get mislaid some day they had voted to build a new brick schoolhouse on a foundation; one that couldn't be moved. A new schoolhouse for our district! Nobody had ever dared hope for such a thing, not even in their wildest dreams. And it seems that I had precipitated all this good fortune! Later on I happened to hear this same commissioner congratulating Elijah Butts on the good teacher he had picked, and Elijah swelled up like a pouter pigeon and replied: "Yes, sir, I spotted her for a good one the minute I laid eyes on her. It was me that persuaded the Board to hire her when some of them was holdin' back, favorin' a different kind of female. Yessir, it was me that picked her!" Justice, who had also overheard the conversation, winked solemnly and we both fled where we could have our laugh out unnoticed. But the best part of it all came after the Big Show was over. Miss Fairlee came up and took me by the arm and strolled away with me. "My dear," she said, "would you consider leaving this place and coming East with me? I need an assistant in my Social Settlement work for the summer, and there's no one I've met in the whole country that would fill the bill as well as you. For handling difficult situations you are a perfect marvel. Your talents are wasted out here--anyone can carry on the work that you have started so wonderfully. Won't you please come?" We talked about it a bit, and where do you suppose this Social Settlement is? Where but in the one spot on earth that I'd rather be than any other! The same city, my dears, that has the honor of being your home! It's all settled now, and I am to go, after my visit to the Dalrymples. Mother is going into a big Sanitarium, and I am going to work with Miss Fairlee through the summer. Clear the track! The Winnebago Special is about to start once more! O my Winnies, don't you see the miracle of it all? Here I was, pining to live in a House by the Side of the Road, when all the time I _was_ living in a House by the Side of the Road! It was my little despised schoolhouse. I was sent here by fate to prove myself worthy or unworthy of what she had in store for me. I was taken away from you that I might come back to a richer, fuller life than I had dreamed of in the old days. It is all part of a Plan, so big and wonderful that I lose my breath when I think of it. But whatever the Plan may turn out to be in the future, there's only one thing about it that interests me now, and that is, I'm coming back to you. I'm coming back! Back to my Winnies! Hang out the latchstring and remove everything breakable, for the wanderer is coming home! Your thrice-blessed Katherine. * * * * * * Transcriber's note: Punctuation and obvious typographical errors were corrected without comment.